George recognized a jibe at the Academy when he heard one. This time he really had to fight the impulse to hit the old bastard.
"— too qualified, if you see what I mean. Have you considered applying for staff duty with General Grant?"
George showed his highest card. "I attended West Point with Sam Grant. I campaigned with him from Vera Cruz to Mexico City. Maybe I should apply to him to straighten out this mess." He shook the pouch. "I was granted a transfer to the military railroads, and now I find I'm refused."
In seconds, McCallum turned gray as the weather. "Nae, nae — there's no need to involve higher-ups in this. No problem's insurmountable. The rules can be bent a wee bit. We can find you a place —"
Seeing George mollified, the older man studied him in a sly way. "If you are indeed willing to lead colored men."
"That's what I said, Colonel. I am."
Twenty-four hours later, in the mustering area, George met his two squads and began to question the certainty with which he had spoken. Tense, he inspected the Negroes while they inspected him. If his scrutiny reflected interest and curiosity, theirs was suspicious. In a few cases, hostile.
They were no more varied, physically, than any randomly gathered group of men except, George quickly observed, in one way: all but one of the blacks were taller than George.
He had dressed for this meeting with special care, though the effect was the opposite. His outfit consisted of old corduroy trousers, non-regulation, stuffed into muddy boots, and a short fatigue jacket of summer-weight linen. He wore no insignia except a turreted-castle-and-wreath device pinned at a careless angle on the stubby collar of the jacket. The silver metal of the device showed he was an officer, but that was all.
At that, he looked better than his men, most of whom were dressed for duty, not show. Their pants were as assorted as their faces, but all had regulation army pullover work shirts without cuffs. At the long-vanished moment of manufacture, the cotton flannel shirts had been white. Three men wore shoes whose uppers had separated front the soles. Products of Stanley's factory, perhaps?
Preparing to address the men, George clasped his hands behind his back and unconsciously raised on tiptoes. Someone caught that and chuckled. George spoke at once, loudly.
"My name is Hazard. I have just transferred to the Construction Corps. Henceforward, you men will be working for me."
"No, sir," said the one Negro shorter than George, a dusky mite with wrists no thicker than saplings. "I'm takin' orders from you, but I'm workin' for me."
The quickness amused George, but he felt he shouldn't show it. "Let me see if I understand. Are you saying you're a free man, therefore this duty is your choice?"
The dusky man grinned. "You're pretty smart — for a white boss."
Laughter. George couldn't help joining in. His tension broke. These men would be all right.
96
Burdetta Halloran had carried her investigation as far as she could. Now she must involve the authorities. But to whom should she give her information?
The question stayed with her, unanswered, during the frightening raid conducted by two bodies of Union horse, led by Brigadier Judson Kilpatrick and Colonel Ulric Dahlgren, son of the Yankee admiral of the same name. Kilpatrick's men had ridden to within two and a half miles of Capitol Square before home guards under Bob Lee's boy Custis drove them back, with assistance from Wade Hampton.
The second attacking force, five hundred horse commanded by Dahlgren, approached Richmond through Goochland County. After Dahlgren died from enemy fire, a thirteen-year-old boy found orders and a memorandum book on the body. The documents, in Dahlgren's handwriting, outlined the purposes of the raid.
Prisoners to be set free. Richmond to be put to the torch. President Davis to be executed, together with all members of his cabinet.
The Confederate capital, which had reeled with fright at the approach of the cavalry, began reeling with rage the moment the contents of Dahlgren's papers were disclosed. The liars in Washington immediately claimed every word a forgery.
During the emergency, there was little outward change in the life of the auburn-haired widow. Burdetta Halloran continued to wage her daily war with escalating prices and the riffraff swarming on the streets and the pervasive certainty that the armies of U.S. Grant would strike at the Confederacy with the onset of warm weather.
Most of all, Mrs. Halloran struggled with the question of greatest emotional importance to her. How to set retribution in motion? If she waited too long and Richmond came under siege, government officials might be too busy to listen to her. The quarry might escape. To whom should she speak?
She was still without an answer when a friend boasted that she had been invited to one of the increasingly rare levees at the White House. Pleading, Mrs. Halloran arranged an invitation for herself. She had by this time rejected the idea of going to the most logical person, old Winder.
She did so for several reasons. He was vile-tempered, with a reputation for being contemptuous of women. His staff consisted mostly of illiterate former criminals. And he acted so harshly and precipitously in many cases that he had a long record of overturned arrests and thwarted prosecutions. Gossip said he wouldn't last another three months. Mrs. Halloran wanted to deal with some official who could handle her information properly.
On the evening of the levee — late March — more than a hundred people filled the White House. Wearing her finest dark blue velvet — a trifle heavy, but rich-looking — Mrs. Halloran quickly separated herself from her friend in order to circulate.
She took a cup of sassafras tea — she would drink nothing spiritous tonight; she wanted a clear head — and over the rim surveyed the crowd of government officials and senior military men and their wives. A merry crowd, she thought, considering the circumstances. Then she spied Varina Davis.
Only in her late thirties, the President's wife had the worn appearance of a woman twenty years older. Her husband's burdens had become hers. The President himself, gracious as ever with his guests, was, like his spouse, clearly exhausted. Small wonder, Mrs. Halloran thought as she recovered from the shock of seeing the first lady. Davis was under fire on every front. Under fire because he clung to Bragg and rejected Joe Johnston. Under fire because of worthless money and runaway prices. Under fire because his government and his leadership had failed for three years and continued to fail.
Burdetta Halloran tried not to become depressed as she mingled. She kept her mind on her objective.
She joined a group around Secretary Seddon. Grimly, the secretary was describing how he had nearly lost his Goochland County estate to the torch of Dahlgren's raiders. She moved on to plump, suave Benjamin, who had many more listeners than Mr. Seddon.
"I contend that the Confederacy might do well to steal a leaf from Lincoln's book and adopt his program of emancipation in toto."
The reactions — astonishment, anger — did nothing to perturb Benjamin. Up came one cautioning, well-manicured hands as he continued. "It is, I know, a proposition easy to dismiss as radical. But consider: at one stroke we could augment our depleted army with great numbers of Negroes and instantly undercut all the moralizing that has become a way of life for the black Republicans."
"Nigras will never fight for the people who chained them," someone snorted.
Benjamin first replied with a nod and a rueful smile. "That, of course, is the plan's great flaw. In any case, the President has asked that I do not promote my view to the public at large. I comply. I therefore ask you to regard this conversation as private, among close friends. I endeavor to be, always, a good and faithful servant."