by Джон Джейкс
The procession entered Capitol Square through the west gates, where Orry saw his wife in a group of women that included Mrs. Stanard, one of the grandes dames of local society. Benjamin had provided an introduction, and Mrs. Stanard had taken to Madeline instantly, favoring her with the information that she had definitely not taken to Orry's sister, Mrs. Huntoon, whom she had invited to her salon once only.
Seeing Madeline cheered him a little. But there wasn't much to be happy about any more, even setting aside this dark day. In the west, Sam Grant was moving relentlessly on the works around Vicksburg. Men no longer lowered their voices when they discussed impeachment of Davis. And General Winder's wardens continued to run the overcrowded prisons cruelly, in defiance of frequent inspections and memorandums of protest from Orry and others.
Cooper was in Richmond, had been for almost a month. His office was in the Mechanics Institute building, so Orry seldom ran into him by accident. Cooper was tragically changed as a result of his son's death, news of which had stunned Orry and his wife. Uncommunicative, totally uninterested in hospitable overtures and dinner invitations from Madeline, he was lost in his work for Navy Secretary Mallory, whom Orry distrusted, as he distrusted anyone and anything connected with the rival service.
In recent days, Orry and Madeline had received a visitor from Spotsylvania County, the stylish, intelligent, occasionally sharp-tongued widow with whom Cousin Charles had formed a romantic attachment. With her two Negroes, Augusta Barclay had come flying from Fredericksburg to take up residence on the parlor sofa until Hooker's withdrawal across the Rapidan became a certainty.
She had left only yesterday, her worry about her farm taking precedence over the public rites for Jackson.
Charles was in love. The widow Barclay didn't say so, but it was evident to Orry from the way she discussed his cousin. Well, that was Charles's affair, though these were hardly the best of times for planning a future.
Nor was Orry enamored of the way Mrs. Barclay sometimes flaunted her learning. She was fond of quoting English poets of the aphoristic school and seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of couplets for all occasions.
Still, his reaction was essentially a favorable one, as was Madeline's. Augusta Barclay was undeniably attractive, and during her stay on Marshall Street she had taken pains to see that her freedmen had adequate food and shelter in the backyard in a tent improvised from blankets. She helped Madeline with the cooking and routine chores. And before departing, she said three times that if she could repay their generosity in any way, they must not hesitate to call on her. Orry believed the offer was sincere.
The hall of the House of Representatives was filled with the sweet fumes of huge floral tributes surrounding the bier and great pyramids of white lilies heaped up beside it. Reluctantly, Orry joined the line of officers shuffling toward the open coffin. When it was his turn to gaze at the bearded head on the satin pillow, he nearly couldn't do it. He saw a callow and oddly likable West Point plebe, not the strange adult from whose convoluted, some said diseased, mind had come victory after victory. Amidst the lilies, Orry bowed his head and cried.
Somehow Madeline worked through the crowd and took his arm and held it tightly against her side until he was himself again.
Like an elephant rousing, Elkanah Bent got out of his disarrayed bed about one that afternoon. He had visited a whorehouse last night and put a black girl to good use. He had returned to the lodging house at dawn, when no one was awake to ask him whether he planned to watch Jackson's funeral parade. He certainly didn't. He had no intention of dignifying a traitor's death with his presence, though he might go take a peek at the body to see how much Jackson had changed since the days when Bent had hazed him. Even then, Jackson had displayed peculiarities; excessive concern for the way his organs hung within his body, for example. More recently, Union officers had jeered at his reluctance to go into battle on Sunday. But the mad old Presbyterian had slaughtered his enemies without pity the other six days of the week. The Union was well shed of him.
Bent lathered his face, opened his razor case, and set about making himself presentable. He was astonished at the ease with which he had accomplished his mission thus far. Of course he had taken precautions — ridden to Richmond with two pistols and a concealed knife — but the rest had been absurdly simple. Whenever he was stopped, he simply showed the pass forged by one of Baker's specialists. His speech caused him no trouble because he was in a part of the South in which the mushy accents of the cotton states sounded foreign. Furthermore, Yankees — whores and speculators, mostly — could be found all over town.
Concerning the female invaders, a barman had given him a piece of advice: "Don't you fret one minute about the safety of Richmond till you see the Baltimore whores trying to buy train tickets. Then you should worry."
Too late for breakfast but in plenty of time to eat a huge midday meal, Bent spent an uncomfortable hour with the minor bureaucrats, traveling men, and low-ranking officers who packed the two communal tables in the dining room. The landlady offered him a strip of black satin, something she was providing for every guest. Inwardly contemptuous, he nevertheless thanked her effusively and tied the armband on his left sleeve.
With the Tredegar information hidden in a special pocket in his coat lining, a pocket he had sewn shut as soon as he filled it, he trudged to Capitol Square and stood in the shuffling line of people who moaned and wept for the dead traitor in a way he found disgusting. When he reached the bier, he hardly recognized the man lying there. But he tried to affect a soulful expression and dabbed at one eye before moving on.
He was jolted by the sight of two people farther back in line: a man with round glasses, nearly as heavy as Bent but in his opinion considerably less handsome, and a woman whose dark beauty sounded chords of familiarity. He approached an officer standing by himself.
"Beg pardon, Major — do you happen to know that couple over there? I think the woman may be a distant relative of my wife."
The officer couldn't help him, but a man with the sleek look of a high-ranking government official overheard and said, "Oh, that's Huntoon. From South Carolina. He has a minor job at Treasury."
Bent almost shook with excitement. "South Carolina, you say? Would his wife's maiden name happen to be Main?"
He asked the question with such intensity that the civilian's suspicions were aroused. "I certainly couldn't tell you that." Nor would he mention to this fat, sweaty fellow, who looked more speculator than Southerner, that he was acquainted with the woman's brother, Colonel Main of the War Department. The civilian excused himself quickly.
Bent hurried into the square and paused by the great statue of Washington, whose birthday those on both sides continued to celebrate. He lingered until the couple emerged and entered a barouche driven by an old Negro. The barouche rolled past Bent where he lounged in the shade of the statue's pedestal. The woman took no notice of him or any of her surroundings; she was busy berating her husband. She struck Bent as arrogant, but she definitely resembled Orry Main. She was worth investigating.
Now that he had accomplished his first mission without a hitch, he was full of confidence. On the spot he decided to risk one more day in the Confederate capital.
In bed that night, he formulated his plan. Next morning he called at the post office as soon as it opened. He introduced himself as Mr. Bell, a native of Louisville, and persuaded the clerk to overlook any deficiencies in his accent by passing a folded bill over the counter. The clerk opened a thick book and found the address of James Huntoon.
Hiring a hack, Bent drove past the Grace Street residence twice. Then, downtown again, he searched the stores till he found some over-priced linen that could be torn up to simulate bandages. He fretted through the next few hours at his lodging house. He planned to call late in the day, before the government offices closed.
Around four, he walked out Grace Street and, when he was unobserved, paused for a swig from a metal flask kept in his side pocket. In an alley two
blocks from his destination, he tied the linen into a sling and slid his left forearm through. A few minutes later, the same black man he had seen driving the barouche admitted him to the foyer.
"Yes, Miz Huntoon's at home, but she wasn't expectin' callers."
"I'm a visitor in the city. Tell her it's important."
"Your name again, sar?"
"Bellingham. Captain Erasmus Bellingham, on furlough from General Longstreet's corps." Longstreet was currently far from Richmond, which was the reason for that particular lie. "I must soon return to duty, so kindly ask your mistress to see me at once."
Homer led Bent to a small sitting room, then trudged off. Bent was too nervous to sit. He paced and chewed a clove to cover his whiskey breath. Underneath his white shirt and alpaca suit, sweat soaked him. Just as he had decided to flee, he heard a swish of skirts in the hall. Ashton Huntoon swept in, cross and sleepy-looking.
"Captain Bellingham?"
"Erasmus Bellingham, currently with General —"
"My nigger told me that."
"I dislike interrupting you without prior warning, ma'am —" Her expression made clear that she disliked it as much as he did. Though her resemblance to her brother automatically generated rage, Bent kept his unctuous smile in place as he went on. "However, I haven't much more time in Richmond. I am nearly recovered from this wound I received at the siege of Suffolk. Before I return to Longstreet's command, I wanted to inquire about an old acquaintance."
"You don't sound like a Southerner, Captain."
Bitch. He broadened the smile. "Oh, there are all degrees of Southern speech, I find. You don't sound like a Virginian" — careful; mustn't let any hostility show — "and the truth is, I was born and raised on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. I left it the moment I heard the Confederacy's call to arms."
"How interesting." Ashton didn't conceal her boredom.
Bent explained that while on duty in the lower part of the state, he had heard that one of his West Point classmates was stationed in Richmond. "Last evening I was conversing with a gentleman at my lodging house — some chap with friends at the Treasury Department — and when I mentioned my classmate, he brought you and your husband into the conversation. He said you both hailed from South Carolina, as my classmate did, and that your maiden name was the same as his."
"Is your classmate Orry Main?"
"Yes."
She acted as if he had dumped a spittoon on her. "He's my older brother."
"Your brother," Bent echoed. "How extraordinary! I haven't seen him in years. Come to think of it, though, I do recall him mentioning you in an affectionate manner."
Ashton dabbed her upper lip with a bit of lace. "I doubt that."
"Please, tell me, is Orry in Richmond?"
"Yes, and so is his wife. I don't see either of them. By choice."
"Is he perchance in the army?"
"He's a lieutenant colonel attached to the War Department." Gathering her skirts, Ashton rose. "Is there anything else?" Her tone said she hoped not.
"Only the location of his residence, if you'd be so kind —"
"They have rooms on Marshall near the White House. I've never been there. Good day, Captain Bellingham."
Rudely dismissed, Bent nevertheless managed to reach the street without displaying his anger. He had brief, dizzy visions of tearing Ashton Huntoon's clothing and subjecting her to punishments that would also yield certain perverse pleasures.
The spiteful mood passed. Turning toward town, he strode along as if there were clouds under his feet. In another alley he stripped off the sling and threw it away. Orry Main was here. Bent was close to one of the objects of his hatred — closer than he had been since Charles Main eluded and disgraced him in Texas. He ought to walk into the War Department, find Main's desk, and shoot him right between —
No. Not only would hasty action imperil his life, it would rob the vengeance of savor. Bent also had the new job to think about. Baker would be expecting him in Washington. He should collect his horse from the stable and leave at once.
Instead, he decided to remain an additional night. He wanted to be thoroughly familiar with the terrain when he returned to Richmond on another mission, as he undoubtedly would. He wanted to know precisely where to look for Orry Main.
Locating the War Department offices next day proved easy. Bent watched the building for half an hour but didn't go in. Finding the flat on Marshall in the fashionable Court End district proved a little harder. He offered three-cent silver pieces to several black children before he found one who knew the colonel and his wife. The youngster pointed out their residence, a large house evidently converted into suites of rental rooms for the duration.
He approached from the opposite side of the street. The brim of his black hat protecting him from the May sunshine, he surveyed the house and got a shock when a lovely woman with a parasol came out and turned left on the walk.
Bent felt as if a thunderbolt had come down to smite him. The woman passing from view was instantly familiar because he often sat gazing at her, or someone very much like her, in the canvas stolen from New Orleans. This woman's mouth, shape of nose, color of eyes and hair were not identical with those in the picture. But the resemblance could not be mistaken.
Sweating, Bent lumbered up the steps of her residence and rang the bell. A wispy old woman answered. He swept his hat off.
"Your pardon, ma'am. I have business with a Mrs. Wadlington, whom I don't know. I was told she lived in this block, and I just passed a lady who fits the sketchy description I was given. The lady came out this door, so I wondered —"
"That's Colonel Main's wife. Never heard of a Mrs. Wadlington, and I know everyone. But I don't know you." Slam.
Flushed, elated, and short of breath, Bent went reeling away. His luck had turned at last. First the Baker connection and now this. Orry Main, a high military official, was married to a nigger whore — and he had the evidence. How he would use it, he was too overwrought to determine just now. But use it he would, of that he was —
"Murder! Mysterious stabbing by the canal!"
The shout of the newsboy on Broad Street interrupted the vengeful reverie. He bought a paper and scanned it as he walked. The cold of panic replaced his steamy delirium. They had found the corpse of Bent's informant, though he was not named. The victim was a white male of the kind commonly called "albino."
In less than an hour, Elkanah Bent packed his valise, vacated his room, saddled his horse, and took the road north.
80
That same evening, standing knee deep in the James River, Cooper sneezed.
He had caught cold. It didn't matter. Nor did the miserable, weary state of his assistant and two helpers. "One more," he said. "Rig the shell."
"Mr. Main, it's nearly dark," said his assistant, an earnest but fundamentally untalented boy named Lucius Chickering. A Charleston aristocrat, nineteen-year-old Chickering had enrolled in Mallory's Confederate Naval Academy, whose campus consisted of the old side-wheeler Patrick Henry, anchored in the river. Chickering had rapidly failed basic astronomy, navigation, and seamanship, and been dismissed, with Lieutenant Parker's regrets. Only his father's influence saved him from absolute disgrace; a job was found for him in the scorned Navy Department. Cooper liked Chickering, but he knew the boy kept quiet about where he worked.
Lucius Chickering had a huge nose with a hump in the middle. His upper teeth jutted over his lower lip, and he had more freckles than anyone deserved. His ugliness somehow contributed to his likability. And he was right about the lateness of the hour. A deep red sunset covered the James with sullen reflections. Birds wheeled against high scarlet clouds, and downstream a barge had already become a blot of shadow dotted yellow by a single lantern.
Replying to his assistant, Cooper said, "We have time. If you're all too lazy, I'll rig it myself."
He hadn't eaten since daybreak. They had been down here in the rushes, a mile from the city limits, struggling with these driftwood torpedoes th
e entire day. They had not been successful even once, and Cooper knew why. The concept was wrong.
A wood cradle, newly designed within the department, held a metal canister of powder with a small opening in its domed lid. Into the opening went an impact-type percussion fuse. Cradle and canister were painted grayish brown, like the pieces of Atlantic driftwood to which they were lashed. The problem was, the movement of the driftwood in the river current — and therefore on a harbor tide — was uncontrollable. The experimenters found the wrong end of the torpedo bumping against the test target: three barrels anchored in midstream with enough open water on either side for barges and small steam sloops to pass.
To be correct about it, not all of the driftwood torpedoes had even reached the target. By Cooper's count, it was five out of two dozen launched. All had failed to detonate because the fuse and canister were on the side opposite that which struck the barrels.
As Cooper started to work, Chickering exploded. "Mr. Main, I must protest. You've worked us like field bucks all day, and now you want us to continue when we can scarcely see what we're doing."
"Indeed I do," Cooper said, his body a black reed against the red sky. "This is wartime, Mr. Chickering. If you don't care for the hours or the working conditions, submit your resignation and go back to Charleston."
Lucius Chickering glowered at his superior. Cooper Main intimidated and annoyed him. He was a Palmetto State man who acted more like a Yankee. He slopped around in mud and water as if appearances didn't matter. While the others stood by, Cooper carefully screwed the detonator plug into the canister fuse. His trousers and shirt sleeves soaking wet, he launched the driftwood torpedo and watched it turn aimlessly in the water. Five minutes later a flash of flame marked its detonation against the far bank. It had sailed past the target with twenty feet to spare.
