by Джон Джейкс
Virgilia left, silently cursing Miss Dix as a damned opinionated cow.
She reboarded the street railway and gradually calmed down. She liked the nursing service. Hence she was glad she hadn't brought up all the accusations she might have made against Mrs. Neal. They were more personal than professional anyway. The woman was a sentimentalist, a peace Democrat who couldn't say enough in praise of McClellan or in criticism of men such as Stevens and Stanton. From the start, the two women had disliked and distrusted each other. Their politics only exacerbated the situation.
I should have expected it would go the way it did, she thought. A small sigh earned her a stare from the man sitting next to her. He noticed her bosom and started to speak. She glared, and he changed seats.
A growling emptiness reminded her she had eaten nothing since waking up in the cheap hotel where she had spent the night. She saw Willard's on the next corner and left the car. She was at the dining-room door when a group of men came out.
"Congressman Stout —"
He turned. She held her breath — did he recognize her?
Yes! He lowered the hat he had been settling on his wavy dark hair. "Gentlemen, excuse me. An old friend. Thank you for your time; we shall pursue the matter."
Sam Stout ignored the faintly lewd chuckles of a couple of his friends and shook her hand. "Miss Hazard. How are you?"
"Pleased that you remember my name."
"Did you think I wouldn't? What are you doing in the city?"
"I had a meeting with Miss Dix on some pressing administrative matters. I hated to leave the hospital, but it couldn't be helped. Is there any news of General Hooker?"
"None but what the papers carry. My friend Stanton guards those telegraph receivers carefully." Stout glanced around, quickly evaluating all the men and women in the busy lobby. He did it casually, without attracting attention, which caused Virgilia to admire him all the more.
She was elated to see him. On a previous visit to Washington, she had made some inquiries about his personal life. He had no children; his wife, a girlhood sweetheart from Indiana, was apparently barren. A description of the woman revealed another tidbit. She was thin, with a chest as flat as a piece of lumber. Virgilia thought it might be useful to know she offered something Stout's wife did not.
His face grave, Stout said, "I would be most interested in hearing about current conditions in the hospitals. Whether you have the equipment you need, drugs in sufficient quantity —"
Clever man. Using the same pretext she had employed the day they met, he was speaking loudly and clearly to offset any suggestion of impropriety. A clerk at the reception counter had recognized Stout and was listening, she noticed. "I believe there's a quiet parlor just up this hallway, Miss Hazard. We could sit and chat there, if it would not interfere with your schedule."
His steady gaze spoke what was really on his mind. Virgilia began to feel light-headed and perspire, constricted by her layers of clothing.
Taking polite hold of her elbow, he guided her along the deserted corridor that had the woolly, musty odor of hotels everywhere. The parlor, with several small tables and chairs scattered about, was empty.
Stout was no fool; he left the door wide open, though he did choose a table where they couldn't be seen unless someone walked into the room.
He laid his hat on the table and his fawn gloves and silver-handled stick beside it. His hair oil had a citrus tang. His skin was whiter than she remembered and his great hooking brows, in contrast, coal black. "I must say, Miss Hazard, you look wonderfully fit." The resonant voice reached deep inside her, stirring —
Be careful. Don't make any casual bargains. He's a married man. He can't be plucked like an apple on a low branch.
"Thank you, Congressman."
An eloquent gesture at a plush chair. "Won't you sit down? How are conditions at Aquia Creek?"
"The work's arduous, but you know how strongly I feel about the cause we serve."
"I well remember," he answered, nodding. "It's one of many reasons I admire you." He studied her mouth, smiled a little. She felt faint. He didn't press.
"Our supplies and food never seem adequate," she continued.
"Even so, the job you ladies do is remarkable."
"It's never good enough to satisfy me, Congressman."
"Sam, if you please."
"All right. My first name is —"
"Virgilia. It's a lovely name."
"You have such a grand voice it makes any name sound splendid."
His gaze moved past her to the parlor door. The corridor remained quiet. He seemed to be pondering his next gambit. Virgilia's eyes encouraged him.
At length he said, "I was sorry that our first meeting ended on a note that was rather discouraging."
"I felt I had to be candid with you, even though I greatly admired your militancy toward the rebels." She was surprised at the ease with which she had put a catch in her voice. She would never be an accomplished flirt like that empty-headed Ashton Main, but she was learning a trick or two.
"Do I detect the past tense, Virgilia?"
She smiled. "A slip of the tongue. My admiration has not abated."
Again he glanced toward the hall. Only the distant murmurs of the lobby filled its dusty spaces. Slowly, his right hand rose from his lap. How languorous the hand seemed, moving toward her bodice like some white bird sailing on currents of air. Beginning to tremble, she pressed her legs together as his thumb came to rest on her left breast, his fingers curled against the swelling side.
She swept her right hand across, closed it on his. She said his first name softly, then shut her eyes. "Oh —"
In the hall, someone rattled a pail. Stout quickly pulled his hand away. The little exchange had lasted no more than five seconds, but it had clarified everything only hinted at before.
An elderly Negro in hotel livery appeared, bucket in hand, and began sifting the contents of a sand urn just outside the parlor door. The old man drew out broken cigar butts, bits of paper, and, when he had them all, smoothed the sand and disappeared.
Virgilia's face felt as if someone had dashed hot water on it.
Stout leaned forward. "I want to see you again." "I feel the same way."
"Our next meeting should be more private, don't you think?"
For a dizzying moment, she was tempted. Then she remembered what she stood to lose — or gain. She shook her head. Stout's polished veneer cracked.
"You just said —"
"I do feel — a strong attraction, Sam. But I refuse to involve myself in some — some back-street affair."
He draped an arm over his chair and studied her. "Is my wife still the problem?"
"I am afraid so."
Coldly, he said, "If you have a notion that I might throw her over for you or any other woman, you're mistaken."
"I didn't ask —"
"Asking isn't necessary, my dear." Sarcasm and that great resonant voice combined with devastating results. "Your scheme's quite clear. I suppose I can't blame you for hoping, but the hope is misguided. I would" never sacrifice what I've achieved in this town' — and much more that I want to achieve — by making myself morally notorious. Do you know what some of my constituents in Muncie would do if I became embroiled in a scandal? They'd vote me out — and have bubbling tar and hen feathers waiting at the depot when I came home."
Having gotten the effect he wanted, he softened, grasped her hand. "Why must convention be an obstacle, Virgilia? We have a mutual desire and we can satisfy it discreetly without harming the interests of either party"
"How do you know it would work that way, Congressman? Are you an expert at philandering?"
A chill settled into his eyes. He snatched up his stick, hat, fawn gloves. "I have an appointment. It has been pleasant to visit with you, Miss Hazard. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
He reached the door. She stood abruptly. "Sam —"
Turning, but giving nothing else, he replied, "Yes?"
How hard it was to say what had to be said. "Nothing. My terms must stand."
'They're too high, I'm afraid. Very much too high." He gave her another smile, this one scornful, meant to wound. His stooping figure vanished down the hall.
She sat again, listening to the faint lobby sounds while a sense of failure consumed her. How stupid she had been to bluff when she held such poor cards. Undoubtedly he could have his pick of half the women in Washington.
And yet, remembering his eyes, she knew he wanted her. Her breasts, her person —
What did it matter? She had played all her trumps, and she had still lost. Her despair growing worse, she sat counting rosettes in the carpet pattern until she heard a knock. Like someone rousing from sleep, she turned and saw the old black porter with the pail.
"You feelin' all right, ma'am?"
"Fine, thank you. I was merely a bit dizzy and came in here to rest."
Willing herself out of lethargy, she rose. Might it not be a little premature to count failure as a certainty? Setting a high price on her favors could have a reverse effect and make Stout want her all the more. All his back-turning and sneering might be so much sham.
With these thoughts came another, transformed almost at once into a conviction. This would not be the last time she saw Sam Stout. She didn't want it to be the last time, and despite his rhetoric about ambition, constituents, his wife, she felt he didn't either.
Where would they meet? No way to tell. No matter; it would happen. She left the parlor and strode swiftly, confidently, toward the faint sounds. She noticed that she drew covert stares from gentlemen as she crossed the lobby and went out.
79
"It's all there," said the albino. "Where's the money?"
"In due time — in due time!"
Bent's small dark eyes ran over the closely written pages. The albino, a soft, vulnerable-looking boy of eighteen or nineteen, walked away with a petulant expression. He snatched a piece of straw from one of the bales piled in the shed. His right hand drooped in a limp way as he slipped the straw into his mouth and chewed.
Bent continued scanning the pages. "You'll find everything as promised," the albino said. It sounded like a complaint. "Complete inventory of items the Tredegar is manufacturing — cannon, shell casings, gun carriages, rolled plate for Mr. Mallory's ironclads. There's a long list with quantities shown for each. My, uh, friend who got the information together was one of Joe Anderson's top assistants."
Alerted, Bent cleared his throat. "Did you say was?"
"Yes, Mr. Bascom." Daintily, he raised his left hand to brush his pretty white hair off the shoulder of his soiled shirt. "He was discharged last week, I regret to say. Some irregularity about payments."
"What sort of irregularity?"
"Something to do with favoring certain suppliers. It doesn't affect the report. That's a hundred percent reliable."
"Oh, I'm certain it is," Bent said, nodding. He folded the pages and slipped them into a side pocket of his tentlike coat. He resembled a respectable businessman in his new suit of black alpaca, heavy boots, broad-brimmed black hat and cravat of the same color.
His mind sped. The poor warped creature, intending to please, had let slip a piece of damaging information. He was now useless as a contact. Bent knew he must act on that information. He wasn't hesitant about it; Baker had given him wide latitude.
"I have the money." He rooted in another pocket. The albino licked his lips. A bell clanged on a night packet moving down the James River & Kanawha Canal at three miles an hour, its lights visible through gaps in the shed wall. The shed was situated among several others on weedy, deserted ground at the foot of Oregon Hill. A short distance downstream, across the canal but on this side of the river, the sprawling Tredegar foundry reddened the night and filled it with the clatter of machinery.
Bent had not been in the detached service very long, but he already had a grasp of its intricacies, probably because his nature and the nature of the work meshed perfectly. Thus, counting out bills — United States bills, not Confederate; the albino had insisted — he silently ticked off points relative to the situation.
An inactive contact was potentially dangerous. The albino knew Bent was a Union spy. He could report Bent to the authorities if he felt spiteful, and be no poorer for it. Or, after Bent left Richmond, he could talk too freely, making it unsafe for Bent to return.
The albino said, "In regard to my gentleman friend who compiled the information — I have to split the proceeds with him, you know. In hard times like these, an extra dollar's welcome. Also in reference to my friend, I'm not exclusively his, in case —"
"Some other time," Bent said, only briefly tempted. He must keep duty and pleasure separate. Besides, the little sod might be diseased, like some of the pitiful males he had seen offering themselves under the trees of Capitol Square. "I think we can consider our business finished." He handed the money to the albino. "Why don't you leave first? I'll extinguish the lantern and follow in a few minutes."
"All right, Mr. Bascom." The albino sounded disappointed.
"By the way — is your friend still in Richmond?" Bent expected an affirmative answer. It wouldn't alter his decision about the albino, but it might influence the length of his stay in the city.
Unexpectedly, the albino said, "No, sir. He went home to Charlottesville for a few days to collect himself. Being sacked by Joe Anderson was a pretty hard blow. He'd worked at the Tredegar ten years. Began as an apprentice, back when the place built locomotives."
"Sad," Bent declared, injecting as much false sympathy as possible. His heart beat fast now, from nerves and anticipation. The albino gave him a last pleading look.
"Well, then — good night, Mr. Bascom."
"Good night."
While the albino sauntered to the door and reached for the latch, Bent drew the clasp knife from his coat and silently opened it. The six-inch blade flashed under the hanging lantern.
The albino heard the swift, heavy tread of Bent's boots and peeked over his shoulder. Before he could cry out, Bent had his left elbow around the albino's windpipe. He pushed the knife into the albino's back. The blade met resistance. He kept pushing until all the metal had disappeared.
He twisted it one way, then another, to be sure the job was done. The albino pulled at Bent's left arm but lacked strength to loosen it. His torn shoes scraped and twisted in the dirt. Finally the slight body was limp.
Bent extricated the bloody knife and gagged only once. He was astonished and pleased about his suitability for this work. He felt sure that since he had never met the albino's friend, the man would be unable to trace Mr. Bascom or connect him in any way with a Mr. Dayton of Raleigh, North Carolina, who was stopping temporarily at one of the city's cheaper lodging houses.
Taking hold of the collar, he dragged the body. It smelled now. He placed it against a wall and concealed it with straw bales pushed in front of it and stacked on top. Then he remembered something, removed two bales, and dug in the dead boy's pockets till he found the currency. Baker would be glad to have the cash to use again.
He replaced the bales and with his boot smoothed the dirt floor to remove the most conspicuous signs of disturbance. After a careful inspection, he blew out the lantern and went out the door into the balmy May night. The lights of Richmond twinkled on the hilltop and on either hand. Lamps gleamed on the prison island in the river, and the Tredegar spewed red smoke and light. Bent made his way back along the canal for a short distance, then turned left and climbed toward the center of the city that was mourning for a legend.
The next day was Wednesday, May 13. In full-dress uniform, including sash and the Solingen sword, Orry walked with a great many other Confederate officers in the funeral procession.
Behind the officers were hundreds of clerks and minor officials from the statehouse and the city corporation. Directly ahead were Orry's chief, Seddon, his friend Benjamin, and other cabinet members. Ahead of them, hung with great swags of black crepe, was t
he carriage of President and Mrs. Davis. The Davises followed the most honored mourners — raggedy veterans who had served with the man the procession honored. The veterans walked or dragged themselves on crutches. A few were borne on litters by tired comrades in butternut or fading gray.
Ahead of the veterans walked the official military escort, two companies from George Pickett's division, one of artillery, one of cavalry. Their drummers beat the slow march for the dead.
Ahead of them, led by a single soldier, was the general's favorite war charger, Old Sorrel, saddle empty, stirrups tucked up. Ahead of Old Sorrel, drawn by black-plumed horses and with four generals walking at the corners as a special honor guard, was the black hearse containing the body of Thomas Jonathan Jackson.
Jackson had died on Sunday, after his wound bred pneumonia and bodily poisons and the surgeons lopped off his left arm in a futile attempt to arrest his decline. All day yesterday he had lain in state in the governor's mansion, his coffin draped in the national flag for which he had fought with such loyalty and ferocity. As the body was being readied for the procession to Capitol Square, Jackson's widow had finally broken down and been led away.
On either side of the route of march, Orry saw stricken, tear-stained faces, male and female, soldier and civilian. Even the little children wept. Nothing in recent memory, not even Pelham's fall, had so devastated the Confederacy. Seddon had whispered to Orry as they stood beside the bier yesterday that Lee was almost beyond consolation.
It was difficult to believe that Jackson had been slain not by some Yankee but by one of his own, a Confederate soldier who would remain eternally anonymous. Probably the man didn't know he had fired the fatal bullet.
Ironic, too, that it had happened immediately after Jackson and Lee had once again gambled brilliantly. Faced with Hooker's sudden surprise sweep, they had agreed to split their army a second time and send Jackson's foot cavalry on the swift secret march to the Union right. Jackson had smashed Howard's corps of Dutchmen and by doing so had perhaps drained all the fight out of Fighting Joe. For whatever reason, Hooker had somehow lost his nerve, withdrawn from a strong offensive position at a key moment, and steadily given ground thereafter. Jubal Early had lost Fredericksburg, but the Yanks had lost the battle of Chancellorsville. The roles of winner and loser might be reversed, however, once the full cost of Jackson's death was reckoned. Orry thought the victory a hollow one.
