Love and War

The totally foolhardy substituted the words influence peddler. Elkanah Bent didn't know a great deal about Starkwether's affairs, but he did know that calling the man a lobbyist was the same as calling Alexander of Macedon a common soldier.

Starkwether was rumored to represent huge New York money interests, men almost Olympian in their wealth and influence. Men who could ignore any law if it suited them and shape government policy to fit a personal purpose. In their behalf, it was said, Starkwether had maintained friendships at the highest levels of government for more than two decades, through a succession of administrations, a fact that had long tinctured Bent's affection with awe.

'Turn in here,' he exclaimed. The driver had almost missed the great bow-shaped drive in front of the mansion, more Greek temple than house. Fog hid its vast wings and upper floors, and Bent was puzzled by the empty drive and a lack of lighted windows. Several times before this he had driven past at night, always finding many visitors' carriages outside and many gaslights blazing within.

'Wait for me,' Bent said, lumbering up wide marble steps to the entrance. He let one of the huge lion's-head knockers fall twice. The sound went rolling away and away inside. Was his protector gone? Thinking of Starkwether, Bent seldom used any other word, especially not the more common but forbidden one.

He knocked again. An elderly servant with reddened eye sockets answered. Before he could speak, the visitor blurted, 'I am Colonel Elkanah Bent. I must see Mr. Starkwether. It's urgent.'

'I'm very sorry, Colonel, but it's impossible. This afternoon, Mr. Starkwether was unexpectedly —' the old man had trouble saying it — 'stricken.'

'Do you mean a paralytic seizure?'

'Yes, sir.'

'But he's all right, isn't he?'

'The seizure was fatal, sir.'

Bent walked back to the hack, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, wondering how to save himself now that he'd lost his father.

8

'He's coming here? With that Catholic bitch who lords it over us as if she's royalty? Stanley, you imbecile! How could you allow it?'

'Isabel,' he began in a faint voice as she flounced toward the parlor windows overlooking Sixth Street. She showed him the back of the drab gray hoop skirt and matching jacket she wore for everyday. She groaned, so loudly you might have thought some man was ravishing her. Damn slim chance of her permitting that, Stanley thought pettishly.

His wife kicked her hoops to permit a quick turn, another confrontation. 'Why in the name of God didn't you speak against the idea?'

'I did! But Cameron wants him.'

'For what possible reason?'

Stanley offered a few of Cameron's explanatory phrases, as best he could remember them. Just the anticipation of this quarrel had exhausted him. He'd spent most of the day rehearsing what he'd say and completely forgotten it when the moment arrived.

Sprawled in a chair, he finished with a lame 'There's a strong possibility that he won't come.'

'I wish we hadn't either. I detest this cursed town.'

He sat silent as she strode around the parlor three times, working off some of her rage. He knew she didn't mean that last remark. She loved being in Washington because she loved power and associating with those who controlled it.

Their current circumstances weren't ideal, of course. With decent quarters hard to find, they'd been forced to rent this dusty old suite in the cavernous National Hotel, a hangout of the secesh crowd. Stanley wished they could move. Quite apart from politics, a hotel was the wrong place in which to raise two headstrong adolescent sons. Sometimes Laban and Levi disappeared in the mazy corridors for hours. God knew what lascivious lessons they learned, listening at closed doors. When Stanley had gotten here at seven, Isabel reported that she'd found Laban giggling in a familiar way with one of the young maids. Stanley had lectured his son — torture for him and boring for the defiant boy. He had then ordered the twins to study Latin verbs for an hour and locked their bedroom door. Mercifully, all sounds of fist-fighting had now stopped; he presumed they were asleep. Small wonder religious Americans considered Washington an immoral place; the first evidence cited was the town's teeming hotel life.

Isabel completed her last circuit of the room and stopped, folding her arms over her small bosom and challenging him with her eyes. Two years older than Stanley, she had grown increasingly forbidding as she aged.

In response to her glare, he said, 'Isabel, try to understand. I did object, but —'

'Not strongly. You never do anything strongly.'

His back stiffened as he stood. 'That's unfair. I didn't want to harm my good standing with Simon. I had the impression you considered it an asset.'

Isabel Hazard was an expert manipulator of people, most especially her husband. She saw she'd pushed too hard. The understanding damped her anger. 'I do. I'm sorry for what I said. It's just that I despise George and Constance for all the humiliation they've heaped on you.'

The truce established, he moved to her side. 'And you.'

'Yes. I'd like to repay them for that.' She cocked her head, smiling. 'If they did come here, perhaps I could find a way. We know important people. You have some influence now.'

'We might do it at that.' He hoped his lack of enthusiasm didn't show. Sometimes he truly hated his brother, but he had also been frightened of him since they were boys. He slipped his arm around her shoulder. 'Let me have a whiskey while I tell you some good news.'

Isabel allowed him to guide her to a sideboard where fine glass decanters held the best brands of spirits. 'What is it? A promotion?'

'No, no — I guess news is the wrong word. It's a suggestion from Simon, a boon to soothe my objections about George.' He described the meeting with the contractor and the subsequent conversation with Cameron. Isabel saw the potential instantly. She clapped her hands.

'For that idea, I'd let ten George Hazards come to town. We wouldn't be dependent on the factory — or your brother's whims — for our principal income. Just imagine the money we could make with a guaranteed contract —'

'Simon offered no guarantees,' Stanley cautioned. 'You don't dare state such things explicitly. But I'm sure it's what he meant. The department operates that way. Right now, for instance, I'm working on a plan to save the government money when it transports soldiers from New York to Washington. The present cost is six dollars a head. By rerouting the troops on the Northern Central through Harrisburg, we can cut that to four.'

'But the Northern Central is Cameron's line.'

Feeling better with whiskey in him, Stanley winked. 'We don't generally advertise that.'

Isabel was already planning. 'We must travel to New England immediately. Simon will give you time off, won't he?'

'Oh, yes. But, as I told him, I don't know a thing about shoe manufacturing.'

'We will learn. Together.'

'Give me back my pillow, you little son of a bitch.'

The sudden shout from behind the door of the smaller bedroom was followed by more cursing and sounds of struggle.

'Stanley, go stop those boys this instant.'

The general had spoken; the subaltern knew better than to argue. He set his drink aside and reluctantly marched off to the sibling wars.