Love and War

minstrels. A peddler told her the place was the residence of most of the British masters and mates who ran the blockade. Flush with new money, they held all-night parties, wagered on cockfights in the garden, entertained women of ill repute, and scandalized the town. Judith was glad Cooper wasn't with her; the boisterous house would only make him angrier.

For he was angry. His silence told her. So did the queer glitter of his eyes. They shone like metal hemispheres as he sat staring into the March sunshine. They belonged to no man she knew.

At night, Judith often cried for a long time, thinking of Judah; he could not even be given a decent burial. The sorrow was increased by Cooper's remoteness. He no longer put his arm around her or touched her or said a single word when they lay side by side in the hard bed. Judith only cried more, ashamed of the tears but unable to stop them.

One day toward the end of March, Marie-Louise burst out, 'Are we going to stay in this awful room the rest of our lives?' Judith wondered that herself. For the first week or so, she had refrained from pushing Cooper about leaving; he was still weak, and tired easily. Prompted by her daughter's question, she suggested to him that she telegraph Secretary Mallory and report their whereabouts. He answered her with a bleak nod and another of his peculiar, indifferent stares.

A few days later, she ran up the stairs of the rooming house with a sheet of flimsy yellow paper. Judith had left Marie-Louise in the parlor with a February number of the Southern Illustrated News she wanted to read the romantic serial and work the word puzzle.

Cooper sat, as usual, watching the piers and darting sloops. 'Darling, splendid news,' she said. Three steps carried her across the cramped room. There was a message from the secretary at the telegraph office.'

Smiling, hoping to cheer and encourage him, she held out the yellow flimsy. He wouldn't take it. She laid it in his lap. 'You must read it. Stephen sends condolences and pleads with you to travel to Richmond as soon as you can.'

Cooper blinked twice. His gaunt face, so curiously alien lately, softened a little. 'He has need of me?'

'Yes! Read the telegram.'

Bending his head, he did.

She almost wished he hadn't when he looked up again. His smile had no humanity and somehow made his glaring eyes appear to sink deeper into their blue-black sockets. 'I reckon it is time to go. I must have an accounting with Ashton.'

'I know you've been brooding about that. But she isn't really responsible for —''

'She is,' he interrupted. 'Ballantyne said it explicitly — the owners wanted no delays. They wanted cargo delivered at all hazards. He gambled with Judah's life because of greed. His own and Ashton's. She is very much to blame.'

A shiver shook Judith's slim frame. The gay, brightly barbed speech of the old Cooper was gone, replaced by pronouncements, bitterly made. She began to fear the consequences of his rage.

'Help me up,' he said suddenly, flinging off the blanket.

'Are you strong enough?'

'Yes.' The blanket fell. He wavered and took her arm, grasping so hard she winced.

'Cooper, you're hurting me.'

He relaxed his grip without apology, and with a curious, stony indifference. 'Where's my new suit? I want to go to the depot for train tickets.'

'I can buy them.'

'I will! I want to get to Richmond. We've stayed here too long.'

'You were ill. You had to rest.'

'I had to think, too. Clear my head. Find my purpose. I have. I intend to help the secretary prosecute this war to the full. Nothing else matters.'

She shook her head. 'I hear you, but I don't believe you. When the war started, you detested it'

'No longer. I share Mallory's view. We must win, not negotiate a peace. I'd like to win at the expense of a great many dead Yankees — and the more of them I can be responsible for, the better.'

'Darling, don't talk that way.'

'Stand aside so I can find my clothes.'

'Cooper, listen to me. Don't let Judah's death rob you of the kindness and idealism that always —'

He slammed the wardrobe open, startling her to silence. Pivoting, his head thrust forward like some carrion bird's, he stared with those awful eyes.

'Why not?' he said. 'Kindness couldn't save our son's life. Idealism couldn't prevent Ballantyne and my sister from murdering him.'

'But you can't mourn him for the rest of your —'

'I wouldn't be mourning at all if you'd stayed in Nassau with the children as I begged you to do.'

The shout drove her back from him. Pale, she said, 'So that's it. You must have people to blame, and I'm one.'

'Please excuse me while I get dressed.' He turned his back on her.

Crying silently, Judith slipped out the door and waited with Marie-Louise till he came down twenty minutes later.

73

Ashton heard the sound, a cry of many voices, before its significance became clear.

She was just entering Franzblau's Epicurean, a fine shop on Main Street that only the wealthiest patronized, never being so indelicate as to ask the sources of its merchandise. Some had come in on the last successful voyage of Water Witch. There would be no more such voyages. The steamer had been trapped and sunk near the entrance to the Cape Fear River, Powell said. It didn't matter. The profits already realized were enormous.

Last night, while Huntoon once again worked late, a messenger had brought a note from Ashton's partner. Slyly worded to give an air of courtliness and propriety, it requested that she visit him in the morning so they might give a proper farewell to their late vessel and plan their strategy. Powell loved to tease her with such pretexts — as if she needed any. Already, thoughts of the meeting filled her cheeks with a pink that matched the fluffy dyed marabou trimming the cuffs and collar of her black velvet dress.

Although it was the second of April, a Thursday, the morning was cool. She had arrived at the Epicurean shortly after ten-thirty and now addressed the frail, gray-haired proprietor.

'Mumm's, if you have any, Mr. Franzblau. And a pot — no, two — of that wonderful goose-liver pâté.'

As she counted out a hundred and twenty Confederate dollars, Franzblau wrapped the two crocks in butcher's paper, which everyone saved and used for writing letters these days. Again the noise intruded, Franzblau raised his head. So did the black man seated by the door to bar undesirables.

Franzblau put the bottle of champagne beside the wrapped foie gras in Ashton's wicker hamper. 'What are those people shouting?'

She listened. ' 'Bread.' Over and over — 'bread.' How peculiar.'

The black man jumped up as Homer bolted through the door. 'Mrs. Huntoon, we better get out of here,' the elderly houseman said. 'There's a crowd comin' round the corner. Mighty big and mighty mad.'

Franzblau paled and whispered something in German, reaching under the counter for a six-barrel pepperbox revolver. 'I have feared something like this. Will, draw the blind.'

Down came the canvas on its roller, hiding Ashton's open carriage at the curb. Homer motioned with urgency. Ashton's heels clicked on the black-and-white ceramic diamonds of the floor. Halfway to the entrance, she heard a crash of glass. She had seen the sullen faces of Richmond's poor and hungry white women, but she had never expected them to take to the streets.

Homer took the hamper and went outside, pausing in the shop's recessed entrance. From that vantage point