Or from the inattention of superiors who had all but forgotten his potential — his very existence —
What happened? In the stale dark, smelling of uniform wool and his own sweat, he was nearly crying. Where was his protector? From Bent's earliest days that man had labored secretly on his behalf. Secured the Academy appointment from Ohio, and then, after the machinations of Hazard and Main brought dismissal, his protector had won reinstatement for him by an appeal to the Secretary of War. Except for unavoidable service in the Mexican War and that one posting to Texas, he'd always been given safe duty. He'd been kept in the army, out of danger —
Until now.
My God, they were sending him into exile. Suppose he wound up leading combat troops? He could die. Why had his protector let him down? Surely it was unintentional. Surely no one knew of these orders except a few army clerks. That had to be the explanation —
Still shaking, he decided on what he must do. It was a violation of the clear and long-standing agreement that he must never contact his protector directly. But this crisis — this absolute disaster — took precedence over the agreement.
He ran out of the room and down the stairs, startling Elmsdale, who was just coming up. "Fog's gotten mighty thick out there. If you have to go somewhere, take your revolver."
"I don't need advice from you." Bent shoved him. "Stand aside." He lurched out the front door, sword scabbard swinging wildly. Elmsdale swore and said to himself, How has a lunatic like that managed to stay in the army?
7
The hired hack turned north into Nineteenth, where the homes were few in number. The wealthy built in this remote section to avoid the dirt and dangers of the central city.
"Which house between K and L?" the driver called.
"There's only one. It takes up the whole block."
Bent hung from the inside hand strap as if it were a life line in the ocean. His mouth felt hot, parched, the rest of his body cold. The Potomac fog hung drapes of dirty gauze over even the brightest windows.
Bent's destination was the residence of a man named Heyward Starkwether. An Ohioan, Starkwether had no profession in the traditional sense, no office, no visible source of income, though he'd lived in the city twenty-five years. The only term to describe his circumstances during the last sixteen was opulent. Reporters new to Washington — young men, usually, and long on nerve, short on wisdom — sometimes described him as a lobbyist. The totally foolhardy substituted the words influence peddler. Elkanah Bent didn't know a great deal about Starkwether's affairs, but he did know that calling the man a lobbyist was the same as calling Alexander of Macedon a common soldier.
Starkwether was rumored to represent huge New York money interests, men almost Olympian in their wealth and influence. Men who could ignore any law if it suited them and shape government policy to fit a personal purpose. In their behalf, it was said, Starkwether had maintained friendships at the highest levels of government for more than two decades, through a succession of administrations, a fact that had long tinctured Bent's affection with awe.
"Turn in here," he exclaimed. The driver had almost missed the great bow-shaped drive in front of the mansion, more Greek temple than house. Fog hid its vast wings and upper floors, and Bent was puzzled by the empty drive and a lack of lighted windows. Several times before this he had driven past at night, always finding many visitors' carriages outside and many gaslights blazing within.
"Wait for me," Bent said, lumbering up wide marble steps to the entrance. He let one of the huge lion's-head knockers fall twice. The sound went rolling away and away inside. Was his protector gone? Thinking of Starkwether, Bent seldom used any other word, especially not the more common but forbidden one.
He knocked again. An elderly servant with reddened eye sockets answered. Before he could speak, the visitor blurted, "I am Colonel Elkanah Bent. I must see Mr. Starkwether. It's urgent."
"I'm very sorry, Colonel, but it's impossible. This afternoon, Mr. Starkwether was unexpectedly —" the old man had trouble saying it — "stricken."
"Do you mean a paralytic seizure?"
"Yes, sir."
"But he's all right, isn't he?"
"The seizure was fatal, sir."
Bent walked back to the hack, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, wondering how to save himself now that he'd lost his father.
8
"He's coming here? With that Catholic bitch who lords it over us as if she's royalty? Stanley, you imbecile! How could you allow it?"
"Isabel," he began in a faint voice as she flounced toward the parlor windows overlooking Sixth Street. She showed him the back of the drab gray hoop skirt and matching jacket she wore for everyday. She groaned, so loudly you might have thought some man was ravishing her. Damn slim chance of her permitting that, Stanley thought pettishly.
His wife kicked her hoops to permit a quick turn, another confrontation. "Why in the name of God didn't you speak against the idea?"
"I did! But Cameron wants him."
"For what possible reason?"
Stanley offered a few of Cameron's explanatory phrases, as best he could remember them. Just the anticipation of this quarrel had exhausted him. He'd spent most of the day rehearsing what he'd say and completely forgotten it when the moment arrived.
Sprawled in a chair, he finished with a lame "There's a strong possibility that he won't come."
"I wish we hadn't either. I detest this cursed town."
He sat silent as she strode around the parlor three times, working off some of her rage. He knew she didn't mean that last remark. She loved being in Washington because she loved power and associating with those who controlled it.
Their current circumstances weren't ideal, of course. With decent quarters hard to find, they'd been forced to rent this dusty old suite in the cavernous National Hotel, a hangout of the secesh crowd. Stanley wished they could move. Quite apart from politics, a hotel was the wrong place in which to raise two headstrong adolescent sons. Sometimes Laban and Levi disappeared in the mazy corridors for hours. God knew what lascivious lessons they learned, listening at closed doors. When Stanley had gotten here at seven, Isabel reported that she'd found Laban giggling in a familiar way with one of the young maids. Stanley had lectured his son — torture for him and boring for the defiant boy. He had then ordered the twins to study Latin verbs for an hour and locked their bedroom door. Mercifully, all sounds of fist-fighting had now stopped; he presumed they were asleep. Small wonder religious Americans considered Washington an immoral place; the first evidence cited was the town's teeming hotel life.
Isabel completed her last circuit of the room and stopped, folding her arms over her small bosom and challenging him with her eyes. Two years older than Stanley, she had grown increasingly forbidding as she aged.
In response to her glare, he said, "Isabel, try to understand. I did object, but —"
"Not strongly. You never do anything strongly."
His back stiffened as he stood. "That's unfair. I didn't want to harm my good standing with Simon. I had the impression you considered it an asset."
Isabel Hazard was an expert manipulator of people, most especially her husband. She saw she'd pushed too hard. The understanding damped her anger. "I do. I'm sorry for what I said. It's just that I despise George and Constance for all the humiliation they've heaped on you."
The truce established, he moved to her side. "And you."