Love and War

'Your report's inconclusive. Unsatisfactory.'

The operative seized the lawyer's frail wrist. 'I did the job. I want the pay.'

Dills's strategy to save some money failed. He surrendered the bank draft from inside his jacket. The operative gave it a moment's suspicious scrutiny to embarrass him, then pocketed it, gulped the rest of his beer, and departed, leaving Dills between two tables of noisy whores, not far from the magnificent statue of George Washington.

Had Starkwether's son deserted to the enemy after Baker discharged him? If he had been killed, was it the result of a military mission or something more sinister? Was the body in the river actually Bent's? He had to know. If his periodic reports stopped, so would the stipend. He thumped his fist on the table. 'What happened?'

Two of the sluts to his right heard the loud expression of turmoil and made remarks. Dills composed himself. The trail had run out. Starkwether's son was dead, merely another casualty of the long, distasteful, and ultimately purposeless war.

On reflection, the lawyer decided that an inconclusive report was better than none at all. Was valuable, in fact, if interpreted correctly. Since it said nothing to the contrary, it allowed him to continue writing the periodic memoranda, confidently asserting that Bent was still alive. It permitted him to continue to generate income indefinitely with those little pieces of paper — a huge return on a minuscule investment.

Less upset, he relaxed in the sunshine, ignored the odors of smoke and cheap perfume, and ordered a second glass of lemonade.

137

They buried Clarissa Gault Main in the half-acre of fenced ground that had received Mont Royal's dead, white and black, for three generations. Jane cried longest and loudest of any of the small band of mourners. She had developed a great affection for the gentle little woman whose aging mind had long ago freed her of ordinary human burdens. Jane had always taken special pains to see to Clarissa's needs, as she would those of a child. Aunt Belle Nin had once told her that for many people the process of growing old was one of reversal, a return to the state of the child, who needed a special kind of care, patience, love.

Andy stood at Jane's side and wept with her. Brett and Madeline were more controlled in their grief. Their greatest shock and emotional catharsis had come immediately after Billy escorted them up the lane, when Madeline saw that Orry's home was gone, and they learned about Clarissa.

Cooper showed the least emotion. He felt it his duty to remain steady, an example in a difficult time. Before the burial, he read verses from the New Testament — Christ's dialogue with Nicodemus on everlasting life from the gospel of John. Following the reading, Andy and Billy lowered the coffin into the ground, and each mourner tossed in a handful of sandy soil. For the closing prayer Cooper deferred to Andy, who praised Clarissa as a kind and generous woman, and movingly commended her to God's care.

A moment of silence followed the murmured amens. Then Andy said, 'I'll finish the rest. You all needn't stay.' Billy put his arm around Brett and walked out through the gate in the badly rusted fence. Wrought iron, he noted. Hazard's iron would have lasted longer. He was momentarily embarrassed by the thought.

Cooper and the others trudged after the young couple. Suddenly Brett stopped, gazing through the live oaks to the black ash heaps where the house had stood. Tears came again, but only briefly. She shook her head and turned to Billy.

'Mother's passing just now — it's a kind of watershed, isn't it? The end of something. That house, this plantation — it never was quite what it seemed to be. But whatever it seemed to be is gone forever.'

Madeline overheard and nodded melancholy agreement. It was Cooper who replied, quietly but with a fervor surprising to his younger sister.

'We have let the worst go, but we'll rebuild the best. And fight for it with every breath.'

Who is he? Brett asked herself in wonderment. I hardly know him. The old Cooper wouldn't have said such a thing. I am not the only one the war changed.

Three days later, following the arrival of a soiled letter misdelivered to the nearest neighbor, Charles reappeared in the lane riding his mule. Brett ran to greet and embrace him. He pressed his bearded cheek against hers, but it was perfunctory. She found him sullen and withdrawn; alarmingly so. When she tried to ask him about his experiences with Hampton's cavalry, he brushed the questions aside with terse, empty answers.

Before the evening meal, Madeline found an opportunity to speak to him. 'How is Augusta Barclay?'

'I don't know. I haven't seen her in some time.'

'Is she still in Fredericksburg?'

'I hope so. I'm going there in a few days to find out.'

After dark, he and Cooper strolled the riverbank near the site of the ruined dock, at Charles's request. Before they got down to their talk, Cooper reported a piece of news.

'We've received specific information about Orry. It came day before yesterday, in a letter from General Pickett, much delayed. Orry's body was not put in a mass grave. It was shipped south together with a number of others when it became possible to locate enough draft horses to portage the coffins around a break in some rail line below Petersburg.'

'The Weldon,' Charles said with a nod.

'That took place many weeks ago. Unfortunately, there was an accident.'

'What kind of accident?' Cooper told him. 'Jesus.' Charles shook his head. 'Jesus Christ.'

They walked on in silence for five minutes. Charles collected himself and informed his cousin that he wanted to leave for Virginia as soon as he felt those on the plantation were safe from danger.

'Oh, we're safe enough,' Cooper said with an empty laugh. 'Starving, perhaps, but safe. May I ask what takes you back to Virginia?'

'Something personal.'

How closed and somber he's become, Cooper thought. 'Will you be returning here?'

'I hope not. The trip involves a lady.'

'Charles — I had no idea — that's wonderful. Who is she?'

'I'd rather not discuss it, if you don't mind.'

Mystified and a little hurt by the rebuff from the cold stranger Charles had become, Cooper bobbed his head to signal acceptance, then fell silent.

It was their season for callers, it seemed. The following Monday, as Charles prepared to leave, Wade Hampton arrived on horseback. He was bound for Charleston but stopped off because he had heard of the burning of Mont Royal and Clarissa's death. Though never close, the Hampton and Main families had known each other for three generations. Most of the great planters of the piedmont and low country had at least a nodding acquaintance, but in this case it was Charles who had strengthened the ties.

Besides visiting Clarissa's grave alone and expressing his sympathy to the family, he had another reason for calling, he said. He hoped to hear something about one of his best scouts. To his surprise, they met face-to-face. Hampton was visibly appalled to find Charles in such a scruffy state, and so dour.

No longer in uniform and grayer than Charles remembered, Hampton wore a holstered side arm beneath his coat. His favorite, Charles observed. The revolver with ivory handle grips.

Because of his high military rank, Hampton had been denied the amnesty given the majority of Confederate soldiers after the surrender. The general carried this burden openly. Bitterness was particularly apparent when he stalked all around the rubble that had once been the great house.

'As bad as Millwood,' he said, shaking his head. 'We should take a photograph and mail it to Grant. Perhaps it might teach him the real meaning of what he calls 'enlightened war.''

Later, in the hot May dusk, the men sat on crates and small casks on the grass in front of the pine house; it