“It is good to see you, Colonel,” said Scott, swallowing his last bite. “Let me get this cleared.”
He picked up a small bell on his table and rang it. A black valet shuttled into the room and began to remove the dishes and tablecloth. He was about to take the wine glass when Scott reached for it and gave him a hard look before pouring the last contents down his throat. Scott wiped his mouth again and placed the glass and napkin back on the table. The valet snatched them up and was gone in a flash.
“Please, sir, have a seat,” said Scott, gesturing to where Rook always sat.
The general pushed his own chair away from the table. Grunting as he struggled against his own bulk, he succeeded in moving it less than a foot. Rook had seen this before too, and once he had offered to help Scott position himself in his seat. The old man would have none of it. Attendants had surrounded him for years, and accommodations a more vigorous man would not have needed now filled up much of his life. Even the president occasionally would come down from his office in the White House and meet the general in the driveway so that Scott would not have to strain himself getting in and out of his carriage. Even so, there were a few things Scott insisted on doing without assistance. Making himself comfortable in a chair was one of them.
When Scott finally settled in, he took a deep breath. The effort had exhausted him. At last he looked at the colonel.
“What is the latest?” asked Scott.
Rook delivered his standard report. “There continues to be civilian movement out of the city,” he said. That morning, two families had departed the city by the Long Bridge, both bound across the Potomac River for Richmond. Their carts were stuffed with their belongings, indicating that they did not intend to return for quite some time, if at all. As was the custom, the soldiers guarding the bridge questioned them.
“One fellow didn’t want to talk,” said Rook. “The other one admitted that he wanted to get out of the city because he did not support the new administration and the types of people it has brought here.”
“This is typical.”
“Yes, an ordinary day at the bridges.”
“Is there more, Colonel?”
“I lost another lieutenant today,” Rook said.
Civilians were not the only ones turning their backs on Washington during the secession crisis. Officers were leaving as well, resigning their commissions and heading home. Everybody in the chain of command knew about this problem, including Scott. The army was full of Southerners, especially in the officer corps. The drain was beginning to take its toll.
“Where is this former lieutenant going?” asked Scott.
“North Carolina.”
“That state has not dissolved its ties to us.” For a moment, Scott was silent. Then he waved his hand dismissively. “He was only a lieutenant,” he said. “You will not miss him.”
That was true enough, though the problem was far bigger than any single individual. Collectively, these losses were starting to affect manpower and morale. Every day seemed to bring a new desertion. By doing nothing in response, the army appeared content to let its men slip away at their leisure and join the ranks of a rebel movement.
Rook worried that these resignations were not even the biggest problem. What if some of the officers who remained in uniform were actually disloyal? And what if they stayed behind because they wanted to become subversives? He recalled how he had ordered a captain to patrol a wing of the Capitol the night before Lincoln delivered his inaugural address. With all the rumors about the president’s safety, Rook wanted to be sure that the building was free of people who did not actually belong there. The captain seemed to do his duty well enough, and there was, of course, no trouble on the big day. Yet the man was gone within a week, after deciding that he owed more allegiance to Alabama than to the federal government. It made Rook realize that the army was perhaps vulnerable in ways that nobody had anticipated.
“I’m beginning to wonder whom we can trust,” said the colonel. It was a risky thing to say. Scott was from Virginia, and there was talk among some Northerners that even he could not be trusted. Rook certainly did not want to make any such implication.
“If we acted against these men, the consequences could be terrible,” said Scott. “It might strain relations between North and South even further-”
Rook could not stop himself from raising his eyebrows in disbelief. He immediately regretted it. The expression had caused Scott to stop talking, as if he had been interrupted. The general did not like being interrupted.
“Colonel?”
“Seven states are already gone, sir,” said Rook. “They have seceded. How much more strained could relations become?”
“There is no fighting.”
“Not yet. But if you weren’t worried about the possibility, you never would have brought me into your service.”
Before the general could reply, Locke burst into the room. He made straight for Scott with a piece of paper in his hand.
“This just arrived from the telegraph office,” he said. “It requires immediate attention.”
He handed the paper to Scott, who held it at an angle to catch the light of a lamp. He grimaced. “It’s from Crittenden,” he said. The contents clearly irritated him. “Bring me pen, ink, and paper!”
John Crittenden was one of the country’s best-known politicians. He had served as attorney general for three different presidents. Most recently he had been a senator from Kentucky, a state that permitted slavery but which had not seceded. It would not secede if Crittenden had anything to do with it: he was a strong unionist.
Locke scampered out of the room and came back with pen, ink, and paper. He handed them to the general, who did not move his chair to the table. That would have required an enormous effort. Instead, he leaned way over to his left and scribbled a message.
He waved the paper in the air to help the ink dry and looked at Rook. “Colonel, we have fallen upon evil days. To think that a man who has known me so long and so well as my old friend Crittenden should find it necessary to send me a telegraphic dispatch to which I have to make such an answer as this.” He thrust the paper in Rook’s direction. Rook rose for it. He knew the script well, as he had taken written orders from the general many times previously. Its message was typical of Scott, concise and blunt: “To the Hon. John Jordan Crittenden. I have not changed. I have not thought of changing. I am for the Union. Winfield Scott.”
Rook handed the note back to the general, who gave it to Locke. “It seems these days as though no man has entire confidence in any other man. Crittenden is my old friend!” said Scott, shaking his head. “Locke, get this message off promptly.”
Locke closed the door behind him. A hush descended on the room. What had just transpired obviously disturbed the general. All loyalties were in doubt, even those belonging to a national hero like Scott.
“Was there anything else, Colonel?” Apparently the general did not want to discuss the loyalty or disloyalty of his subordinates. That was all right with Rook. Something else weighed more heavily on his mind than the departures.
He leaned forward. “You’ve heard the rumors about the president. They haven’t let up. It is the talk of the city. Mr. Lincoln’s life remains in danger, no less than it did on his inauguration day.”
Scott frowned. “Of course, I’ve heard some rumors. Who hasn’t? The air is hot with them.”
“Do you know what today is, General?”
Scott did not like being questioned. He scowled but answered anyway. “Friday.”
“That’s not what I mean. It’s March fifteenth.”