by John Jakes
Bent was juggling the coal bomb, shaking like a child caught with a stolen cookie. Orry saw Ashton warn her husband with her eyes. Attack him, or he’ll get us all. Cringing, Huntoon shook his head. The image was reflected in one of the dirty windows overlooking the river.
“Captain Bellingham, is it?” Orry said in a raw voice. “I sure as hell don’t know how you got here, but I know where you’re bound, you and your friends. You’re going to prison for plotting the murder of the President.”
Bent was recovering; his eyes had a sly look. Like Orry, he didn’t understand how the astonishing confrontation had come about. But he understood the potential consequences.
Huntoon pressed a fist into his groin and squealed. “Dear God—he knows. He knows everything!”
“So does Secretary Seddon,” Orry said, “and the President himself. They’ve been anxious to catch the culprits with the evidence. You’re done for, James. You, too, my dear, treacherous slut of a sist—”
Huntoon snatched the lantern by its bail and threw it.
Orry ducked. The lantern struck the siding behind him, shattering. Droplets of oil splattered the wall and dirt floor. Strewn pieces of straw began to smoke.
Orry had a swift impression of Huntoon passing him, Ashton dragging him by the hand like a child. He could give them no attention because Bent was rushing at him, raising the black iron casting with both hands. My God, he’ll blow us up—
Bent struck for the top of Orry’s head. Orry dodged; the casting raked his left temple. The only explosion was one of pain.
Bent smashed the casting against the outermost point of Orry’s left shoulder, the stump of his amputated arm. Orry dropped to one knee. Silent tears of pain ran down his cheeks. There was no mistaking Bent’s intention. The trapped animal would kill to escape.
“Bastard,” Bent gasped, hitting at Orry’s left ear with the casing and nearly knocking him over. Blood ran from a gash in Orry’s hair. He had trouble focusing his eyes. The surroundings brightened; he felt heat behind him. The building was afire.
“Arrogant—South Carolina bastard—” Again Bent raised the casting, turning it until he had a sharp point aimed at the top of Orry’s skull like some druid’s knife. “Waited years for this—”
The casting blurred down. Orry aimed the Colt and fired. The ball hit Bent’s left wrist, scattering little lumps of flesh and chips of bone. The wound made Bent cry out, jerk the casting to one side, and drop it. The casting grazed the stump of Orry’s arm and landed near the fire spreading in the littered straw.
Hatred was powering both men. In all his life, Orry had never felt it so intensely. Scenes clicked in and out of his head like card in a stereopticon. He saw himself walking an extra tour of guard duty, in a blizzard, thanks to Bent. He saw himself lying in the West Point surgery near death from exposure, courtesy of Bent. He saw the letter from Charles about the officer persecuting him, his sister’s face as she spoke of the portrait shown her by a Captain Bellingham—
He came up from his knee, reversing the Colt and leaving it uncocked. He clubbed Bent’s head with the base of the butt. Bent shrieked, staggered back.
Orry hit again. Bent’s nose squirted blood. He flung his right forearm over his face to protect it, then his left. Bits of flesh were caught in bloody, torn threads of his powder-burned sleeve. Curses poured unconsciously from Orry as he hit again. Bent staggered to the right. Orry hit again. Bent wobbled—
That’s enough; he’s through.
Above the crackle of flames, he heard traces jingling, wheels creaking, rapid hoofbeats. Huntoon and Ashton in flight. It didn’t matter. Only this doughy, cringing coward mattered—and Orry’s boundless rage, the reaction to years of Bent’s lunatic enmity and his discovery here among people who had driven Madeline away.
Bent continued to wobble. Take him prisoner; he can’t fight anymore. The faint inner voice inspired no response. Crazed as his adversary, Orry hit again.
“Ah-ha.” Bent’s hurt cry bore a bizarre resemblance to laughter. “Jesus, Main—Jesus Christ, have mercy—”
“When did you?” Orry screamed, driving his right knee into Bent’s genitals. Bent went backward, one staggering step, a second, a third—
Too late, Orry jumped to grab him. Bent’s back struck one of the windows. For an instant, hundreds of tiny fires burned in the flying fragments. Bent fell through the sawtoothed opening, one side of his face ripped by glass still in the frame. He screamed as he plummeted. Then Orry heard the pulpy thump of a body hitting something.
Hair in his eyes, Orry stuck his head out the window. Bent had grazed an outcrop, spun away, and was still falling. He smashed into another and then bounced like a ball of India rubber, flying out and down and landing in the water with a mighty splash. A bubbling commotion disturbed the river for a moment. Then—nothing.
Orry strained for some sight of Bent’s body, but it was gone, already swept underwater and downstream, toward the red lights pulsing on the wooded horizon.
A half-minute passed. Orry grew conscious of the heat and thickening smoke. A section of siding dissolved into fiery debris. Above him, flames ran along dry rafters. Burning straw was within inches of the coal bomb. Orry leaped and flung the bomb through the open doorway.
He wanted to pry open a crate and take two or three Whitworths for evidence. He barely had time to holster the Colt and snatch the diagram Huntoon had been holding—one corner was already smoking—and slip it into his pocket. Hunched over and struggling to breathe, he dragged Israel Quincy’s body toward the door.
One of the beams eaten by the flame disappeared. The rafter above him sagged, broke, and rained sparks and flaming splinters on him. He smelled his hair burning as he gasped and strained, finally pulling Quincy’s corpse into the open.
A box of cartridges exploded as he snatched the coal bomb and limped to a safe spot away from the building, whose glare washed out the red lights over Petersburg. All the ammunition blew, the reports rolling away through the night like the volleying of regiments in battle.
Bent. Elkanah Bent. By what twisted route had he come from the United States Army to this place? Transformed himself to Captain Bellingham? Embroiled himself in the plot?
He had two pieces of evidence of that plot. He put the bomb on the ground, unrolled the plan, and examined it in the light from the burning building. At first, because he was so shaken, the arrangements of smaller rectangles within larger ones made no sense. Then he realized he was looking at diagrams representing the different floors of the Treasury Building.
He saw inked crosses, each labeled. Those in the cellar said COAL BOMBS. In a suite of second-floor offices identified by the letters J. D., the label was INCIND. DEVICE. The enormity of it left him weak with awe.
He waited long enough to be sure the collapsing implement building wouldn’t threaten the other structures. The wind was blowing flame and smoke out above the James, where he envisioned Elkanah Bent’s body drifting seaward in the current. He saw an imaginary picture of cockeyed General Butler on a pier at City Point, struck dumb by the sight of a corpse floating by.
Once Orry started to recover from the shock of Bent’s death, a different kind of shock set in. It involved Orry’s own behavior. He clearly recalled knowing Bent was whipped, able to be taken prisoner without further struggle. Old grudges had driven Orry’s arm then, kept him hitting his tormentor unnecessarily, until Bent fell through the window. He had gone far beyond the demands of self-preservation. He had lost control. As he stood in the glare of the fire, he wondered how a human being could feel so glad someone was dead and so guilty and ashamed at the same time.
The exploding ammunition reminded him that people would be drawn by the noise and flames. He didn’t want to waste time on explanations to farmers or military patrols in the area. He forced himself from his shock-induced lethargy, starting toward the farmhouse and discovering that in the fight he had twisted his left ankle. It hurt and made him limp.
Nevertheless, he
conducted a rapid search of the house. In the attic he found confirmation of something that had come to mind earlier. The attic was arranged with a few furniture pieces and a square of old carpet—a living area. A large crate standing on end served as an open-sided press for three suits. A few books lay on a smaller crate beside a cot: The Prince, The Prose Romances of Edgar A. Poe, and his Tales as well. Beneath these, Orry found gold-stamped, leather-bound copies of the proceedings of the Georgia and South Carolina secession conventions.
Israel Quincy, then, had also searched the house, intentionally failing to discover Powell or his hideaway. Orry didn’t know whether Powell would be caught. Perhaps not. But the conspiracy had been aborted a second time and, more important, Orry could now show proofs of its existence.
He limped down the attic stairs and out the back door. All that remained of the implement building were mounds of bright embers. With no more ammunition exploding, he heard voices and horses from the direction of the road.
As fast as he could, he retrieved his evidence and hobbled back across the plowed field to his horse, tethered in the orchard. Mounting, he saw a farmer’s wagon pulled up beside the burned building. Three men sat in the wagon, clear as black-paper stencils against the light. Orry reined his horse’s head around and took the road to Richmond.
Wearing a striped nightshirt, a sleepy Seddon stared at the man whose pounding on the street door had awakened him. Orry shoved a roll of heavy paper and a lump of coal into the secretary’s hand.
“These prove the whole story—these and Quincy’s body. He was one of them. When the fire’s out, I’m sure we’ll find unmelted pieces of the Whitworth rifles. Enough evidence for any reasonable man,” he finished, unable to keep bitterness entirely contained.
“This is astounding. You must come inside and give me a fuller explanation of—”
“Later, sir,” Orry interrupted. “I have one more task to do to close the books on this affair. Be careful of that coal. If you try to burn it, you’ll blow yourself up.”
He limped away, vanishing in the dark.
When he drew the empty navy Colt at the front door of the house on Grace Street, Orry noticed dark speckling on the butt. Bent’s blood. With a shiver, he grasped the muzzle and beat on the door with the revolver. The bell had drawn no response.
“Someone open up.” He leaned back to roar at the upper story. “If you don’t, I’ll blow the lock off.”
That got immediate response, but it came from the other side of the street where gas lamps shed a pale, misty light. A grumpy householder flung up a window, snatched off his nightcap and shouted, “Do you know the hour, sir? Half past three in the morning. Stop that racket, or I’ll come down and horsewhip—The front door opened. Orry shouldered inside, expecting to see Huntoon’s face. Instead, it was Homer’s, half illuminated by an upraised lamp.
“Tell them I want to see them, Homer. Both of them.”
“Mr. Orry, sir, they aren’t—”
He ignored the old man and stalked to the stairs. “Ashton? James? Get down here, damn you.”
The wild echo showed him how close he was to losing control again. He gripped the banister post and held tight, calming little. He sensed Homer behind him; a light pool spread around his feet. Then a second glow, upstairs, preceded Huntoon, who cautiously approached the head of the stairs. Ashton followed carrying the lamp. Neither was dressed for bed.
Orry looked up as she gripped the white-painted wood of the rail to the left of the landing. It was one of the few times he had ever seen his sister frightened.
“An old scene repeats itself, doesn’t it, Ashton? I sent you away once in South Carolina and now I’m doing it in Virginia. This time, however, the stakes are higher. You don’t just risk my anger if you stay. You’ll be arrested.”
Huntoon made a little retching sound and stepped back from the top step. Ashton seized his sleeve. “Stand up, you rotten coward. I said stand up.”
She hurt him with her hand. But he steadied. Leaning over and looking down, she fairly spat, “Let’s hear the rest, brother dear.
A cold shrug. “Simple enough. I have delivered evidence to Mr. Seddon sufficient to hang you both. I’m referring to a coal bomb and the marked plan of the President’s offices. I imagine the provost’s men are on their way to the farm, where they’ll find the remains of the rifles, Powell’s personal belongings, and Israel Quincy’s body. Your informant, the one who called himself Bellingham—he’s dead, too, drowned in the river.”
“You did that?” Huntoon whispered.
Orry nodded. “The one thing I have not yet done is implicate the two of you. I don’t know why I should grant you the slightest immunity just because we’re related, but I find myself doing it. Although not for long. You have one hour to remove yourselves from the city. If you don’t, I’ll go straight back to Seddon and charge you with treason and attempted assassination.”
“Lord God,” Homer said in a shaken voice. Orry had forgotten he was there.
Ashton shrieked at him: “You damned nosy nigger, get out of here. Get out!” He did, taking the light with him.
Ashton’s effort to smile through her rage was grotesque. “Orry—you must appreciate—even to begin to prepare to leave will take far more time than—”
“One hour.” He pointed to a tall clock ticking away, its face a metal shimmer in the gloom. “I’ll be back at a quarter to five. You ought to hang, the lot of you—I include your scummy friend Powell, wherever he is. If any of you are in Richmond an hour from now, you will.”
He walked out.
When he rode back to Grace Street at half past four, the pre-dawn air was cold. He shivered again, starting to feel genuinely sick from the shocks and exertions of the preceding hours. He reined in before the brick house. The windows were dark. He tied the horse, climbed the stoop, tried the front door. Locked.
On the side terrace, he broke a pane of the French windows with the Colt muzzle, reached through, and let himself in. He roamed the rooms. Empty, every last one.
In their bedrooms—separate ones, he noted—clothes were strewn everywhere. Drawers hung open. Some had been left on the floor, partially emptied. Strangely, he felt no satisfaction, Merely tiredness and melancholy as he struggled downstairs again, still favoring the twisted ankle.
What had possessed Ashton? What demons of ambition? He would never know. Somehow, he was thankful
He started as the tall clock chimed a quarter to five.
By late the following afternoon, several versions of the assassination story were circulating in the offices around Capitol Square. About four, Seddon approached Orry’s desk. Orry held a government memorandum and appeared to be reading it—an illusion, Seddon realized, taking note of Orry’s blank stare.
He cleared his throat, smiled, and said, “Orry, I have some splendid news. I have just talked with the President, who wants to present you with a written commendation. It’s the equivalent of a decoration for gallantry in the field and will be accorded the same treatment. Published in at least one paper in your home state—”
Seddon faltered. On Orry’s face there had appeared disbelief and disgust of such ferocity they alarmed the secretary. Avoiding Orry’s eyes, he went on, less heartily, “The commendation will also be entered on the permanent Roll of Honor maintained in the adjutant general’s office.” Cloth and metal couldn’t be spared for making decorations; the Roll of Honor was the Confederacy’s substitute.
“Mr. Davis would like to award the commendation in his office tomorrow. May we arrange a suitable time?”
“I don’t want his damned commendation. He drove my wife out of Richmond.”
Seddon swallowed. “Do you mean to say, Colonel—you will—refuse the honor?”
“Yes. That will certainly cause another scandal, won’t it? My wife and I have grown used to them.”
“Your bitterness is understandable, but—”
Orry interrupted, an uncharacteristic slyness in his eyes. “I’ll refus
e it, that is, unless you and Mr. Davis also promise me an immediate transfer to General Pickett’s staff. I’m tired of this office, this work, this pig-mire of a government—”
He swept all the papers from his desk with one slash of his arm. As the sheets fluttered down, he rose and walked out.
Heads swiveled. Clerks buzzed. Seddon’s face lost its conciliatory softness. “I am certain a transfer can be arranged,” he said loudly.
112
IN THE AFTERMATH OF the Eamon Randolph case, Jasper Dills began to worry about his stipend. He heard nothing of or from Elkanah Bent. He knew Baker had discharged Starkwether’s son because of brutality in the Randolph matter. Beyond that, the record was blank.
Work taxed Dills to the utmost these days. Although some of his employers were Democrats, none wanted a Copperhead or peace candidate elected president; a shortened war meant diminished profits. Nevertheless, he decided he must make time to call in the chief of the special service bureau. He did so in late June. Baker’s initial response was curt.
“I don’t know what’s happened to Dayton. Nor do I care. I followed instructions and dismissed him. Then I forgot about him.”
“Blast it, Colonel, you must have some information. Is he still in the city? If not, where is he? Will you force me to pose my questions to Mr. Stanton and tell him you refused to help?”
Instantly, Baker grew cooperative, though Dills wished he hadn’t when the bearded man said, “I have it on good authority that Dayton was in Richmond about a month ago.”
“Richmond! Why?”
“I don’t know. I was only told that he was seen.”
“Is it possible he defected to the other side?”
Baker shrugged. “Possible. He was pretty angry when I let him go. He was also, in my opinion, unbalanced. I frankly wish I’d never taken him on. I know your reputation, Mr. Dills. I know you have a lot of friends in this government. But I don’t know why you’re so interested in Dayton. What’s the connection?”
