by Джон Джейкс
"I don't know why," George growled, staring at the faces passing. "You could knock him out with one punch."
"True, but one ought to be frugal with time. That would be a squandering of it."
The dry, donnish jest did nothing to improve George's mood. Still, he appreciated the young Scotsman's effort. And he knew Wotherspoon understood the reason for his impatience. It would be impossible for him to leave Hazard's or even think seriously about Cameron's offer until he was sure the company could fulfill the contract.
He had no doubts about Hazard's doing it, provided the problem wasn't one of method. He and Wotherspoon had repeatedly gone over the calculations together — and Wotherspoon was nothing if not thorough. That was one reason George had promoted the young bachelor so quickly.
Wotherspoon, thirty, was a slender, slow-spoken, sad-eyed sort with wavy brown hair and a merciless ambition concealed behind impeccable manners. He had apprenticed at a dying ironworks run by successors of the great Darby family at Coalbrookdale, in the valley of the Severn, the same part of England from which the founder of the Hazard family, a fugitive, had fled in the late seventeenth century. As the dominance of the Severn's iron trade diminished, Wotherspoon had chosen emigration to America over a shorter journey to the new factories in Wales. He had arrived in Lehigh Station four years ago in search of a job, a wife, and a fortune. He had the first and was still in pursuit of the others. If he solved the riddle of the flawed castings, George knew he could place day-by-day control of Hazard's in the Scotsman's hands and never worry. He was certain he must leave Lehigh Station and serve; his quandary was a simple question: Where? By pulling a few wires, he could certainly obtain a field command, lead a regiment. Although he loathed combat, it was not fear that rendered the idea unappealing, but a conviction that his experience would be of greatest use in the Ordnance Department, which meant Cameron and Stanley and Isabel. What a damned, dismal choice.
Wotherspoon broke the glum reverie. "Why don't you go home, George?" Until a year ago, the younger man had addressed him as sir. Then mutual friendship and trust, and George's request, put them on a first-name basis. "I shall spend a while reviewing the Rodman notes once more. Somehow or other, I suspect the fault lies with us. The inventor of the process graduated from your school —"
"That's right, class of '41."
"Then he can hardly be wrong, can he, now?"
This time, George laughed. He lit another cigar and spoke with it clenched in his teeth. "Don't try to sell that opinion in Washington. Half the pols down there think West Point caused the war. Stanley's last letter said Cameron intends to crucify the place in a report he's going to issue. And I'm thinking of working for him. I must be daft."
Wotherspoon compressed his lips, his version of a smile. "No, no — we live in an imperfect world, that's all. You might also consider this: It's conceivable that you could help West Point more there than you could here."
"That's crossed my mind. Good night, Christopher."
"Good night, my friend."
Trudging the dusty street among lines of men flowing in both directions, George heard someone sneer about the test failure. He squared his shoulders and hunted for the offender, but of course couldn't find him. The jibe didn't bother him long; he knew that no owner could be popular with every person who worked for him. Besides, respect mattered more than popularity. Respect and peace with his own conscience. Hazard's paid fair wages. George operated no company store to hold his people in thrall. And he refused to hire children.
A headache started above his eyes. So many problems lately. The bad castings. Brett's unhappiness. The possibility of a War Department attack on West Point —
Stanley's letter, pretending to be informative, had actually been meant as an irritant, and George knew it. Referring to the Academy as a "seedbed of treason," his brother said the secretary had cited lax discipline and a vague but sinister "Southern predisposition" to explain why so many regular officers had defected. He shouldn't even consider working for a hack like that.
Of course Wotherspoon had stated one good reason for a contrary view. George's Washington lawyer stated another. In two recent letters, he'd described the urgent need for men of talent and honor to offset the hordes of incompetents already placed in jobs by their political patrons. Thank heaven he didn't have to decide today.
The climb to Belvedere was tiring in the wet, heavy air of late afternoon. He took off his black alpaca coat, loosened his string cravat, and inhaled and exhaled vigorously as he walked. Occasionally some cigar smoke went scorching down his throat, but he was used to that.
On the dusty path, he stopped to gaze up at the mountains. He recalled the lessons his dead mother had tried to pass on to him. He saw the emblem of the most important one above him on the summits — the mountain laurel, tossing in the wind.
His mother, Maude, had instilled in George her own mystic feeling about the laurel. Hardy, it endured the worst of weathers. So did the Hazards, she said. The laurel was strength born of love, she said. Nothing save love could lift men above the meanness woven through their natures and all their days.
She had talked of the laurel when he wondered about the wisdom of bringing Constance to Lehigh Station, where Catholics were largely scorned. He had repeated her words when Billy despaired of Orry Main's temporary opposition to his marriage with Brett.
Endurance and love. Perhaps it would prove enough. He prayed so.
On Belvedere's long, broad veranda, he caught his breath. Sweat ran on his neck and soaked his shirt. He was home sooner than usual. It was a rare chance to relax in a tepid bath with a cigar. Perhaps he could reason out the cause of the cannon shattering. A frown on his face, he let himself in quietly and started upstairs, stopping in the library for the copybook containing his notes on the Rodman process.
"George? You're early. What a grand surprise."
He turned toward the door.
"I thought I heard you come in," Constance continued as she entered. Starting to kiss him, she held back. "Darling, what's wrong?"
"The heat. It's infernal out there."
"No, it's something else. Ah — the test. That's it, isn't it?"
He slung his coat over his shoulder, affecting nonchalance. "Yes. We failed again."
"Oh, George, I'm so sorry."
She gave herself then, tightly and closely. One cool arm encircled his damp neck while her sweet mouth kissed. Amazing how it helped. She was the laurel.
"I have a piece of good news," she said presently. "I finally heard from Father."
"A letter?"
"Yes, today."
"Good. I know you've been anxious. Is he all right?"
"I don't know how to answer that. Come along and have a glass of cold cider, and I'll explain. The cider's turned a little — it'll lift your spirits better than cook's lemonade."
"You lift my spirits," he said, closing his fingers as she clasped his hand. He took pleasure in letting her lead him out of the library.
When George read the letter, he understood her puzzling answer. "I can appreciate his disgust with Texas. Patrick Flynn loves a great many things about the South, but slavery isn't one of them. But California? Is that the answer?"
"Not to my way of thinking. Imagine trying to start a new law practice at his age."
"I doubt he'd have a problem with that," George said, picturing the ruddy attorney who'd come to the Gulf Coast from County Limerick. George sat on the yard-square chopping block in the large kitchen, his feet dangling six inches above the floor. The cook and her helpers worked and chatted as if the Hazards weren't there. Constance strove to maintain a relaxed household; except for money matters, there were few secrets.
George sipped the cold cider. It had a bite worthy of a saloon. Noting that his preceding remark hadn't reassured his wife, he said, "He's a tough, adaptable fellow, your father."
"But he'll be sixty this year. And California isn't safe. In this morning's paper, I read a dispatch about Southerners p
lotting to set up some kind of second confederacy on the Pacific coast."
"That's a common rumor these days. One week it's California, the next Chicago."
"I still say the trip would be too long and hard and dangerous. Father's old and all alone."
He smiled. "Not quite. He travels with an eminently dependable guard and companion. I mean that Paterson Colt with the barrel a foot long. I've never seen him without it. Don't you remember when he wore it to our wedding? Furthermore, he's expert at using it."
Constance wouldn't be soothed. "I just don't know what I'm going to do."
George finished the cider and looked earnestly into the blue eyes he loved so well. "Pardon my impertinence, Mrs. Hazard, but I don't believe you can do anything. I didn't notice a request for permission in that letter. It merely says he's going, and he wrote it on April thirtieth. I expect he's halfway across the Sierras by now."
"Oh, good Lord — the date. I was too worried to notice it." She snatched the letter from the chopping block, glanced at the first page, and softly said, "Oh!" a second time. He jumped down and hugged her to help as she'd helped him. They left the kitchen, going upstairs, where he undressed for his bath.
"I'm sorry if I seemed cross downstairs," she said while he peeled off sweaty cotton drawers. Naked, he wrapped his arms around her again.
"Not cross. Understandably concerned. I'm afraid I was sarcastic with you. I apologize."
"We're even." She locked her hands behind his head and gave him a kiss. They held motionless for ten seconds, comfort flowing from one to the other. Such moments were as close as George ever came to understanding the nature of human love.
He took note of the physical side asserting itself. "If we keep this up, I won't get a bath."
She sniffed. "Which you definitely need."
With a mock roar, he flung her backward on the bed, tickling her till she gave her usual plea for mercy. He set off for the bathroom, turned back at the door. "We do have some problems we can do something about. Cameron's invitation, for one."
"The decision's yours, George. I don't want to be any closer to Stanley and Isabel than necessary. But I know you feel there are more important considerations."
"I wish I didn't. Congressman Thad Stevens said Cameron would steal a red-hot stove."
"I have a suggestion. Why don't you go to Washington and talk to some of the Ordnance people? It might help you decide."
"Splendid idea. I can't do it till we solve the problem of the castings, though." He thought a moment. "Do you think I could stand to work near Stanley? I took control of Hazard's away from him, banned his wife from this house — I even hit him once. He hasn't forgotten. And Isabel's vindictive."
"I know that all too well. You must take all of that into consideration. But if you do accept, I'll follow with the children as soon as I can."
His nod showed his troubled state of mind as he walked out of sight. She remained seated on the bed. The room was still; the curtains hung straight; the breeze had died. She understood her husband's uncertainty because she shared it. Old beliefs and relationships had been shattered by this crisis the press had already named "a war of brothers," even though no major battles had been fought. Just as she worried about her father, George feared for the well-being of his friend Orry and for Madeline, the woman Orry loved. How insignificant and helpless they all seemed; single strokes on some giant's canvas whose final design no one could see.
Discussion of the Cameron offer resumed at supper. Looking refreshed in a clean white shirt, George told Brett that Constance had made a very practical suggestion. He would go to Washington before he made up his mind.
"Will you take me with you?" Brett exclaimed. "I could see Billy."
"I can't go immediately." He explained the reason and watched her bright hope tarnish before his eyes. Guilty, he let his thoughts race. It wasn't ten seconds before he continued. "But here's another possibility. I have two important contracts that must go to my attorney down there. I suppose I could find some trustworthy older fellow around the office — he could take them. You could go, too."
"You still won't allow me to go alone?"
"Brett, we disposed of that subject weeks ago."
"Not to my satisfaction."
"Don't get angry. You're an intelligent and capable young woman. But Washington's a cesspool. You don't belong there by yourself — even if we disregard your unmistakably Southern speech, which makes you a target for all sorts of hostility. No, this other way's better. I'll find a man and have him ready to go within a day or two. Pack your valise and stand by."
"Oh, thank you," she said, rushing around the table to hug him. "Can you forgive my bad temper? You two have been so kind, but I've seen so little of Billy since we were married —"
"I understand." He patted her hand. "Nothing to forgive."
She kept thanking him, tears in her eyes. It was one of the rare occasions when Constance saw George flustered.
Later, in their play before love-making upstairs, she said: "Do you really have papers to send to Washington?"
"I'll find some."
She laughed and kissed him and drew him to her breast with great joy.
15
"This carpetbag's heavier than old Fuss and Feathers." Billy groaned as he put it down.
"I brought you a lot of little extras I thought you'd need: books, three havelocks I sewed myself, socks, drawers, a new skillet, one of those small sewing kits for soldiers —"
"In the army they're called housewives." He plucked off his kepi and with his other hand reached back to close the door.
Both kept their voices low, as if wary of listeners. It was three on a sultry afternoon, and they were alone in a room in a boardinghouse. Though they were married, it struck Brett as deliciously wicked.
Stuffy and slope-ceilinged, the small room had but one inadequate window to admit the noise of the unseen street. At that, Billy had been lucky to find any accommodations at all after receiving her telegraph message.
"I've wanted to see you, Brett. See you, love you —" He sounded strange; shy and almost frightened. "I've wanted it so much I ache."
"Oh, I know, my darling. I feel the same. But we've never —"
"What?"
Scarlet, she averted her head. He touched her chin.
"What, Brett?"
She didn't dare meet his eyes. Her face burned. "Before, we've always — made love in the dark."
"I don't want to wait that long."
"No, I — don't either."
He helped with the clothing, rapidly yet without roughness. One by one the layers were shed and tossed anywhere, and there came in the hot gloom that petrifying moment when nothing was concealed, and she knew he'd be revolted by the sight of her body.
The fear melted as he stretched out his hands. He touched her shoulders and slowly slid his palms down her arms, a caress each found tender and exciting. His loving smile changed subtly to a look close to exaltation. Her smile burst into view, radiant, and her joyous laughter accompanied equally joyous tears. Only moments later, she helped him hurry into her for the reunion that was all the sweeter because it was so swift and urgently needed by both of them.
Captain Farmer had given him an overnight furlough. Late in the afternoon, Billy took Brett on a tour of the area near President's Park. The number of soldiers on the streets astonished her. They wore navy, they wore gray, and a few wore such gaudy outfits that they resembled the household troops of some Arab prince. She also noticed a great many blacks wandering.
About an hour before sunset, they crossed a foul-smelling canal to an uncompleted park near the fantastical red towers of the Smithsonian Institution. Several dozen fine carriages had brought well-dressed civilians to watch a retreat exercise conducted by a volunteer regiment, the First Rhode Island. Billy pointed out its commanding officer, Colonel Burnside, a man with magnificent side whiskers. The regimental band played, flags flew, and it was all marvelously exciting and unthreatening; the hour a
t the boardinghouse had left Brett euphoric.
Billy explained that retreats, parades, reviews, and other public displays were very much a part of the military presence in and around the city. "But there will surely be a battle soon. They say Lincoln wants it, and it looks like Davis does, too. He's got his most popular general commanding the Alexandria line." "You mean General Beauregard?"
He took her arm and slipped it around his as they strolled. "Yes. Once upon a time this army thought pretty highly of Old Bory. Now everyone calls him a scared little peacock. He didn't help matters when he said our side wanted only two things from the South — booty and beauty. Pretty damned insulting."
Our side. It had become hers by marriage. Whenever that occurred to her, confusion and vague feelings of disloyalty set in. Tonight was no different.
"Does Captain Farmer know when the fighting will start?" "No. Sometimes I wonder if anyone does — including our senior commanders."
"You disapprove of them?"
"Most of the professionals are all right. The Academy men. But there are generals who got shoulder straps through political connections. They're pretty terrible. Arrogant as it sounds, I'm glad I went to West Point and into the engineers. It's the best branch." "Also the first into battle'." "Sometimes." "Scares me to death."
He wanted to confess it scared him, too, but that would only worry her more.
For Brett, the glitter began to fall off the city as they walked to the hotel chosen for supper. They passed a pair of noncoms idling along, thuggish fellows. She heard one snicker and say all officers were shitasses.
Billy stiffened but didn't turn or stop. "Don't pay any attention. If I stepped in every time I heard that kind of remark, I wouldn't have a minute for my duties. Army discipline's terrible — but not in Lije Farmer's company. I'm anxious to have you meet him." "When will that be?"
"Tomorrow. I'll take you out to camp and show you the fortifications we're building. Plans call for a ring of them, perhaps as many as fifty or sixty, surrounding the city."
