Not wanting to offend the guest, George responded with care. 'I never felt I had a talent for soldiering, sir.' What he meant was a taste for it.
Baldy Smith snorted. 'What we're doing in Virginny isn't soldiering; it's cattle droving.'
To the abattoir? George thought; he still had nightmares about Bull Run. He smiled and shrugged. 'I went where I was asked to go.'
'You don't sound happy about it.' Directness was Thayer's style.
'I don't believe I should comment on that, sir.'
'That kind of answer qualifies you to be a general,' said another brigadier, a jovial Pennsylvanian named Winfield Hancock whom George was glad to have join the group. Presently they all sat down at a great horseshoe table for a huge meal centered around capon and prime steer beef. The whiskey and port flowed, and various dinner wines; by the time Thayer was introduced, George was ready to slide under the table. He couldn't hold back a belch. On his right, Fitz-John Porter cleared his throat and silently disapproved.
Thayer's voice was thin, but he spoke with passion. He stated a fact already known to those in the room: West Point was once again under attack. This time, however, the attack carried special danger because of the effort to fix blame on the Academy for the resignation of all the officers who had gone south. Thayer pleaded for each man to make a personal pledge to defend the school if, as he feared, Congress attempted to destroy it by removing its appropriation.
'I am cheered,' he said, 'to see so many of you serving the nation that educated you and gave you a proud profession. I know you have the stamina to stay the course. I was dismayed by many newspaper articles I read before the great battle in July, articles that said the struggle would be quickly concluded. Knowing our brother officers from the states in rebellion — their intelligence, their courage, their records, which remain as fine as yours except in one fatal respect — I would counter every one of those assertions with one of my own.'
No sound then except the gas hissing. The frail old man held every eye. Thick layers of cigar smoke gave the speaker and the scene a kind of infernal unreality.
'An assertion that you know as a principle and a truth. It requires three years to build an efficient army. Even then, when such an army is in place, it must endure great tribulation in order to win. War is not a Sabbath rest or a summer picnic. Those of you who campaigned in Mexico remember. Those of you who campaigned in the West remember. War extracts a mighty toll in human life and human sorrow. Be ever mindful of that. Be strong. Be patient. But be certain, too. You shall prevail.'
When he sat, the stamping and shouting were thunderous. They sang 'Benny Haven's, Oh!' and even George the Cynical had moist eyes by the last verse. Later, for Constance, he quoted as much of Thayer's speech as he could remember. The closing passage haunted him in the sleepless small hours of the night.
The great levee for Major General George Brinton McClellan took place as the year wore away in a continuing atmosphere of doubt and hidden struggle. Gossip flew; pronouncements abounded. The
Union could not afford to do without niter. Formation of the new Joint Congressional Committee on the Conduct of the War would be announced at any hour. McClellan would crush the Confederacy in the spring. Didn't he issue frequent statements to that effect? McCIellan's detractors said he had intrigued to have gouty old Scott removed so the post of general-in-chief would also be his.
The Executive Mansion shone with lights, hummed with conversation, resounded with the holiday airs played by a string ensemble as the privileged guests arrived. George promised to introduce Constance to his old classmate, but only after he had surveyed the territory from afar, so to speak.
McClellan looked hardly older than when he and George had boned for exams together. He had grown a dramatic auburn mustache but was otherwise much the same stocky, assured fellow George recalled from the class of '46. Everything about him, from his fine, bold nose to his wide shoulders, seemed to make a single statement. Here is strength; here is competence. He had returned to the army from the railroad business in Illinois, and his brilliant ascendancy made George feel more than slightly inferior.
Brilliant was the word, all right. An aura of celebrity surrounded the McClellans as they circulated in the crowd. Close after the general trotted two of his numerous European aides, the merry young French exiles the Comte de Paris and the Due de Chartres. Silly hostesses had renamed them Captain Parry and Captain Chatters.
It was McClellan to whom all the eavesdroppers listened when he and his wife engaged the President and Mrs. Lincoln in conversation. Since establishing himself in an H Street house in defiance of those who said he should live in camp, McClellan had left no doubt about which person, President or general-in-chief, was the more important. The town still talked of a November incident. One evening Lincoln and another of his secretaries, young John Hay, had gone to H Street on government business. The general wasn't home yet. An hour later he arrived. He went straight upstairs without seeing the visitors, was informed the President was waiting, and went to bed. Some said Lincoln was infuriated, but he tended to cover such emotions with a blend of Western modesty and good humor. Unlike McClellan, arrogance was not his style.
'Plenty of politicians here,' George said to Constance from the side of his mouth. 'There's Wade — he's to run the new committee. There's Thad Stevens.'
'His wig's crooked. It's always crooked.'
'Are you playing Isabel tonight?'
She whacked his braided sleeve with her fan. 'You're horrid.'
'On the subject of horrid — I see the lady herself. And my brother.'
Stanley and Isabel had not as yet noticed George and Constance. All their attention was given to Wade, then to Cameron, who showed up alone and was circulating with an air Stanley could only characterize as conspiratorial. How had he gotten an invitation? Cameron saw them but avoided them. What did that signify?
Stanton spoke tete-a-tete with Wade, not even acknowledging the presence of his client. Stanley felt less like a Judas; others were selling, too, it appeared. But what? To whom? For what purpose? He felt like an ignorant child who knew he was ignorant.
'I'll bet Stanton wants Simon's job,' Isabel said behind her unfolded fan. 'That would explain why you saw him skulking around Wade's office and why he failed to defend or even take responsibility for the original report.'
The thought, wholly new, left Stanley dumbfounded.
'Close your mouth. You look like a cretin.'
He obeyed, then said, 'My dear, you constantly astound me. I think you may be right.'
She drew him to a more private corner. 'Let's suppose I am. What sort of man is Stanton?'
'Another Ohioan. Brilliant lawyer. Strong abolitionist.' Stanley's eyes darted here and there. He bent close. 'Willful, they say. Devious, too. Very much to be feared.'
She seized his arm. 'Their conversation's over. You must speak to Wade. Try to find out where you stand.'
'Isabel, I can't simply walk up to him and ask —'
'We will go greet him. Both of us. Now.'
There was no argument. Her hand clawed shut on his and she pulled. By the time they reached Ben Wade, Stanley feared his bladder might let go. Isabel smiled in her best imitation of a stage coquette. 'How delightful to see you again, Senator. Where is your charming wife?'
'Here somewhere. Must find her.'
'I trust all's going well with the new committee we hear so much about?'
Isabel's question was an irresistible prompt. 'Yes indeed. We'll soon put the war effort on a more solid footing. A clearer course.'
The slap at Lincoln was obvious, so she said quickly: 'A purpose I support, as does my husband.'
'Oh, yes.' Wade smiled; Stanley felt there was contempt in it, meant for him. 'Your husband's loyalty and —' the slightest pause to heighten effect '— devoted service are known to many of those on the committee. We trust your cooperative spirit will continue to prevail, Stanley.'
'Most definitely, Senator.'
'Good news. Good evening.'
As Wade strode off, Stanley almost fainted. He had survived the purge. His vision blurred. He saw the
