Love and War

'Portly as I am?'

'Portly is in the eye of the beholder. If you call yourself portly, then portly's perfect.'

'Oh, George — you are such a dear man. You can be obstinate. You're short-tempered. Sometimes even a bit vain. And it's impossible for me not to love you.'

'Wait now — just a minute —' During the last part of her affectionate little speech, he had done a great lot of rolling and thrashing and flinging of bedclothes, propping himself at last on one elbow. 'Since when do I deserve to be called vain?'

'You know as well as I that age is affecting your eyesight. Every evening I watch you bring the Star so close to your nose you almost poke a hole in the paper. But you won't admit you need spectacles — George, don't snort or harrumph like Stanley. What I said was all part of paying you a compliment. Heaven knows neither of us is perfect, but I was clumsily trying to say you could have a thousand faults instead of your one or two, and I'd still love you.'

He cleared his throat, paused, then did it again. She could hear the smile in his voice as he relaxed and reached for her waist, drawing her in.

'Well,' he said, 'you'd better. And right away, too.'

George exploded when the toothless man showed up in the Winder Building next morning.

'Good God, what possessed you to come here?' He shoved the courier toward the stairs, past the usual collection of contract-seekers and saviors of the Union who continued to treat the department as a second home.

' 'Cause I thought you'd want this right away.' The man dangled a soiled and wrinkled envelope in front of his client. 'It was waiting at the Richmond drop day 'fore yesterday.'

'Not so loud,' George whispered, scarlet. A brigadier coming upstairs cast a distrustful eye on the scruffy visitor. 'I suppose you also brought it here expecting extra pay.'

'Yessir, that did enter my mind. That's what this yere war's all about, ain't it? A chance for the enterprising fellow to make himself comfortable for the future —'

'Get out of here,' George said, jamming bills in the courier's hand.

'Hey, these are greenbacks. I only take —'

'It's those or nothing.' Snatching Orry's letter, he rushed back to his office.

He didn't dare read it there. Allowing time for the courier to leave the building, George put on his hat and escaped to Willard's. Seated at a rear table with beer he didn't want, he opened the letter. His hands shook.

Stump, it began. No names this time, except the old ones from the Academy. Orry was smart as ever, George thought, embarrassing tears in his eyes for a moment. He wiped them away and read on.

The party about whom you asked is here in Libby. I saw him day before yesterday, though from a distance only, because I did not want my interest to attract notice. I report to you sorrowfully that he appears to have been ill used by some of the bullies who staff the prison. I would guess he was beaten; he hobbles with the aid of a crutch, and I saw bruises.

But he is alive and whole. Take heart at that. I shall attempt to locate a certain trooper of our acquaintance and, between us, we shall see what can be done. Old bonds of affection must count for something even in these blighted times.

It would be unwise for us to risk communication again, unless either finds it absolutely necessary. Do not be alarmed by prolonged silence from here. An effort will be made.

My dear wife joins me in sending warmest felicitations to you and your family, and a prayer that we may all survive this terrible struggle. I sometimes fear the nation will be riven for years following a surrender — and if that word startles you, know that I do not employ it carelessly. The South is beaten. Shortages, dissent, wholesale army desertions all witness to the truth of the statement, though I might likely be hung if anyone but you read it.

We may succeed in prolonging matters a while yet, inflicting further grief on those directly and indirectly involved, but it is essentially a concluded matter. Your side has won. Now we can only extract a high blood price for that victory. A sad state of affairs.

My fondest hope is that whatever gulf exists after a surrender will never be so wide as to keep you and me and our respective families from bridging it once again.

Emotionally shattered by what he was reading, George gulped the beer he didn't want. Flashing images in his head brought back the fiery night in April '61. The ruined house. The charred and swollen bodies. The harm beyond hope of repair. The fear was crawling in him again. Some moments passed before he had the courage to complete the letter.

God preserve you and yours. We shall do our utmost for the person in question.

Yrs. affectionately, Stick

'An effort will be made.' Brett clasped the letter between her breasts. 'Oh, George, there it is, in Orry's own hand. An effort will be made!'

'Provided he can find Charles. He warns it will take a while.'

Her face fell. 'I don't know how I'll survive till we hear something.'

'If Orry can stand the risk, you can stand the wait,' George said, severe as a father chastising a thoughtless child. He had a premonition that it would be a very long time indeed before they heard anything. He prayed that if word did come, it would not be tragic.

95

George kissed his children after delivering a short lecture on how they must behave while he was gone. Then he embraced Constance, who struggled to contain tears. She presented him with a dried sprig of mountain laurel obviously pressed in a book. He kissed her once more, tenderly, by way of thanks. Then he slipped the sprig in his pocket, pulled on his talma, promised he would write soon, and went out to find transportation to Alexandria.

The day was gray and warm. A downpour started as the work train chugged to Long Bridge, which was wide enough to accommodate tracks and a parallel roadway for wagon and foot traffic. Pickets near a sign reading walk your horse waved at George on the rear platform of the caboose. He had chosen to ride there because the interior was stifling.

He touched fingers to his hat to return the greeting, then seized the handgrip and leaned into the rain to look ahead to green hills and the solid brick homes of the riverside town. Forsythia and daffodils, azaleas and apple blossoms colored the somber day. That was Virginia. That was the war. Memory showed him lurid images of Mexico and Manassas and the foreman's burning house. He was still glad to be going.

After searching nearly an hour, he located Colonel Daniel McCallum, Haupt's replacement, in the steamy O&A roundhouse. McCallum, a Scot with a fine reputation as a railway manager, had a fan-shaped beard of the kind common among senior officers. He also struck George as having a bad disposition. George's arrival — the interruption — didn't sit well.

'I've not a lot of time for you,' the colonel said, motioning George to follow. They left the busy roundhouse with its great cupola, a local landmark, walked between stacked rails, some of Hazard's, and entered one of the many temporary buildings scattered in the yards. McCallum slammed the door in a way that said much about his frame of mind.

Taking the only chair in the tiny office, he unrolled the pouch containing George's transfer orders and