Love and War: The North and South Trilogy

by John Jakes

  “I lied a moment ago. Our needs are well supplied.”

  His eyes drifted to her breasts, then upward again. With his back to the others, he permitted himself a smile. “I thought that might be the happy circumstance. Hoped so, to be truthful.”

  “I—” She hardly believed it was Virgilia Hazard searching for the words, but it was the new Virgilia, conceived the night Brett came to her and brushed her hair. “—I merely wished to express admiration for your remarks about the enemy. I share your loathing of the South, and I can’t tolerate the prospect of a soft peace of the kind Mr. Lincoln advocates.”

  Stout’s lips compressed. “There will be no soft peace if certain of us in Congress have our way.” He bent forward, his voice as magnificent as the low registers of a pipe organ. “If you have occasion to visit Washington, it would be pleasant to exchange views on the subject at greater length.”

  “I—would enjoy that, Congressman. I can understand your passion for prosecuting the war, since you had a relative tortured by the enemy.”

  “My wife’s older brother.”

  He said it and let it hang between them. She felt as if he had hit her. From the slight curl of his mouth and the expression in his eyes, she knew the revelation was not accidental.

  “Your—?”

  “Wife,” he repeated. “Since we came from Muncie, she has been preoccupied with female society—humanitarian committees, that type of thing. I accompany her in public only when some obligation demands it. I say all this to indicate we have little in common.”

  “Except a marriage certificate.”

  “That is rather stiff-necked, Miss Hazard. I am not a man given to falsehoods—except when addressing constituents.” The effort to produce a smile failed. “Please, don’t be angry. I find you exceedingly attractive. I merely wanted to be candid. If I lied and you found out, you’d think the worse of me.”

  Her head began to hurt. A queasy conviction came over her that he had said all this before. It had a practiced smoothness.

  “My marriage should not be an obstacle to our meeting discreetly for a meal and some stimulating conversation.”

  She took a step backward. “I’m afraid it definitely is an obstacle.”

  He frowned. “My dear Miss Hazard, don’t let foolish prudery—”

  “You must excuse me, Congressman.” She spun and walked away.

  Virgilia was furious because she had let her emotions betray her—take her by surprise and humiliate her. She had felt a physical desire for the man stronger than any she had experienced since Grady died. The desire was all the sharper because Stout was a person of power and influence.

  The image of his eyes, the memories of his reverberating voice brought a look of pain to her face as she crashed through the swing doors at the end of the ward.

  “Damn him, damn him, damn him for being married.”

  69

  THE TAPROOM WAS UNSAVORY and in a bad location, down on Q Street near Greenleaf’s Point. The place teemed with boisterous officers from the arsenal, goatish civilians, loitering thugs, and prostitutes—white, black, even a Chinese. Jasper Dills had gone there with enormous reluctance and only because a meeting could not be held in his usual, respectable haunts. He was, after all, responding to an appeal from an army deserter.

  Dills’s driver, who carried a concealed pistol, waited at the copper-clad bar, which helped to relieve the little lawyer’s anxiety. One couldn’t be too careful in Washington. Even these once-remote warrens of the island swarmed with new inhabitants—speculators, white refugees who had tossed loyalty aside and fled the war-blasted counties of northern Virginia, contrabands of every age and hue. Dills would never risk himself in such surroundings if it weren’t for the stipend.

  Across the table, Bent said, “I am desperate, Mr. Dills. I have no means of supporting myself.”

  Dills tapped manicured nails against his glass of mineral water. “Your somewhat incoherent letter managed to make that clear. I’ll speak straightforwardly, and I expect you to heed every word. If I make the arrangements—if I write the note I have in mind—you must not place me at risk. You must deal with the gentleman to whom I propose to introduce you as if the past didn’t exist. You must wipe from your mind your difficulties at West Point. Your fancied grievances—”

  Bent struck the table. “They are not fancied.”

  “Do that once more,” Dills whispered, “and I will get up and leave.”

  Shaking, Bent covered his eyes. What a contemptible hulk he was, the lawyer thought. “Please, Mr. Dills— I’m sorry. I can overlook the past.”

  “You’d better. Because of your actions in New Orleans, no legitimate avenues are open to you. This one is marginal at best.”

  “How—how did you hear about New Orleans?”

  “I have ways. I maintain an interest in your career. It isn’t material to our discussion. Now, down to cases. You assure me that, so far as you know, you’ve never met the gentleman under discussion?”

  “No.”

  “But he is probably familiar with your real name. For that reason, and also because he has access to military records, we must outfit you with another. Let’s call it your nom de guerre.” The conceit produced a cool smile, the lawyer’s first during this encounter.

  Nom de guerre. Wonderfully fitting, Bent thought. He was still fighting a war, this one for survival, for life itself.

  A tawny whore stroked Dills’s shoulder. He lifted her hand and flung it off. She glared and waggled away to someone else. Dills sipped his mineral water.

  Then he asked, “What name shall I use?”

  Bent fingered his jowl. “Something from Ohio? What about Dayton? Ezra Dayton.”

  “Bland enough,” Dills responded, shrugging. “You will have to go to the War Department for the initial meeting. Can you do that?”

  “Is there no other—?” He stopped, seeing Dills’s hard stare. “Yes, I’m sure I can.”

  Dills wasn’t, but he said, “Very well. Before your late disappearance from the military rolls, you earned something of a reputation for brutality—Oh, don’t gasp and feign innocence. I’ve seen copies of your records. In this instance, that unpleasant propensity works to your advantage. Write the address of your rooming house on this piece of paper. Tomorrow I’ll send a messenger with an envelope addressed to Ezra Dayton, Esquire. The envelope will contain a second, sealed one, which you must not open. That will be my note of introduction, recommending you for employment by the secretary’s aide for domestic security, Stanley Hazard.”

  Two days later, at half past seven in the morning, Bent brushed up the sack coat he had purchased in New Orleans. He deplored its travel-stained condition, but he had nothing else. He planned to walk the whole way to the War Department; he was down to his last few dollars and wouldn’t squander them on transportation. The interview might go badly. If it did, he was done. He would be forced to thievery—or worse.

  Outside his sleazy rooming house, he turned right, past a weedy lot where contrabands had erected blanket tents and shanties of scrap lumber, undoubtedly stolen. He glared at the colored people squatting around a cook fire.

  A mild spell had interrupted the severe February weather. In brightening sunshine, he trudged all the way across the island, over the canal, and through the mall to the columned portico of the War Department building, which looked immense to him: three stories of brick, with chimneys jutting above bare trees.

  Inside, an armed soldier demanded to know his business. With a perspiring hand, Bent presented the sealed letter. The soldier directed him upstairs. On his way, he paused to peer into an anteroom where a pudgy gnome with steel-rimmed spectacles stood at a tall writing desk that separated him from a line of petitioners—weeping women, army officers and noncoms, civilians who were probably contractors. The gnome was Stanton, Bent realized with some astonishment. Did he hold public audiences regularly?

  In a spacious office on the floor above, an orderly led him to the fine walnut des
k of Stanley Hazard. Standing in front of it, he noticed a flake on his left sleeve: some of the hardtack he had munched for breakfast and washed down with a cup of water. He was too nervous to remove the crumb.

  He felt the prod of the past. But Mr. Stanley Hazard bore little resemblance to his younger brother. Further, he was plumper and sleeker than Bent remembered. Expensively dressed, too, with a ruffled shirt and a flowing cravat whose color matched his rusty orange frock coat.

  Having kept his visitor waiting while he slit open the letter and read it, Stanley at last deigned to wave. “Do sit down. My time is rather short this morning.”

  Stanley laid the letter in front of him. Bent had to struggle to squeeze his buttocks into the chair. The past overwhelmed him. A blood vessel in his temple started to quiver, but he forced himself to mute thoughts of violence. This man represented his best, perhaps his only, means of saving himself from poverty and total failure. He must forget the man’s family.

  It became easier the moment Stanley smiled, a slow smile, comfortingly greasy. “This letter from Counselor Dills states that your name’s Dayton—but not really.”

  Bent blinked in terror. “What’s that?” Had the lawyer betrayed him?

  “You are not aware of the contents of this?”

  “No, no.”

  Stanley read aloud. “Dayton is a pseudonym. His true identity cannot be disclosed because of certain connections with highly placed persons. These must be protected. His enforced anonymity, however, in no wise diminishes his ability to assist you, or my strong commendation of him to your attention.”

  “Very—very kind of the counselor to say that,” Bent gasped, relieved.

  Stanley folded his hands and studied his caller. “The counselor presents you as a candidate for what we call special or detached service with a bureau of this department which, officially, does not exist. The bureau involves itself with purging the public sphere of persons whose opinions or actions are inimical to the government. This can be done by direct order of the secretary—”

  Bent knew that much; Stanton had a reputation for immense power. He had only to murmur, and a critic of the administration disappeared into Old Capitol Prison, on First Street.

  “—although more frequently of late, as enemies become more numerous, action has been initiated by the bureau itself. Chief of the bureau is Colonel Baker, who is also charged with carrying out certain confidential missions behind enemy lines. Occasionally I send him a promising man. Evidently that is what Dills has in mind.”

  Stanley left it there, awaiting a response. Perspiring, Bent blurted, “It sounds like tremendously important work, sir. Work I could do with enthusiasm. I am staunchly behind the programs of this administration—”

  “That always seems to be the case with job seekers.” Stanley’s smirk made Bent squirm.

  A moment later, a new thought struck Bent. This particular member of the Hazard clan might be cut from the same bolt as he was—and perhaps didn’t deserve his enmity. Stanley Hazard was haughty, open about his importance. Those were characteristics Bent admired.

  “Bear in mind, Dayton, Colonel Baker is the gentleman who says yes or no to hiring an operative. I can, however, add my recommendation to that of Dills.”

  “It would be very kind if you—”

  “I haven’t said I would,” Stanley interrupted. Another moment of scrutiny. “Why aren’t you in the army?”

  Terror then. He had prepared himself for the question, but it was as if he hadn’t. “I was, Mr. Hazard.”

  “Of course we can’t check on that because of the problem with your identity. Very neat.” A faint smile relieved Stanley’s severity. “You can at least reveal the circumstances of your separation.”

  “Yes, surely. I resigned. I refused to accept a transfer to command of a nigger unit.”

  Stanley closed his fist. “Keep that sort of remark to yourself in this department. The secretary is a devout partisan of emancipation.”

  Again Bent stared into the abyss of failure. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Hazard. I promise—”

  Stanley waved a second time. “Take this bit of advice also. Colonel Baker is a strong temperance man. If you drink, don’t do it before you meet him.”

  Bent’s hope soared. Stanley continued in a more confidential way. “That caveat aside, the colonel doesn’t demand sainthood or even ideological purity. He demands only two qualities. His men must be trustworthy and willing to obey orders. Any orders, no matter how—” a hand fluttered, struggling to convey meaning “—irregular they might appear to certain misguided constitutionalists.” He leaned forward so fast he seemed to be swooping down on prey. “Do I communicate clearly, sir?”

  “Perfectly.” Baker circumvented the law whenever necessary. “I can offer those qualities.”

  “We need them because we are locked in a vicious struggle. Enemies of the administration abound. But no man or woman is beyond our reach. If helping us achieve our goal—the crushing of domestic treason while our generals crush its military equivalent—is to your taste—”

  “Very much so, sir, indeed it is,” Bent said, nearly babbling.

  “Then I’ll add my note of introduction to that of Dills. As I said, Baker will make the final determination. But I’m a good judge of character. I’d say your prospects are excellent.”

  He reached for his pen and scratched a few swift lines at the bottom of Dills’s letter. Then he rang a small hand bell and told his orderly to bring a new envelope. He sealed the amended letter inside.

  The visitor was almost delirious. He had completely fooled Stanley Hazard, who didn’t connect him with Elkanah Bent. He wanted to ask about George but couldn’t think of a pretext that would not arouse suspicion. He forced the vendetta out of his mind; winning Baker’s approval came first.

  Stanley handed him the sealed envelope. “Take this to Colonel Baker at 217 Pennsylvania Avenue.”

  “Thank you, sir, thank you.” Bent heaved to his feet, extending his hand, only to realize he held the letter. He let it drop. Stanley rose and clasped his hands at the small of his back.

  Seething under the rebuff, Bent controlled himself and leaned over. It was hard to pick up the letter; his belly interfered. Sharply, Stanley said, “One more thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “Your name does not appear on my appointment calendar for today. Our conversation never took place, and you will forget you were ever in this building. If you violate that instruction, it could go hard with you.” He gestured. “Good morning.”

  What would they do if he talked? Murder him? The possibility frightened him, but not for long. He could hardly contain his excitement. He had finally found a door, even if open only a crack, to the corridors of power.

  He reeled down the stairs, vowing to please Colonel Baker at all costs. He might be able to locate George and Billy Hazard through this special bureau. And the work sounded ideal. He imagined himself interrogating a female suspect. Saw himself tear her clothing. Reach down to touch her. She could do nothing.

  Feeling reborn, he launched himself into the sunshine. Clerks and a pair of braid-crusted officers took startled note of an obese man almost dancing along the walks of President’s Park.

  70

  FROM THE STARBOARD RAIL forward of the pilothouse, Cooper watched the skies. Was it imagination, or was the heavy cloud cover growing luminous? Thinning to permit the rays of the moon to shine through?

  Ballantyne had told him that he depended on two conditions for a successful run: the right tide and total darkness. They had the tide, but now, late in the night, an onshore wind had sprung up to push the clouds. The lookout, invisible ten minutes ago, was clearly silhouetted in the crosstrees.

  Water Witch had steamed from Nassau in three days without incident. Federal ships were sighted hull down on the horizon, but the runner banked her fires to reduce smoke and slipped past them without detection, aided by her low profile and the gray paint that blurred her lines. Then came the dangerou
s hours—that short period in which a master earned his five thousand in gold or Yankee dollars. Even as late as an hour ago, however, Ballantyne had acted unconcerned, promising Cooper and his wife the traditional drink of celebration, a champagne cocktail, after they passed Fort Fisher.

  Since leaving port, Cooper had repeatedly tried to deal with the revelation that Ashton was part owner of this vessel that so flagrantly ignored the plight of the Confederacy. Ballantyne cautioned him that no one else aboard knew the names of any of the shareholders. He had mentioned Ashton’s solely in the hope of stilling Cooper’s protests.

  It did that, all right, but it also left him in turmoil. He hadn’t decided yet what to do about his discovery.

  Gripping the rail, Cooper felt the sea breeze on his face. The air was warm for a Carolina wintertime. To port, spectral blue lights hovered, the lanterns of the blockading squadron. How could they not hear the steady slap and thud of the runner’s paddle floats. Even though Water Witch was proceeding southward dead slow, close inshore in the deepwater channel, her paddles and engines sounded thunderous as she rolled and labored in moderately heavy surf.

  “Big Hill to starboard,” the lookout called softly. A crewman ran aft to pass the word to the pilothouse. Cooper strained for sight of the landmark on the flat, deserted shore. He saw it suddenly, with alarming clarity, a tall hummock that told runners they were near Fort Fisher and safe water. Overhead, white patches brightened and dimmed between the racing clouds.

  Had Judith and the children been able to get to sleep in their cramped berths? He suspected not. The sense of urgent work being done to the vessel in the late afternoon had conveyed itself even to Marie-Louise. The Mains watched Ballantyne’s crew cover the engine-room hatchways, drape the binnacle, and haul down all but the lower masts. Special crosstrees were raised on the foremast, and the lookout sent aloft after the perpetually smiling Ballantyne issued a warning to him.