George was mired in work, but he assured Stanton there would be no problem. From the brief conversation, he gained not the slightest hint as to the secretary's opinion about the Academy. Mr. Stanton, he concluded, was by design a circular fortress — safe from attack from any direction.
Though the Board of Visitors appointment meant more pressure, George was thankful to have it. His job had grown so frustrating he hated to open his eyes in the morning, because that meant donning his uniform and going to the Winder Building. His work with artillery contracts was constantly interrupted by interminable meetings. Should the department recommend adoption of rifle shells — Minie balls with time fuses that exploded after firing? Should the department test shells containing liquid chlorine, which would turn to a heavy, deadly gas when released? George also continued to interview inventors of patently insane weapons. One day he wasted three hours examining drawings of a two-barrel fieldpiece designed to fire a pair of cannonballs linked by a chain. The chain was supposed to decapitate several soldiers when the balls landed.
"We court the lunatics, and the sane inventors stay away," he protested to Constance. "They can get a better hearing from a bootblack than they can from us."
"You're exaggerating again."
"Think so? Read this." Into her hands he thrust the latest Scientific American whose editorializing had sent Ripley into a rage:
We fear that the skill of our mechanics, the self-sacrifice of our people, and the devoted heroism of our troops in their efforts to save the country will all be rendered futile by the utter incompetency which controls the war and navy departments of the government.
"They deem us fools, and they're right," he growled when she finished. She had nothing to say. He went off to see the children in a grumpy, abrasive mood that was becoming a constant in their lives.
Only one thing helped him survive in the Winder Building. It was not possible for Ripley to interfere with everything, and he now seemed inclined to refrain from meddling with the artillery program. The turnabout had come in April when Parrott rifles had proven their worth by quickly reducing Savannah's Fort Pulaski to ruins. Still, George felt like a man hanging from a ledge. How much longer his hands would hold out he didn't know.
Interwoven with his work and the war were the no less important events of day-to-day family life, some amusing, some troublesome, many just mundane and tiring. Constance by some miracle had found a small, snug house for rent in Georgetown, near the college. By mid-July they were into the upheaval of moving. For a week George roared around the place unable to locate his under-drawers, his cigars, or any other necessities of life.
One morning Patricia found the bedclothes reddened, and though her mother had prepared her with information about young womanhood, she wept for an hour.
William was growing rapidly, and his attitude toward girls was changing from loathing to interest tinctured with suspicion. Early in the war he had often said he couldn't wait to grow up, enlist, and have a grand time fighting for the Union. The long day and longer night after Bull Run had put an end to those declarations.
No letters came from Billy — another cause for concern. Often at night, when George had worried all he could about Old Ripley and the army, he would lie awake fretting about his younger brother or his old friend Orry.
Except for Brett, living in Lehigh Station, ties between the Hazards and the Mains were broken. Where was Orry? Where was Charles? A letter smuggler might be hard put to find either of them, though George supposed it could be done if absolutely necessary. What mattered was not that they exchanged letters but that they all came through this dark passage unhurt.
He never worried about Stanley. His older brother was dressing well and living lavishly. Stanley and Isabel were intimate with Washington's most powerful men and seen at the city's most prestigious social gatherings. George couldn't understand how it could happen to someone as incompetent as Stanley.
"There are seasons, George," Constance said by way of answer. "Cycles for all things — the Bible says that. Stanley stood in your shadow for a long time."
"And now I'm to be hidden in his?"
"No, I didn't mean to imply —"
"It's the truth. It makes me mad."
"I feel a bit jealous myself, if you must know. On the other hand, I'm sure Isabel is the chief architect of their success, and I'd hang myself before I'd change places with her."
George puffed his cigar. "You know, I can't forget that I hit Stanley after the train wreck. Maybe this is justice. Maybe it's my punishment."
"Did you notice how friendly the secretary was?" Stanley exclaimed one Saturday night in July. Their carriage was taking them home from a Shakespearean performance at Leonard Graver's new theater on the site of the old National on E Street. "Did you notice that, Isabel?"
"Why shouldn't Stanton be cordial? You're one of his best employees. He knows he can trust you."
Stanley preened. Could it be true? The evidence certainly pointed that way. He was on good terms with the dogmatic but unquestionably patriotic secretary, at the same time maintaining friendly relations with Wade, to whom he occasionally passed bits of information about confidential War Department matters. Lashbrook's was prospering beyond all expectations, and Stanley was now anticipating a trip to New Orleans, there to establish additional trading contracts of a sensitive but potentially lucrative nature. He was making the world not merely his oyster but a whole plate of them. Strange how a savage war could change a man's life so greatly.
There were only a few aspects of Stanley's role of fierce Republican that he didn't like. He mentioned one to Isabel when they got to bed that night.
"The Confiscation Act's to be signed this week. The slaves will be freed in captured territory, and use of colored troops approved. But there's more coming. Stanton told me so during the second intermission, while you were in the toilet."
"Don't utter that word in my presence. Tell me what you learned from Stanton."
"The President's drafting an executive order." Stanley paused to achieve an effect. "He wants to free all the slaves."
"My God. Are you sure?"
"Well, all of them in the Confederacy at least. I don't believe he'll touch slavery in Kentucky or the other border states."
"Ah. I didn't think he was that much of an idealist. It won't be a humanitarian measure, then, but a punitive one." She continued, grudgingly, "Lincoln has all the charm of a pig, but I'll give him this: he's a shrewd politician."
"How can you say that, Isabel? Do you want mobs of freed niggers swarming into the North? Think of the unrest. Think of the jobs decent white men will lose. The whole idea's scandalous."
"You'd better keep that opinion private if you want to keep the friendship of Stanton and Ben Wade."
"But —"
"Stop, Stanley. When you dine at the devil's house, you can't choose the menu. Play your part. The loyal Republican."
He did, although it galled him to hear all the talk of emancipation suddenly flying through the offices and corridors, the parlors and saloon bars of official and unofficial Washington. Lincoln's radical proposal offended many whites who got wind of it, and it was sure to cause social upheaval if it were implemented. Stanley obeyed his wife, however, and kept his views to himself.