Around five, Cooper reappeared, gray-faced and tense. "Charles, you'd better come inside."
In the library, he discovered Andy and a twelve-year-old Negro boy who was excited and perspiring. "This is Jarvis, Martha's son," Cooper said to his cousin, thus identifying the youth as part of the Mont Royal population. "Tell us again what you saw, Jarvis."
"I seen a bunch of white an' black men in the marsh about a mile beyond the cabins. They was comin' this way."
"How many is a bunch?" Charles asked.
"Forty. Maybe fifty. They got guns. But they was laughin' and larkin' a lot. Sure not in any hurry. One buck, he was fat as a papa coon in the summertime. He was ridin' an old mule and singin' and joshin' with everybody —"
Andy scowled. "Got to be that damn Cuffey."
"Thank you," Charles said to the boy.
Cooper repeated the words, then abruptly added, "Wait." He reached in his pocket and gave Jarvis a coin, which delighted the youngster. Charles was astonished at the persistence of old patterns, even in a man as free-thinking as Cooper. The little exchange was seen by the woman named Jane, who had appeared silently at the library door. She looked at Cooper with contempt as Jarvis ran out.
Charles felt an old tension in his middle, the kind that always preceded a scrap. At the same time, there came an unexpected buoyancy. The waiting was over.
Cooper said, "Wonder when they'll come?"
"If I were Cuffey," Charles said, "I'd wait till first thing tomorrow — when we're dog-tired from staying up all night keeping watch. Better break out those two Hawkens and anything else that can be put to lethal use."
Andy frowned, as if considering whether he dared speak his mind. He did. "Might make more sense to pack up and leave, Mr. Cooper."
"No," Cooper said in a voice so firm and calm Charles was startled a second time. "This is my home. My family built Mont Royal, and I won't see it lost without a fight."
"My sentiments, too," Charles said. A tired smile. "Not very intelligent but nevertheless my sentiments."
Jane spoke. "And are the others supposed to risk their lives to save a place where you kept them like chattels?"
"Jane," Andy began, stepping forward. She ignored him.
Cooper scowled but quickly controlled his feelings. "No one is forced to stay. Not you or any of the people."
"But most will," Andy said. "I will. There are some good things on Mont Royal."
"Oh, yes," Jane said, though the assent was canceled by her tone. Walking past Charles, she ran a finger along a row of gilt-lettered book spines, rich embossed leathers dyed green, deep maroon, royal blue. "A few. Here's one — Mr. Jefferson's Notes on the State of Virginia —" She faced Cooper, defiant. "He made some wise observations about slaves and slavery. If the South had heeded them, you could have saved yourselves all of this."
"You can lecture us later, Miss Jane," Charles said, overly sharp because he privately agreed with her. "Right now we must call the men together."
"And bring the women and youngsters to one safe place," Cooper added. "Andy, will you get started?"
Nodding, Andy took Jane's arm and guided her out of the library — too firmly for her taste. She reacted by pulling away. Charles could hear them arguing as they left the house.
Cooper cast a glance at the stand holding Orry's old uniform, then sank into a chair. He regarded his cousin with gloomy eyes. "We're in a bad spot, aren't we?"
"Afraid so. The numbers are against us. Best we can do is maybe try an old Plains Indian trick I learned in Texas —" Frowning, he examined the saber he had brought in from the outdoors. One of the strands of fine brass wire that wrapped the hilt was broken.
He realized Cooper was waiting for him to finish. "Kill the leader, and sometimes the rest of the war party will turn back."
Cooper pulled at his lower lip. "Sounds like a pretty faint hope to me."
"It is. Do we have another?"
"Pack and run."
"I thought you said —"
"I did. I want to save this place, and not merely for sentimental reasons. I think we'll need it for survival once there's a surrender. If we run, we can be sure they'll spare nothing."
"All right, it's settled. We stay."
"You needn't."
"What?"
"I mean it, Charles. You came here hunting a remount, not more fighting."
"Hell, Cousin, fighting's all I know how to do. The current unpleasantness has rendered me unfit for a civilized occupation."
They stared at each other, neither man smiling. Charles felt anxious, impatient. The buoyancy returned, more intense than before. There was a battle coming, all right. In the distance, a salt crow screamed and a second one answered.
126
Each time Virgilia heard a carriage on Thirteenth Street, she rushed to the front window and was disappointed. Why was Sam so late? Something wrong at home?
Once more she let the curtain fall. Outside, February dusk deepened over the Northern Liberties. Virgilia's cottage in that outlying village — not the best location, but adequate — was a tidy four-room place, freshly painted after Sam bought it for her. The small lot was enhanced by two giant oaks and a bordering fence of new white pickets.
As the mistress of a congressman, Virgilia found herself constantly experimenting with roles she couldn't have imagined herself playing even a year ago. Tonight the cottage smelled of succulent roast duckling. She had always loathed kitchen work and would never be an accomplished cook. But she was learning. Her lover liked good food and wine.
She was also dressing properly and not just occasionally. Sam liked women well-groomed everywhere but the bedroom. For this visit, she had spent forty minutes arranging her hair, perfumed herself, and put on her best burgundy bombazine over a merciless corset that minimized her waist and emphasized her breasts.
To her immense satisfaction, Virgilia had also been cast as her lover's unofficial adviser. He discussed congressional business with her and had even started to ask her advice on certain matters. On the parlor desk lay a stack of closely written sheets he had left with her last time — the draft of a speech he was to deliver to a Republican caucus a few days after the inaugural. Sam wanted to use the occasion to put distance between himself and the Chief Executive. He had asked for her opinion of what he had written.
He got no such help from his wife, nor did he want any. He would stay married to the woman, though, as he confided to Virgilia, he considered her a sexless nonentity. He suspected his wife knew about the liaison with Virgilia, but he was confident she would never make trouble. His strategy for assuring this was a simple one. He frequently hinted that her situation was precarious and that he might leave her at any moment, although neither was true.
By half past seven the duckling was overdone, and Virgilia was upset. Pacing, she whirled toward the door at the sound of a horse. She flung the door open.
"Sam? Oh, I was so worried —"
It puzzled her that he didn't immediately climb down from the covered seat of the buggy. "I had to rush Emily to the train. Her father's ill in Muncie. She took the children. She'll be away at least a week." Light from the doorway illuminated his smile. "I can stay the night if I'm invited."
"Darling, that's wonderful. Of course you are."
"Then I'll put the horse up. He's been fed. It will take me a few minutes."
While he drove around to the small outbuilding behind the cottage, she warmed the duckling, the yams and snap beans. He came tramping across the backyard, knocking dust from the sleeves of his black frock coat.