'Yes, I'm sure Ripley makes you feel that way.' Soothingly, she caressed his face; the day had produced a rough stubble below the waxed points of his mustache. 'Do you remember Corpus Christi, when we met? You said you wished the steamer for Mexico would leave without you —'
'That's right. I wanted to stay and court you. I wanted it more than anything.'
'But you boarded with the others and sailed away.'
'I had some sense of purpose then. A hope of accomplishing something. Now I'm just a party to bungling that may cost thousands of lives.'
'Perhaps if Cameron's forced to resign, things will improve.' 'In Washington? It's a morass of chicanery, stupidity, witless paper shuffling — but self-preservation has been raised to a high art. A few faces may change, nothing more.' 'Give it a little longer. I think it's your duty. War is never easy on anyone. I learned that lying awake every night fearing for your safety in Mexico.' She kissed him, the barest tender touch of mouth and mouth.
Some of his strain dissipated, leaving a face that was almost a boy's despite the markings of the years.
'What would I do without you, Constance? I'd never survive.' 'Yes, you would. You're strong. But I'm glad you need me.' He clasped her close. 'More than ever. All right, I'll stay a while longer. But you must promise to hire a good lawyer if I break down and murder Ripley.'
On Monday, December 16, Britain was in mourning for the Queen's husband.
News of Albert's death the preceding Saturday had not yet crossed the Atlantic, but certain pieces of diplomatic correspondence, authored at Windsor Castle shortly before the prince consort's passing, had. Though not overly belligerent in tone, Albert continued to press for release of the Confederate commissioners.
Stanley knew it was going to happen, and soon, although not for any of the high-flown, moralistic reasons that would be handed out as sops to the press and the public. The government had to capitulate for two reasons: Great Britain was a major supplier of niter for American gunpowder, but she was currently withholding all shipments. Further, a second war couldn't be risked, especially when the latest diplomatic mail said the British were hastily armoring some of their fighting ships. The smoothbore guns placed to defend American harbors would be useless against an armored fleet.
December became a nexus of hidden but genuine desperations for the government. They threatened Stanley's little manufacturing empire, which had increased his net worth fifty percent in less than six months. Mounting panic drove him to extreme measures. Late at night, he jimmied drawers of certain desks and removed confidential memoranda long enough to read them and copy key phrases. He had frequent meetings with a man from Wade's staff in parks or unsavory saloons below the canal; at the meetings he turned over large amounts of information, without actually knowing whether his actions would help his cause. He was gambling that they would. He was laying all his bets on a single probability, said by some to be certainty: Cameron's fall.
Even Lincoln was threatened by the militancy of Wade and his crew. The new congressional committee was to be announced soon. Dominated by the true believers among the Republicans, it would curb the President's independence and run the war the way the radicals wanted it run.
For all these reasons, the atmosphere in the War Department had grown tense. So, on that Monday morning, having just received another bad jolt, Stanley thankfully absented himself. He hurried through a light snowfall to 352 Pennsylvania, where, above a bank and an apothecary's, three floors housed the city's and the nation's premier portrait studio, Brady's Photographic Gallery of Art. Stanley's watch showed he was nearly a half hour late for the sitting.
On Brady's first floor, a dapper receptionist sat among images of the great framed in gold or black walnut. Fenimore Cooper peered from a fading daguerreotype; rich Corcoran had been photographed life-size and artistically colored with crayon, a popular technique; and Brady still kept a hot-eyed John Calhoun on display.
The receptionist said Isabel and the twins were already in the studio. 'Thank you,' Stanley gasped as he rushed up the stairs, quickly short of breath because of his increasing weight. On the next floor he passed craftsmen decorating photographs with India ink, pastels, or the crayons Isabel had chosen for the family portrait. Before he reached the top floor, he heard his sons quarreling.
The studio was a spacious room dominated by skylights. Isabel greeted him by snapping, 'The appointment was for noon.'
'Departmental business kept me. There's a war in progress, you know.' He sounded even nastier than his wife, which startled her.
'Mr. Brady, my apologies. Laban, Levi — stop that instantly.' Stanley swept off his tall, snow-soaked hat and smacked one twin, then the other. The strapping adolescents froze, stunned by their father's uncharacteristic outburst.
'Delays are to be expected of someone in your position,' Brady said smoothly. 'No harm done.' He hadn't become successful and prosperous by insulting important clients. He was a slender, bearded man nearing forty, expensively outfitted in a black coat, smart gray doeskin trousers, a sparkling shirt, and a black silk cravat that flowed down over a matching doeskin vest. He wore spectacles.
With crisp gestures, Brady signaled a young assistant, who repositioned the big gold clock against the red drapery backdrop. The clock face bore the name Brady, as did almost everything else in his business, including his published prints and his field wagons, one of which Stanley had seen overturned along the Bull Run retreat route.
'The light's marginal today,' Brady observed. 'I don't like to make portraits when there is no sun. The exposures are too long. Since this is a portrait for Christmas, however, we shall try. Chad?' He snapped his fingers, gestured. 'To the left slightly.' The assistant jumped to move the tripod bearing a white reflector board.
Brady cocked his head and studied the truculent twin sons of Mr. and Mrs. Hazard. 'I believe I want the parents seated and the boys behind. They are active young fellows. We shall have to clamp their heads with the immobilizers.'
Laban started to protest, but a growl from Stanley cut it short. The sitting lasted three-quarters of an hour. Brady repeatedly dove under the black hood or whispered instructions to the assistant, who slammed the huge plates into the camera with practiced haste. At the end, Brady thanked them and suggested they speak to the receptionist about delivery of the portrait. Then he hurried out. 'Evidently we're not important enough to see him more than once,' Isabel complained as they left.
'Oh, for God's sake, can't you ever worry about anything except your status?'
More in surprise than anger, she said, 'Stanley, you're in a perfectly vile temper this morning. Why?'
'Something terrible's happened. Let's send the boys home in a hack, and I'll explain over some food at Willard's.'
The sole with almonds was splendidly prepared, but Stanley had no appetite for anything but pouring out his anxiety. 'I managed to get hold of a draft copy of Simon's annual report on departmental activities. There's a section they say Stanton drafted. It states that the government has the right and perhaps the obligation to issue firearms to contrabands and send them to fight their former masters.'
'Simon proposes to arm runaway slaves? That's bizarre. Who's going to believe the old thief has suddenly turned into a moral crusader?'
'He must think someone will believe it.'
'He's lost his mind.'
Stanley eyed the tables around them; no one was paying attention. He leaned toward his wife and lowered his voice. 'Here's the grisly part. The entire report has gone to the government printer — but not to Lincoln.'
'Does the President usually review such reports?'
'Review them and approve them for publication, yes.'
'Then why —?'
'Because Simon knows the President would reject this one. Remember how he overturned Fremont's emancipation order? Simon's desperate to get his statement into print. Don't you see, Isabel? He's sinking, and he thinks the radicals are the only ones who can throw him a line. I don't think they'll do it, for the very reason you sensed. Simon's ploy is transparent.'
'You've been helping Wade — won't that save you if Cameron goes down?'
He pounded a fist into his other palm. 'I don't know!'
She ignored the outburst and pondered. In a few moments, she murmured, 'You're probably right about Simon's motive and the reason he doesn't want Lincoln to see the report until it's printed. Whatever happens, don't
