by Джон Джейкс
Madeline caught the significance of the word pretending. He went on. "I didn't inform her of the next step because I was damned if I knew what it should be. I still don't. One thing I told her was correct. Reports of assassination schemes are common. Yet this one — How can I properly explain why it feels different? Not because the woman impressed me. I think she's out to get someone. Powell, probably. What bothers me is one question: Why should she invent so many concrete details when it's obvious that an hour's investigation can prove them false? Is she stupid? No. Telling the story may be her way of getting revenge. But maybe the story's also true."
"Powell," Madeline repeated. "The same Powell who was Ashton's investment partner?"
"That's the one."
"If there's a plot, could she be involved?"
Orry reflected only a moment. "No, I don't think so. Ashton isn't precisely a zealot about the cause. Beyond that, it's my impression that those who try to change history by killing someone are afflicted with several kinds of lunacy. Condoning murder — being willing to do the deed — that's one, and the most obvious. Another, slightly less obvious, is lack of concern about personal consequences. Ashton never heard of self-sacrifice, or if she did, she laughed. Ashton cares for Ashton. I could believe that James would risk himself in some crazy political scheme, but not my sister."
She nodded. "Does anything else bother you?"
"Yes. The woman's refusal to go to Winder. It was perfect — and perfectly performed. Yet Winder's precisely the man who should be told first. He'd arrest Powell, lock him up, then look into the charges. Instead of doing that, Mrs. Halloran came to the War Department — surely knowing we'd be more deliberate than the provost, though ultimately, if we built a case, it would stand up. Winder's often don't. What I'm saying is, I think she wants results more than she wants quick revenge. Wants them and knows they can be gotten. That bothers me — that and those damn details. We hear of plot after plot, but seldom do we get specifics. Here we have the very center of the cabal pinpointed. She drew the map, which I locked in my desk. One last detail disturbs me most of all."
"What is it?"
"Bombs. It's the first time I've heard infernal devices mentioned in connection with assassination. Knives, pistols, yes. But not bombs."
Raising his hand, Orry slowly squeezed space between thumb and forefinger. "It's the kind of tiny detail that sets my teeth rattling — with or without that prod about bearing the guilt if I do nothing and something happens."
"Will you go to the secretary?"
"Not yet. Nor Winder either. But I may take a ride down the river alone some evening soon."
She knelt at his side, rested her cheek on his right sleeve. "It could be dangerous if you do."
"But disastrous if I don't."
97
"And then —"
Charles interrupted the tale to puff his cigar, down to a stub now. The smell grew as the length decreased.
Gus could barely tolerate the smoke. She shifted sideways, away from his bare hip, and pulled the light cover higher on her stomach. The cigar's glow faded, the pale plane of Charles's chest disappeared in the dark.
Though she wouldn't have admitted it, when he failed to say something about her pulling away — didn't even reach for her hand — it was a hurt. Small, but there were so many of them recently. They devastated her. She no longer had the ability to armor herself with words. Once she had lowered the defense, she couldn't seem to raise it again.
"— Hugh Scott and Dan and I slid some logs into the river. We hung onto them and paddled across. The water was cold as sin, and the dark made it worse." He was speaking quietly, reflectively — almost as if he were alone with his thoughts. Which in a sense was not far from the truth.
For most of the winter, he had bivouacked at Hamilton's Crossing. It was no great distance from the farm, but that didn't mean she saw him more often. He was away on duty most of the time. Tonight, as usual, his arrival had taken her by surprise. He rode up just after dark, wolfed the supper she prepared quickly, then grabbed her hand and led her to bed with the same brusqueness he had exhibited at the table. Scarcely a trace of his old politeness remained, though that wasn't the serious issue. The war had wrought a change, and the change had beaten many things out of him, manners being but one.
He was describing events at the time of last month's Richmond raid. She prompted him to go on by saying, "You crossed the river toward the enemy?"
"That's usually how it works when you're a scout. You've been around me long enough to know that much."
"Do forgive my lapse of memory."
Instantly, she regretted the bitterness. The regret was wasted. He just hitched his body higher against the creaky headboard and turned his face away, toward the open window and the slow, stately dance of moonlit curtains. The April night smelled of the earth Washington and Boz had plowed that day. In the pasture behind the barn, where rain had created small ponds in low places, bullfrogs honked.
"We did a lot more than swim the Rappahannock that night —" The memory brought a chuckle, which pleased and relieved her; she hadn't heard him laugh in quite a while. "We went on, soaked through, till we found the Yankee column. It was Kilpatrick, all right. We hid out until we could snag three of his spare horses as they went by. We mounted and rode along for a while, bareback."
"In the middle of the Union cavalry?"
"No one noticed in the dark. And it was easier for us to count noses while we were right among 'em. We even forded the river with General Kilpatrick and his boys. I wish we could have shot some of the sons of bitches, but we had to carry our information back to division. So, south of the river, we split away — the dumb sods didn't notice that, either. We rode like fury, and that's the reason General Hampton was waiting when Little Kil showed up."
She wanted to soothe the hardness from his voice. "That is quite a story," she said, patting his bare arm.
Instantly, he rolled away, lifted the curtain, and flipped the cigar butt into the side yard. An Indian cobra of smoke formed in the moonlight. "Got a few more —" a great loud yawn "— but I'll save them for morning."
He pulled up the cover, pecked her cheek, rolled onto his left side, and within half a minute started to snore.
The curtains leaped and fell back, partners in a moonlit quadrille. Gus pushed the back of her head deeper into the bolster and once again tugged the cover higher, to warm her breasts. She rubbed her right cheek, surprised and angered by what she felt.
I think he's done with me, and I don't know why. I think he wants to end it and hasn't the courage to say so.
The change, whose causes she understood only in a general way, was poisoning every part of their relationship. His love-making had been drained of tenderness; he thrust hard and hastily all the time, with few kisses and no spoken endearments. What was she to do? There were no alternatives. She couldn't stop what was happening to him or stop loving him either.
Facing that quandary and the growing feeling that they were finished, she had been sleepless many a night lately. This promised to be another such night. "Oh God," she said very faintly, continuing to cry in silence.
Later, she opened her eyes and realized she must have slept after all. Freezing there beside him, she burrowed under the cover and called herself a ninny for her earlier behavior. "Oh, God." The tears. The despair.
She had always prided herself on strength, self-sufficiency. And merely because she had lowered her defenses and thereby gotten her emotions trampled, she needn't let it continue. She did love Charles, but if the price of it was perpetual misery, she refused to pay. The wrenchings of the war wouldn't stop — at least not soon enough — so it was up to her to force him to his senses.
He needed a shock. A dose of strong medicine. She would give it to him in the morning. Feeling secure again, she fell asleep.
He had others things on his mind in the morning. He strode into the kitchen soon after sunrise, tucking in his gray shirt and pulling up his galluses. She
had scarcely offered her greeting before he announced, "I meant to say my piece about Richmond last night. Any day now —"
"There will be more fighting. You must think I'm an idiot, Charles, always needing instructions from the all-knowing male. I realize the Union forces are at Culpeper Court House and they'll march soon — this way, undoubtedly. But you aren't going to decide when I must look for shelter in the city." She struck her wooden spoon on the edge of the stove, where grits were simmering. "I will decide."
His face grew long above his white-spiked beard. He hooked a stool with his boot, pulled it from under the table, and lit a fresh cigar as he sat down. "What in hell's got into you?"
She threw the spoon on the stove and marched toward him. "A strong desire to settle some things. If you care for me, act like it. I'm tired of your clomping in here whenever you take a notion. Helping yourself to a meal and — whatever else you want, and grumbling and growling like a boor the whole time."
He drew the smoldering cigar from his mouth. "Having me around doesn't suit you, Mrs. Barclay?"
"Don't glare and sneer at me. You treat me like a combination cook, laundress, and whore."
He jumped up. "In the middle of a war, people don't have time for all the little niceties."
"In this house they do, Charles Main. Otherwise they don't set foot in it. Every time you're here, you act as if you'd rather be somewhere else. If that's true, say so and let's be done with it. Believe me —" no, don't, said a voice she ignored "— in the state you're in, you're no prize."
In the side yard, her rooster chased two cackling hens. Boz, chopping wood, sang "Kingdom Coming" with la-la's instead of words. Charles stared at Gus, his eyes wide above the dark half-circles that had been there since he came back from Pennsylvania last summer. Suddenly, she saw a startled innocence in his gaze.
Elated, she didn't dare smile. But she had gotten through. Now they could talk. Work it out. Save —
Fierce knocking. Washington on the kitchen stoop.
"Man on horseback jus' turned in. Comin' around back right now."
Hoofbeats and the jingle of metal sounded outside. Charles grabbed for his gun belt hanging on a chair, jerked out the six-shot Colt. He was crouching when the horseman's round face and flop hat passed the side windows.
Charles stood, hung the gun belt over his shoulder, and opened the kitchen door. "What are you doing here, Jim?"
"Hate to roust you out, Charlie, but this here letter come for you 'bout ten o'clock last night. Morning, Miz Barclay." Jim Pickles touched his hat with the crumpled missive, which he then handed to Charles.
"Good morning, Jim." Gus slowly wiped one hand on her apron, then the other. The chance was lost.
Jim pointed to the letter. "Says War Department on it. Personal an' confidential. Mighty fancy."
"Looks like it's been buried under six feet of dirt."
"Well, pretty near. Man who brung it said it was in a bunch of letters an' dispatches somebody come across in the woods near Atlee's Station. They found the courier shot dead — been there some time, I guess — an' his pouch open an' this an' a lot of other stuff strewn about. Mebbe Kilpatrick's sojers did it. Anyway, the letter's been a while in root, as the saying goes."
To Gus, Charles said, "Atlee's Station in the place General Hampton and three hundred of us bushwhacked Kilpatrick on the first of March. We yelled so loud, we made 'em think we were three thousand —"
He was breaking the seals, unfolding the sheet. His beard lifted in the morning breeze. "You're right, Jim; it was written in February. It's from my Cousin Orry, the colonel."
Stunned, he read on. Then he gave Gus the letter. Consisting of one long paragraph, it was inscribed in a fine hand, with all the proper loops and flourishes. As she finished reading, Charles said to Jim, "Billy Hazard is in Libby Prison. Half dead, according to that."
"You talkin' about some Yank?"
"My old friend from West Point. I've told you about him."
"Oh, yeh," said the younger scout, unimpressed. "What are you s'posed to do about it?"
"Go see Orry in Richmond right away. I'll get my gear."
Starting back into the kitchen, Charles had a thought. He turned and pointed at Jim. "And you forget what I just said, understand? You never heard a word."
The swift clump of his boots faded inside. Jim Pickles dismounted, stretched in the sunshine, scratched his armpit, as cardinals swooped in and out of the budding red oaks at the front of the property.
"So Charlie's goin' to Richmond, hah? I s'pect he can get away, all right. Things are still pretty quiet. Guess it's the old calm before the storm. General Hampton's back home in Columbia, tryin' to muster three new regiments so Butler an' some of the old hands will get a little relief. Say, Miz Barclay, may I show you something?"
Reluctantly, she turned her gaze from an empty kitchen. "Surely, Jim."
From the pocket of his butternut shirt he took a small, square case of cheap yellow metal. "Mighty proud of this. Came two days ago. My sisters got together an' paid for it." He opened the case on an oval ambrotype of an unsmiling middle-aged woman wearing a black dress. Her face looked like something made from granite, with very little of the granite block removed.
"That's my ma," he said proudly. "Fine likeness, too. She's raised us kids since Pa died. I was only four when he went out shootin' deer with a bunch of boys an' got his leg blowed off. He only lasted two weeks. Ma ain't been in the best of health the last year or so. Worries me. I love her better than any person in this world, an' I ain't ashamed to say it. I'd walk through fire if it'd please her."
"That's commendable, Jim," Gus said, returning the case.
Charles appeared with his hat, patched jacket, and the little cloth bag in which he kept his razor and cigars. He squeezed her arm gently, gave her cheek a peck.
"You mind what I told you about Richmond."
Unhappy because the chance to set things straight had slipped away, she burst out, "I'm not one of your recruits to be ordered about. I told you, I'll make my own decision."
The fiery sunrise filled his eyes. "All right. We'll settle this whole mess next time." It was less plea than warning. She folded her arms over her bosom.
"If I'm here."
"My God, you've got a vinegar tongue this morning."
"So have you. And I'm astonished by your tender concern for your Yankee friend. I thought you wanted to kill every last man on the other side."
"I'll only go to Richmond because it's Orry who's asking. That enough explanation for you? Come on, Jim, let's get my horse."
She stormed inside and kicked the door shut. When she heard the flurry of hoofs at the side of the house, she didn't leave the stove or raise her hand. The grits were burned. Ruined.
As the sounds grew faint, she ran to the side window, the tears born of failure coming again. She strained and squinted, but she could see nothing but dust where the Fredericksburg road vanished into the greening countryside.
Halfway to the capital, a pass in his pocket, Charles rested Sport beside a sunlit creek. While the gray drank, he reread Orry's letter. What business did he have answering such a summons? No more than he had prolonging his involvement with Gus. War changed a lot of things.
He sat on a half-buried rock beside the purling stream and read the letter a third time. Old memories, emotions, began to undercut his rigid sense of duty. Hadn't the Mains and the Hazards — well, most of them — vowed that the bonds of friendship and affection would survive the hammerings of this war? This wasn't simply one more Yank Orry was writing about. This was his best friend. And the husband of his own Cousin Brett.
That was one bond. Another, forged at the Academy, couldn't be broken or dismissed easily either. Many an officer leading troops against an old classmate had learned the truth of that.
He put the letter in his pocket, ashamed of his first impulses to ignore it. He didn't like himself much any more, for that and a lot of other reasons. He smoked another cigar, then gallope
d on toward Richmond.
98
Afterward, Judith realized she should have been prepared for catastrophe. All the warning signs were there.
Cooper seldom slept more than two hours a night. Often he never came home at all, spreading a blanket on the floor of his office. He was dragging Lucius down, too. The exhausted young man finally got up nerve to appeal to Judith privately — could she not do something, anything, to slow her husband's demented pace?
Lucius hinted that some of the tasks Cooper assigned him were make-work. Judith didn't question that, since it was already clear to her that her husband's fatigued mind was confusing motion with purpose.
She promised Lucius she would try to remedy the situation. She spoke to Cooper in what she considered a gentle and tactful way, but only provoked an outburst that kept him away from Tradd Street for two whole days.
Since his temper erupted without pattern or logic, there was no way to anticipate and avoid circumstances that might trigger it. She could do little more than keep the house calm and quiet whenever he was there. Marie-Louise was forbidden to play or practice her singing, a ban that brought on arguments with her daughter. She issued no social invitations and refused the few they received.
In this way she preserved an uneasy tranquillity until mid-April, when it was announced that General Beauregard would leave to command the Department of North Carolina and Southern Virginia. What was really being thrust on him was responsibility for the Richmond defense lines. A farewell reception at the Mills House was quickly arranged. Cooper announced this fact and said they would go. On the day of the reception, Judith tried to persuade him to change his mind — he had rested less than an hour the night before — but he seized his tall gray hat and matching gloves and his best walking stick, and she knew she was defeated.
They left through the Tradd Street gate. Judith took her husband's arm. His expression bemused, he was listening to the tolling bells of St. Michael's.
