hadn't. Saying good-bye to George in South Carolina — he had two more weeks of leave and planned to spend it working for and with the Mains — he had stated his intention to remain with the Army Engineers. Unless, of course, something impeded his advancement, in which case there was always that railroad construction he and George had discussed. Trains were the coming thing. People had a nickname to certify it. The iron horse.
How intimately the process of change accelerated by the war had touched all of them, and the country. How deeply it had affected them and the country. No one was spared, neither those who accepted it nor those who denied it. Witness the pair on whom he had eavesdropped. The hardening of attitudes was in itself a change, in response to change.
Why did so many deny the universal constancy of the process, he wondered. Through some quirk of temperament or upbringing, George had embraced it early, within the framework of the family business. He had been open to innovation and had fought Stanley, who was not. Gradually, his perceptions had widened until he saw the benefit — or at least the inevitability — of change outside the gates of Hazard's as well.
Why did people ignore the lessons of history and their own senses, deny a law of life immutable as the seasons, and erect twisted barriers against it in their minds? He didn't know why, but they did. They wept for the goodness of half-imaginary yesterdays, yesterdays beyond altering, instead of anticipating and helping to shape the good of possible tomorrows. They found things to blame for the flow of events they wanted to stop and could not. They blamed God, their wives, government, books, fanciful combinations of unnamed men — sometimes even voices in their own heads. They lived tortured and unhappy lives, trying to dam Niagara with a teacup.
But he doubted anyone could change people of that stamp They were the curse and burden of a race laboring forward up a mountain in half-darkness. They were — it brought a weary smile — constant as the very change they hated.
Which reminded him of a certain small but important change he wanted to make at Belvedere. Ever since finding the fragment of iron-rich meteorite in the hills above West Point, he had kept it on the library table as a symbol of the power and potency of the metal that had created the Hazard fortune, For many years he had been seduced by iron's wide application in weaponry, and thus by its potential to change the fate of nations, the globe itself.
But in Virginia, he had begun to think that a certain adjustment or balance was required. During the last four years, Americans had fallen on other Americans like ravening animals. The full impact of the blood-letting — the ultimate shock when all the casualties, tangible and otherwise, were at last enumerated — lay in the future. When the shock set in, it would not soon pass, he was convinced. So it was wise to prepare, identify a balancing force.
When they reached Belvedere, he surprised Constance by what he did immediately after he spent a half hour hugging and talking with his son and daughter. He went out through the kitchen and up the hill, bringing back a green sprig of laurel, which he laid beside the piece of star-iron in the library.
'I should like a fresh sprig to be kept there at all times,' he said. 'Where all of us can see it.'
That same night, on the 6:00 p.m. train bound for the transfer point at Baltimore, Brigadier Duncan and Charles sat opposite each other in a first-class car. Charles hardly looked as though he belonged there, smoking cigars and wearing that disreputable rag robe. Duncan insisted they take time on the trip west to obtain a decent suit until he was issued a new uniform.
Several times since Charles's return from the cemetery, Duncan had tried to draw him out on the subject of his vigil, particularly the thoughts and emotions that had led to his decision. But it was impossible for Charles to describe or even be open about the various alternatives that had flowed through his mind during that long night of rain, uncertainty, guilt, despair.
There was the possibility of sailing for Egypt to serve in the khedive's army, as he had heard in a Washington barroom that some Confederate officers were doing. There was the possibility of taking to the hills to continue guerrilla action against the Yankees. There was going home and wasting away in drink and idleness.
There was suicide.
There was also the West, where Duncan was bound. He had always loved the West, and Duncan reiterated the need for cavalrymen out there. Charles was trained for nothing else.
But all of that was peripheral to the central issue he confronted during the vigil: Gus's death and his son's life. They were not separate but one, inextricably interlocked.
It was Gus who had shown him the way. At the grave he had remembered their best times together. Remembered her strength, her will. No miraculous transformation had occurred while the rain fell on him in Georgetown and washed against his own flooding tears. He had never hurt so badly as he did then and now, and he knew the uncertainty and pain would persist for a long time. But he had learned, keeping vigil with the guilt and grief undammed at last, one truth above all: he still loved Augusta Barclay beyond life itself. So he must love the boy. He must live for the boy as well as for her, because they were one.
Seeing Charles's somber expression as he stared out the window into the sunlit meadows of evening, Duncan frowned. He was not yet comfortable in the Confederate officer's presence and wondered if he ever would be. Further, he wondered if Charles understood the ramifications of his decision. While the train was passing through one of the many small hamlets dotting the right of way in Maryland — Charles saw two demolished houses and a shell-blasted barn — Duncan cleared his throat.
'You know, my boy, this duty you plan to take on — serving in the regular army again — it won't be easy for a man of your background.'
That drew blood. Charles chewed hard on his unlit cigar stub.
'I went through the Academy the same way you did, General. I'm a professional. I changed uniforms once. I can change a second time. It's all one country again, isn't it?'
'That's true. Still, not everyone will treat you as we both would wish. I'm only trying to warn you against the inevitable. Discourtesies. Insults —'
In a hard voice, Charles said, 'I'll handle it.' A flash of sunlight between low hills illuminated his ravaged face, unsmiling.
Duncan looked up, gratefully. 'Ah — here's Maureen —'
The wet nurse appeared in the aisle, gently cradling the baby she had brought from her seat in second class. 'He's awake, General. I thought perhaps you might like —' She stopped, plainly uncertain about which man to address.
'Give him to me.' Then, catching himself, Charles said in a gentler way, 'Thank you, Maureen.'
With extreme care, he took the bundled shape into his arms, while Duncan leaned across to raise the corner of blanket with which Maureen had covered the infant's face while carrying him between cars. Duncan beamed, the picture of the proud great-uncle.
The pink-faced child regarded his father with wide eyes. Awed and fearful of somehow damaging him, Charles tried a tentative smile. The younger Charles grimaced and bawled. 'Rock him, for God's sake,' Duncan said.
That worked. Charles had never rocked a child, but he quickly caught on. The train passed through fields where a farmer walked behind his mule and plow in the dying daylight, turning new earth.
'Frankly, my boy,' Duncan said, 'although I'm extremely pleased the three of us are here together and headed where we are, I continue to admit to some astonishment. I felt that if you took your son, you would undoubtedly want to return to South Carolina and raise him as a Southerner.'
The father stared at the older man. 'Charles is an American. That's how I'll raise him.'
Duncan harrumphed to signify acceptance, if not understanding. 'He has a middle name, by the way.'
'You didn't tell me that.'
'It slipped my mind. This has hardly been an ordinary day. His full name is Charles Augustus. My niece chose it just before —'
He pressed a closed hand to his lips. Remembering was hard for him, too, Charles realized.
'Before her confinement. She said she had always loved the nickname Gus.'
Feeling tears, Charles blinked several times. He gazed down at his son, whose face had mysteriously reddened, and taken on a puzzling appearance of strain. Duncan peeked at the infant. 'Oh, I think we shall need the assistance of Maureen. Excuse me while I fetch her.'
He stepped into the aisle. With great care, Charles touched his son's chin. The baby reached out and
