Two days later, at half past seven in the morning, Bent brushed up the sack coat he had purchased in New Orleans. He deplored its travel-stained condition, but he had nothing else. He planned to walk the whole way to the War Department; he was down to his last few dollars and wouldn't squander them on transportation. The interview might go badly. If it did, he was done. He would be forced to thievery — or worse.
Outside his sleazy rooming house, he turned right, past a weedy lot where contrabands had erected blanket tents and shanties of scrap lumber, undoubtedly stolen. He glared at the colored people squatting around a cook fire.
A mild spell had interrupted the severe February weather. In brightening sunshine, he trudged all the way across the island, over the canal, and through the mall to the columned portico of the War Department building, which looked immense to him: three stories of brick, with chimneys jutting above bare trees.
Inside, an armed soldier demanded to know his business. With a perspiring hand, Bent presented the sealed letter. The soldier directed him upstairs. On his way, he paused to peer into an anteroom where a pudgy gnome with steel-rimmed spectacles stood at a tall writing desk that separated him from a line of petitioners — weeping women, army officers and noncoms, civilians who were probably contractors. The gnome was Stanton, Bent realized with some astonishment. Did he hold public audiences regularly?
In a spacious office on the floor above, an orderly led him to the line walnut desk of Stanley Hazard. Standing in front of it, he noticed a flake on his left sleeve: some of the hardtack he had munched for breakfast and washed down with a cup of water. He was too nervous to remove the crumb.
He felt the prod of the past. But Mr. Stanley Hazard bore little resemblance to his younger brother. Further, he was plumper and sleeker than Bent remembered. Expensively dressed, too, with a ruffled shirt and a flowing cravat whose color matched his rusty orange frock coat.
Having kept his visitor waiting while he slit open the letter and read it, Stanley at last deigned to wave. "Do sit down. My time is rather short this morning."
Stanley laid the letter in front of him. Bent had to struggle to squeeze his buttocks into the chair. The past overwhelmed him. A blood vessel in his temple started to quiver, but he forced himself to mute thoughts of violence. This man represented his best, perhaps his only, means of saving himself from poverty and total failure. He must forget the man's family.
It became easier the moment Stanley smiled, a slow smile, comfortingly greasy. "This letter from Counselor Dills states that your name's Dayton — but not really."
Bent blinked in terror. "What's that?" Had the lawyer betrayed him?
"You are not aware of the contents of this?"
"No, no."
Stanley read aloud. "Dayton is a pseudonym. His true identity cannot be disclosed because of certain connections with highly placed persons. These must be protected. His enforced anonymity, however, in no wise diminishes his ability to assist you, or my strong commendation of him to your attention."
"Very — very kind of the counselor to say that," Bent gasped, relieved.
Stanley folded his hands and studied his caller. "The counselor presents you as a candidate for what we call special or detached service with a bureau of this department which, officially, does not exist. The bureau involves itself with purging the public sphere of persons whose opinions or actions are inimical to the government. This can be done by direct order of the secretary —"
Bent knew that much; Stanton had a reputation for immense power. He had only to murmur, and a critic of the administration disappeared into Old Capitol Prison, on First Street.
"— although more frequently of late, as enemies become more numerous, action has been initiated by the bureau itself. Chief of the bureau is Colonel Baker, who is also charged with carrying out certain confidential missions behind enemy lines. Occasionally I send him a promising man. Evidently that is what Dills has in mind."
Stanley left it there, awaiting a response. Perspiring, Bent blurted, "It sounds like tremendously important work, sir. Work I could do with enthusiasm. I am staunchly behind the programs of this administration —"
"That always seems to be the case with job seekers." Stanley's smirk made Bent squirm.
A moment later, a new thought struck Bent. This particular member of the Hazard clan might be cut from the same bolt as he was — and perhaps didn't deserve his enmity. Stanley Hazard was haughty, open about his importance. Those were characteristics Bent admired.
"Bear in mind, Dayton, Colonel Baker is the gentleman who says yes or no to hiring an operative. I can, however, add my recommendation to that of Dills."
"It would be very kind if you —"
"I haven't said I would," Stanley interrupted. Another moment of scrutiny. "Why aren't you in the army?"
Terror then. He had prepared himself for the question, but it was as if he hadn't. "I was, Mr. Hazard."
"Of course we can't check on that because of the problem with your identity. Very neat." A faint smile relieved Stanley's severity. "You can at least reveal the circumstances of your separation."
"Yes, surely. I resigned. I refused to accept a transfer to command of a nigger unit."
Stanley closed his fist. "Keep that sort of remark to yourself in this department. The secretary is a devout partisan of emancipation."
Again Bent stared into the abyss of failure. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Hazard. I promise —"
Stanley waved a second time. "Take this bit of advice also. Colonel Baker is a strong temperance man. If you drink, don't do it before you meet him."
Bent's hope soared. Stanley continued in a more confidential way. "That caveat aside, the colonel doesn't demand sainthood or even ideological purity. He demands only two qualities. His men must be trustworthy and willing to obey orders. Any orders, no matter how —" a hand fluttered, struggling to convey meaning "— irregular they might appear to certain misguided constitutionalists." He leaned forward so fast he seemed to be swooping down on prey. "Do I communicate clearly, sir?"
"Perfectly." Baker circumvented the law whenever necessary. "I can offer those qualities."
"We need them because we are locked in a vicious struggle. Enemies of the administration abound. But no man or woman is beyond our reach. If helping us achieve our goal — the crushing of domestic treason while our generals crush its military equivalent — is to your taste —"
"Very much so, sir, indeed it is," Bent said, nearly babbling.
"Then I'll add my note of introduction to that of Dills. As I said, Baker will make the final determination. But I'm a good judge of character. I'd say your prospects are excellent."
He reached for his pen and scratched a few swift lines at the bottom of Dills's letter. Then he rang a small hand bell and told his orderly to bring a new envelope. He sealed the amended letter inside.
The visitor was almost delirious. He had completely fooled Stanley Hazard, who didn't connect him with Elkanah Bent. He wanted to ask about George but couldn't think of a pretext that would not arouse suspicion. He forced the vendetta out of his mind; winning Baker's approval came first.