Bloody losses had somehow taught Lincoln to revise his opinion of himself as a strategist and infallible judge of the capabilities of generals. On Capitol Square, it was widely held that at some point earlier this year, Lincoln had acknowledged his limitations by transferring control of the war engine to a man who ran it his own way: Grant.
Davis, by contrast, had never learned to recognize personal shortcomings, admit mistakes, adapt to new circumstances, change. The wheel revolved to Cooper again. When had Orry first heard him argue scornfully with their father that the South's greatest peril was its inflexibility? Longer ago than he could precisely remember.
Still, Orry reflected as the swaying wagon bore him toward Chaffin's Bluff, he mustn't be too hard on his own kind. Minds of stone were numerous not only inside Dixie but outside, too. There were plenty in the Yankee Congress; even one or two in the Hazard family, the foremost being Virgilia's.
But it was becoming clear to Orry that after the war ended, a new, entirely different world would arise. In that world there would be but one way for the South to survive and rebuild. That way was to accept what had happened. Accept that no black man would ever again labor unwillingly for a white man's profit. In sum — accept change.
He doubted whether most Southerners could do it. Many would undoubtedly go on hating, resisting, insisting they had been morally right, which Orry no longer believed. But again, he supposed just as many Yankees were willingly entrapped in the old modes of enmity and a yearning for reprisals. It was not, perhaps, merely the Southerner who failed to learn lessons, but every man in every epoch.
Trouble was, when you refused to learn, the result was what surrounded the rumbling wagon: soured earth; abandoned homes; imperiled lives.
Ruin.
Ruin and sadness like that on George Pickett's face when the general accepted Orry's salute and welcomed him to division headquarters.
"How good to see you at last."
"It's good to be here, sir."
A melancholy smile. "I hope you'll say that after you've spent a few weeks in close proximity to our old acquaintance from West Point. We have met a man this time who either doesn't know when he's whipped or doesn't care if he loses his whole army to whip us. There is no way effectively to oppose that kind of man for very long."
There is one, Orry thought. But he wasn't foolish enough to bring up the issue of black recruits and spoil the reunion and his first moments in the war zone.
113
Three women dining.
Constance called for candles instead of gaslight, believing it might warm the atmosphere for supper. It did, but that hardly mattered after her first effort to make conversation.
"Well, here we are —" she raised her claret to toast the guests seated on her right and left at the long table "— three war widows."
"I wish you wouldn't say such a thing," Brett exclaimed.
"Oh, my dear, I'm sorry. It was a clumsy attempt to make a light remark. I apologize."
"It's too serious to joke about," Brett said as Bridgit and a second kitchen girl marched in with china tureens of steaming mock turtle soup.
"I understand what you meant," Madeline said to Constance, "but I agree with Brett." She wore a clean, dark dress, and her hair was neatly arranged, but she hadn't lost the haggard air acquired on her long journey. She plied her spoon and tried to comfort Constance with a smile. "This is absolutely delicious."
Straining equally: "Thank you."
Presently, Constance steered the conversation to a safer track. She laughed and spoke ruefully about her continuing weight problem, hoping that jokes at her own expense would enable them to forgive and forget her misplaced flippancy. She saw little sign of success.
She answered Madeline's questions about her father, Patrick Flynn. He was in the pueblo of Los Angeles and busy improving his Spanish so he could serve native-born clients in addition to the settler community.
"And Virgilia?"
"We never hear from her. I presume she's still with the nurse corps."
"I would think she'd be a little more grateful for the shelter and guidance you gave her," Brett said. "Simple politeness would dictate an occasional letter, if nothing else."
Constance reached for the glinting knife on the cutting board. Smiling, she began to slice the hot, fresh loaf. "Alas, I don't think we can count gratitude among my sister-in-law's virtues."
"Does she have any at all?" Brett countered, and with that fell grimly silent, eating her soup.
Dear Lord, Constance thought, did my blunder cause all this? The answer appeared to be yes. The more she considered the dark possibilities wrapped up in her brief, careless remark, the more it depressed her.
Madeline sensed the tension. She said to Brett, "Tell me about this school for black waifs, won't you?"
"If you'd like, I'll take you up there tomorrow."
"Oh, yes, please."
Brett, too, was feeling ashamed of her outburst. Anxiety was the chief cause. The Ledger-Union was reporting many lives lost along the Petersburg siege lines. The word widow was one she hated to think about in connection with herself.
But she had to be honest; there was another irritant. Madeline's revelation in the rooming house. It had stunned Brett, but more than that, it had loosed an unexpected emotional reaction. As a presumed white woman, Madeline had earned Brett's wholehearted respect and affection. Now — well, she couldn't help it — she regarded Orry's wife differently.
It was a reaction bred into her from childhood. That was an explanation, not an excuse. The reaction shamed her, and yet she seemed powerless to banish it or keep it from affecting her behavior.
Madeline was aware of the new reserve on Brett's part ever since that pivotal moment in Washington. Whenever she felt incensed, she reminded herself that Orry's sister was under great strain, had been living far from her native state for more than three years, had had her husband captured, imprisoned, wounded. That was an immense load for any wife to bear.
Brett's response to the revelation was a curious and ironic contrast to her involvement with the colored orphanage, Madeline thought. Her concern for the welfare of the black children was evident from the passion and frequency with which she spoke of them. At least that was a change, and a remarkable one for a young woman bred in the frequently arrogant traditions of the Carolina low country. The war was changing everyone and everything in some fashion; a pity it couldn't alter old attitudes about black blood.
She hoped Brett would eventually be capable of overlooking what she now clearly regarded as a taint. If not — well, it would certainly alter family relationships. It sometimes seemed to Madeline that God had put Americans to a cruel, perhaps impossible test when He permitted the Dutch to land that first shipload of slaves on the Virginia coast so long ago. The black man out of Africa had repeatedly exposed the white man's weaknesses. It was, perhaps, fitting revenge for the moment when the leg irons clinked shut.
There had been unpleasant notes sounded at this table tonight. Three war widows. She understood the attempt at lightness but found it disturbing. Thank heaven Orry had done nothing about joining Pickett's staff. He should be relatively safe in Richmond until the city fell. Afterward, he might be interned awhile — even mistreated — but he would survive that; he was a strong, brave man.
Trying to restart conversation, Madeline once more addressed Brett. "This friend of yours — the one who operates the orphanage — will I have a chance to meet him?"
"I think so. I expect he'll pay at least one more visit before he goes into the army. I certainly hope he will." Brett smiled. "You'll like him, I know."