pissing street dog — spat on my uniform — then she did this. I won't pay a penny in this nest of traitors.'
'Right with you there, Colonel,' said a dark-bearded captain. Several men stood up. Marthe bounded down the stairs, heightening the effect of Bent's story by howling her German damnations. Through heavy smoke tinted by the red glass mantles, he saw the barman's hand drop beneath the counter. Madame Conti rushed from a doorway behind him: the office — exactly where he remembered it.
'All of you be quiet, please. I permit no such —'
'Here's what we do to people who insult the United States Army.' Bent seized the nearest chair and brought it down on the marble bar, splintering it.
'Stop that, stop it,' Madame Conti cried with a note of despair. Several girls fled squealing; others crouched on the floor. The barman produced a pepper-pot pistol. Two noncoms jumped him, one throwing the gun into a spittoon while the other locked hands behind the man's neck and dragged his face down to the marble, swiftly and hard. Bent heard a nose crack.
He picked up another chair and flung it sideways. It struck a decorative mirror; a waterfall of fragments flowed.
The soldiers, half of them drunk, joined the attack like gleeful boys. Tables flew. Chairs crunched. Madame Conti ineffectually pulled at the arms of those wrecking her parlor, gave up and dashed away as demolition commenced in other rooms. An officer caught her, lifted her, and carried her out of sight on his shoulder.
Panting with excitement and fear, Bent ran to the office. There was the red-flocked wallpaper, the array of paintings, including the great Bingham — and there was the quadroon's portrait in its remembered place, among several canvases behind the madam's desk. Bent produced a clasp knife and began to poke and saw the canvas around the inner edge of the frame. In a minute and a half, he nearly had the portrait loose.
'
Cut, rip — the picture was his. He began to roll it. 'You've ruined that,' Madame Conti cried, rushing at him. Bent dropped the painting, balled his fist, and hit her on the side of the head. She would have fallen, but she caught herself on the edge of the desk.
Her splendid hair do undone, she stared at him through straggling gray strands. 'Your name wasn't Bent the first time; it was —'
He struck her again. The blow drove her four feet backward and hurled her to the floor. She floundered on her spine and made whimpering noises as he picked up the rolled painting, rushed through the parlor and down the iron stairs, leaving his army comrades to finish their work. From the hurrahs and the sounds of breakage that diminished as he hurried into the dark, they were enjoying the duty.
It had been a good night for everyone.
60
Burnside brought the Army of the Potomac to the Rappahannock in mid-November. The engineers hutted in a huge camp at Falmouth and waited. Seldom had Billy heard such complaining.
'We are delaying so long they will have their best ready to go against us.'
'Bad terrain, Fredericksburg. What are we to do, march up the heights like the redcoats at Breed's Hill and be mowed down the same way?'
'The general is a shit-ass, fit for nothing but combing his whiskers. There isn't an officer in the country capable of leading this army to a victory.'
Despite Lije Farmer's urgings that he have faith and ignore the malcontents, it was the malcontents Billy was starting to believe. Confidence in Burnside was not enhanced when a story got around that he was asking his personal cook for advice on strategy.
The weather, wet and dismal, deepened Billy's malaise and finally affected him physically. On the ninth of December he started sneezing. Then came queasiness and a headache. The next night, as the pontoon train began its advance to a previously scouted field beside the river, his forehead felt scorching, and he could barely suppress violent shivering. He said nothing.
They moved as quietly as possible. Fog had settled in, helping to muffle sound. At three in the morning, the regular battalion, assisted by the Fifteenth and the Fiftieth New York Volunteer Engineers, unloaded the boats while the teamsters cursed and coddled their horses to minimize noise. Everyone knew the significance of the pale splotches of color in the fog; among the trees and tall houses on the other shore, Confederate picket fires burned.
'Quiet,' Billy said every minute or so. The men repeatedly dropped the boats as they labored across the plowed field or blundered into one another and threatened a fight. There was a bad feeling about this campaign so late in the year. It was misbegotten. Cursed.
The fever swirled his thoughts and filmed his vision, but Billy kept on, softly calling directions, maintaining order, lifting and carrying when some weaker man faltered and fell out. A misty drizzle started. Then he began to ache.
During a break in the work, he clasped his arms around his body in a vain effort to warm up. Lije appeared. Touched his shoulder.
'There are plenty to carry on here. Go to the surgeons, where you belong.' Billy jerked away from his friend's hand. ' 'M all right.' Lije stood still, said nothing, but Billy knew he was hurt all the same. He started to apologize, but Lije turned and went back to the men.
Shame overwhelmed Billy, then uncharacteristic contempt for his friend. How could Lije believe all that Scriptural twaddle? If there was a compassionate God, how could He permit this nightmare war to drag on?
They kept at the work, continually watching the picket fires on the other side of the river. The drizzle produced heavy smoke from time to time, but the rebs kept the fires replenished with dry wood. One fire directly opposite the bridge site drew special attention because the soldier on picket duty could be seen with some clarity. He was reedy, bearded, and marched back and forth as if he had all the energy in the world.
It was nearly daybreak when the first boats went in. The men dropped one, and it smacked the shallows, loud as a shot. Superintending the work of moving more boats to the shore, Billy heard someone exclaim, 'It's all up,' then saw the rebel picket pluck a brand from the fire and wave it over his head, an arc of sparks.
Over the picket's cry, Lije shouted, 'Press ahead, boys. No need for silence now.'
They rushed forward with balks, chesses, and rails as a small signal cannon banged on the opposite shore. Running figures showed against the watch fires. A detachment of infantry came up behind the engineers, sleepy marksmen readying weapons. Artillery wheeled into place on the bluff above. Billy suspected all of it would be scant protection.
They had five boats anchored and two planked by the time enemy skirmishers appeared and opened fire. Looking bilious in the breaking light, Lieutenant Cross and a crew put out in their boats, the first to strike for the enemy shore, which they might or might not reach.
Billy worked on the end of the bridge, soon extended to midstream; he helped to cleat each boat to a pair of balks, then run it out. He heard the guns begin to crackle. A ball plopped in the water to his right; another thunked the gunwale of the pontoon boat over which he was kneeling.
'Wish I had my fucking gun,' someone said.
'Stop wasting breath,' Billy said. 'Work.'
Men ran forward with chesses. One of them jerked suddenly, stepped sideways, and tumbled into the Rappahannock.
Consternation. Hands shot down to seize and lift the wounded engineer. Billy had never felt water so icy. Lije ran out on the bridge. 'Courage, boys. 'Our soul waiteth for the Lord. He is our help and our shield.''
Dragging the man to safety — blood and water streaming from his face — Billy twisted around and said, 'Shut up, Lije. The Lord our shield didn't help this man, and He isn't going to help the rest of us, so shut up, will you?'
The white-bearded man seemed to shrivel. Anger flashed in his eyes, quickly replaced by sadness. Billy wanted to bite off his tongue. Men stared at him, but only one mattered. He ran to Lije along the slippery bridge and
