“Lee served on my staff in Mexico. I knew him well and both liked and respected him. He was a genuine hero and was wounded in combat. I offered him command of the Union armies when secession occurred. He refused by saying his duty lay with Virginia. Duty, he said, was the sublimest word in the English language, and then he followed that misguided sense of duty southward. It is a shame. I would a million times rather see Lee in charge of our armies than McClellan.”
“I would, too,” Nathan admitted. It was a thought he would not have considered a couple of months ago.
“What will Lee do differently? Why, he will attack. Lee is brave and ruthless. He may look like a courtly gentleman and a scholar, but he is all warrior. He will attack, attack, attack, even with inferior forces, to keep McClellan off balance and confused. He will never let McClellan begin to gain the confidence he needs to lead the large host he has. Lee will baffle him, lure him into a trap, and then defeat him. McClellan's one hope is to move rapidly and attack now, before Lee can get his command organized. There's bound to be confusion in the Confederate hierarchy because of such a precipitous change in high command. Attack now is what he should do. However,” Scott said with dismay, “he won't, will he?”
“No, he won't. His plans are made for the invasion to commence three weeks from now.” Nathan sagged back in dismay. “Then our cause is doomed.”
“Not necessarily.”
“It isn't?” Nathan asked in surprise.
“McClellan will be defeated, but not destroyed. The South simply doesn't have the capacity to destroy McClellan's army, and McClellan, for all his shortcomings, is not a total fool. He already told you he will withdraw at the first hint of harm, and that will save the army. Where we go from here depends on Mr. Lincoln.”
Nathan understood. If McClellan faltered, then the president would have no choice but to search elsewhere for military leadership. At such a point, it was almost a given that he would ask the opinion of General Winfield Scott. The continued meetings between Nathan and John Hay might be interpreted as representing an almost wistful thought on Lincoln's part to be able to confide in Scott.
If defeat was as inevitable as General Scott said it was, then it would be tragic. However, it might also contain within it the seeds of victory.
“By the way,” Nathan said, “McClellan even knew about Attila Flynn's proposal to develop and organize an Irish-American army. He thought it laughable. He said there was no such thing as an Irish organization, and that attempts to create one would make a drunken mob look good by comparison.”
McClellan had said no such thing and Nathan winked so that Scott understood. The comment was totally for Flynn's benefit, and it amused Nathan to say it. Bridget Conlin was certainly listening at the door and would get the slur back to him as quickly as she could. Let Flynn do with it as he wished.
Scott gestured for one more drink and another cigar. “We may have to start rationing these,” he said sadly. “If the British blockade becomes effective, we may have seen the last of these little life-sustaining luxuries.”
It was unthinkable for women of status and breeding to actually work for a living, which meant that both Rebecca Devon and Valerie D'Estaing had a good deal of time on their hands. Shopping was always a sport, but the war had made items rare and prices high. Besides, it was a shallow sport, and, as Rebecca had said, “how many gloves can one wear?”
Another source of genuine usefulness and satisfaction was working with the war wounded. But there hadn't been a major battle in some months, so the multitudes of hurt young bodies that had come from Bull Run had largely been sent to their home states. Those who remained were either too grievously wounded to be helped or were surrounded by other volunteers.
Working in favor of emancipating the slaves took up some time, but little was happening in that quarter, as President Lincoln seemed impervious to pressure. He continued to inform abolitionists that his primary goal was to preserve the Union and that all good things would flow from that event.
That left the two women with their mutual love of art and scholarship to occupy them. Valerie and Henri D'Estaing owned a large two-story converted farmhouse a mile north of Washington, yet well within the city's defensive perimeter. Valerie had had the attic renovated into a studio where she could paint, sculpt, read, or do whatever else she wanted. At some expense, a skylight had been cut into the roof so that sunlight was abundant virtually every day. There were no other windows, which ensured utter privacy for Valerie and any guests. A Franklin stove provided warmth on those winter days when the damp chill threatened to cut to the bone. A few logs in the stove and the studio became extremely warm.
Both Rebecca and Valerie wore robes as they finished an enjoyable snack of cheese and wine. They considered the studio a wonderful retreat from the world and its worries. It was a place where they could quite literally let their almost waist-length hair down and get out of the voluminous and restrictive garments that fashion dictated women wear in public.
“Where is your Mr. Hunter tonight?” Valerie asked.
“I don't think he's mine, thank you, and he is preparing to go soldiering with McClellan. I still shudder every time I think of men going off to war.”
“And him in particular?”
“Yes,” Rebecca admitted.
“Does he know that?”
“I don't know.”
Then why don't you tell him, Valerie thought. “Do you think he cares for you?”
Rebecca grinned. “Well, he does keep coming around.”
Valerie finished her wine. She hand-rolled a pair of cigarettes from a bowl of shredded Virginia tobacco. Cigarettes had been developed by soldiers during the Crimean War, and their usage was spreading throughout Europe and the United States. Valerie found Virginia tobacco milder and more pleasurable than the Turkish blends she had been introduced to.
Valerie lighted both women's cigarettes from a candle. “You are becoming quite a libertine,” she said of Rebecca. “This is the third cigarette in my lifetime. I hardly think this qualifies as debauchery.”
To her own astonishment, Rebecca had lately been finding herself cramped and chafed by the restraints imposed on womanhood by a male-dominated society. While a glass of wine was acceptable for a woman, brandy and smoking were not. If found out, she would be ostracized; thus, the need to hide in Valerie's studio. Also, men could swear like troopers, but not in front of women. If they inadvertently did, they would apologize profusely as if bad words would cause ladies to fall to pieces. And some ladies would, Rebecca thought with wry humor.
Of course, if a woman was heard swearing, she was considered a trollop. This was another reason they enjoyed the seclusion of the studio. Along with drinking and the occasional cigarette, they could swear if they wished and speak freely about topics that were normally taboo.
“Has Nathan ever touched you?” Valerie asked, interrupting her thoughts. The tobacco was relaxing Rebecca as if it were a mild narcotic.
“I've let him take my arm while we walked, but I don't think that's what you had in mind,” Rebecca answered impishly.
“In that case, I won't even ask if you've made love with the nice man,” Valerie sniffed and they both laughed. “Enough,” she announced, “it's time to be artists.”
Valerie stood up and let the robe drop from her shoulders. She stepped naked onto the low pedestal as Rebecca gathered her tools. Today Rebecca would work in charcoal.
It had been Valerie's idea to be her model. She had seen some of Rebecca's works that awkwardly reflected human figures. One time she had unkindly said that they were all so lifeless that it looked as if they were about to fall down. She had convinced Rebecca that the only proper way to paint or sketch people was to understand human anatomy, and that the only way to do that was to actually see it. When Rebecca had demurred, Valerie had told her that she had modeled for a number of artists in France, some of whom she hadn't slept with.
Valerie's logic overcame Rebecca's reluctance, and the improvement in her efforts was surprising as she understood how the human body operated. Valerie was a voluptuous woman who seemed to enjoy displaying herself.
“I'll stand naked in the daylight for as long as I can,” she'd proclaimed during one of their first sessions. “Right now I am the type of model a Renaissance painter would have loved. In a few years I'll be fat and will have to pay men to paint me or make love to me.”
