Love and War

past courtesies. Let's be no more specific than that. Now, what do you sell?'

'Uniforms. Delivered fast, at the right price.'

'Made where?'

'My factory in Albany.'

'Oh, that's right. New York. I remember.'

The contract-seeker reached into his coat for a square of coarse fabric dyed dark blue and laid the sample on the table. Stanley picked it up with both hands and easily tore it in two. 'Shoddy,' he said. It wasn't a judgment but the familiar name of material made of pressed wool scraps. Huffsteder said nothing. Cameron fingered one of the pieces. He knew, as did Stanley, that any uniform made of the material would last two or three months; less if the wearer happened to be caught in a heavy rain. Still, it was wartime; the actions of the rebel combinations dictated certain compromises.

Cameron quickly made that evident: 'In procurement, Mr. Hoffsteder —' The contractor muttered his correct name, but Cameron ignored him — 'the law's clear as crystal. My department obeys that law. Operates on the bid system — the bids are sealed if the contract's advertised. On the other hand, I have certain funds at my personal disposal, and I can disburse that money to authorized agents of the War Department for discretionary purchases not dependent on bids. You catch my drift?' Huffsteder nodded. 'When our brave boys need overcoats or powder, we can't be too finicky about law. With the rebs right over there in Virginia, liable to swoop down any minute, we can't wait for sealed bids to come in, can we? So —' Cameron raised an eloquent hand — 'special agents with special funds.'

To be handed to special friends. After just a few months, Stanley understood the system well.

Cameron dropped his pose of eloquence. 'Stanley, write the names and addresses of our New York State agents for this gentleman. See either one of them, and I'm sure you can do business.'

'Sir, I can't thank you enough.'

'But you already did.' Again he fixed the nervous man with those gray eyes. 'I recall the amount of the donation exactly. Handsome, handsome indeed. The sort of donation I'd expect from someone anxious to help the war effort.'

'I'd better write our agents,' Stanley put in.

'Yes, take care of it.' Cameron didn't need to warn his pupil to use vague language; Stanley had written over a dozen letters of the same type. Cameron rose. 'Well, sir, if you'll excuse me now, I'm off to have supper with my brother. He, too, is serving the cause. Commander of the Seventy-ninth New York. Mostly Scots, those fellows. But you wouldn't catch me in a Highlander's kilts. Not with my knees.'

Cameron was away from the table by the time he uttered the jovial remark. Huffsteder remained seated, smiling in a dazed way. Stanley hurried after his boss, thinking a not infrequent thought. If some of the department's practices ever came to light — Well, he did his best to stay clear of the worst illegalities. He wanted to be in Washington, the center of power, and if the price was the risk of soiled hands, he'd pay it. Besides, Isabel insisted.

In the lobby, he made a final attempt with Cameron. 'Sir, before you go — please reconsider about George. Don't forget he's one of those West Point peacocks —'

'And I don't like them or the institution any better than you do, my boy. But I reckon I've got to take the squall if I want the baby.'

'Mr. Secretary, I beg you —'

'That's enough! Don’t you hear me?'

Several heads turned. Reddening over his outburst, Cameron grabbed Stanley's sleeve and yanked him toward an empty settee. 'You come over here. James will be sore when I'm late, but I want to get something straight.'

Oh, my God, he's going to discharge me —

Cameron's expression certainly suggested the possibility. He shoved Stanley down on the cushions. 'Now listen here. I like you, Stanley. What's more, I trust you, and I can't say that about many who work for me. Quit worrying about your brother. I'll handle him. You'd be a damn sight smarter if you forgot about the past and took advantage of the present.'

With a dull look, Stanley said, 'What do you mean?'

Calmer, Cameron sat down. 'I mean take a leaf out of the book of that thief we just met. Find an opportunity and capitalize on it. I run my department strictly according to the law' — Stanley was too upset to laugh at the absurdity — 'but that doesn't mean I'm unwilling to see trusted associates prosper. Many little jobs must be done if we're to accomplish the big one.'

It dawned then. 'You mean I should seek a contract?'

Cameron slapped his knee. 'Yessiree.'

'For what?'

'Anything our boys need. These, for instance.' Reaching down, he poked his left shoe, then rested his gaze on the newly painted ceiling while he mused. 'The shoe industry's the second biggest in the North, only it's fallen on hard times lately. Bet there are a lot of small factories for sale in New England.'

'But I know nothing about the shoe indus— '

'Learn, my boy.' Snakelike, Cameron's head shot toward him. 'Learn.'

'Well, I suppose I could —'

'Sure.' Affable again, Cameron gave Stanley's knee a second slap and stood. 'Shoes are in damn short supply. It's a fine opportunity for somebody.'

'I appreciate the suggestion. Thank you.'

Cameron beamed. 'Good night, my boy.'

'Good night, sir.'

After the secretary left the hotel, Stanley sat staring at his feet for more than a minute. He always had trouble with decisions, but tonight was worse because of George. He had no more say in that matter. Could he withstand Isabel's fury when she learned that the man who'd forced them out of Lehigh Station was now being invited to become Stanley's rival once again?

6

'Wouldn't have this war if it wasn't for the niggers.'

'You're wrong. It's them rebs pulling out of the Union that started it. I say fight for the flag but not the darkies.'

'I'm with you there. Way I see it, the best way to solve the problem would be to shoot 'em all.'

The comment generated loud agreement from several other civilians at the Willard bar. The solitary officer held the same opinion, but since he was in uniform, he made no comment. Some pro-nigger toady from the government might take notice.

The officer weighed two hundred and thirty pounds. A paunch inflated his spotless dress coat. In a dead white face that bright sunlight could broil red in half an hour, dark eyes shifted toward a corner table. One man still seated had been left by two others a moment ago. Of the pair departing, the younger man had a tantalizingly familiar face.

The officer sipped his whiskey and cudgeled his memory. He was thirty-seven, but his black hair had begun to show gray streaks six months ago. He applied dye every day to hide them and preserve a youthful appearance. Brevet Colonel Elkanah Bent only wished he could conceal his awareness of them as easily.

In that gray, he found intimations of his own mortality and a heightened sense of frustration with his career. He'd suffered career frustration during most of his adult life. But this past month it had worsened as he idled through the days in this benighted pro-Southern city. Bent hated Southerners almost as much as he hated blacks. He hated one Southerner, named Orry Main, most of all; Main and his Yankee classmate George Hazard. On top of that, Washington was the home of the only human being for whom Bent had any affection, and he was forbidden to