“Not the cavalry,” he exclaimed. “Him!”
He pointed across the planked floor, and I looked up to see General Hooker making his entrance across the hall, surrounded by a dozen staff aides.
“The man of the hour,” said Charles, his voice laden with sarcasm. “Look at him swaggering in front of the ladies with that priapic strut.”
A burst of spontaneous applause erupted from the women in the center of the pavilion as he went by. The tailored uniform he was wearing seemed sculpted to his powerful body. Towering over the men around him, he looked more than ever to me like one of the warrior gods of old.
“He is a satyr, a debauched womanizer.… everyone in Washington knows it,” Charles declared, rocking rhythmically up and down in his tiny cavalry boots.
A soldier with sweat running down his corpulent face came by with a tray of drinks, and I took a glass of what looked like new cider. Charles was drinking from a pewter mug with his family crest engraved on it. I was confident it also contained no alcohol. At Harvard, Charles had been the head of the campus temperance society.
“I’m reliably informed Hooker is already belittling the ability of General Burnside to command the army,” he said in a confidential tone.
“That wouldn’t be difficult,” I said.
Val Burdette came up to us, his mammoth form blocking out the light from the Chinese lanterns. As Charles turned to face him, his jaw dropped. Although in honor of the occasion Val had attempted to shave, he had apparently lost patience with the effort, and the left side of his face retained several days’ growth. His thick gray hair spilled out well below the edge of the collar of his seedy uniform coat. He was holding a foul-smelling cheroot in the fingers of his right hand.
“Captain Adams, I would like you to meet Colonel Burdette,” I said by way of introduction. The top of Charles’s head barely came to the height of Val’s chest, and his open-mouthed stare suggested a man gazing up at a reptilian monster.
“Charles Francis Adams Junior,” said Charles, carefully enunciating each syllable. When he was nervous, he trotted out the mantle of his family’s famous name like a gold-hilted sword.
“Charles,” I said, “Colonel Burdette is in charge of investigating serious contracting fraud on behalf of the army.”
I’m not sure the words registered. Val took a deep drag on his cigar and said, “Do you want to hear the latest rumors? I picked up several good ones at the bar.”
“Jeff Davis is about to sue for peace?” I suggested.
“To the contrary. The Confederate navy is secretly constructing a fleet of ironclads down in Cuba. They are all more powerful than the Merrimack, and the Rebs are planning to send them up the Chesapeake to attack Washington as soon as they are ready.”
He took another puff of his cigar before adding, “Of course, that one happens to come from the biggest shipbuilder in the North.”
“I assume he is offering to construct enough federal ironclads to meet the threat,” I said.
“Precisely,” he said, his dark gray eyes glinting with humor.
“But it sounds exactly like something the rebels would do,” protested Charles.
“The second is far more troubling,” went on Val, his face now serious. “It’s another plot to assassinate Lincoln, this one involving disgruntled officers who are afraid that some of his blunders will kill most of the army before he’s through. I have heard it now from two different sources, both of them unimpeachable.”
“And the third rumor?” I asked.
“That’s the best one of all,” he said, with a ferocious grin. “Jeff Davis has personally hatched a plan to burn the capital to the ground using Japanese mercenaries.”
“Well, at least they should be easy to spot,” I said.
“Speaking of plots, our Major Duval has arrived. He is currently indulging his fondness for seafood over there at the buffet table,” said Val, moving off in that direction.
I looked over at the crowd in front of the seafood bar. An officer with imperial moustaches that curled up at each end of his mouth was sucking down a raw oyster. With dramatic flourish, he tossed the empty shell over his shoulder and reached down to pick up another. Charles began rocking up and down in his boots again as a great round of applause burst forth from the ladies in the center of the pavilion.
“Here comes the other disciple of debauchery,” he said, glaring over my shoulder.
General Dan Sickles was striding across the floor toward the guest of honor with the springy step of a bantam rooster. Joining the group of officers surrounding General Hooker, he stopped and waved to the cheering crowd. As General Hooker turned to greet him, he glanced momentarily in the direction where Charles and I were standing. Less than a minute later, I saw Major Bannister coming toward us through the crowd.
“I’m extending General Hooker’s compliments,” he said, with a formal bow. “He was hoping you would join him for a libation.”
Charles began staring at me as if I had somehow betrayed the honor of the Republic. I knew it would have been impossible to explain it all to him right then. I didn’t bother to try. As he pivoted on his heel and stalked away, I followed Major Bannister across the floor.
“I’m surprised to see you again,” Bannister said coldly. “Perhaps, it will not be the last.”
General Hooker was standing in a circle of other officers. Aside from Dan Sickles, there were two other generals in the group whom I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t until one of them briefly stepped back that I saw General Hathaway seated in the middle of the group in his wheelchair. Sergeant Osceola was standing just beyond the generals at the edge of the circle.
“I thought I saw you over there, Lieutenant,” said General Hooker, greeting me with a warm handshake. Then he noticed the captain’s bars on my tunic and added, “A promotion, I see. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
“Allow me to introduce General Sickles, General Couch, General Nevins, and General Hathaway,” he said, gesturing at each of them in turn. “Gentlemen,” he said with a grin, “I was privileged to meet Captain McKittredge when we were both confined to the Washington Insane Asylum.”
Seeing the expected befuddlement on their faces, he laughed out loud. From the rosiness in his cheeks, it was obvious he had been indulging his fondness for whiskey. General Sickles gave me a curt smile. Of medium height, he had restless brown eyes and a blunt face adorned by a Roman nose and a drooping black mustache.
“I’m sure there is a point to this story somewhere,” he said.
“It isn’t what you might think,” said General Hooker, and he began to explain why we had both been there. He left out the part about our meeting by the thunderboxes.
“Kit has seen me at my worst, I’m afraid,” he concluded, with another grin in my direction. “Thankfully, he is the only officer with a Harvard degree who knows how to keep a confidence.”
“You hope,” interjected Sickles, glancing sharply at me.
“He is a young Homer with innocence in his nature,” said General Hooker, “although he has some dark secrets of his own.”
General Nevins was whispering in the ear of General Couch. From what I could see, there wasn’t a hint of avarice or deceit in his highbrowed, distinguished face. He had the same mournful eyes and benign countenance of the Presbyterian minister who used to come across from the mainland to preach at our island church over Christmas week.
Looking down at General Hathaway, General Hooker said, “Are you getting any closer to identifying the men responsible for supplying us with those collapsing gun carriages, Sam? As far as I’m concerned, they should be lashed to the barrels of our siege guns and fired off at the Rebels.”
I was still looking at General Nevins. The benign expression never left his face.
“Yes,” said General Hathaway. “Actually, Captain McKittredge is down here to help us with our investigation.”
“Excellent,” said General Hooker, as Nevins’s eyes connec
ted with mine. When I smiled pleasantly at him, he turned away.
“The miscreants are probably right here lapping up your whiskey,” said General Couch, speaking for the first time. His head was shaped like a giant acorn.
A waiter came up, balancing a platter of drinks on his hand.
“Gentlemen, I would like to propose a toast,” said General Hooker, picking up a glass of whiskey from the tray. “You must all try this single malt … sent all the way from Scotland for me.”
Not having had a drop of alcohol since my time in the cellar, I refrained from picking up a glass. As he was raising his own, the general noticed me without one.
“Surely you will join me in my birthday toast, Kit,” he said, with a friendly grin.
Sensing all their faces on me, I picked up a glass from the tray and raised it with the others.
“To the honor and glory of noble warriors,” said General Hooker.
Like the others, I drank it down in one swallow, almost instantly feeling its burning comfort speeding through my system and straight to my brain.
To my utter astonishment, the general then stared down at Sam Hathaway and said, “To you, Sam.”
General Hathaway turned his head away as if struck. He was wearing his spectacles again, and with his professorial air, it was hard to believe that he had ever seen combat.
“Before he was consigned to a desk, Sam Hathaway was the best regimental commander in my division,” said General Hooker. “I hope he won’t mind my telling some brother officers about his exploits on the Peninsula.”
“That was another man, General,” said Sam.
“It was you, my friend.”
Looking back to us, he said, “During the fighting at Fort Magruder, we were being raked by Confederate artillery and in danger of being driven. I even had to post a line of cavalry across the read just to cut down the deserters as they tried to run. On his own initiative, Sam led a counterattack against the batteries that were murdering us. I watched it all through my binoculars. Damnedest thing I ever saw on a battlefield.”
General Hathaway was looking ever more uncomfortable. His fingers moved toward the wheels of his chair.
“Sam was calmly strolling out ahead of his men carrying a furled umbrella under his arm … just as if he were on his way to the library.”
He turned to look down at him again and smiled.
“When he was within a hundred yards of the Confederate position, an artillery shell exploded at ground level just behind him at the edge of a shallow ravine. Naturally, a few of his men decided to take advantage of the situation and dove straight into the cover. The rest of the regiment halted as one right behind them. That’s when Sam walked back there with the shells exploding all around him.”
I tried to imagine him when his legs still worked, tall and fearless.
“According to a subaltern who saw the whole thing, Sam just spread his umbrella over the men in the draw and declared, “Come along, boys, we need you up ahead.”
General Sickles was nodding his head in approval.
“Isn’t that what you did, Sam?” asked General Hooker.
General Hathaway didn’t acknowledge him. He was staring straight ahead, his fingers now gripping the wheels of his chair.
“That’s exactly what he did. But that wasn’t the best part,” said General Hooker. “When they stayed glued to the ground, Sam reassured them by saying, ‘Don’t worry, boys, I’ve got an umbrella.’”
All of us laughed together.
“Shamed into action, his regiment returned to the attack and drove the battery from the field. You saved more than my reputation that day, Sam.”
General Hooker removed a thin leather case from his uniform coat and opened it in front of us. Inside, resting on a bed of white silk, was a red enamel-and-gold medal. He leaned down and pinned it on General Hathaway’s chest.
“The president authorized me to have this struck for you personally, Sam.”
A feeling of profound sadness came over me just then, looking down at him as he tried hard to control his emotions. I knew what he was going through, all that he had lost.
“As I said, General … that was another man,” Sam Hathaway declared grimly. “Thank you for the generous words, but I need to return to my office now.”
We watched as he navigated his chair through the crowd. Sergeant Osceola followed him across the floor.
“When did his luck run out?” asked General Sickles.
“Second Manassas,” said General Hooker. “He was shot in the spine after doing his best to carry out one of Pope’s harebrained orders. That young aide of his, Osceola—full-blooded Seminole I believe—saved his life … was shot several times doing it.”
“Bad luck,” said General Couch. “Sam had a brilliant future.”
“By your leave, Joe,” said General Nevins, giving him a formal salute before heading across the floor. I watched as he disappeared into the crowd at the buffet tables. A few moments later, the crush parted long enough for me to see him talking animatedly to Major Duval. Some distance behind them, Val’s familiar bulk loomed above the rest of the celebrants.
The military orchestra struck up a Strauss waltz, and the romantic music quickly drew scores of couples to the dance floor. General Hooker handed me another glass of whiskey. I reluctantly took it, telling myself it would be my last.
“There’s a rumor going around that McClellan will soon be restored to command,” said General Couch, his acorn head now swaying back and forth to the music.
“The gravedigger of the Chickahominy back again? Where did you hear that?” demanded General Sickles.
“From Ben Wade,” said Couch. “He said a group of senators are actively working on Little Mac’s behalf.”
“The nation’s capital,” said Sickles in disgust. “Built by giants; inhabited by pygmies. I can tell you this … the cock will crow three times before Abe Lincoln puts that pigeon-livered bastard back in command.”
“Well, at least Burnside is loyal to the cause,” said General Couch. “I’ve always had my doubts about McClellan.”
“Burnside is loyal all right,” said General Hooker, “but one only has to look into those Guernsey eyes to realize he is a complete imbecile. If his current battle plan is allowed to stand, he will go down as the greatest corpse maker of the war.”
I happened to be looking toward the dance floor when my eyes were drawn to a small group of people standing to the side. Something about one of them jarred my memory, but at first I couldn’t place what it was. Continuing to stare at them, I suddenly recognized the debonair man with the leonine head and pale eyes who had threatened me at the Silbernagel trial.
“Pardon me, sir. But do you know who that man is?” I asked General Couch, who was standing next to me. As I pointed toward him, my quarry smiled back at me and gave a jaunty wave. He was the only man in the group not wearing a uniform.
“Which one?” asked General Couch, but as I looked again, he had disappeared. I immediately started walking toward the place where I had last seen him. General Hooker’s voice brought me up short.
“Kit,” he said, motioning me to his side, “when the business with the gun carriages is concluded, I want you to join my staff. I need a younger officer who has seen real action. There are too many armchair warriors as it is.”
“Thank you, General,” I said, continuing to stare at the spot where I had seen the stranger last.
“It’s agreed then,” he responded. “We’ll drink to it.”
I knew it was a mistake but was no longer thinking clearly, and I consumed the drink in two swallows. It followed the first two down my throat with the old familiar ease. I remained at the general’s side, joining him in another glass of whiskey when the waiter came through again. The stranger did not reappear.
I was about to take my leave when the music suddenly stopped and I heard an angry yell, followed by the loud smack of a physical blow. As the crowd parted on the dance floor, I could see an officer
lying spread-eagled on his back. Another officer was standing over him with his fists raised. I recognized him from the shoulder straps. It was Major Bannister. A woman in a red satin dress was standing next to him.
In the ensuing silence, Major Bannister’s next words carried across the floor to us.
“Stay away from her or I’ll kill you,” he said.
General Hooker motioned to another staff officer standing near us, and he immediately came to his side. “Have Bannister sent back to his tent under guard,” he said, as the man on the floor struggled to regain his feet.
The staff officer moved off to carry out the order. I was standing close enough to hear General Hooker’s next words when he turned to General Sickles and whispered, “You need to talk to Mavis right away.”
Sickles nodded. A second later, the orchestra resumed playing a gay waltz, and couples began dancing again as if nothing had happened. General Hooker’s cheeks were as fresh as cherries.
“The truth be told, Kit,” he said, shaking his head in world-weary fashion, “if you look down through the wars in history, most of them were fought over women.”
He must have interpreted the boozy look on my face as one of condemnation, for with genuine affection in his voice, he added, “Try not to be too judgmental, my boy. You’re going to be forty-eight yourself someday.”
With that, he handed me another round of single malt.
The woman in the red dress had remained standing in the same place where the two officers had been fighting. No one made a move to comfort or assist her. She slowly walked to the edge of the dance floor, pretending to examine her dance card.
At the same time, a large group of officers and their wives began forming at a respectful distance from General Hooker in order to extend their birthday greetings.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose I must attend to my well-wishers.”
As he left us to receive them, I turned to say good night to General Sickles.
“You will remain here for a moment, Captain,” he said, in a peremptory tone.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
General Sickles was gazing steadily in the direction of the woman in the red dress. When she finally happened to look in our direction, I saw him nod, almost imperceptibly. She walked straight toward us.
Unholy Fire Page 13
