Love and War

Pastry: cottonwood-berry pie, à la ironclad

Liquors: Mississippi water, vintage 1492, very superior

Any diners not satisfied with the starvation fare are welcome to apply to

JEFF DAVIS & CO., PROPRIETORS

'Very amusing,' Bent said because Baker expected it. 'Where did this come from, sir?'

'O'Dell brought it back from Richmond last night. He saw large masses of troops moving west of Fredericksburg, by the way. There's truth in those rumors. Lee's up to something — ah!' Among some mail, he found a piece that he immediately tucked in his pocket. 'A letter from Jennie.' Baker's wife was living with her parents in Philadelphia for the duration.

The man Baker had mentioned, Fatty O'Dell, was another agent. 'I didn't realize we had someone else on a mission down there.'

'Yes,' Baker replied, but didn't elaborate. That was his style. Only he knew all the operatives and what each was doing.

Baker leaned back and clasped hands behind his head. 'That broadside is enlightening about attitudes toward Jeff Davis. It helps corroborate something Fatty got wind of from third parties. A Richmond speculator named Powell is agitating very openly against Davis.'

Bent picked a bit of apple from his lip. 'That sort of thing's been going on for a year or more, hasn't it?'

'Absolutely right. This time, however, there's an unusual wrinkle. Fatty said Mr. Powell's pronouncements include talk of forming an independent Confederate state at some unspecified location.' 'God above — that is new.'

'I wish you would not take the Lord's name in vain. I like it as little as I liked those filthy yellow-backed books I confiscated and burned some months ago.'

'Sorry, Colonel,' Bent said hastily. 'The information surprised me, that's all. What's the speculator's name again?' 'Lamar Powell.'

'I never heard it mentioned when I was in Richmond. Nor any new Confederacy, for that matter.'

'It may be nothing more than street gossip. If they impeached Davis, it would help our cause. It would help even more if they strung him up. And I'd be the first to applaud. But it's probably a vain hope.'

He opened a lower desk drawer and produced one of the folders that contained personal dossiers. Inscribed on the front in a beautiful flowing hand was the name Randolph.

Baker passed the folder across the desk. Bent opened it and discovered several pages of notes in a variety of handwritings, plus a number of news clippings. One of the dispatches carried the words By Our Capitol Correspondent Mr. Eamon Randolph.

He closed the folder and waited. When Baker began to speak, he did so in a tone that took Bent into his confidence. Bent's gloom lifted.

'Mr. Randolph, as you'll discover when you read those scurrilous articles, is not a partisan of those for whom we work. Nor is he fond of Senator Wade, Congressman Stevens, or their rigorous program for rehabilitating our Southern brethren after the war. You will find Mr. Randolph's paper, the Cincinnati Globe, to be strongly antiadministration and pro-Democratic. Further, only the peace wing of that party earns its admiration. Randolph doesn't go so far as some in the same camp — no advocacy of removal of Mr. Lincoln by violent means, nothing like that. But he definitely favors noninterference with slavery even after the South capitulates. We cannot tolerate the promulgation of that view in a period of crisis. I have been urged by certain administration officials to — shall we say —' Baker stroked his luxuriant beard '— chastise him. Silence him briefly, not only to remove an irritant but to warn his paper, and others of the same persuasion, to have a care lest the same fate befall them. Your work in Richmond impressed me, Dayton. That's why I've chosen you to handle the case.'

82

The three contract surgeons in filthy uniforms sat around a rickety table. Their hands were filthy too, stained with dirt and blood, as they were whenever the surgeons examined wounds.

One of the three picked his nose. The second surreptitiously rubbed his groin, an oafish smile spreading over his face. The third doctor drained a bottle of alcohol meant for the wounded. One of these, limping pitifully, was shown in by an orderly, who acted like a mental deficient.

'What have we here?' said the surgeon who had been swilling the alcohol; apparently he was the chief.

'I'm hurt, sir,' said the enlisted man. 'Can I go home?'

'Not so fast! We must conduct an examination. Gentlemen? If you please.'

The surgeons surrounded the soldier, poked, probed, conferred in whispers. The chief stated the consensus: 'I'm sorry, but your arms must be amputated.'

'Oh.' The patient's face fell. But after a moment, he grinned. 'Then can I have a furlough?'

'Definitely not,' said the surgeon who had been rubbing his privates. 'That left leg must come off, too.'

'Oh.' This time it was a groan. The patient again tried to smile. 'But certainly I can have a furlough after that.'

'By no means,' said the nose picker. 'When you get well you can drive an ambulance.'

Roars of laughter.

'Gentlemen — another consultation,' cried the chief, and back into a huddle they went. It broke up quickly. The chief said, 'We have decided one last procedure is necessary. We must amputate your head.'

The patient strove to see the bright side. 'Well, after that I know I'll be entitled to a furlough.'

'Absolutely not,' said the chief. 'We are so short of men, your body must be set up in the breastworks to fool the enemy.'

Out of the darkness, massed voices roared again. Seated cross-legged on trampled grass, Charles laughed so hard tears ran from his eyes. On the tiny plank stage lit by lanterns and torches, the soldier playing the patient shrieked and ran in circles while the demented surgeons pursued him with awls, chisels, and saws. Finally they chased him behind a rear curtain rigged from a blanket.

Applause, yelps, and whistling acknowledged the end of the program, which had lasted about forty minutes. All the performers — singers, a banjo player, a fiddler, one of Beverly Robertson's troopers who juggled bottles, and a monologist portraying Commissary General Northrop explaining the healthful benefits of the latest reduction in the meat ration — returned for their bows. Then came the actors from the skit, who got even louder applause. Some anonymous scribe in the Stonewall Brigade had written The Medical Board, and it had become a favorite on camp programs.

Shadow masses stood and separated. Charles rubbed his stiff back. The mild June evening and the campfires shining in the fields away toward Culpeper Court House brought images of Barclay's Farm to mind. Barclay's Farm and Gus.

Ab was thinking of less pleasant subjects. 'Got to find me some Day and Martin to shine my boots. Damn if I ever thought when I joined the scouts that I'd have to get so fancied up.'

'You know Stuart,' Charles said with a resigned shrug.

'On some occasions I wish I didn't. This is one. Goddamn if I want to go paradin' for the ladies on Saturday.'

The two men crossed the railroad tracks, retrieved their horses from the temporary corral, and started for the field where they had pitched their tents with Calbraith Butler's regiment. A massive movement of forces was under way below the Rappahannock; Ewell and Longstreet were already at Culpeper with infantry.

Charles knew nothing of the army's destination, but lately there had been much talk of a second invasion of the North.

Somewhere above the river there were certain to be Yanks. Yanks who would want to know the whereabouts of Lee's army. So far as Charles could tell, no one was worried about the Yankee presence or its potential threat. Stuart had settled down at Culpeper with more horsemen than he had had in a long time — close