Bent lathered his face, opened his razor case, and set about making himself presentable. He was astonished at the ease with which he had accomplished his mission thus far. Of course he had taken precautions — ridden to Richmond with two pistols and a concealed knife — but the rest had been absurdly simple. Whenever he was stopped, he simply showed the pass forged by one of Baker's specialists. His speech caused him no trouble because he was in a part of the South in which the mushy accents of the cotton states sounded foreign. Furthermore, Yankees — whores and speculators, mostly — could be found all over town.
Concerning the female invaders, a barman had given him a piece of advice: "Don't you fret one minute about the safety of Richmond till you see the Baltimore whores trying to buy train tickets. Then you should worry."
Too late for breakfast but in plenty of time to eat a huge midday meal, Bent spent an uncomfortable hour with the minor bureaucrats, traveling men, and low-ranking officers who packed the two communal tables in the dining room. The landlady offered him a strip of black satin, something she was providing for every guest. Inwardly contemptuous, he nevertheless thanked her effusively and tied the armband on his left sleeve.
With the Tredegar information hidden in a special pocket in his coat lining, a pocket he had sewn shut as soon as he filled it, he trudged to Capitol Square and stood in the shuffling line of people who moaned and wept for the dead traitor in a way he found disgusting. When he reached the bier, he hardly recognized the man lying there. But he tried to affect a soulful expression and dabbed at one eye before moving on.
He was jolted by the sight of two people farther back in line: a man with round glasses, nearly as heavy as Bent but in his opinion considerably less handsome, and a woman whose dark beauty sounded chords of familiarity. He approached an officer standing by himself.
"Beg pardon, Major — do you happen to know that couple over there? I think the woman may be a distant relative of my wife."
The officer couldn't help him, but a man with the sleek look of a high-ranking government official overheard and said, "Oh, that's Huntoon. From South Carolina. He has a minor job at Treasury."
Bent almost shook with excitement. "South Carolina, you say? Would his wife's maiden name happen to be Main?"
He asked the question with such intensity that the civilian's suspicions were aroused. "I certainly couldn't tell you that." Nor would he mention to this fat, sweaty fellow, who looked more speculator than Southerner, that he was acquainted with the woman's brother, Colonel Main of the War Department. The civilian excused himself quickly.
Bent hurried into the square and paused by the great statue of Washington, whose birthday those on both sides continued to celebrate. He lingered until the couple emerged and entered a barouche driven by an old Negro. The barouche rolled past Bent where he lounged in the shade of the statue's pedestal. The woman took no notice of him or any of her surroundings; she was busy berating her husband. She struck Bent as arrogant, but she definitely resembled Orry Main. She was worth investigating.
Now that he had accomplished his first mission without a hitch, he was full of confidence. On the spot he decided to risk one more day in the Confederate capital.
In bed that night, he formulated his plan. Next morning he called at the post office as soon as it opened. He introduced himself as Mr. Bell, a native of Louisville, and persuaded the clerk to overlook any deficiencies in his accent by passing a folded bill over the counter. The clerk opened a thick book and found the address of James Huntoon.
Hiring a hack, Bent drove past the Grace Street residence twice. Then, downtown again, he searched the stores till he found some over-priced linen that could be torn up to simulate bandages. He fretted through the next few hours at his lodging house. He planned to call late in the day, before the government offices closed.
Around four, he walked out Grace Street and, when he was unobserved, paused for a swig from a metal flask kept in his side pocket. In an alley two blocks from his destination, he tied the linen into a sling and slid his left forearm through. A few minutes later, the same black man he had seen driving the barouche admitted him to the foyer.
"Yes, Miz Huntoon's at home, but she wasn't expectin' callers."
"I'm a visitor in the city. Tell her it's important."
"Your name again, sar?"
"Bellingham. Captain Erasmus Bellingham, on furlough from General Longstreet's corps." Longstreet was currently far from Richmond, which was the reason for that particular lie. "I must soon return to duty, so kindly ask your mistress to see me at once."
Homer led Bent to a small sitting room, then trudged off. Bent was too nervous to sit. He paced and chewed a clove to cover his whiskey breath. Underneath his white shirt and alpaca suit, sweat soaked him. Just as he had decided to flee, he heard a swish of skirts in the hall. Ashton Huntoon swept in, cross and sleepy-looking.
"Captain Bellingham?"
"Erasmus Bellingham, currently with General —"
"My nigger told me that."
"I dislike interrupting you without prior warning, ma'am —" Her expression made clear that she disliked it as much as he did. Though her resemblance to her brother automatically generated rage, Bent kept his unctuous smile in place as he went on. "However, I haven't much more time in Richmond. I am nearly recovered from this wound I received at the siege of Suffolk. Before I return to Longstreet's command, I wanted to inquire about an old acquaintance."
"You don't sound like a Southerner, Captain."
Bitch. He broadened the smile. "Oh, there are all degrees of Southern speech, I find. You don't sound like a Virginian" — careful; mustn't let any hostility show — "and the truth is, I was born and raised on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. I left it the moment I heard the Confederacy's call to arms."
"How interesting." Ashton didn't conceal her boredom.
Bent explained that while on duty in the lower part of the state, he had heard that one of his West Point classmates was stationed in Richmond. "Last evening I was conversing with a gentleman at my lodging house — some chap with friends at the Treasury Department — and when I mentioned my classmate, he brought you and your husband into the conversation. He said you both hailed from South Carolina, as my classmate did, and that your maiden name was the same as his."
"Is your classmate Orry Main?"
"Yes."
She acted as if he had dumped a spittoon on her. "He's my older brother."
"Your brother," Bent echoed. "How extraordinary! I haven't seen him in years. Come to think of it, though, I do recall him mentioning you in an affectionate manner."
Ashton dabbed her upper lip with a bit of lace. "I doubt that."
"Please, tell me, is Orry in Richmond?"
"Yes, and so is his wife. I don't see either of them. By choice."
"Is he perchance in the army?"
"He's a lieutenant colonel attached to the War Department." Gathering her skirts, Ashton rose. "Is there anything else?" Her tone said she hoped not.
"Only the location of his residence, if you'd be so kind —"