Jefferson Davis looked several years younger than fifty-one; his military bearing and his slim figure helped create the impression, as did his abundant hair. Worn long at the back of his neck, it showed almost no white. Nor did his tuft of chin whiskers.
"But Mr. Huntoon," he said, "I do insist that a central government must institute certain measures mandated by its existence in a time of war. Conscription, for example."
They had fallen into an amiable philosophic discussion, Huntoon and the soft-spoken President and a third man, Secretary of State Toombs. Toombs was said to be a malcontent, already spreading disaffection in the administration. He particularly criticized West Point because Davis, class of '28, placed a great trust in some of its graduates.
"You mean you would enact it into law?" Huntoon challenged. He had strong beliefs and relished the chance to make them known.
"If it became necessary, I would urge that, yes."
"You'd order men out from the several states, the way that nigger-loving baboon has done?"
Davis managed to sound annoyed when he sighed. "Mr. Lincoln has asked for volunteers, nothing more. We have done the same. On both sides, conscription is at this point purely theoretical."
"But I submit, sir — with all respect to you and your office — it is a theory that must never be tested. It runs counter to the doctrine of supremacy of the states. If they should be forced to surrender that supremacy to a central power, we'll have a duplication of the circus in Washington."
Gray eyes flashed then; and the left one, nearly blind, looked as wrathful as the right. Huntoon had heard gossip about the President's temper; they worked in the same building, after all. It was said that Davis took any disagreement as a personal attack and behaved accordingly.
"Be that as it may, Mr. Huntoon, my responsibility's clear. I am charged with making this new nation viable and successful."
Equally hot, Huntoon said, "How far will you go, then? I've heard that certain members of the West Point clique have suggested we enlist the darkies to fight for us. Will you do that?"
Davis laughed at the idea, but Toombs exclaimed, "Never. The day the Confederacy permits a Negro to enter the ranks of its armies — on that day, the Confederacy will be degraded, ruined, and disgraced."
"I agree," Huntoon snapped. "Now, as to conscription itself —"
"Theoretical," Davis repeated sharply. "It is my hope to win recognition of this government without excessive bloodshed. Constitutionally, we were entirely right to do what we did. I will not behave, or prosecute a war, as if we were in the wrong. Nevertheless, a central government must be stronger than its separate parts, or else —"
"No, sir," Huntoon interrupted. "The states will never tolerate it."
Davis seemed to pale and blur; then Huntoon realized his metal-rimmed spectacles were steaming.
"If that be so, Mr. Huntoon, the Confederacy won't last a year. You may have the doctrine of states' rights, pristine and scrupulously enforced, or you may have a new country. You can't have both without some accommodation. So take your choice."
Giddy with anger, Huntoon blurted, "My choice is not to be a party to autocratic thinking, Mr. President. Further —"
"If you will excuse me." Spots of color showed in the President's cheeks as he pivoted and left. Toombs followed.
Huntoon fumed. If the President resented disagreement about fundamental principles, the devil with him. The man was very definitely the wrong sort. He gave mere lip service to the ideals of Calhoun and the other great statesmen who had endured the calumnies of the North for a generation and exhausted themselves fighting for man's right to own what property he pleased. Huntoon was glad he had told Davis —
"You blundering, simple-minded —"
"Ashton!"
"I can't believe what I overheard. You should have flattered him, and you spouted political cant."
Scarlet, he seized her wrist, crushing the velvet band under sweaty fingers. "People claim he acts like a dictator. I wanted to confirm that. I did. I expressed my strong convictions about —"
By then she was leaning close, smiling her warmest smile, flooding him with the sweet odor of her breath. "Shit on your strong convictions. Instead of introducing me so I could help you — ease you through a prickly situation — you blathered and argued, and sounded the knell for your already insignificant career."
She exploded into swift motion, bumping guests and drawing stares as she stormed toward the refreshments, tears in her eyes. Idiot. She clutched a chilled punch cup between her hands; she had removed her gloves because sweat had soaked them. The idiot. He's wrecked everything.
Anger quickly gave way to a feeling of depression. A fine social opportunity had been ruined; large groups of people were already starting to leave. As she sipped punch, she wanted to sink into the floor and die. She had come to Richmond in search of the power she had always craved, and in a few sentences he had guaranteed he would never get it for her.
Very well — she would find someone else. Someone to help her rise. An intellectual ally, or, better, a man on whom she could use certain skills she knew she possessed. A man more intelligent and tactful than James; more dedicated to success and adept at achieving it —
Thus, in a minute or less, in Parlor 83 of the Spotswood, Ashton made up her mind. Huntoon had never been much of a husband; her secret box of special souvenirs validated that. Henceforth, he'd be a husband in name only. Perhaps he wouldn't even be that if she could find the proper replacement,
She lifted the empty cup. "Might I have regular champagne?" Gaily smiling again, she handed it to the Negro behind the table. "I can't abide punch that's gone flat."
The tall man in the blue velvet frock coat extinguished his long cigar in a sand urn. Having asked a few questions to be certain about relationships, he strolled through the thinning crowd toward his target — the perspiring, bespectacled oaf who had just had a ferocious argument with his wife. Earlier, the tall man had noticed the wife enter the room, and within his tight fawn trousers his penis had hardened. Few women did that to him so quickly.
The tall man was thirty-five or so, with a muscular frame and delicate hands. He moved gracefully and wore his clothes well; yet a certain coarseness communicated itself, due in part to the presence of childhood pox scars. Smooth, slightly pomaded hair, evenly mixed gray and dark brown, hung to his collar in the Davis fashion. He glided up beside Huntoon. Confused and upset, the lawyer stood polishing and polishing his glasses with a damp handkerchief.
"Good evening, Mr. Huntoon."
The resonant voice startled Huntoon; the man had slipped up behind him. "Good evening. You have the advantage of me —"
"Quite right. You were pointed out to me. Your family's an old and famous one down in our part of the world, I might say."
What was the fellow up to, Huntoon wondered. Promoting some investment scheme, perhaps? He was out of luck there — Ashton controlled the only money they had, the forty thousand dollars that had been her marriage dower.
"Are you a South Carolinian, Mr. —?"
"Powell. Lamar Hugh Augustus Powell. Lamar to friends. No, sir, I'm not from your state, but close by. My mother's people are from Georgia. The family's heavily into cotton, near Valdosta. My father was English. Took my mother as a bride to Nassau, where I was raised, and he practiced law until he died some years ago."
"The Bahamas. That explains it." Huntoon's attempt to smile and be ingratiating struck Powell as insipid and funny. This sod would present no problem. But where —?