smoothed the papers under rough, big-knuckled hands. He flipped to the second page, the third — too rapidly to be reading. It took no intelligence for George to realize he was unwelcome.
Understandable enough, he supposed; the papers included a letter of recommendation from Haupt. In Washington, it was said that McCallum had intrigued against George's friend, done his utmost to ingratiate himself with Stanton and turn opinion against Haupt so that McCallum would eventually inherit command of the department.
McCallum put the papers in the pouch and handed it back with a slashing motion of his forearm. 'You have no practical experience in bridge repair or rail construction, Major. So far as I can determine, your prime qualification for the Construction Corps seems to be your friendship with my predecessor.'
George clenched his hand around the pouch, ready to punch the colonel's face. McCallum wrinkled his nose and peered out a small, filthy window. A spring shower was splattering a nearby stack of rails.
Finally he deigned to return his attention to the man standing before him. 'General Grant wants the Orange and Alexandria kept open, in good repair, all the way down to Culpeper, his base camp for the spring offensive. It's a tall order because of the Confederate partisans who operate along much of the right of way. The trestle at Bull Run has been rebuilt seven times. What I am saying is, we have not a spare moment for instructing beginners.'
'I can swing a pick, Colonel. I can dig with a shovel or pound a spike. No training required.' The man offended George because his dislike of Haupt, and therefore Haupt's friends, was not hidden. George wanted no part of such politicking. He wanted to work, and he didn't give a damn if he had to give offense to secure the place to which his orders entitled him.
The rain drummed. A whistle blew, bells rang. McCallum's silence conveyed increasing belligerence. All at once George realized he might be holding a trump or two.
'I know you need officers in the Construction Corps, Colonel. A lot of white men won't command contrabands. I will.'
McCallum's sour mouth twitched. 'A worthy suggestion, but one our table of organization won't allow, I regret to say. The basic unit of the corps is a ten-man squad. Two such squads are led by one officer. A first lieutenant.' The twitch became a smirk. 'You are too well educated, laddie —'
George recognized a jibe at the Academy when he heard one. This time he really had to fight the impulse to hit the old bastard.
'— too qualified, if you see what I mean. Have you considered applying for staff duty with General Grant?'
George showed his highest card. 'I attended West Point with Sam Grant. I campaigned with him from Vera Cruz to Mexico City. Maybe I should apply to him to straighten out this mess.' He shook the pouch. 'I was granted a transfer to the military railroads, and now I find I'm refused.'
In seconds, McCallum turned gray as the weather. 'Nae, nae — there's no need to involve higher-ups in this. No problem's insurmountable. The rules can be bent a wee bit. We can find you a place —'
Seeing George mollified, the older man studied him in a sly way. 'If you are indeed willing to lead colored men.'
'That's what I said, Colonel. I am.'
Twenty-four hours later, in the mustering area, George met his two squads and began to question the certainty with which he had spoken. Tense, he inspected the Negroes while they inspected him. If his scrutiny reflected interest and curiosity, theirs was suspicious. In a few cases, hostile.
They were no more varied, physically, than any randomly gathered group of men except, George quickly observed, in one way: all but one of the blacks were taller than George.
He had dressed for this meeting with special care, though the effect was the opposite. His outfit consisted of old corduroy trousers, non-regulation, stuffed into muddy boots, and a short fatigue jacket of summer-weight linen. He wore no insignia except a turreted-castle-and-wreath device pinned at a careless angle on the stubby collar of the jacket. The silver metal of the device showed he was an officer, but that was all.
At that, he looked better than his men, most of whom were dressed for duty, not show. Their pants were as assorted as their faces, but all had regulation army pullover work shirts without cuffs. At the long-vanished moment of manufacture, the cotton flannel shirts had been white. Three men wore shoes whose uppers had separated front the soles. Products of Stanley's factory, perhaps?
Preparing to address the men, George clasped his hands behind his back and unconsciously raised on tiptoes. Someone caught that and chuckled. George spoke at once, loudly.
'My name is Hazard. I have just transferred to the Construction Corps. Henceforward, you men will be working for me.'
'No, sir,' said the one Negro shorter than George, a dusky mite with wrists no thicker than saplings. 'I'm takin' orders from you, but I'm workin' for me.'
The quickness amused George, but he felt he shouldn't show it. 'Let me see if I understand. Are you saying you're a free man, therefore this duty is your choice?'
The dusky man grinned. 'You're pretty smart — for a white boss.'
Laughter. George couldn't help joining in. His tension broke. These men would be all right.
96
Burdetta Halloran had carried her investigation as far as she could. Now she must involve the authorities. But to whom should she give her information?
The question stayed with her, unanswered, during the frightening raid conducted by two bodies of Union horse, led by Brigadier Judson Kilpatrick and Colonel Ulric Dahlgren, son of the Yankee admiral of the same name. Kilpatrick's men had ridden to within two and a half miles of Capitol Square before home guards under Bob Lee's boy Custis drove them back, with assistance from Wade Hampton.
The second attacking force, five hundred horse commanded by Dahlgren, approached Richmond through Goochland County. After Dahlgren died from enemy fire, a thirteen-year-old boy found orders and a memorandum book on the body. The documents, in Dahlgren's handwriting, outlined the purposes of the raid.
The Confederate capital, which had reeled with fright at the approach of the cavalry, began reeling with rage the moment the contents of Dahlgren's papers were disclosed. The liars in Washington immediately claimed every word a forgery.
During the emergency, there was little outward change in the life of the auburn-haired widow. Burdetta Halloran continued to wage her daily war with escalating prices and the riffraff swarming on the streets and the pervasive certainty that the armies of U.S. Grant would strike at the Confederacy with the onset of warm weather.
Most of all, Mrs. Halloran struggled with the question of greatest emotional importance to her. How to set retribution in motion? If she waited too long and Richmond came under siege, government officials might be too busy to listen to her. The quarry might escape.
She was still without an answer when a friend boasted that she had been invited to one of the increasingly rare levees at the White House. Pleading, Mrs. Halloran arranged an invitation for herself. She had by this time rejected the idea of going to the most logical person, old Winder.
She did so for several reasons. He was vile-tempered, with a reputation for being contemptuous of women. His staff consisted mostly of illiterate former criminals. And he acted so harshly and precipitously in many cases that he had a long record of overturned arrests and thwarted prosecutions. Gossip said he wouldn't last another three months. Mrs. Halloran wanted to deal with some official who could handle her information properly.
