A fraction late, he heard the wet boots squeaking. He quickly folded the draft and glanced at the man whose shadow had fallen on the table. The man was fat, huge, his fusty suit large as a tent. He had dark hair, sly eyes, a conspiratorial air. He licked his lips.
"Have I the honor of addressing Mr. Lamar Powell?"
Powell wished that he had brought his four-barrel Sharps tonight. Could this gross fellow be some spy of Winder's on the prowl for critics of the President?
"What do you want?" Powell retorted.
Put off by the nonanswer, the stranger cleared his throat. "You were pointed out as Mr. Powell. I've been searching for you for several days. I am interested in, ah, certain of your plans. May I sit down and explain? Oh, forgive me — my name is Captain Bellingham."
That night, Bent celebrated by drinking himself into a stupor in his rooming house. Mr. Lamar Powell was shrewd. He had not uttered so much as a syllable to confirm his part in any conspiracy against the government, nor indeed given the slightest indication that such a conspiracy existed. Yet by glance and inflection and gesture, he left no doubt. He was involved, and he could use trustworthy recruits — especially a Maryland-born Southern sympathizer lately wounded in service with General Longstreet.
Not only had it been necessary for Bent to tell those lies, but he had been required to state some fundamental beliefs — extremely risky, but vital if he was to convince Powell of his sincerity. He said he hated to see the South misruled, the war lost, the great principles sullied by King Jeff the First. He wanted the dictator removed, if not by the ballot, then by other means.
Powell had listened, then made a small concession. After further reflection on the captain's story, he would be in touch at the address the captain had provided, if — if — there was any reason for contact. He didn't state that there would be, but his manner clearly suggested it.
Powell questioned him hard as to how and where he had heard Powell's name. Bent refused to answer. Being stubborn on that point was a risk, of course. Yet if Powell deemed him too pliable, he might not want his services. So Bent dug in and repeatedly said no, he could reveal nothing about his sources.
He left Powell in the hotel bar, got drunk in his rooming house, and settled down to wait. A week, a month — whatever it took. Meantime, he had another little scheme to occupy him now that he was in the same city as Orry Main. Bent's presence was unknown to him. He could take him by surprise.
Ashton left the house on Grace Street at half past six the next evening. The air felt sharply cooler, though ugly black clouds continued to roll out of the northwest. The storm weather had persisted a long time, but the relief was welcome.
Tugging on her gloves, she hurried down the long front stoop. She was so busy anticipating her evening with Powell that she failed to see the man half concealed behind one of the large brick pillars at the foot of the steps. He hurled himself in front of her.
"Mrs. Huntoon?"
"How dare you startle me that — oh!" She clutched her hat in the stiff wind, recognizing him: a huge heap of dark broadcloth, a fat face beneath a broad-brimmed hat. He had called on her once before, though his name eluded her. He carried an oilskin tube under his arm.
"Excuse me, I didn't mean to frighten you," he said, darting looks at the house. "Is there some spot close by where we might hold a private conversation?"
"Your name again?"
"Captain Erasmus Bellingham."
"That's right. General Longstreet's corps."
"The Invalid Corps now, I'm afraid," Bent replied with his most soulful expression. "I am out of the army."
"When you called the first time, you said you were a friend of my brother's."
"If I left that impression, I regret it. I am not a friend, merely an acquaintance. On that occasion you stated that your feelings toward Colonel Main were — may we say — less than cordial? That is why I came back tonight — my first opportunity to do so since my release from Chimborazo Hospital."
"Captain, I am on my way somewhere, and I'm late. Come to the point."
Tap-tap went his fingers, plump white sausages, on the oilskin tube. "I have a painting here. I should like to show it to you, that's all. I am not trying to sell it, Mrs. Huntoon — I wouldn't part with it. But I think you will find it of great interest all the same."
That same evening, Charles reached Barclay's Farm. He had invited Jim Pickles to come along, explaining en route that he was romantically involved with the widow Barclay. Jim whooped and hollered and waved his hat, which now had a turkey feather stuck in the band; he was imitating Stuart but couldn't find an ostrich plume. Jim thought what Charles had said was fine news, though, curiously, Charles silently questioned his own good sense even as he related how he felt.
Gus hugged and kissed him warmly, and when she went out to supervise the killing of two hens for supper, Jim nudged his fellow scout. "You're a lucky gent, Charlie. She's a dandy." Charles continued to puff his cob pipe in silence and toast his bare feet at the kitchen hearth; the rain through which they had ridden was hard and cold.
Supper was cheerful and boisterous for a while. But talk of the war couldn't be avoided. Everyone expected a new siege of Charleston to begin soon. In the West, Bragg was being pressed by Rosecrans. Brave Morgan, after a twenty-five-day mounted raid through Kentucky and Indiana, had been captured at Salineville, Ohio, the preceding week. Nothing pleasant or consoling in any of that.
Gus remarked that she couldn't feel happy about the recent riots, which had claimed the lives of blacks as well as whites in New York City. Over two million dollars' worth of property had been ruined before units of Meade's army arrived from Pennsylvania to quell the disturbances. Those statements — more specifically, Charles's response to them — started an argument.
"You ought to feel happy about it, Gus. We need help wherever we can find it."
"You can't be serious. That was butchery, not war. Women knifed to death. Little children stoned —"
"Nasty, I'll admit. But we can't be tender hearts any longer. Even when we win, we lose. In every battle, both sides expend men, horses, ammunition. The Yanks can afford it — they have plenty of everything. We don't. If they ever find a general who catches on to that, it will be all over for our side."
She shivered. "You sound so bloodthirsty —"
His temper gave way. "And you sound disapproving."
The old defense, a brittle smile, went into place. "Mr. Pope and I wonder about the cause of your bad disposition."
"My disposition's no concern of —"
But she quoted right on top of that: " 'Perhaps was sick —' " an instant's hesitation. " '— in love, or had not dined?' "
Gnawing a chicken wing, Jim asked, "Who's Mr. Pope? Some farmer around here?"
"A poet Mrs. Barclay favors, you dunce."
"Charles, that's rude," she said.
He sighed, "Yes. I'm sorry, Jim."
"Oh — don't matter," Jim answered, his eye on the bone.
"I'd still like to know why you're so disagreeable, Charles."
"I'm disagreeable because we're losing, goddamn it!" On the last word he knocked his pipe against the hearth so hard the stem snapped.
They smoothed over the quarrel later — she took the initiative — and made love twice between midnight and morning. But damage had been done.
Next afternoon, the clouds cleared as the men started their return ride to camp below the Rapidan, where the infantry had retired behind a cavalry screen. All of the commands in the mounted service were to be evaluated again, and possibly reorganized. As if Charles gave a damn.
The sky, suffused with deep orange as the day waned, had a forlorn quality. Autumnal. Cantering beside the young scout, Charles noticed that the turkey feather in Jim's hat band, bent over behind him a few minutes ago, now bent forward, toward the road in front of them.