by Джон Джейкс
He drank. Stared at the flame of the candle in front of him. "I'd like to kill her," he said, bringing the empty goblet down so hard the stem snapped.
Everyone stared. "Excuse me," Cooper said, bolting from his chair. It fell backward with a crash. He flung out his hand to prevent a collision with the wall and lurched to the parlor. He managed to reach the settee before he passed out.
They heard a rain shower starting. A sudden breeze set the candle flames in motion. Judith again apologized for Cooper's behavior. Stricken, Orry said apology was unnecessary. "But I hope he didn't mean that last remark."
"I'm sure he didn't. The loss of Judah was grievous for both of us, but it seems to have done special damage to him."
Orry sighed. "All his life he's expected the world to be better than it is. People with that kind of idealism get hurt worst of all. I hope he won't do anything rash, Judith. Ashton has already failed at the one thing she wanted most in Richmond — to belong to the best circles. I expect punishment for the profiteering will find her eventually. If he tries to judge and sentence her" — he glanced over his shoulder at the sad scarecrow figure on the settee — "he'll only harm himself."
The wind gusted, lifting the parlor curtains, stirring the gray-streaked hair on Cooper's forehead. Judith said, "I try to tell him that. It does no good. He's drinking heavily, as you surely noticed. I fear what he might do sometime when he's had too much."
Softly said, the words put dread into Orry. The three sat in silence, listening to the rain come down on the roof and the ruins of the evening.
Copies of the Richmond Enquirer reached the Winder Building every week. One issue, which George read with mingled curiosity and sadness, contained several long articles describing Jackson's funeral. On an inside page was a list of high-ranking military officers who had marched in the procession. Among the names he discovered that of his best friend.
"There it is — Colonel Orry Main," he said to Constance, showing her the paper that night. "He's listed with others from the War Department."
"Does that mean he's in Richmond?"
"I assume so. Whatever he's doing, I'm sure it's more important than interviewing lunatics and reading the fine print in contracts."
With a touch of regret, she said, "Your guilt's getting the best of you again."
He folded the paper. "Yes, it is. Daily."
Homer stepped into the dining room, pausing beside the open-fronted cabinet that contained Ashton's fine blue jasperware. Water Witch had brought the set from Britain on her penultimate voyage.
Huntoon took off his spectacles. "Mr. Main? Which one? Orry?"
As always, it was Ashton to whom the elderly Negro addressed the reply. "No. The other one."
"Cooper? Why, James, I had no idea he was in Richmond."
Thunder boomed in the northwest; bluish light glittered throughout the downstairs. It was June, muggy, the town astir with rumors of an impending invasion of the North by General Lee.
"He is here, he is very definitely here," said a thick voice from the shadows outside the dining room. Into the doorway stepped a frightening figure — Cooper, right enough, but aged since Ashton had last seen him. Horribly aged and gray. His cheeks had a waxy pallor, and his whiskey stench rolled over the table like a wave, submerging the aroma of the bowl of fresh flowers in the center. "He's here and anxious to see how his dear sister and her husband are enjoying their newfound wealth."
"Cooper dear —" Ashton began, sensing danger, trying to turn it aside with a treacly smile. Cooper refused to let her say more.
"Very fine house you have. Splendid furnishings. Treasury salaries must be larger than those in the Navy Department. Must be enormous."
Trembling, Huntoon clutched the arms of his chair. With a laconic hand, Cooper reached toward the open shelves. Ashton's fist clenched when he plucked out one of the delicately shaded blue plates.
"Lovely stuff, this. Surely you didn't buy it locally. Did it come in on a blockade-runner? In place of guns and ammunition for the army, perhaps —?"
He threw the plate down with great force. Splinters of the white Greek figure embossed in the center rebounded into the light. One struck the back of Huntoon's hand. He muttered a protest no one heard.
Ashton said, "Brother dear, I am at a loss to explain your visit or your churlish behavior. Furthermore, while you're as disagreeable as you ever were, I am astounded to hear what sounds like patriotic maundering. You used to scorn James when he gave speeches in support of secession or states' rights. But here you are, sounding like the hottest partisan of Mr. Davis."
She forced a smile, hoping to hide the fear inside. She didn't know this man. She was in the presence of a lunatic whose intentions she could not guess. Without reacting, she saw Homer edging toward Cooper behind his right shoulder. Good.
Ashton placed her elbows on the table and cushioned her chin on her hands. Her smile became a sneer. "When did this remarkable transformation to patriot occur, may I ask?"
"It occurred," Cooper said above the muttering storm, "shortly after my son drowned."
Ashton's control melted into astonishment. "Judah — drowned? Oh, Cooper, how perfectly —"
"We were aboard Water Witch. Nearing Wilmington. The moon was out, the Union blockading squadron present in force. I pleaded with Captain Ballantyne not to risk the run, but he insisted. The owners had issued orders. Maximum risk for maximum earnings."
Ashton's hand fell forward. Her skin felt as if it were frozen.
"You know the rest, Ashton. My son was sacrificed to your intense devotion to the cause —"
"Stop him, Homer," she screamed as Cooper moved. Huntoon started to rise from his chair. Cooper struck the side of his head and knocked his glasses off.
Homer seized Cooper from behind and yelled for help. Using an elbow, Cooper punched him in the stomach, breaking his hold, shouting over a thunderclap, "The cause of profit. Your own fucking, filthy greed." He laid hands on the display cabinet and pulled.
The delicate blue plates and cups and saucers and bowls began to slide. Ashton screamed again as the Wedgwood pieces dropped, Greek heads exploding, Greek arms and legs breaking. Lightning shimmered. The cabinet fell onto the dining table, where its weight proved too much. The table legs gave way at Huntoon's end. He shrieked as broken jasperware and candle holders and the flower bowl rushed toward him.
The flowers spilled onto his waistcoat. The water soaked his trousers as he kicked and pushed, sliding the chair away, out of danger, while two housemen joined Homer and wrestled the cursing, ranting Cooper to the front door. There they flung him into the rain.
Ashton heard the door slam and said the first thing that came to mind. "What if he tells what he knows?"
"What if he does?" Huntoon snarled. He picked blossoms from his wet crotch. "There was no law against what we did. And we're out of the trade now."
"Did you see how white his hair's gotten? I think he's gone mad."
"He's certainly dangerous," Huntoon said. "We must buy pistols tomorrow in case — in case —"
He couldn't finish the sentence. Ashton surveyed the Wedgwood all over the floor. One cup had survived unbroken. She wanted to weep with rage. Lightning flashed, thunder shook the wet windows, and her mouth set.
"Yes, pistols," she agreed. "For each of us."
81
At seven that same night, Thursday, in the first week of June, Bent reported to Colonel Baker's office as ordered. Baker wasn't there. Another detective said he had gone to Old Capitol Prison to conduct one of his interrogations of an unfriendly journalist who was under detention. "He'll go from there to his hour of pistol practice. He wouldn't let a day pass without that."
Bent settled down to wait, soothing his nerves with one of several apples bought from a street vendor. After two bites, he looked again at a small silver badge pinned to the reverse of his lapel. Baker had awarded the badge, which bore the embossed words national detective bureau, after Bent's return from Richmond. His success
there had earned him the token of official acceptance into Baker's organization. The colonel had been especially pleased by the return of the money paid to the albino. Bent stated that he had rendered the spy harmless because he was no longer useful, but he was vague about details and didn't specifically say he had killed him. Baker asked no questions.
Despite the acceptance that the badge signified, Bent had been feeling bad for the past few days. He had caught the moods of the town — apprehension, despondency. Hooker's fighting spirit had proved as substantial as the contents of a glass of water. And while Lee had lost a mighty ally when Jackson fell, he had won not only a splendid victory at Chancellorsville but an ominous supremacy over the minds of many Northerners in and out of the army. There were now daily rumors and alarms out of Virginia. Lee was moving again, but in which direction, no one knew.
Bent was masticating his third apple when Baker reined up outside a window overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. An orderly took Baker's horse, an unruly bay stallion the colonel had nicknamed Slasher. Humming cheerily, Baker strode into the office. He handed Bent a crudely printed broadside. "You may find a chuckle or two in that, Dayton." Fancy type on the front announced that this was the menu for the Hotel de Vicksburg. When he opened the piece, he understood the joke. The broadside contained the menu of a city under siege.
Soup: mule tail
Roast: saddle of mule, à l'armée
Entrees: mule head, stuffed à la Reb;
mule beef, jerked à la Yankie
Pastry: cottonwood-berry pie, à la ironclad
Liquors: Mississippi water, vintage 1492, very superior
Any diners not satisfied with the starvation fare are welcome to apply to
JEFF DAVIS & CO., PROPRIETORS
"Very amusing," Bent said because Baker expected it. "Where did this come from, sir?"
"O'Dell brought it back from Richmond last night. He saw large masses of troops moving west of Fredericksburg, by the way. There's truth in those rumors. Lee's up to something — ah!" Among some mail, he found a piece that he immediately tucked in his pocket. "A letter from Jennie." Baker's wife was living with her parents in Philadelphia for the duration.
The man Baker had mentioned, Fatty O'Dell, was another agent. "I didn't realize we had someone else on a mission down there."
"Yes," Baker replied, but didn't elaborate. That was his style. Only he knew all the operatives and what each was doing.
Baker leaned back and clasped hands behind his head. "That broadside is enlightening about attitudes toward Jeff Davis. It helps corroborate something Fatty got wind of from third parties. A Richmond speculator named Powell is agitating very openly against Davis."
Bent picked a bit of apple from his lip. "That sort of thing's been going on for a year or more, hasn't it?"
"Absolutely right. This time, however, there's an unusual wrinkle. Fatty said Mr. Powell's pronouncements include talk of forming an independent Confederate state at some unspecified location." "God above — that is new."
"I wish you would not take the Lord's name in vain. I like it as little as I liked those filthy yellow-backed books I confiscated and burned some months ago."
"Sorry, Colonel," Bent said hastily. "The information surprised me, that's all. What's the speculator's name again?" "Lamar Powell."
"I never heard it mentioned when I was in Richmond. Nor any new Confederacy, for that matter."
"It may be nothing more than street gossip. If they impeached Davis, it would help our cause. It would help even more if they strung him up. And I'd be the first to applaud. But it's probably a vain hope."
He opened a lower desk drawer and produced one of the folders that contained personal dossiers. Inscribed on the front in a beautiful flowing hand was the name Randolph.
Baker passed the folder across the desk. Bent opened it and discovered several pages of notes in a variety of handwritings, plus a number of news clippings. One of the dispatches carried the words By Our Capitol Correspondent Mr. Eamon Randolph.
He closed the folder and waited. When Baker began to speak, he did so in a tone that took Bent into his confidence. Bent's gloom lifted.
"Mr. Randolph, as you'll discover when you read those scurrilous articles, is not a partisan of those for whom we work. Nor is he fond of Senator Wade, Congressman Stevens, or their rigorous program for rehabilitating our Southern brethren after the war. You will find Mr. Randolph's paper, the Cincinnati Globe, to be strongly antiadministration and pro-Democratic. Further, only the peace wing of that party earns its admiration. Randolph doesn't go so far as some in the same camp — no advocacy of removal of Mr. Lincoln by violent means, nothing like that. But he definitely favors noninterference with slavery even after the South capitulates. We cannot tolerate the promulgation of that view in a period of crisis. I have been urged by certain administration officials to — shall we say —" Baker stroked his luxuriant beard "— chastise him. Silence him briefly, not only to remove an irritant but to warn his paper, and others of the same persuasion, to have a care lest the same fate befall them. Your work in Richmond impressed me, Dayton. That's why I've chosen you to handle the case."
82
The three contract surgeons in filthy uniforms sat around a rickety table. Their hands were filthy too, stained with dirt and blood, as they were whenever the surgeons examined wounds.
One of the three picked his nose. The second surreptitiously rubbed his groin, an oafish smile spreading over his face. The third doctor drained a bottle of alcohol meant for the wounded. One of these, limping pitifully, was shown in by an orderly, who acted like a mental deficient.
"What have we here?" said the surgeon who had been swilling the alcohol; apparently he was the chief.
"I'm hurt, sir," said the enlisted man. "Can I go home?"
"Not so fast! We must conduct an examination. Gentlemen? If you please."
The surgeons surrounded the soldier, poked, probed, conferred in whispers. The chief stated the consensus: "I'm sorry, but your arms must be amputated."
"Oh." The patient's face fell. But after a moment, he grinned. "Then can I have a furlough?"
"Definitely not," said the surgeon who had been rubbing his privates. "That left leg must come off, too."
"Oh." This time it was a groan. The patient again tried to smile. "But certainly I can have a furlough after that."
"By no means," said the nose picker. "When you get well you can drive an ambulance."
Roars of laughter.
"Gentlemen — another consultation," cried the chief, and back into a huddle they went. It broke up quickly. The chief said, "We have decided one last procedure is necessary. We must amputate your head."
The patient strove to see the bright side. "Well, after that I know I'll be entitled to a furlough."
"Absolutely not," said the chief. "We are so short of men, your body must be set up in the breastworks to fool the enemy."
Out of the darkness, massed voices roared again. Seated cross-legged on trampled grass, Charles laughed so hard tears ran from his eyes. On the tiny plank stage lit by lanterns and torches, the soldier playing the patient shrieked and ran in circles while the demented surgeons pursued him with awls, chisels, and saws. Finally they chased him behind a rear curtain rigged from a blanket.
Applause, yelps, and whistling acknowledged the end of the program, which had lasted about forty minutes. All the performers — singers, a banjo player, a fiddler, one of Beverly Robertson's troopers who juggled bottles, and a monologist portraying Commissary General Northrop explaining the healthful benefits of the latest reduction in the meat ration — returned for their bows. Then came the actors from the skit, who got even louder applause. Some anonymous scribe in the Stonewall Brigade had written The Medical Board, and it had become a favorite on camp programs.
Shadow masses stood and separated. Charles rubbed his stiff back. The mild June evening and the campfires shining in the fields away toward Culpeper Court House brought images of Barclay's Farm
to mind. Barclay's Farm and Gus.
Ab was thinking of less pleasant subjects. "Got to find me some Day and Martin to shine my boots. Damn if I ever thought when I joined the scouts that I'd have to get so fancied up."
"You know Stuart," Charles said with a resigned shrug.
"On some occasions I wish I didn't. This is one. Goddamn if I want to go paradin' for the ladies on Saturday."
The two men crossed the railroad tracks, retrieved their horses from the temporary corral, and started for the field where they had pitched their tents with Calbraith Butler's regiment. A massive movement of forces was under way below the Rappahannock; Ewell and Longstreet were already at Culpeper with infantry.
Charles knew nothing of the army's destination, but lately there had been much talk of a second invasion of the North.
Somewhere above the river there were certain to be Yanks. Yanks who would want to know the whereabouts of Lee's army. So far as Charles could tell, no one was worried about the Yankee presence or its potential threat. Stuart had settled down at Culpeper with more horsemen than he had had in a long time — close to ten thousand. Some of those were on picket duty at the Rappahannock fords, but most were being allowed time to prepare for Stuart's grand review for invited guests on Saturday. Many women would be coming by rail and carriage from Richmond, as well as from the nearer towns. Charles wished he'd had time to invite Gus.
The review was certainly typical of Stuart, but it struck Charles as inappropriate when mass movement of the army was under way, and that army was not in the best of condition. These days he saw many sore, swollen backs among the horses; sixteen or seventeen hours a day was too long for an animal to be saddled. In Robertson's brigade he had seen horses frantically chewing each other's manes and tails — starving even in the season of growth. In the brigade of Old Grumble Jones, the slovenly general whose liking for blue jeans and hickory shirts earned him the dubious honor of being called the Zach Taylor of the Confederacy, Charles had only yesterday spied half a dozen men riding mules. The best replacements they could find, he supposed.
