The couple needed to travel soon. Brett was carrying their first child. Billy had told this to George privately; decency dictated that a pregnancy never be discussed, even by family members. When a woman neared her term and her stomach bulged, people pretended not to notice. If a second child arrived, parents often told their firstborn that the doctor brought the baby in a bottle. George and Constance observed most of the proprieties, even many that were silly, but they had never stooped to the bottle story.
The family reached the special reviewing section by eight-fifteen. They took seats among reporters, congressmen, Supreme Court justices, senior army and navy officers. To their left, the avenue jogged around the Treasury Building at Fifteenth Street; the jog hid the long rise of the street up to the Capitol.
To their right, for blocks into the distance, people jammed behind barricades, hung from windows and roof peaks, sat on sagging tree limbs. Directly opposite stood the covered pavilion for President Johnson's party, which would include Generals Grant and Sheridan and Stanley Hazard's employer, Secretary of War Stanton. Along the pavilion's front roof line, among bunting swags and evergreen sprays, hung banners painted with the names of Union victories: ATLANTA and ANTIETAM, GETTYSBURG and SPOTSYLVANIA, and more.
By quarter to nine there was still no sign of the President. The blunt-featured Chief Executive sailed in a sea of gossip these days. People said he lacked tact, drank heavily. And he was common — well, that was true. Johnson, a tailor, later senator, was the self-educated son of a Tennessee tavern porter, but he did not have the skills that had enabled Lincoln to turn his rustic background into a personal advantage. George had met Johnson. He found him a brusque, opinionated man with an almost religious reverence for the Constitution. That alone would put him at odds with the Radical Republicans, who wanted to expand interpretation of the Constitution to suit their vision of society.
George agreed with many Radical positions, including equal rights and the franchise for eligible males of both races. But frequently he found Radical motives and tactics repugnant. Many of the Radicals made no secret of their intent to use black voters to make the Republicans the majority party, upsetting the traditional Democratic dominance of the country. The Radicals displayed a vicious animosity toward those they had conquered, as well as any others they deemed ideologically impure.
President Johnson and the Radicals were locked in an increasingly vindictive struggle for control of reconstruction of the Union. It was not a new quarrel. In 1862, Lincoln had proposed his Louisiana Plan, later amplifying it to allow for readmission of any seceded state in which a "tangible nucleus" of voters — only ten percent of those qualified to vote in 1860 — took a loyalty oath and organized a pro-Union government.
In July of 1864, the Radical Republicans had retaliated with a bill written by Senator Ben Wade, of Ohio, and Representative Henry Davis, of Maryland. It outlined a much harsher reconstruction plan, which included a provision for military rule of the defeated Confederacy. The bill fixed control of reconstruction in the Congress. Early in 1865, Tennessee had formed a government under the Lincoln plan, headed by a Whig Unionist named Brownlow. The Radicals in Congress refused to seat elected representatives of that government.
Andrew Johnson had accused Jefferson Davis of acting to "inspire" and "procure" the assassination at Ford's Theatre. He made the obligatory harsh statements about the South, but he also insisted that he would carry out Lincoln's moderate program. Lately, George had heard that Johnson intended to implement the program by means of executive orders during the summer and fall. Since Congress had adjourned and was not scheduled to reconvene until late in the year, and since Johnson certainly wouldn't call a special session, the Radicals would be thwarted.
So the political wind carried word of coining Radical reprisals. One of George's missions in Washington was to speak to a powerful Pennsylvania politician, to state his views on the situation. He donated enough to the party each year to feel entitled to do so. He might even do some good.
"Papa, there's Aunt Isabel," said Patricia from behind him.
George saw Stanley's wife waving from the presidential stand. He grimaced and returned the wave. "She wanted us to be sure and see her."
Brett smiled. Constance patted his hand. "Now, George, don't be spiteful. You wouldn't trade places with Stanley."
George shrugged and continued scanning the crowd on his side of the street, searching for the congressman from his state whom he wanted to corner. While he was occupied, Constance reached into her reticule for a piece of hard candy. Her red hair shone where it curled from beneath a fashionable straw bonnet. She still possessed a pale Irish loveliness, but she'd gained thirty pounds since her marriage, at the end of the Mexican War. George said he didn't mind; he considered the weight a sign of contentment.
Promptly at nine, a cannon boomed, off by the Capitol. In a few minutes, the Hazards heard a distant brass band playing "When Johnny Comes Marching Home." Then they heard unseen thousands cheering parade units beyond the jog in the avenue. Soon the first marchers rounded the corner by the Treasury, and everyone leaped up to clap and hurrah.
Scholarly General George Meade led the parade, riding to the presidential pavilion amid an ovation. Small boys hanging from the trees behind it leaned out to clap and nearly fell. Meade saluted the dignitaries with his saber — neither Grant nor Johnson had yet arrived — then handed his horse to a corporal and went to sit with them.
Women cheered, men wept openly, a chorus of young schoolgirls sang and showered the street with bouquets and nosegays. The sun struck white fire from the alabaster of the Capitol dome as General Wesley Merritt led the Third Division into sight. The regular commander, Little Phil Sheridan, was already en route to duty on the Gulf of Mexico. When the Third appeared, even William, who was afflicted with adolescent disdain for nearly everything, jumped up and whistled and clapped.
Sixteen abreast in a column of platoons, sabers flashing in the sunshine, Sheridan's cavalry passed. The troopers had a trim, freshly barbered look and showed few signs of war-weariness. Many of them had stuck small bunches of daisies or violets into the muzzles of the carbines carried behind them on shoulder slings.
Each rank dipped its steel to the Chief Executive, who had finally entered the pavilion with General Grant, looking apologetic. George heard a woman several rows behind wonder aloud whether Johnson was already drunk.
Dust clouds rose. The smell of horse droppings ripened. Then, from Fifteenth Street, George heard a chant. "Custer! Custer! Custer! ..."
And there he came, on his fine high-stepping bay, Don Juan: the "Boy General" — shoulder-length ringlets, yellow with a reddish patina, flushed face, scarlet neckerchief, golden spurs, broad-brimmed hat doffed to acknowledge the chanting of his name. Few Union officers had so captured the fancy of public and press. George Armstrong Custer had been last in his class at West Point, a brigadier at twenty-three, a major general at twenty-four. Twelve horses had been shot from under him. He was fearless or reckless, depending on your view. It was said that he wanted to be president after Ulysses Grant ran for the office. If he did want that — if the famed "Custer's luck" stayed with him and the public didn't forget him — he'd probably get what he wanted.