Love and War

He moved past sentries on duty to protect the important government officials headquartered here; one was General Scott. Entering the building was like diving under the sea on a sunny day. Going up the gloomy iron stairs, he noticed the bad state of the woodwork and paint peeling everywhere.

Civilians with portfolios or rolled-up plans packed the benches in the second-floor corridor. Clerks and uniformed men traveled from doorway to doorway on mysterious errands. George stopped a captain and was directed through another door into a stone-floored office of appalling disorder. At rows of desks, other clerks wrote or shuffled papers. Two lieutenants argued over a clay model of a cannon.

George and Wotherspoon had found the flaw in the casting process, and organization of the bank was proceeding smoothly, so he had a clear conscience about this visit — though at the moment he had a wild urge to flee.

A middle-aged officer approached, radiating importance. 'Hazard?' George said yes. 'The chief of Ordnance is not here as yet. I am Captain Maynadier. You may sit and wait — there, next to Colonel Ripley's desk. I regret I have no time to chat. I have been in this department fifteen years and have never once caught up with my paperwork. Paper is the curse of Washington.'

He waddled off and went exploring among several mountains of it landscaping his desk. Someone had told George that Maynadier was an Academy man. Though all West Point graduates were supposed to be brothers, friends, George would be happy to make an exception.

He took a chair. After twenty minutes, he heard shouting in the hall.

'Colonel Ripley!'

'If you'll only give me a moment —'

'May I show you this —?'

'Han't got time.'

The irascible voice preceded an equally irascible lieutenant colonel, a sharp-featured old fellow from Connecticut, Academy class of '14. The chief of the Ordnance Department carried his official burdens and his sixty- six years with notable displeasure.

'Hazard, is it?' he barked as George rose. 'Han't got much time for you, either. Do you want the job or not? Carries the rank of captain till we can get you a brevet. All my officers need brevets. Cameron wants you in here, so I guess it's cut and dried if you say yes.'

Hat and dress gauntlets were slapped on the desk during the foregoing. Ripley's verbal tantrum would have been funny to anyone not connected with the department — or thinking of being connected. A distinct silence — fear? — had descended on the high-ceilinged room the moment Ripley entered.

'Sit down, sit down,' the colonel said. 'The Hazard works has a contract from this department, don't it?'

'Yes, sir. We'll meet it on schedule.'

'Good. Better than a lot of our suppliers can say. Well, ask me questions. Talk. We're due in the park in half an hour. The secretary wants to see you, and since he's the one who put me in this job two months ago, I reckon we'll go.'

'I do have one important question, Colonel Ripley. You know I'm an ironmaker by trade. How would that help me fit in here? What would I do if I worked for you?'

'Supervise artillery contracts, for one. You also run a huge manufactory, which I presume takes organizational skill. We can use it. Look at the mess I inherited,' he cried with a sweeping gesture. Maynadier, whose desk was adjoining, renewed his attack on the paper peaks with a haste approaching frenzy.

'I'd welcome your presence, Hazard — long as you don't bother me with newfangled proposals. Han't got any time for those. Tested weapons are the best weapons.'

Another Stanley. Foursquare against change. That was a definite negative. George began to understand why the colonel's critics called him Ripley Van Winkle.

They discussed pay and how soon he could report — details he considered secondary. He was in a mood as sour as Ripley's when the colonel consulted a pocket watch and proclaimed them two minutes late to meet Cameron.

Out they dashed through the barricades of bodies. Several contract seekers followed Ripley downstairs, shrill as gulls chasing a fishing boat. One man, yelling about his 'remarkable centrifugal gun' that would hurl projectiles 'with the fury of a slingshot,' knocked George's hat off with brandished plans.

'Inventors,' Ripley fumed as he crossed the avenue. 'Ought to ship every last one back to the madhouses they came from —'

Another innovation no doubt infuriating to the colonel floated above the trees of President's Park. Guy ropes secured its empty observation basket to the ground. George recognized Enterprise, the balloon featured in last month's illustrated papers. It had been exhibited in this same location not many days ago, and Lincoln was said to have been interested in its potential for aerial observation of enemy troops.

The balloon fascinated George because he had seen only one other, at a Bethlehem fair. Enterprise was made of colorful gored sections of pongee, the whole filled with hydrogen. Farther back in the trees, beyond the crowd of mothers, children, government officials, and a few blacks, he saw the wagon with wooden tanks in which sulphuric acid and iron filings combined to produce the gas.

Ripley paraded through the crowd in a manner that said he was a person of authority. They found Simon Cameron talking with a thirtyish fellow in a long linen coat. Before introductions could be finished, the young man pumped George's hand.

'Dr. Thaddeus Sobieski Constantine Lowe, sir. An honor to meet you! Though I'm from New Hampshire, I know your name and high standing in the world of industry. May I describe my plan for an aerial spy corps? I hope interested citizens will support it so the commanding general will be persuaded —'

'General Scott will give the scheme due consideration,' Cameron broke in. 'You needn't arrange any more exhibitions of this kind.' Behind the smile of the old pol lay a hint that they wouldn't be tolerated on government land, either. 'If you will excuse me, Doctor, I have business to discuss with our visitor.'

And he drew George away as if they had always been political partners, not opponents. Ripley dogged them as they strolled.

'Have a good chat with the colonel, George?'

'I did, Mr. Secretary.'

'Simon. We're old friends. Look here — I know you and Stanley don't always get along. But this is wartime. We have to set personal matters to one side. I never think of the past. Who worked and voted against me back home and who didn't —' After that sly dig, Cameron began to preach. 'Ripley urgently needs a man for artillery procurement. Someone who understands ironmakers, who talks their language —'

He faced George, squinting against the hot July light. 'Unless we wish to see this nation fail, we must all shoulder part of the burden of preserving it.'

Don't spout homilies at me, you damned crook, George thought. At the same time, curiously, he responded to the appeal. The words were true, even if the man wasn't.

Ripley harrumphed, intruding. 'Well, Hazard? Any decision?'

'You've been very forthcoming with practical information about the job, sir. But I'd like the rest of the day to consider everything.'

'Only fair,' Cameron agreed. 'I look forward to hearing from you, George. I know your decision will be good news.' Once again he clapped the visitor on the shoulder, then rushed off.

The fact was, George had already decided. He would come to Washington, but he would bring a load of reservations as baggage. He didn't feel noble, merely foolish and, consequently, a little depressed.

Ripley whirled at the sound of a commotion — Dr. Lowe chasing some urchins from beneath the bobbing balloon basket. 'Han't got time for such nonsense in wartime,' Ripley complained as they left President's Park. Whether he meant balloons or children, George didn't bother to ask.

Later that day, George hired a horse and rode across the Potomac, following directions Brett had provided. He couldn't find Captain Farmer's pick-and-shovel company. Since business required that he take a 7:00 p.m. train, he reluctantly turned back. All around the fortifications he saw fields of tents and men drilling. It reminded him of Mexico, with one difference: the soldiers obliquing or clumsily marching to the rear were so young.