background is Massachusetts politics — and he's a lawyer besides.'
Stanley could have mentioned some things he had heard about the general — that, for instance, he had grown wealthy during his short tenure in New Orleans, though no one could say how. The sources of Andrew Butler's burgeoning fortune were, by contrast, widely known.
Moving toward the riverfront where a paddle steamer lay moored, white as a wedding cake in the sunshine, Butler continued, 'The people of this town are wrong to condemn my brother. He's a much more fair-minded and efficient administrator than anyone will admit. He cleaned up pestilential conditions he found when he arrived, he brought in food and clothing when it was badly needed, he reopened the port for business. But all you hear is 'Damn the Beast' and 'Damn Spoons.' Fortunately, in our little commercial venture, you and I will deal with gentlemen who put personal profit ahead of public slogan-mongering.'
'You're referring to the cotton planters?'
'Yes. Their desire to be practical was enhanced by the experience of a few who initially refused me their cooperation — and their cotton. Those gentlemen found their slaves absent all at once. When they subsequently consented to, ah, share their crop in the general marketplace, the slaves of course reappeared to do the hard labor.'
'Even in wartime,' Butler concluded, 'practicality is often a wiser course than patriotism.'
'Yes, definitely,' Stanley agreed. The champagne and sunshine and success reached him all at once, generating a sense of self-worth unique in all his life. Isabel should be proud of what he had accomplished today. Damned proud. He was.
By the close of November, most officers in the Army of the Gulf knew they would have a new commander by the end of the year. Protests against Butler's style had grown too numerous, accusations of thievery and profiteering too ripe. The coming of a new commandant usually produced a reorganization and many transfers. Elkanah Bent realized he must retrieve the painting at once.
He observed the entrance to Madame Conti's on three randomly chosen evenings. The observation proved that what he had heard was true: the brothel was popular with officers and noncoms alike, though it was against regulations for them to associate, just as it was for them to visit such a place. Both rules were broken by large numbers of men, who went in quietly and came out rowdily — drunk to the eyes. Within one half-hour period he witnessed two fistfights, which further cheered him.
In his disorderly rented room around the corner from the Cotton Exchange, Bent sat down in his undershirt and devised a plan with the aid of his most helpful companion, a fresh bottle of whiskey. He drank as much as a quart a day — and vile stuff it was, too; little better than sutler's slop. But he needed it to clarify his mind and help him cope with his burden of failure.
The woman who ran the bordello would never sell him the portrait. Nor was he willing to risk burglary late at night; he vividly remembered Madame Conti's black helper. He had to steal the painting while others conducted what was known in military parlance as a diversionary demonstration. With the bordello patrons in a volatile state, it should not be hard to provoke one.
It was the best plan he could concoct. He drained the bottle and fell into bed, Wearily reminding himself to secure a knife.
The following Saturday night, in full-dress uniform, Bent ascended the beautiful black iron stair he had climbed once before. He found a large, noisy crowd of soldiers in the parlor and didn't recognize one. A touch of luck there.
He ordered bourbon from the old black man behind the small bar. He sipped and listened. When the men weren't boasting to the whores, they maundered about home or muttered anti-Southern sentiments. Ideal.
He ordered a second drink. His neck prickled suddenly. Someone watching —?
He turned. Sure enough, through the press he saw a large, solid woman approaching. She was well into her sixties, and her mass of white hair was as stunningly arranged as it had been the previous time. She wore a robe of emerald silk embroidered with bridges, pagodas, and Oriental figures.
'Good evening, Colonel. I thought I recognized an old customer.'
He started to sweat; insincerity lurked behind his smile. 'You have a good memory, Madame Conti.'
'I just recall your face, not your name.' Shrewdly, she didn't bring up their quarrel over the cost of certain special services obtained from the slut he had bedded.
'Bent.' On the first visit he had actually called himself Benton, wanting to protect his real name because he believed he could still have a career in the army. At that time, he had yet to learn that the generals never recognized talent, only influence.
'Colonel? Are you ill?'
A bulging vein in his forehead flattened out of sight. His breathing slowed. 'Just a brief dizziness. Nothing alarming.'
She relaxed, musing. 'Colonel Bent. Certainly, that was it.' He missed the flash of doubt in her eyes. He swallowed whiskey and listened to the din in the place. Excellent.
'I recall you had a Negro working for you — a huge, ferocious fellow.'
Bitterness: 'No. Pomp wanted to join your army. He was a freedman, and I couldn't dissuade him. To business, Colonel. In what may we interest you this evening? You know our range of specialties, as I recall.'
He wanted one of her young boys, but in this military crowd dared not ask. 'A white girl, I think. One with flesh on her bones.'
'Come and meet Marthe. She's German, though she's learning English. One caution: Marthe's younger brother is serving in a Louisiana regiment. I advise Marthe and all the other girls that we run a nonpartisan establishment' — damn lie, that; the madam had several times criticized Butler publicly — 'but you can assure yourself of congeniality by avoiding direct reference to the war.'
'Certainly, certainly.' Anxiety quickened the reply. Could he go through with it? He must.
Madame Conti's hypocrisy helped stiffen his resolve. He ordered a magnum of French champagne for some further stiffening, then waddled along to be presented to the whore.
'Very lovely, dear,' Marthe said twenty minutes later. 'Very satisfying.' She had an accent thick as a sausage and china-blue eyes, which she had kept focused on the ceiling throughout. Plump and slightly pink from her brief exertion, she lay touching and fluffing the corkscrew curls over her ears.
Back turned, Bent struggled into his trousers. Now, he said to himself.
The plump whore rose and reached for her blue silk kimono. Madame Conti's passion for things Asian was evident throughout the house. 'It's time to pay, darling. The chap at the bar downstairs will take your mon —'
Bent pivoted. She saw his fist rising, but astonishment prevented an outcry for a moment. He hit her hard. Her head snapped back. She fell on the bed, shrieking in anger and pain.
Turning away to conceal his next action, he raked his nails down his left cheek till he felt the blood. Then he snatched his coat and lurched for the door.
The whore was on him then, pounding with her fists, bellowing German curses. Bent kicked back twice and hurt her enough to stop the hitting. He plunged into the dim hall. Doors opened along it, blurred faces becoming visible. What was the commotion?
He remembered his saber, left behind.
Down the stairs he went, staggering, blood dripping from his chin. 'Damn rebel slut attacked me. She attacked me!'
He bolted through the arch to the parlor, where his outcry had already generated angry looks among the lounging soldiers. 'Look what the whore did to me!' Bent pointed to his bloody cheek. 'She called General Butler a
