machines of Lashbrook's cutting, sewing, spewing bootees that piled up in hills, then foothills, then mighty mountains washed with gold light.
He pulled himself from the delicious reverie, prideful as a boy who has hooked a big fish. 'Isabel, I think I may get drunk tonight. With or without your permission.'
The inevitable meeting of the brothers and their wives took place a few minutes later, near the glittering glass punch bowls. Greetings were polite on both sides, but nothing more; George found it hard to put feeling into a wish that Stanley and Isabel would enjoy a fine Christmas.
'Met our young Napoleon yet?' Stanley slurred the question; he was consuming rum punch rapidly, George noticed.
'Haven't spoken to him so far this evening, but I will. I know him from Mexico and West Point.'
'Oh, you do?' Isabel's face briefly suggested she had lost a point in some game.
'What's he like? Personally, I mean,' Stanley asked. 'I gather he has a fine pedigree. But he's a Democrat. Soft on slavery, they say. Odd choice for the President to make, don't you think?'
'Why? Aren't politics supposed to be set aside during a crisis?'
Isabel sniffed. 'If you believe that, you're naive, George.'
He saw pink rising in his wife's cheeks. He picked up her hand and curled her arm around his; gradually her hand unclenched. 'To answer your question, then — McClellan's extremely bright. Graduated second in our class. He was brevetted three times in Mexico for gallantry. Billy told me the troops love him. They cheer when he rides by. We needed a man the rank and file would trust, and I'd say we have one. Strikes me the President made an intelligent choice, not a political one.' 'The President couldn't have said it better himself.' Isabel looked ready to sink into the floor at the sight of the speaker behind George. Lincoln's long arm lifted; his hand came to rest on George's shoulder. 'How are you, Major Hazard? Is this attractive lady your wife? You must introduce me.'
'With pleasure, Mr. President.' George presented Constance, then asked whether Lincoln knew his brother and Isabel. The tall man with the scarecrow look politely said yes, he believed they had met, but George got an impression that Lincoln had not found the meeting memorable in a positive way. Isabel caught that, too. It clearly irked her.
Constance was properly deferential to the Chief Executive but relaxed, not grimacing or fidgeting with her lace gloves as Isabel was. 'My husband said he encountered you one evening at the arsenal, Mr. President.'
'That's right. The major and I discussed firearms.' George said, 'I hope I'm not being disloyal to my department if I tell you I was pleased to hear of the purchase of some Spencers and Sharps repeaters.'
'Your chief wouldn't buy them, and someone had to. But we mustn't bore the ladies with sanguinary talk tonight.' He changed the subject to Christmas, which recalled an anecdote. Telling it with visible glee, he did different voices and dialects. The laughter at the end was genuine except for Isabel's; she brayed so loudly, people stared.
'Tell me something about yourself, Mrs. Hazard,' the President said. She did; they chatted about Texas for a minute. Then a remark of hers prompted another anecdote. He had just started it when his pudgy, overdressed wife bore down and swept him away. That gave Isabel an opportunity to leave. Stanley followed without instruction.
'George, that was one of the most thrilling things I've ever experienced,' Constance said. 'But I felt so humiliated — I've put on so much weight. It makes me ugly.'
He patted her hand. 'The extra pound or two may be real, but the rest is in your head. Did you see how Lincoln heeded your every word? He has an eye for handsome women — which is why his wife swooped down that way. I'm told she hates for him to be alone with another female. Ah, there's Thayer. Come meet him.'
Constance charmed the retired superintendent, too. The trio approached McClellan, temporarily without a crowd around him. 'An old classmate of yours —' Thayer began.
'Stump Hazard! I saw you across the room a while ago — knew you instantly.' McClellan's greeting was hearty, yet George thought he detected artificiality. On second thought, perhaps it existed mostly in his imagination. McClellan was now a national figure; George knew that changed the way people perceived and treated him. His own self-conscious reply demonstrated it.
'Good evening, General.'
'No, no — Mac, always. Tell me, what's become of that fellow you were so tight with? Southerner, wasn't he?'
'Yes. Orry Main. I don't know what's become of him. I last saw him in April.'
McClellan's wife, Nell, joined them, and the four fell to talking about Washington and the war. McClellan grew grave. 'The Union is in peril, and the President seems powerless to save it. The savior's role has fallen to me. I shall perform it to the best of my ability.'
Not even a hint of lightness leavened the statement. George felt his wife's hand tighten on his sleeve; was her reaction the same as his? In a moment the McClellans excused themselves to join General and Mrs. Meade. Constance waited till they were out of earshot.
'I have never heard anything so astonishing. There's something wrong with a man who calls himself a savior.'
'Well, Mac isn't your average fellow and never was. We shouldn't be too quick to judge. God knows the task they handed him is formidable.'
'I still say there's something wrong with him.'
George silently admitted McClellan had left the same impression with him.
He could no longer fool himself into thinking he was having a good time. As the currents of the party flowed and mingled, he and Constance found themselves in a circle with Thad Stevens, the Pennsylvania lawyer who would be the most powerful House member of Wade's oversight committee. Stevens struck most everyone as peculiar, with his clubfoot and his head of thick hair cocked fifteen degrees off the vertical. A certain sinister air was only enhanced by his cold passion.
'I do not agree with the President on all subjects, but I agree on one. As he says, the Union is not some free-love arrangement which any state can dissolve at will. The rebels are not erring sisters, as Mr. Greeley so tenderly termed them, but enemies, vicious enemies, of the temple of freedom that is our country. There can be only one fate for vicious enemies. Punishment. We should free every slave, we should slaughter every traitor, we should burn every rebel mansion to the ground. If those in the executive lack the grit for the job, our committee does not.' The eye of the zealot swept the awed group. 'I give you my solemn promise, ladies and gentlemen — the committee does not.' He limped away.
'Constance,' George said, 'let's go home.'
Madeline and Hettie, a house girl, were wiping out a mildewed trunk when feet pounded on the attic stair. 'Miss Madeline? You better come quick.'
She dropped the damp rag and went instantly. 'What is it, Aristotle?'
'Miss Clarissa. She went for her walk after breakfast, and they found her in the garden.'
Dread pierced her, sharp as the air of the winter morning. The sun had not risen high enough to burn the white rime from the lawn. They ran down to the garden, where Clarissa lay on her back between two azalea bushes. Clarissa stared at Madeline and the slave with glittering eyes.
Her left hand reached toward them, imploring. Her right lay unnaturally limp. Tears in her eyes, she tried to form words and produced nothing but thick glottal sounds.
'It's a seizure,' Madeline said to the anxious black man. She wanted to cry; she wouldn't get away before New Year's after all. She couldn't go until Clarissa recovered. 'We must make a litter and move her inside.' Aristotle dashed for the house. When the litter was ready, lifting Clarissa revealed melted rime in the shape of her body — a shadow on a snowfield.
The doctor emerged from Clarissa's bedroom at half past eleven. Outwardly calm, Madeline received the news that paralysis of the right side was nearly total, and recovery might take most of next year.
47
