"Halleck? The master paper-shuffler? I didn't know you were acquainted with Old Brains."
"I've met him twice socially. He's an Academy man —"
"Class of '39. Four years after mine. West Point takes care of its own—is that what you're counting on?"
"It is," George said. "I've learned a little something about the way this town operates, Herman."
Henry Halleck, who allowed George ten minutes on his schedule, seemed a man of hemispheres: rounded shoulders, convex forehead, bulging eyes. He was more scholar than soldier — some years ago he had translated a work by Jomini — but an able, if pedestrian, administrator.
From the window where he stood in his familiar posture, hands locked behind his spotless, neatly buttoned uniform, he said: "When I noted your name on the appointment calendar, I called for your record, Major. It's exemplary. You are definite about wanting to leave the Ordnance Department?"
"Yes, General. I need to feel more useful. Desk duty has palled."
"I suspect you mean Ripley has palled," Halleck said with a rare show of humor. "He really is your superior, you know. You ought to apply to him for a transfer."
Understanding what he risked, George nevertheless shook his head. "With all respect, sir, I can't do that. General Ripley would almost certainly deny my request. Whereas if I could have your leave to go directly to the adjutant general —"
"No, that isn't permissible."
George knew he had lost. But Halleck kept speaking. "I do understand and sympathize with your predicament, however. I know you came to Washington at Cameron's behest, persuaded only by a strong sense of patriotic duty. I applaud your desire to get more directly into the thick of things. If you're to pull it off, it must be done properly."
Retrieving George from despair with those words, he leaned his great balding head forward till it seemed to float before the junior officer. Lowering his voice, as every good Washingtonian did when arranging some little scheme or favor, Halleck went on.
"Forward your request for a transfer to the adjutant general through channels — being sure to send a copy to General Ripley. Meantime, I shall speak on your behalf — unofficially, you understand. If we are successful, be prepared to do battle with Mr. Secretary Stanton." He extended his hand. "I wish you luck."
George had already prepared the paper to which Halleck referred. He sent them up the line immediately, and received the secretarial summons much sooner than he expected.
The War Department building to which George reported at half past two on Monday had a distinct air of gloom. Meade had dallied; Lee had gotten clean away; the Conscription Act was precipitating more incidents of street violence in New York City. The President was said to have plunged from a period of intensive activity and hope into another of his depressions.
"You wish to work for Haupt? My dear Major," Stanton said sourly, "do you know he has never officially accepted the rank of brigadier after receiving the promotion last September? Who can tell how long he'll remain in charge of the military railroads?"
In the voice of the bearded, Buddha-like man, George heard dislike and a warning. "Nevertheless, sir," he said, "I'm anxious for the transfer. I came to Ordnance at Secretary Cameron's request, and I've tried to carry out my duties faithfully, even though I've never felt fully qualified or very useful. I want to serve in some capacity more directly related to the conduct of the war."
Stanton fingered the earpiece of his spectacles; a trick of the light rendered the lenses opaque. Perhaps he knew how to hold his head to achieve the disquieting effect.
"Would it change your mind if I told you General Ripley may shortly retire?" An insincere smile. "The general is, after all, sixty-nine years of age."
And has he crossed you once too often? "No, sir, that would have no bearing on my request."
"Let me be frank with you, Major Hazard. Since you came in here, I have detected a measure of hostility in your voice — No, please, spare me the denials." George reddened; he hadn't realized his feelings were so evident. "Your determination to leave is clear from the manner in which you negotiated for the transfer. General Halleck spoke to me personally over the weekend." Stanton removed his spectacles. "I have a feeling you don't like this entire department. Am I correct?"
"Sir —" Better to say nothing, get out and be done. He knew it, yet his nature and his conscience wouldn't settle for that. "With due respect, Mr. Secretary — yes, you are. I am not in accord with some of the policies of the War Department."
Coolly correct, Stanton put on his glasses again. "May I request that you be more specific, sir?"
"There is the Eamon Randolph matter —"
Stanton overrode him with a loud, "I know nothing about that."
"As I understand it, the man was beaten by members of your Detective Bureau, solely for criticizing policies of this administration — which I thought was every citizen's right."
"Not in time of war." Stanton's pursed smile grew cold. He leaned forward, and the light-play turned his lenses to glittering disks again. "May I add, Major, that if you had ever entertained hopes of a permanent career in the military, you would have dashed them by what you just said. You have overstepped."
"I'm sorry," George said, though he wasn't. "The matter's been on my conscience, and it's widely known that Lafayette Baker works for you."
Still the smile, deadly and sly. "Search every item of official correspondence — every scrap of paper in the waste bins of this department, my dear Major — you will find not one scintilla of evidence to support that statement. Now be so kind as to leave this office. I shall be happy to approve your request — you and that madman Haupt are cut from the same bolt."
"Sir —"
Stanton pounded the desk. "Get out."
George heard the door open behind him. Someone rushed in.
"Your brother is just leaving," the secretary said. George turned and saw Stanley hovering, pasty with alarm. "Kindly see that he does it with all due speed."
Stanley grabbed George's sleeve. "Come on."
"Stanley" — George's voice went down half an octave — "I knocked you down once a long time ago. Take your hand off or I'll do it again."
Blinking, his face oozing sweat, Stanley obeyed. What an ass I am, thought George. An opinionated, loud-mouthed ass. Yet it had given him a sense of pride and relief to say his little piece — which was not quite finished.
"If this government has to win the war by beating or imprisoning every dissident who utters the slightest criticism, God pity us. We deserve to fail."
Gently, so gently, Stanton riffled the underside of his beard. But he was livid. "Major Hazard," he said, "I suggest you remove yourself unless you wish to be court-martialed for sedition."
When the office door was closed, Stanley whispered, "Do you realize who you insulted?"
"Someone who deserves it."
"But do you appreciate how this can harm your career?"
"My so-called career's a farce. They can throw me out of the army tomorrow. I'll cheerfully go back to Lehigh Station and cast cannon."
"You could at least think of me, George —"
"I do," he retorted, still angry. "I hope Stanton roasts you for having a seditious relative. Then you can go to Massachusetts and sell military bootees — to both sides, as I understand it."
"You damned, lying —" Stanley began, trying at the same time to hit George with a wild swing. But Stanley was weak and poorly coordinated. George had only to raise his left hand to block his brother's forearm and push his fist away. He jammed his hat on his head and marched out of the building.
He hurried to Haupt's office, found him gone, and left a note.