"Wish we'd get out of this damn camp and see the elephant," Ambrose said as he prepared to attack the shad.
"Do not ask for that which you know nothing about, my good friend," the prince said, somber suddenly; he had been blooded in the Crimea and had told Charles of some of the horrors witnessed there. "It's an idle wish anyway, I believe. This Confederacy of yours — she is in the same happy position as my homeland in 1812."
"Explain that, Prince," Charles said.
"Simple enough. The land itself will win the war for you. It is so vast — so spread from here to there — the enemy will soon despair of conquering it and abandon the effort. Little or no fighting will be necessary for a victory. That is my professional prediction."
"Hope it's wrong," Charles said. "I'd like one chance to wear this to accept the surrender of some Yanks." He touched the scabbard. The various drinks had combined to banish what he knew about the nature of war and create a pleasant sense of invulnerability.
"The sword is a gift from your cousin, you said. May I examine it?"
Charles drew the saber; reflections of the candles ran like lightning along the blade as he passed the weapon to Serbakovsky. He inspected it closely. "Solingen. Very fine." He returned it. "Beautiful. I would keep a sharp eye on it. Serving with these Louisiana guttersnipes, I have discovered that soldiers in America are like soldiers everywhere. Whatever can be stolen, they will steal."
Drunk, Charles managed to forget the warning right away. Nor did he hear the sound of one man, perhaps more, moving on again after stopping in the dark beyond the netting.
21
From the valise on the dirty floor, Stanley took the samples and set them on the desk, which was clean and bare of so much as a single piece of paper. The factory had no business; it was shut down. A property broker had directed the Hazards there shortly after they arrived in the town of Lynn.
The man at the desk was temporarily acting as a sort of caretaker for the factory. He was a husky, ruddy fellow, white-haired and broad about the middle. Stanley put his age at fifty-five. The man picked up the samples, one per hand, with a quickness suggesting he hated his idle state.
"The Jefferson style," he said, tapping a free finger on the moderately high quarter of the shoe. "Issued to the cavalry as well as the infantry."
"You know your business, Mr. Pennyford," Stanley said with a smarmy smile. He distrusted New Englanders — people who spoke with such a queer accent couldn't be normal — but he needed this man on his side. "A contract for bootees of this type would find a broad and lucrative market."
"In heaven's name, Stanley, call them by their right name. They're shoes," Isabel said from near the window. The light of a dark day through a filthy pane didn't flatter her; outside, a late June storm pounded the roofs of Lynn.
Stanley took pleasure in retorting, "The government doesn't use the term."
Pennyford backed him up. "In military circles, Mrs. Hazard, the word shoe signifies footwear for a lady. Mighty odd, if you ask me. Strikes me there's plenty that's odd in Washington."
"To the point, Mr. Pennyford," Stanley broke in. "Could that rusty machinery downstairs manufacture large quantities of this item and do it quickly and cheaply?"
"Quickly? Ayah — once I effect some repairs the present owners couldn't afford. Cheaply?" He flicked one of the samples with a finger. "Nothing could be cheaper than these. Two eyelets — only pegs twixt the sole and upper —" One wrench of his strong hands separated the two parts of the right shoe. "These are a disgrace to the cordwainer's trade. I'd hate to be a poor soldier boy wearing them in mud or snow. If Washington sees fit to issue such trash to our brave lads, Washington is more than odd; Washington's contemptible."
"Spare me your moralizing, please," Stanley said, seeming to inflate as he did so. "Can the Lashbrook Footwear Company turn out this kind of bootee?"
Reluctantly: "Ayah." He leaned forward, startling Stanley. "But we can do much better. There's this fellow Lyman Blake who has invented the greatest advance in factory equipment I've ever seen, and I have been in the trade since I apprenticed at age nine. Blake's machine sews the uppers and sole together swiftly — cleanly — securely. Another man will soon be manufacturing the machine — Blake lacked capital and sold his design — but I'll wager that within a year his invention will bring this industry and the entire state back to life."
"Not quite, Mr. Pennyford," Isabel countered with a smile meant to put him in his place. "What will bring prosperity back to Massachusetts and the shoe industry is a long war and contracts that can be obtained by well-connected men like my husband."
Pennyford's cheeks grew dark as ripe apples. Alarmed, Stanley said, "Mr. Pennyford was only trying to be helpful, Isabel. You will stay on, won't you, Dick? Manage the factory as you did before it closed?"
Pennyford stayed silent quite a while. "I would not like to do this kind of work, Mr. Hazard. But, candidly, I have nine children to house, feed, and clothe, and there are many factories shuttered in Lynn, and few jobs. I will stay — on one condition. You must permit me to run things my own way, without interference, so long as I produce the agreed-upon product, in the agreed-upon quantity, by the agreed-upon date."
Stanley whacked the desk. "Done!"
"I think the whole place can be had for about two hundred thousand," Pennyford added. "Lashbrook's widow is desperate for cash."
"We will locate the representatives of the estate and call on them immediately."
Purchase was arranged by noon the next day, with virtually no haggling. Stanley felt euphoric as he helped Isabel board a southbound train at the grimy depot. Seated in the overheated dining car enjoying eggs and bacon — Isabel loathed his plebeian taste in food — he couldn't contain his enthusiasm.
"We found a treasure in that Dick Pennyford. Now what about buying some of those new machines he described?"
"We ought to weigh that carefully." She meant she would do the weighing. "We needn't worry whether our shoes are durable, only that we deliver enough of them to make money. If the new machines will speed up production — well, then, perhaps."
"We'll make money," Stanley exclaimed as the train swayed around a bend. The whistle howled. The summer storm continued to dash rain against the glass beside their table. "I'm confident of it. Why, do you realize" — he forked eggs into his mouth, speaking while chewing — "you and I will soon be perfect examples of the boss's definition of a patriot?"
"What's that?"
"Someone infused with love of the old flag and an appropriation."
He continued to eat and chew vigorously. Isabel was pensive. She left her broiled fish untouched and sat with gloved hands under her chin, her eyes fixed on the dreary landscape streaming by. "We mustn't confine our thinking to narrow limits, Stanley."
"What do you mean?"
"I heard some fascinating gossip before we left Washington. Certain industrialists are said to be hunting ways and means to trade with the Confederacy in the event of a long war."
Stanley clacked his fork to his plate. His lower jaw had dropped down in front of the napkin stuffed into his collar. "You aren't suggesting —"
"Imagine an arrangement," she went on, low-voiced, "by which military shoes were privately exchanged for cotton. How many shoe factories are there down South? Few or none, I'll bet. Imagine the need — and the price you could get for a bale of cotton if you resold it up here. Multiply the price several thousand times and think of the profit. Enormous."
"But that kind of trade would be — " He sensed someone hovering and glanced up. "We're not finished, boy." He supplemented the remark with a glare at the black waiter, who left again. The table cut into Stanley's paunch as he whispered: "It would be dangerous, Isabel. Worse than that, it would be treason."