"And what about all this?" said Sawyer, pointing his cigar out the window.
"Well, it — the riot seemed to expand. The news came in through Army channels about ten-thirty. I ordered the Fort patrols out at eleven. All key military points were defended by midnight, with patrols at the shipyard perimeter, the docks and ordnance works, Sewell's Point, and — key civilian neighborhoods. This was coordinated with Commander Channing at the Naval Base. Now, the fires — they started early that morning. This morning. In widely scattered neighborhoods, but all colored. I had local radio stations pass the word for all citizens to stay indoors. The looting peaked before sunrise; after that there was no organized resistance to police or patrols. General quiet was restored by about eight. Nevertheless, I thought it best to keep them indoors for the day—"
"Yes," Sawyer said, nodding. "You seem to have handled this all pretty well. I'll relay that to Richmond when I get back."
"Thank you, sir," said Quidley.
Presently the gray car slowed, and flashed its lights twice. Quidley and Sawyer returned the sentries' salutes as the Bentley purred through gates and barbed wire into Fort Davis. "Port Control," said Quidley to Roberts. To Sawyer he said, "You'll want me at this briefing, sir?"
"Sure do, Major. You won't be directly involved, but I want you to know what's going on. After all, you're — what is it?"
"Port Security Officer," said Quidley.
"Right. We'll be depending on you to keep this all under wraps. It would definitely cause… problems… if even one whisper of Shiloh…" Sawyer glanced significantly forward, at Sergeant Roberts' close-cropped head.
He nodded, tensing. It was a word, or a name, he'd heard before. As security officer of Hampton Roads, the Confederacy's largest seaport, he was the center of a net of operatives and covert police personnel and officials in factories, military units, and service organizations. Army Intelligence at Castle Thunder considered it his duty to hear all and know all, at least as far as southeastern Virginia was concerned. And of recent weeks a strange word, almost a code, had been reported to him as in use at establishments as diverse as the Marine Corps Amphibious Planning Office at Little Creek and at the oil-transfer piers in Portsmouth. The word, his people had reported, occurred only in conversations between high-ranking managers and officers, and even then was used with great caution. Quidley had even heard General Norris use it once… overheard it, rather, as he was stepping into the general's office, and had seen Norris start and lower the phone as he ordered him out to wait.
That word was Shiloh. Meaningless… as the name of one of the first great battles of the War of Secession, fought on the Tennessee, ending in Johnston's death and mutual heavy losses. But what did it really mean? In half an hour or less, he'd know.
The Bentley braked; he felt Roberts ease off at the last instant so they'd roll gently to a halt, rather than jerk. Roberts was a good driver, if a little forgetful in matters of his uniform. Both he and Sawyer sat stiffly as Roberts opened first the colonel's door and then the major's, and saluted. Quidley nodded. "Up here, sir."
Port Control, near the center of Fort Davis, was ten stories tall, high enough for its upper levels to serve as observation posts for seaward firing. The lowest levels were of heavy concrete, with tall windows barely a foot wide framing a colonnaded entrance way. Sawyer sighed as the doors swung closed behind them. "Air conditioned. Thank God."
"Would the Colonel like to freshen up? We have a few minutes left."
"I sure would. I've been sweating like a pig ever since I got off the train."
OFFICERS ONLY, a discreet sign advised. The attendant, old, colored, bowed and brought towels and a small tray of toiletries. Sawyer disappeared into the black- Quidley ran a moistened cloth over his face, selected a touch of French cologne, and turned to check his appearance in the full-length mirror.
Aubrey Lee Quidley IV, Major, Confederated States Army (CSA), was tall and thin as a saber. The tailored gray melton army tunic was severely cut save for three stripes of thin gold braid that intertwined gleaming from cuff to elbow. The gray trousers, or jodhpurs, were traced along the outer seam by a single inch-wide buff stripe that disappeared into soft brown knee-height riding boots; their hue was matched by a polished leather Sam Browne belt that crossed his tunic, supporting a holstered .455 Leech & Rigdon semiautomatic. A gold needlework star gleamed at his collar. He nodded in satisfaction; the uniform was right.
And so was the face. It was a typical Quidley face. High forehead. Sandy-dark hair, beginning to recede and to gray slightly at thirty-four. Eyes too of cadet gray, steady and, as he thought of them, forthright; actually they protruded slightly, but this was only visible in profile. Except for a barely visible auburn moustache he was smoothly shaven; even without sleep there was time for that. The receding chin alone (which all the Quidleys, a family old and well respected in Raleigh, had) seemed out of place, almost petulant.
The old man was back, flicking subserviently at his shoulders with a stiff brush. "Get that dirty thing away," he said sharply. "Is the Colonel—"
"All done," said Sawyer, emerging from one of the stalls. He sniffed the air, looked at Quidley, looked at the tray, and contented himself with washing his hands.
The briefing room was on the fifth floor. Several other men, officers and civilians, joined them in the elevator. Quidley recognized some of them. Commander Channing, his opposite number for the Navy; they nodded as their eyes met. A Coast Artillery colonel from Battery Davis, whom he'd worked for when he was an observer, years before. Two dark-suited civilians; Confederate Bureau of Investigation. He didn't know them but they looked like Richmond boys. At the second floor the elevator stopped for a short square man of middle age in Royal Navy uniform, with the gold-encrusted sleeve of an admiral. Moving to the rear, Quidley searched his memory for that weathered face and came up with Sir Leigh Vickery, the British Empire's liaison with its staunchest ally, and commander of the Allied Western Atlantic Fleet. If he was here, Shiloh must be… important.
The elevator slowed. Fifth floor. "After you, sir."
"Identification, please, gentlemen."
"I'm Colonel Sawyer—"
"Your ID, sir." The marine was polite but inflexible. Quidley noted that he carried his sidearm loaded and cocked.
"Here it is, then," said Sawyer, holding out the gray military ID.
"Pass, sir." The table had places for twenty; when they were all seated it was almost filled. Quidley glanced around at a quiet green carpet. A lectern. A few prints on the paneled walls, mostly War of Secession battle scenes: Sumter; Manassas; Chancellorsville; Gettysburg, the "pivot of victory"; Harrisonville, the famous Brady photograph of the truce meeting, Lee and Meade shaking hands warily, an anonymous farmer smirking in the background. Facing north, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Chesapeake. From his seat he could see all the way to Cape Charles and to the rolling green of the Atlantic to the east. And to the west, a dark stain on the horizon, the buildings and battlements of the enemy.
"Attention," said someone, and there was a scrape of chairs as everyone rose.
"Seats, please, gentlemen," said General Norris. He paused on his way to the head of the table to shake Vickery's hand and say a word of welcome, then sat. He glanced at the marines, who stepped outside and closed the door.
Short, white-haired, Norris spoke in a stammering, high-pitched voice. "Pardon me, gentlemen, but it's been a bad night… we've had a bit of trouble recently, in town… but police authorities have assured me it's now under control. Military involvement will be minimal." He smiled briefly at Sawyer. "Earl, good to see you. I should get up to Castle Thunder more often."