Love and War

Even with his cheek pressed to the camp bed, he could see the tent entrance. Open. A silhouette momentarily blocked the glow of a guardpost lantern. He heard the intruder breathing.

He's after the sword.

It lay in its oiled-paper wrapping on top of the small trunk at the foot of the bed. Should have found a safer place. He prepared himself as best he could, fear edging into him. It was a hard position from which to rise suddenly, but he did it, bolting up from the waist. As he gained his feet he let out a growl he hoped would confuse and frighten the thief.

Instead, it woke Ambrose. He uttered a wild yell as Charles lunged at the shadow-man who was picking up the sword. 'Give me that, damn you.'

The thief drove an elbow into Charles's face. Blood spurted from his left nostril. He staggered, and the thief dove into the street of neatly spaced tents and raced left, away from the picket post where the lantern shone. Bleeding and swearing, Charles went after him.

He could pick out a few details of the thief's appearance. He was heavy and wore white gaiters. One of Rob Wheat's Tigers, by God. Serbakovsky's warning came to mind. That evening he dined with the prince, Charles had been feeling too good to detect or even worry about the presence of someone outside, someone who must have spied on the party through the netting, seen the saber —

His arms and legs pumped. Blood trickled down his upper lip; he spat it away. Stones and burrs hurt his bare feet, but he kept gaining. The thief looked back, his face a round blur. Charles heard Ambrose hollering just as he hurled himself forward, his feet leaving the ground a second before his hands caught the waist of the thief's blue- and-white sultan's bloomers.

The man screamed an obscenity; both fell. Charles landed on the back of the man's legs, badly jarred. The thief dropped the sword and struggled to turn beneath Charles and get free, kicking all the while. A gaitered boot knocked Charles's head back. The Tiger jumped up.

Dazed, Charles grabbed the man's left leg and pulled him down again — along with the huge bowie knife he had yanked from a belt sheath. Charles whipped his head aside to avoid a cut that would have sliced away most of one cheek.

The Tiger pushed Charles over. His head hit a rock. 'Corporal of the guard! Corporal of the guard!' Ambrose was bellowing. Charles could well be dead before help arrived; he had gotten a look at the thief, so it would be safer for the man to leave a corpse.

He dropped on Charles's chest with both knees. He had a round face, pug nose, curly mustachios. He smelled of onions and dirt. 'Fuckin' Carolina fop,' he grunted, holding the bowie with both hands and forcing the point down toward Charles's throat.

Frantic, Charles locked his hands under the thief's wrist and pushed up — pushed. God, the bastard was strong. He shifted a knee into Charles's groin and put weight on it. Blinded by sweat and the pain, Charles almost couldn't see the knife blade as it dipped to within three inches of his chin.

Two inches.

One —

'Jesus,' Charles moaned, tears in his eyes because of the knee crushing his balls. One more moment and his throat would be slashed. He gambled he could hold the thief's wrist with one hand, thrust the other upward —

His left hand moved. The knife edged down. Charles found the thief's hair and pulled. The man shrieked, his attack thrown off. Slippery fingers released the bowie. Falling, it raked Charles's left ribs lightly. As the thief tried to stand, Charles grabbed the knife and buried three inches of it in a thigh.

The Tiger screamed louder. He toppled over and crashed in the weeds some yards beyond the last tent, the knife sticking from his fine striped pantaloons.

'You all right, Captain Main?'

Rising, Charles nodded to the noncom, first to reach him; other men poured down the dark tent street and surrounded him. The thief moaned and thrashed in the weeds.

'Take him to the surgeons to have that leg tended. Make sure someone fastens a ball and chain on his other ankle so he's around when his regiment court-martials him.'

The noncom asked, 'What did he do, sir?'

Charles wiped bipod from his nose with his bare wrist. 'Tried to steal my dress sword.' No honor code among these recruits, he thought with bitterness. Maybe I'm a fool, hoping for a rule-book war. He picked up the scabbarded blade from where it had fallen and trudged away.

Wide awake and excited, Ambrose wanted to discuss the incident. Charles held a scrap of rag to his nose until the bleeding stopped, then insisted they turn in. He was spent. Barely asleep, he bolted up again.

'What in the name of God —'

The nature of the noise registered. Men, right outside, singing 'Camptown Races' loudly enough for Richmond to hear it.

'They're serenading you, Charlie,' Ambrose whispered. 'Your own boys. If you don't go out and listen, they'll be insulted.'

Groggy and skeptical, Charles pushed the tent flap aside, then shivered with an unexpected emotional reaction to the tribute. A wind had sprung up, blowing from the direction of the seacoast. The mist was gone and the moon was visible; so were faces he recognized. The men must have heard of the thief's capture. They were honoring him in a traditional way.

Some were honoring him, he amended; he counted eleven.

Ambrose danced up and down like a boy, breaking out his flute to accompany the singers. Over his shoulder, Charles said, 'They'll expect the usual reward for a serenade. Haul out our private stock of whiskey, will you?'

'Glad to, Charlie. Yes, indeed.'

The men liked him for a change. While it lasted, he might as well enjoy it.

23

On July 1, a Monday, George arrived in Washington. He checked into his hotel, then took a hack to an area of huge homes set far apart on large lots. The driver pointed out the residence the Little Giant had occupied for such a short time. Stephen Douglas had died in June, strongly supporting the President he had opposed as a candidate last year.

Housing was scarce in Washington. Stanley and Isabel had been fortunate to hear of an ailing widow no longer able to keep up her home. She packed off to live with a relative, and Stanley signed a year-long lease. He had provided this information and the address in a recent note so stiffly worded that George felt sure Cameron had insisted Stanley write it for purposes of departmental harmony. Why had the old bandit meddled? George thought irritably. The note had forced this response — a duty call with all the charm of a tumbril ride in the French Revolution.

'Mighty fine place,' the hackman called as they drove up. 'Mighty fine' hardly covered it. Stanley's home, like those nearby, was a mansion.

A butler informed him that Mr. and Mrs. Hazard were in New England. The servant had a snide and condescending manner. Maybe Isabel gives them demonstrations, George thought with cheerful spleen.

Inside, he spied unopened packing crates. Evidently they had just moved in. George left his card and jumped in the hack again, smiling. No need to call a second time; not this trip.

He ate alone in the hotel dining room, where he overhead some speculative talk about old General Patterson, said to be ready to march from Harpers Ferry into the Shenandoah. In his room, George tried to read the latest Scientific American but couldn't concentrate. He felt nervous about the interviews scheduled for next morning.

At half past nine, he arrived at the five-story Winder Building on the corner of Seventeenth Street across from President's Park. The original brick had been brightened up by a coat of plaster and an ironwork balcony on the second floor. George studied this and found it wanting in style. He couldn't manufacture every piece of iron in America, but he often wished he could.