by John Jakes
His question said he wasn’t greatly interested in interrupting the work to read overseas dispatches. So Judith said, “It concerns the Alabama. A week ago Sunday, she went down in the English Channel. A Union vessel named Kearsarge sank her.”
Instantly, he asked, “What of the crew?”
“According to this, many survived. The captain of the Kearsarge picked up seventy, and a British yacht that sailed out of Cherbourg harbor to watch the engagement saved another thirty officers and men.”
“Anything about Semmes?”
“He was one of those rescued by Deerhound, the yacht.”
“Good. The men are more important than the ship.”
He made the declaration with such feeling that Judith couldn’t help rushing to his chair and throwing her arms around him. The Mercury fell on crumpled sheets of writing paper discarded on the floor.
“Cooper, I do love you so.” She hugged his shoulders. “Everything’s in disarray around us. Mont Royal has never looked shabbier. There isn’t enough food. Everyone’s frightened of those men living in the marshes. Yet I couldn’t be more thankful to be here with you. Even with so much uncertainty, Marie-Louise is happier, and I am, too.”
“So am I.”
“I hope you didn’t mind this interruption. I thought you’d want to know about the ship.”
He reached up to pat her hand, staring away past the Roman mural to unguessable seascapes of the past. “She was a beautiful vessel. But she served the wrong masters.”
Suddenly rising from his chair, he kissed her long and ardently. The embrace left her gasping, with curls out of place. She was enraptured to see a teasing smile.
“Now, Judith, if you truly do love me, let me return to my labors. I must finish this memorial, even though our heroic legislators will tear it to shreds and dance on it. The ones who’ve never heard guns fired in anger will tear the most and dance the hardest.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But I’m proud of you for trying.”
“There are no ordained results in this world, I’ve discovered. The trying is what counts most.”
She left him scribbling in the last of the dusty orange daylight. She had worked hard all day—since returning, she had taken on many of Madeline’s duties—and in the late afternoon had spent an hour with Clarissa. Though Cooper’s mother was unfailingly pleasant, her memory loss made such visits taxing. By supper Judith was exhausted. Yet now, closing the library door, she felt light as a wisp of breeze-blown dandelion seed. Carefree. Sherman’s host might be marching across the moon instead of into Georgia.
For the first time since Charleston, she was certain. Her beloved husband was a new, healed man.
It was Benjamin who wielded the velvet ax. After the fact, Orry realized he was the logical choice because of his suave, diplomatic style. The summons came a few days after the reception at Treasury.
“First, I must establish that I am speaking on behalf of the President,” Benjamin said to Orry, who sat rigidly on the far side of the desk. “He hoped to see you in person, but the press of duties—” A supple gesture finished the thought.
“The President wanted to express deep gratitude for your concern for his welfare—specifically, your warning of a possible plot against his life. Not to mention the lives of a number of the rest of us,” he added with his customary sleek smile.
Orry felt sweat trickling to his collar. In the summer heat, the voices of State Department functionaries sounded sleepy beyond the closed door. That was the moment the image of the velvet ax popped into his head.
“The plot was undoubtedly like many others we hear about—chiefly wishful thinking inspired by barroom bravery. Nevertheless, your loyalty and diligence have been noted and commended by Mr. Davis. He—Is something wrong?”
Orry’s tight expression answered that. The government still didn’t believe his story. Then and there, he decided to take a step he had only considered until now. Using personal funds, he would hire an agent to carry out a plan he had in mind. He would do it right away.
He forced himself to say, “No. Please go on.”
“I have given you the sense of the President’s message.” Manicured hands folded, the secretary oozed sincerity. “Now I have one or two questions of a personal nature. Are you content with your post in the War Department?” When Orry hesitated, unsure of the purpose of the question, Benjamin prompted him with, “Please be frank. It will go no further.”
“Well, then—the answer’s no. I think we both know the likely outcome of this war.” He expected no agreement with that and got none. “I hate to sit out the final months authorizing passes for prostitutes and monitoring the misdeeds of a martinet.”
“Ah, yes, Winder. Are you saying you’d like field duty, then?”
“I’ve been considering it. Major General Pickett offered me a place on his division staff.”
“Poor Pickett. Never have I seen a man so transformed by a single event.” Benjamin sounded sincere but immediately slipped back into his official mode. After a slight clearing of his throat, he said, “There is one other subject which I regret I must discuss with you. Your sister’s accusation against your charming wife.”
The words slid into him like a stiletto of ice. He had been waiting for the matter to come up in some fashion. He had agonized over the best way to deal with it and reached a decision that pained him because it went against his conscience. But Madeline mattered more.
He sat very erect now, his posture a kind of challenge. “Yes? What about it?”
“To put it to you squarely—is it true?”
“No.”
Benjamin showed no sign of being relieved, no reaction of any kind. He continued to study his visitor. Am I such a transparent liar? Orry thought.
“You realize I was compelled to ask the question on behalf of the administration,” Benjamin said. “The cabinet—indeed, it’s fair to say most of the Confederacy—is experiencing a terrible schism on the matter of enlisting our Negroes in the army. The mere statement of the idea drives some of our most influential people to the point of incoherence. So you can see the enormous potential for disruption and embarrassment if it were found that the wife of a high War Department official—”
He could stand no more. “Damn it, Judah, what about Madeline’s embarrassment? What about the disruption of her life?”
Unruffled, Benjamin met the attack. “I can appreciate her feelings, certainly. But the charge has implications far beyond the personal. If it were true, it could taint the credibility of the entire government. Mr. Davis, you see, refuses to consider the enlistment of nonwhite—”
“I know how Mr. Davis feels,” Orry said, rising. His loud voice momentarily stopped the sleepy conversations outside. “With all due respect, the President’s views aren’t the issue. An accusation is the issue. My sister made her statement for one reason. She holds a long-standing grudge against me.”
Like a prosecutor, Benjamin said, “Why?”
“I see no reason to go into that. It’s a family matter.”
“And you maintain that this so-called grudge is Mrs. Huntoon’s motive for saying what she did? Her sole motive?”
“That’s right. May I leave now?”
“Orry, calm yourself. It’s better that you hear unhappy news from a friend. I am your friend; please believe that.” The supple hand opened outward. “Do sit down again.”
“I’ll stand, thank you.”
Benjamin sighed. There passed a few seconds of silence.
“To minimize potential embarrassment for all concerned, the President requests that Mrs. Main leave Richmond as soon as practicable.”
Orry’s hand closed on the back of the visitor’s chair. His knuckles were the color of chalk. “To keep the administration untouched by the tar brush, is that it? You don’t believe my answer—”
“I most certainly do. But I am an official of this government, and it remains my duty to accede to the President’s wishes, not question them.”
“So you can keep your job and enjoy your sherry and your anchovy paste while the Confederacy collapses?”
The olive cheeks lost color. Benjamin’s voice dropped, sounding all the more deadly, somehow, because of a small, chill smile. “I shall pretend I heard no such remark from you. The President expects compliance with his request within a reasonable length of—”
“His order, isn’t that what you mean?”
“It is an order courteously framed as a request.”
“I thought so. Good day.”
“My dear Orry, you must not hold me personally responsible for—”
Slam went the door, well before he finished.
Around noon, Orry’s wild anger moderated. He was again able to concentrate, perform routine duties, and answer questions from his colleagues with some coherence. Seddon passed Orry’s desk on his way out to dine, but the secretary refused to meet Orry’s gaze. He knows what Davis is demanding. He probably knew before Judah told me. Instantly, Orry made up his mind to ask Pickett to make good on his offer.
Orry was not in doubt about Madeline’s reaction. If they discussed the decision at all, he must be circumspect. Present it as something under consideration, not final. That would spare her worry. Anyway, the first priority wasn’t the transfer, but proving to Judah, to Seddon—to the President himself—that the conspiracy was real.
He glanced at a corner desk occupied by a young civilian, Josea Pilbeam, who was handicapped with a club foot. Pilbeam, a bachelor, had undertaken several questionable assignments for the department in the past year. Orry walked over, greeted him affably, and made an appointment to speak with him that evening. Off the premises.
For the rest of the day, although he continued to scrawl his signature on passes and scan the daily quota of self-serving reports from General Winder, his mind wrestled with the presidential fiat and what he should do about it. His first reaction, born of insulted honor, was to dig in and refuse to comply.
On the other hand, suppose Madeline did remain in Richmond. She would be ostracized. And with Grant settling in at Petersburg to the frequent sound of rumbling guns, Richmond was no longer a safe place. Orry definitely didn’t want his wife in the city when it surrendered. He believed all signs pointed to such a capitulation relatively soon.
So, much as he hated to admit it, he knew Madeline would be better off—safer—if she left.
Which raised another problem. Where could she go? The most logical answer struck him as far from the best or easiest. He thought carefully on it and by late afternoon had devised a plan that seemed to offer the least risk.
When the office closed, he and Josea Pilbeam left together. At a quiet table in the Spotswood bar, Orry went immediately to the point.
“I suspect my sister Ashton—Mrs. James Huntoon—of treasonous activity. I want to hire you to watch her house on Grace Street in the evenings and follow her if she leaves. I want to know where she goes and a description of whoever she sees. You can report to me each morning. I know it’ll tax you to work all day, then stay up most of the night. But you’re young and fit”—eyes on the foam on his beer, the clerk scraped his three-inch shoe sole back and forth under the table—“and for good work, carried out in the strictest confidence, I’ll pay you from my own pocket. I’ll pay you well. Ten dollars a night.”
Pilbeam drank some beer. “Thanks for the offer, Colonel. But I have to say no.”
“Good Lord, why? You’ve never objected to a little spying before.”
“Oh, it isn’t the nature of the work.”
“What, then?”
“I have no choice about taking my regular wages in Confederate dollars, but we both know how much those are worth—about as much as the government line saying we can still win the war. I won’t do a private job for payment in our currency.”
Relieved, Orry said, “I’ll get U.S. dollars, somehow—provided you start the surveillance tomorrow night.”
“Done,” Pilbeam said, shaking his hand.
For supper, Madeline divided a small shad between them, garnishing each plate with two tiny boiled turnips. Nothing else could be bought that day, she said.
He told her he had continued to search departmental records for any mention of an officer named Bellingham. Thus far he had come up with nothing. “It’s frustrating as hell. I’d give anything to find out who he is and get my hands on him.”
After they finished eating, she suggested they read some poetry aloud. Orry shook his head. “We must have a talk.”
“My, how portentous that sounds. On what subject?”
“The need for you to leave Richmond while it’s still possible.”
A fleeting look of hurt crossed her face. “There have been repercussions from the party.”
Deeper into the net of lies—for her sake. “No, nothing beyond some snide jokes I’ve overheard. The two reasons you must leave are mine. First, the city’s going to fall. If not this summer, then in the autumn or next winter. It’s inevitable, and I don’t want you here when it happens. I left Mexico before our army marched into the capital, but later George described some of the atrocities. No matter how good the intentions of the commanders or how stern their warnings to their troops, matters always get out of hand for a while. Homes are looted. Men are killed. As for women—well, you understand. I don’t want you to face any of that.”
Sitting motionless, she said, “And the second reason?”
“The one I’ve mentioned before. I’m sick of the department. I’m considering asking for a transfer to George Pickett’s staff.”
“Oh, Orry—no.”
Swift retreat: “Here, not so serious. The word is considering. I’ve done nothing about it.”
“Why risk your life for a lost cause?”
“The cause has nothing to do with it. Pickett’s a friend, I’ve had a bellyful of desk work, and officers are desperately needed in the field. Nothing to fret over—it’s still in the speculative stage.”
“Let’s hope it stays there. Even if it does, what you’re really doing is banishing me. Well, thank you very much, but I’m not the coward you think I am.”
“Now wait, I never implied—”
“You most certainly did. Well, I intend to stay.”
“I insist that you go.”
“You’ll insist on nothing!” She rose abruptly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must darn your stockings again. There are none to be had in the stores.” She stormed out.
Whenever he tried to restart the discussion that evening, she refused to listen. They went to bed barely speaking. But around three, she curled against his back, gently shaking him awake.
“Darling? I feel wretched. I behaved like a harpy. Forgive me? I was mad at myself, not you. I know I’ve brought shame down on you—”
Sleepy but suddenly lighthearted, he rolled over and touched her cheek. “Never. Not ever while I live. I love you for what you are—everything you are. I just want you safe.”
“I feel the same about you. I hate the idea of your going off with George Pickett. The siege lines are dangerous.”
“I told you, I’ve done no more than think about it. Other matters come first.”
A low, short sigh. “You want me to go home to Mont Royal, then?”
“That would be ideal, but I think it’s impractical as well as too risky. South of here you’d encounter the whole Union Army, stretched from City Point clear to the Shenandoah Valley. The roads and rail lines are constant targets. You might slip through, but I believe I have a safer alternative. It may not sound so at first, but I’ve thought about it a lot, and I’ve concluded that it’s feasible. I want you to go the other way. To Lehigh Station.”
The effect was the same as if he had said Constantinople or Zanzibar. “Orry, our home is South Carolina.”
“Now wait. Brett’s at Belvedere. She’d be happy to have your company, and I don’t believe you’d be there very long. Not even a year, if I read the signs correctly.”
“
I’d have to cross enemy lines—”
“The country north of Richmond is a no-man’s-land. When Grant chased Lee to Petersburg, he took most of his army with him. Our reports show no significant troop concentrations around Fredericksburg, for example. An occasional cavalry or infantry regiment passes through, but that seems to be the extent of it. Furthermore, getting into Washington won’t be hard. You simply say you’re a Union sympathizer, and they’ll think you’re a woman of ill repute who decided—”
“What kind of woman?” She sat up, managing to convey mock wrath in the midst of a giggle.
“Now, now—you can stand it. The most you’ll suffer are some insults and a brief detention. An hour or two. That bosom of which I’m so fond may be thumped to see if it pings.”
“Pings? What are you talking about? You’ve lost your mind.”
“No. Women who are, ah, less amply endowed than you resort to metal breast forms.”
“Since when have you become a student of metal breast forms?”
“Since those who can’t fill them started smuggling medicines and paper money in the, ah, empty spaces. No ping—no search.”
He felt like an actor, playing a light role solely because the play demanded it. But he refused to have her know anything about the President’s edict, refused to have the woman he loved shamed for something over which she had no control. Tar brush or no, she was worthier, finer, more valuable than a thousand Ashtons—or Davises.
“Best of all,” he continued, “unless Augusta Barclay’s abandoned her farm, you needn’t make the trip to Washington alone. I’ll get one of Augusta’s freedmen to go with you as far as the Union lines. She promised a favor if we ever needed one, remember.”
“When are you going to see her?”
“This weekend.”
“A Confederate colonel can’t go riding blithely to Fredericksburg. What if you should encounter one of those Yankee units?”
“Believe me, I don’t intend to let anyone know I’m a colonel. Stop worrying.”
“Easy for you to say—”
He knew an old, conventional, but extremely pleasant way to stop such conversations and allay anxieties. He began to kiss her. Then they made love and fell asleep.
