MADELINE'S JOURNAL
November, 1865. Cool Carolina winter replaced our smoky autumn while I slept. The live oaks rise from thick white mist this morning; the air smells of the salty river tides. When such beauty abounds, I miss you so terribly.
How I wish reality were as pacific as today's prospect from my doorstep. Cash very short. Wagon axle broken. Until Andy repairs it, we can move no timber to Walterboro or Charleston, hence have no income. Wrote Dawkins pleading for a few weeks' grace with the quarterly payment. No reply as yet.
Nor have I had any word of Brett from California. She will come to term before Christmas. I pray the confinement is not hard.
School will be rebuilt in 30 days or less. Prudence holds classes on the lawn by the house meanwhile. Another setback: after the fire, Burl Otis, Dome's father, forbade her to attend. He is in sympathy with the unknown arsonists, or afraid of them, or both. Went in person to plead. He cursed me and called me a "troubkmaking nigger."
A red-haired man has been seen twice at Gettys's store. The Charleston dancing master, I am told. He is said to be without pupils and to be living in reduced circumstances, which enhances his bitterness. Who but a few scoundrels live any differently in Carolina these days?
... Gettys, always the dilettante, now fancies himself a journalist There came to hand a copy of his new, poorly printed little paper called the White Thunderbolt. Read but a few of the headlines — the lost cause is not lost; Caucasian widow marries NEGRO BARBER, etc. — before burning it. Vile stuff. Doubly so because Gettys claims to represent Democrats. If he can afford to print such a scurrilous rag, his Dixie Store must be returning usurious profit. A second store named Dixie has opened on the Beaufort-Charleston road, and am told a third is coming to the latter city. Gettys not connected with these. Cannot imagine who in S.C. has the capital to build and finance them .
The exile traveled down from Pennsylvania to Washington, craggy and cynical and confident as ever despite his wartime misfortunes.
Simon Cameron, who had brokered his votes at the 1860 Republican convention in exchange for a cabinet post, was one of those ambitious, ice-hearted rascals who didn't understand the word defeat. As Secretary of War, he had caused a scandal with his favoritism in handling supply contracts. Lincoln had got rid of him by exiling him to the post of foreign minister to the court of Russia, and the House of Representatives had censured him for corrupt practices. Yet by 1863 he was back, trying to secure a Senate seat from his home state.
He failed, withdrew to Pennsylvania, and proceeded to strengthen his hold on the state machine. I will not be kept out of the national government forever, he wrote to his pupil and campaign contributor Stanley Hazard, when announcing his current visit to Washington.
Stanley invited the Boss to the Concourse Club, to which he had recently been admitted through friendship with Senator Ben Wade and some other high-ranking Republicans. In the club's lavish second-floor rooms, teacher and pupil settled into deep chairs near a marble bust of Socrates. Elderly black men, instructed to be servile, waited on members. One such took Stanley's order and tiptoed away. Immediately, Cameron asked for a donation.
Stanley had expected it. He responded with a pledge of another twenty thousand dollars. Lacking talent, he had to buy friendship and advancement.
Though it was only half past eleven in the morning, Stanley looked puffy about the eyes and dazed. "Feeling faint," he explained.
Cameron said nothing. "How do you find your work with the Freedmen's Bureau?"
"Revolting. Oliver Howard can't forget he's a soldier. The only Bureau men who have his ear are the former generals. I mean to tell Mr. Stanton that I want to be relieved. The trouble is, I don't know where to go if he agrees."
"Have you considered political office?"
Stanley's mouth dropped.
"I'm quite serious. You'd be a great asset in the House." Ah, now he understood. Cameron didn't base the assertion on ability. Stanley would be an asset because he contributed generously and never questioned the orders of party superiors. And obedience was necessary for him, since he didn't have a single original idea about the political process. Still, granting those limits, he found Cameron's suggestion exhilarating.
The stooped black waiter brought their drinks. Stanley's glass contained twice the amount in Cameron's. While his imagination was still soaring, the Boss dashed him down.
"You know, my boy, you'd have a sterling future were it not for one liability."
"You must mean George."
"Oh, no. Your brother's harmless. Idealists are always harmless, because they have scruples. In a tight situation, scruples tame a man, and make his responses completely predictable." Cameron's sly eyes fixed on Stanley as he murmured, "I was referring to Isabel."
Stanley took a few moments to comprehend. "My wife is a —?"
"Major liability. I'm sorry, Stanley. No one denies that Isabel's a clever woman. But she grates on people. She takes too much credit for your success — something most men find offensive." Cameron tactfully ignored his pupil's reddening face; Stanley knew the charges were true.
"She lacks tact," Cameron went on. "A smart politician hides his enmities; he doesn't flaunt them. Worst of all, Isabel no longer has credibility in this town. No one believes her flattery because she is so open about her ambition for social eminence and power."
After a swift look to check on possible eavesdroppers, the Boss lowered his voice. "But if you should ever find yourself — shall we say independent? — and if it should come to pass without any scandal attaching to you personally, I can almost guarantee you eventual nomination to the House seat from your district. Nomination is tantamount to election. We make certain of that."
Astonished and thrilled, Stanley said, "I would love that. I'd work hard, Simon. But I've been married to Isabel for years. I know her. She's a very moral, upright person. You would never find her compromising herself in any, ah, personal scandal."
"Oh, I believe you," Cameron said with sincerity. He thought of Isabel's face; no one would be interested.
"Still, my boy, scandal isn't limited to illicit romance. I've heard rumors about Isabel and a certain factory in Lynn, Massachusetts."
The old pirate. He knew very well that Stanley and his wife had been jointly involved in wartime profiteering through the manufacture of cheap army shoes. Cameron's pointed glance suggested that the truth need not be graven in stone.
The thought of returning to Isabel the kind of scorn and abuse she routinely heaped on him was likewise new, and intoxicating. On her orders, Stanley had abandoned his mistress. He owed Isabel for countless humiliations — and here was the Boss, promising him a prize if he got rid of her.
He didn't want to appear too eager. He exaggerated his sigh. "Boss, I'm sorry, I don't think what you describe will ever happen. However, if by some chance it does, I'll notify you at once."
"I wish you would. Good and loyal party men are hard to find. Women, on the other hand, are available anywhere. Think about it," he murmured, and sipped his drink.