Next day's delivery of the mail brought a pleasing surprise, a package posted in Fredericksburg late in November. Inside it Charles found a small leather-bound book: An Essay on Man by Alexander Pope. On the flyleaf she had written:
To Captain Charles Main
= = At the Front = =
Christmas, 1861
She had signed herself A. Barclay and tucked in a separate card that read: I am very sorry I missed your visit and hope you will return soon. He could see her vividly in the lines and loops of her graceful hand.
Many soldiers carried small Testaments in their coats or shirt pockets. That gave Charles an idea. He scrounged a piece of soft leather and with his sewing kit fashioned a small bag with a drawstring. He added a longer thong to slip over his head and put the little volume in the bag. He carried it beneath his shirt against the flat of his chest. It felt good there.
The gift buoyed him for several days, even given the presence of von Helm. The Dutchman bustled in and out of the hut with barely a word, though he seldom lost that demented glint in his eye. One evening, when Charles had a stomach complaint and didn't feel like attending a performance of Box and Cox being presented by some camp thespians, his first sergeant unexpectedly called on him.
"What brings you here, Reynolds?"
"Sir, it's just —" the man blushed — "I feel it's my duty to speak to you."
"Go ahead."
"It's Lieutenant Wanderly and Private Cramm, sir. Those two are spending a lot of their own money at the sutler's, treating the other boys. They're, uh, campaigning."
"For what?"
The sergeant answered first with a huge gulp. "For Lieutenant von Helm."
Tired, his middle hurting, Charles was cross. "I still don't understand. Goddamn it, man, say it plainly."
Peterkin Reynolds gave him a miserable look. "They want to elect him captain, sir."
An hour later, von Helm returned, trailing fumes of bourbon. "Missed a fine show this evening. Those actors —" His brown eyes grew vacant, then surprised, as he perceived the condition of the hut. "What's happened here? Where are my things?"
"I had them moved." Charles lay in his bunk, speaking around the smoldering cigar stub jammed between his teeth. "To the hut of your campaign manager."
"My —?" Von Helm blinked. "Oh." Somehow, Charles's eyes didn't intimidate him; perhaps he was too drunk. His mouth tucked up at the corners as if pulled on puppet strings. "Very well. Good evening, Captain." He left.
Charles yanked the cigar from his mouth and indulged in a string of oaths whose fervor concealed his sense of tired defeat. He was still in his twenties and felt twice that. He stood for a while, feeling the book in the pouch under his shirt. At least the battle lines were clear now. Captain Main against the posturing schemer from Charleston.
He remembered something, went outside, and pulled and pried until the small sign came loose. He threw it into the fireplace and watched the flames slowly consume Gentlemen's Rest. The words might be appropriate to some other army, but they no longer fit this one.
50
Stanley knocked and entered the secretary's office in a state of nerves. He was sure he had been accused and would be demoted or dismissed.
He was astonished to find the boss in a sunny mood, stepping around the office inspecting boxes and barrels packed with personal files and mementos. Cameron's cheeks had a pink sheen, left by a fresh shave; he smelled of lavender water. His desk was bare, which was unprecedented.
"Stanley, my boy, sit down. I'm clearing out in a hurry, but I wanted a chat with you before I leave." He waved the younger man to a seat while he took his regular place behind the desk.
Trembling, Stanley lowered his heavy body to the chair. "I was shocked when I heard the news of your resignation last Saturday, sir."
Cameron put the tips of his thumbs together and touched his index fingers above them, creating a triangle through which he peered at his visitor. "Even in this building, it can be Simon again — or Boss. I'm not particular. The one thing that won't fit any more is Mr. Secretary."
"That's a tragic loss for the war effort, sir."
The lame remarks brought a tight smile to Cameron's mouth. He snickered. "Oh, yes, any number of contract holders will say so. But a loyal fellow goes where his superiors think he can do best. Russia's a mighty long way from home, but I'll tell you the truth, Stanley — I won't miss the hurly-burly and backbiting of this town."
A lie, Stanley thought; the boss had bitten with the best. But all the departmental irregularities had finally forced Lincoln to act, although Cameron was allowed the face-saving fiction that becoming United States minister to Russia was a promotion.
"I imagine you'll get along with the new man," Cameron continued in a relaxed way. "He won't be as loose as I've been. He's a champion of the colored people" — Cameron's brief fling as an apostle of abolition had been forgotten by virtually everyone, including himself — "and pretty hard on those who don't come up to expectations. Now you take me — I was more inclined to overlook a mistake or a slight." The smile hardened ever so little. "Or an act of will. Yes, sir, you'll have to toe the mark for the next occupant of this office."
Stanley gnawed his bottom lip. "Sir, I'm in the dark. I don't even know the name of the new secretary."
"Oh, you don't?" Up flew the white brows. "I thought Senator Wade would have confided in you. If he didn't, I spose you'll just have to wait for the public announcement."
And there he left it, while Stanley twisted on the hook Cameron had snagged into him. Surprisingly, the older man laughed before he went on.
"I don't blame you too much, Stanley. I'd have done the same thing in your position. You turned out to be an apt pupil. Learned how to apply each and every lesson I taught you. 'Course, now I look back and reflect that maybe I taught you one too many."
The smile spread, infected with a jolly malice. "Well, my lad, let me give you one final bit of advice before we shake hands and part. Sell as many pieces of footwear as you can, for as much as you can, for as long as you can. And save the money. You'll need it, because in this town someone is always waiting. Someone who wants to sell you out. Someone who will sell you out."
Stanley felt he might have a heart seizure. Cameron sprang around the desk, clasped Stanley's hand so hard it hurt, then said, "You must excuse me now," and turned his back. Stanley left him rummaging cheerfully among the packed ruins of his empire.
The next night, George came home with news for Constance. "It's Stanton."
"But he's a Democrat!"
"He's also a zealot who can please the radicals. Those who favor him call him a patriot. If you're on the other side, the descriptions include dogmatic and devious. They say he's willing to gain his ends by any means. And likely to use the suspension of habeas corpus — I mean use it widely. I wouldn't want to be a dissenting newspaper editor or an advocate of a soft peace and come to Mr. Stanton's attention. He may be Lincoln's appointee, but he's the creature of Wade and that crowd" A bemused smile softened his severity. "Did you know Stanton once tried a case involving McCormick's reaper, and Lincoln went along as a junior counsel? Stanton snubbed him as a bumpkin. Incredible how people change. This lunatic world, too —" "Not you and I," she said, kissing him gently.