Love and War

western Virginia was good lately. George McClellan had whipped Robert Lee out there early in June.

The men who had convened today represented two different theories of victory. Scott, who could be seen wincing and growling from the pain of gout induced by his gluttony, some weeks ago had proposed a grand scheme to blockade the entire Confederate coastline, then send gunboats and a large army straight down the Mississippi to capture New Orleans and control the gulf. It was Scott's intention to isolate the South from the rest of the world. Cut off its supply of essential goods that it couldn't produce for itself. Surrender would follow quickly and inevitably. Scott capped his argument by promising that his strategy would assure victory with minimum bloodshed.

Lincoln had liked some sections of the design; the blockade had become a reality in April. But the complete plan, which the press had somehow learned about and christened 'Scott's Anaconda,' drew sharp fire from radicals like Chase — they were numerous in the Republican party — who favored a swift, single-stroke triumph. The kind summed up in 'Forward to Richmond!' — the slogan heard everywhere, from church pulpits to brothels, or so Stanley was told. Although he constantly craved sex and his wife seldom granted it to him, he was too timid to visit brothels.

Would the Union press on to the Confederate capital? Stanley had little time to speculate because Cameron returned quickly after seeing his visitors out. He gathered Stanley and four other assistants around him and began pulling oddly shaped little papers out of every pocket and rattling off orders. The scrap on which the secretary had jotted the President's firm command fluttered to the floor unseen.

'And you, Stanley —' Cameron fixed him with those eyes gray as the winter hills his Scottish forebears trod — 'we have that meeting late today. The one in regard to uniforms.'

'Yes, Mr. Secretary.'

'We're to meet that fellow at — let's see —' He patted his hopsack jacket, hunting another informative scrap.

'Willard's, sir. The saloon bar. Six p.m. is the time you set.'

'Yes, six. I don't have the head for so many details.' His vinegar smile said he wasn't excessively concerned.

Shortly before six, Stanley and the secretary left the War Department and crossed to the better side of the avenue. Yesterday's rain had changed the street to a mud pit again. Though he tried to walk carefully, Stanley still got a few spatters on his fawn trousers, which displeased him. In Washington, appearances counted for more than the reality beneath. His wife had taught him that, just as she'd propounded so many other valuable lessons during their married life. Without Isabel, Stanley well knew, he'd be nothing but a mat for his younger brother George to step on whenever he pleased.

The secretary swung his walking stick in a jaunty circle. In the amber of the late afternoon, the shadows of the strollers stretched out ahead. Three boisterous Zouaves, each in scarlet fez and baggy trousers, passed them, trailing beer fumes. One of the Zouaves was a mere boy, who reminded Stanley of his twin sons, Laban and Levi. Fourteen now, they were more than he could handle. Thank God for Isabel.

'— dictated a telegraph message after our meeting this morning,' he heard Cameron say.

'Oh, is that right, sir? To whom?'

'Your brother George. We could use a man of his background in the Ordnance Department. If he will, I'd like him to come to Washington.'

5

Stanley felt as though he'd been kicked. 'You telegraphed — ? You want — ? My brother George — ?'

'To work for the War Department,' the secretary said with a trace of a smirk. 'Been mulling the notion for weeks. That drubbing I took this morning settled it. Your brother is one of the big dogs in our state, Stanley. Top of his field — I know the iron and steel trade, don't forget. Your brother makes things happen. Likes new ideas. He's the kind who can pump some fresh air into Ordnance. Ripley can't; he's a mummy. And his assistant, that other officer — '

'Maynadier,' Stanley whispered with immense effort.

'Yes — well, thanks to them, the President's handing me poor marks. Those two say no to everything. Lincoln's interested in rifled shoulder weapons, but Ripley says they're no good. You know why? Because he's got nothing stored in his warehouses except a lot of smoothbores.'

Though Cameron often resisted new ideas as strongly as Colonel Ripley did, Stanley was accustomed to his mentor artfully shifting blame. Pennsylvania politics had made him a master at it. Stanley quickly screwed up his nerve to challenge Cameron from another direction. 'Mr. Secretary, I admit there's a need to bring in new people. But why did you telegraph — ? That is, we never discussed —'

A sharp glance stopped him. 'Come on, my boy. I don't need your permission to do anything. And I already knew what your reaction would be. Your brother grabbed control of Hazard Iron — took it clean away from you — and it's galled you ever since.'

Yes, by God, that's right I've lived in George's shadow since we were little. Now I'm standing on my own feet at last, and here he comes again. I won't have it.

Stanley never said any of that. A few more steps and the men turned into the main entrance of Willard's. Cameron looked merry, Stanley miserable.

The hotel lobby and adjoining public rooms were packed with people, as they were at most hours of the day. Near a roped-off section of wall, one of the Vermont-born Willard brothers argued with a sullen painter. The place smelted of redecorating — paint, plaster — and heavy perfumes. Under the chandeliers, men and women with eyes like glass and faces as stiff as party masks talked soberly, laughed loudly, bent heads so close together that many a pair of foreheads almost touched. Washington in miniature.

Stanley recovered enough to say, 'Of course it's your decision, sir —'

'Yep. Sure is.'

'But I remind you that my brother is not one of your strongest partisans.'

'He's a Republican, like me.'

'I'm sure he remembers the days when you stood with the Democrats.' Stanley knew George had been particularly infuriated by events at the Chicago convention that had nominated the President. Lincoln's managers had needed the votes Cameron controlled. The Boss would only trade them for a cabinet post. So it was with certainty that Stanley said, 'He's liable to work against you.'

'He'll work for me if I manage him right. I know he doesn't like me, but we're in a war, and he fought in Mexico — a man like that can't turn his back on the old flag. 'Sides — ' the gray eyes grew foxy — 'it's a lot easier to run a man when he's right under your thumb. Even setting aside his experience, I'd sooner have your brother right here than back in the Lehigh Valley where he might do me mischief.'

Cameron quickened his step to signal the end of the discussion.

Stanley persisted. 'He won't come.'

'Yes, he will. Ripley's a stupid old goat ready for pasture. He's making me look bad. I need George Hazard. What I want, I get.'

With his stick the secretary jabbed one of the swing doors of the saloon bar and passed through. Stanley lumbered after him, seething.

The businessman who had asked for the appointment, some friend of a friend of Cameron's, was a squat, pink-lipped fellow named Huffsteder. He ordered and paid for the expected round of drinks — a lager for Stanley, whiskey for Cameron — and the trio took a table just vacated by some officers. One recognized Cameron and nodded respectfully. Even Stanley drew an intense, almost startled look from a fat soldier at the bar. Cameron had no fears about meeting here. A good part of the time, the government operated from hotel bars and parlors. The smoke and the level of noise pretty well prevented close observations and eavesdropping.

'Let me come right to the point —' Huffsteder began.

Cameron gave him no chance. 'You want a contract. You're not alone, I'll tell you that. But I wouldn't be sitting here if you didn't deserve — oh, call it an accommodation.' His eyes met those of the other man. 'Because of