His words heartened her, helped soothe away some of the tension she'd felt ever since the encounter with Stovall.

"That's sweet of you, Michael." She teased him: "I hope it's not pure blarney."

"An Irishman only dissembles with those he depises, not those he loves-" He pivoted back to the fire. "Faith, I'm carrying on like some convent girl-"

"I don't mind one bit."

They looked at one another for a moment.

"What's that manuscript on the floor?"

"Ah!" He scooped up a few of the pages. "Your nigger-beg pardon, I forgot you don't like me saying that-Mr. Hope's narrative. Delivered from the docks late this afternoon. There's also a letter describing the promising nature of the new mining claim in the Sierras. Plus one from your cousin in Virginia, and two others-"

Amanda scanned the few sheets Michael handed to her. Mr. Mayor put his forepaws on her skirt, studied her to see whether she'd resist. When she didn't, he hopped into her lap and curled up, his green eyes closing.

She went on reading while Michael took a clay pipe from the mantel, filled it with tobacco and lit it with a splinter of wood ignited in the fireplace. The odor of the Virginia leaf sweetened the stale, overheated air. But Amanda was hardly conscious of the warmth any longer, absorbed by the flow of Israel's prose.

"He writes extremely well."

"Yes, he does. As much as the subject of-ah-nigras leaves me cold, I confess the first few chapters caught my interest. I think his title's a bit dull, though. The Life of Israel Hope would mean nothing to the general public-he's not famous. I suggest something slightly more dramatic if Kent and Son ever publishes the book-"

"Kent and Son will publish it."

Her determination brought another smile to his face. "Then why not call it something like West to Freedom? It avoids the cliche of a reference to the north-it suggests the escape theme-and people are intrigued about the west."

"Yes, that's very good. I'll be anxious to read all of it-"

She laid the manuscript aside, causing Mr. Mayor to open his eyes and regard her with annoyance. She was almost embarrassed to bring up the next subject.

"Did you drive down to the Royal Sceptre office?"

"I did." He nodded. "The situation's just as it was last month when your letter was returned from London. The owners of the line still don't know anything more about Captain McGill."

Saddened, Amanda ran her hand aimlessly over the tomcat's neck. He arched and purred.

What in heaven's name had become of Bart? He'd sailed back from India the preceding November and abruptly resigned his command, that much she'd learned. But he hadn't told anyone in London where he was going-he'd just walked out and disappeared.

"I suppose it's time to give up on him," she said presently.

"We've no other options that I see."

"God, I hope he's all right-"

"You loved him a great deal, didn't you?"

"More than I realized when I said no to him. However"-she shrugged to hide the hurt-"we should be worrying about other things. How much Stovall stock do we own at the moment?"

"I can't be positive without consulting the records. Mr. Rothman and Mr. Benbow have so many friends and clients buying small amounts on your behalf, then reselling them to the dummy company, the total changes daily."

"Where's the ledger?"

"In my room. I was trying to bring it up to date before dinner, but I confess I fell asleep. I believe Boston Holdings owns somewhere above twelve thousand shares now."

Amanda nodded. For months, she'd been engaged in a covert campaign to accumulate stock of the Stovall Works. Her strategy was simple. When she'd acquired a controlling interest, she intended to present Stovall's attorneys with a demand that Kent and Son be sold to her-in exchange for the number of shares that would return Stovall to the position of majority stockholder.

She'd planned to take as long as necessary to acquire the shares; Rothman and Benbow moved with great circumspection, approaching one investor at a time, through intermediaries. So far, she didn't believe Stovall realized the true reason for the activity in shares in his company-nor did she think he knew of the existence of Boston Holdings.

"Find the book and get me the exact figure, would you?" she asked. "Meantime, I'll read Jephtha's letter."

Michael brought it to her from the Uttered table, then left the room.

Amanda stared at the soiled envelope that had come from Lexington for three cents' postage. But she didn't really see her name and address written in an irregular hand. She was thinking of Bart McGill.

Yes, she had loved him. Not in the same way she'd loved Jaimie de la Gura, and then Cordoba. More deeply-that was the hurtful truth she admitted to herself.

He hadn't sent her a single letter from London, or, so far as she knew, tried to ascertain her whereabouts. And now he'd left England, and no one knew where he was. Jaimie and Luis Cordoba had been taken from her by events over which she had no control. But Bart's departure had been her own doing, and she faced that bitter truth often-especially in the dark hours of early morning when she couldn't sleep, when age made her bones ache, and the shadows around her bed seemed to whisper of her life running out all too rapidly- She rubbed her eyes to clear them of tears, then turned her attention to the letter.

It proved almost as disheartening as her memories.

ii

The letter, scrawled with a blunted pencil, was dated three and a half weeks earlier. Either it hadn't been mailed promptly, or had been delayed in transit.

The lines slanted across the page. Jephtha's hand was uneven, far less readable than it had been two months ago, when he'd reported his continuing alienation from his family and refused her offer of the income due him from the Ophir claim. The handwriting said the Reverend Jephtha Kent-a Reverend no longer-was a tormented man. The opening paragraphs told her he was still living and working on the grounds of the Virginia Military Institute: My only friend is Thos. Jackson, the professor of whom I believe I have spoken before. He is a strange, deeply religious person-a Presbyterian-who has risked unpopularity by taking an active role in support of the local Negro Sunday School. My father-in-law, by contrast, would deny the colored people even the solace of God.

Jackson-whom many of the cadets deride with the name "Tom Fool" despite his outstanding record in the late Mexican conflict-is opposed to all the secessionist talk. He is humane. He once taught one of his own slaves to read in exchange for the slave's help-holding a torch-while he studied. It is Jackson who renews my hope that all in the south are not prey to the philosophy of a vile human being such as Captain Tunworth.

Jackson is married. He and his wife are the only persons in Lexington willing to welcome me into their home occasionally. It is true that his habits are peculiar. To prevent distraction when he is pondering problems in military tactics, he will turn his chair to the wall and sit motionless for long periods of time. But I am comfortable with him, and can share my thoughts freely-my sadness over Fan's continuing refusal to allow any contact between myself and the boys-and my growing certainty that the south's system of servitude will bring its own dire harvest Compromise will never avail-it is too late. We have sinned as a nation-I firmly share this belief with the noted abolitionist and Free-Soil advocate, John Brown of Ohio. Sin is always punished. So the nation will be punished. And not lightly. In the words of Paul the Apostle to the Hebrews-"And almost all things are by the law purged with blood. And without shedding of blood is no remission."

The gloomy prediction disturbed Amanda, because there were already signs that Clay's compromise bills had bought nothing but a temporary peace.

The Fugitive Slave Act, designed to mollify the south, had generated an even greater militancy on the part of the northern abolitionists. And influential Congressmen were toying with a doctrine which could renew sectional antagonism.

The doctrine's chief ideologue was Stephen Douglas of Illinois, a Senator whose combative temperament and slight stature had earned him the title Little Giant. Sometimes the doctrine was called popular sovereignty, sometimes squatter sovereignty. Basically it stated that people in a newly organized territory had the unqualified right to determine what form their government would take, specifically, whether the government would allow or forbid slavery.

To Douglas, this was nothing more than the working of the principle of democracy. To the abolitionists, it was betrayal. If the doctrine were followed to its logical conclusion, a territory could adopt or reject slavery whether the territory lay above or below the Missouri Compromise line. Not only did the doctrine run counter to the 1820 Compromise, but by its very nature it denied Congressional right to limit the spread of slavery.

Whig opponents abused Douglas as the south's toady, claiming he was advancing the scurrilous philosophy to enhance his own chances as a future presidential candidate on the Democratic ticket. Others, less partisan, said Douglas acted only out of a solid belief in the rights of the majority. But whatever the Little Giant's motives, the papers had been filled with the debate over his doctrine.

There was bound to be a test of it in the Congress in the next year or so. Legislators were already talking of the need to organize one or two large territories between Missouri and California. There had even been discussion of a transcontinental railroad, and for this to become a reality, the western lands had to be under some form of government.

If the intellectual debate led to a practical attempt to put the doctrine into effect in the organization of new territories, the Missouri Compromise would be severely threatened-and all of the efforts of Clay and Webster to secure peace might come to nothing. Some pundits predicted that if popular sovereignty ever passed into law, abolitionist groups would launch open warfare- Open warfare. Remission of sin through the shedding of blood- Sometimes it seemed to Amanda that the nation was heading inevitably toward it-and toward the even more grave Constitutional crisis that might be precipitated. The crisis was implicit in the south's traditional response to harrying by its enemies: secession.

Did one section have the right to separate itself from the rest to protect and preserve what it believed? Though she was no great expert on government, she thought not. If it did, the words United States would become a mockery.

Yet how to stop the quarrel before it brought disunion? Jephtha's church had broken apart over the slave issue. Even his own household was divided. How could the nation hope to fare any better?

Clearly, Jephtha didn't think it could.

The issues underlying the letter in her hand-and the letter itself-had upset her. She concentrated with great difficulty on the closing paragraphs: Unhappiness is my lot. But I consider it God's will that I remain in that state; and I do what He has commanded. I continue to be engaged in certain activities at which I have hinted before, though the fugitive slave bill has made the labor increasingly difficult. Previously used points of refuge in the north are now under the closest scrutiny by southern sympathizers. We grow desperate for safe destinations for certain freight, and may be forced to call upon some we would otherwise not burden or endanger.

Amanda gazed over the lines she'd just read, noting that the word freight had been heavily underscored. In previous letters, Jephtha had indeed alluded to mysterious activities, leading her to believe he'd involved himself in the work of what was popularly called the Underground Railroad.

The letter concluded with a few phrases containing her cousin's wish for her continued health and prosperity. Her eye was drawn back to the quotation from St. Paul.

And without shedding of blood is no remission.

She believed the slave system had to be done away with eventually. But was bloodshed the only course left open to accomplish it? She couldn't imagine that people of good will in any part of the country would want that kind of a solution- Yet every paper she read told her the positions were hardening dangerously. The furies were loose on both sides. What if the Compromise of 1850 ultimately proved unworkable? What if the threat of popular sovereignty proved real, and its advocates widened the chasm again, until it could never be bridged?

She shuddered. The white cat yowled when she jumped up, startled by the loud, interruptive ring of the telegraph gong.

iii

Amanda had taught herself Morse's code so that she could send and receive messages when Michael wasn't present. She seated herself at the table, a steel-nibbed pen poised over a pad on which the young man had noted the times of the evening's previous transmissions. A moment after she acknowledged the query from Boston with a tapped-out A. K. D. G. READY, the operator at the Rothman Bank began to send: APOLOGIZE LATE HOUR. SERIES OF MILL ACCIDENTS REQUIRED SPECIAL MEETING. BLACKSTONE BOARD DIRECTORS DEADLOCKED THREE FOR THREE AGAINST EMPLOYMENT TWO PHYSICIANS TO TREAT INJURED WORKERS ONE A CHILD. OPPONENTS ARGUE STEP UNNECESSARY AND EXPENSIVE. SAFETY AND WELFARE OF WORKERS NOT MANAGEMENTS CONCERN. MR. ROTHMAN VOTES AYE HOWEVER. URGENTLY SOLICITS YOUR VOTE ON MATTER. END.

Amanda's pen flew across the pad, copying down the final words of the message. She chewed the end of the pen for perhaps ten seconds, then began to work the key: EXPENSE NOT FACTOR. BELIEVE WE HAVE CLEAR RESPONSIBILITY. MR. ROTHMAN AUTHORIZED TO CAST AYE VOTE FOR A. K. D. G.

The library doors opened. Michael came in carrying several papers and a ledger. While the sounder chattered out ACKNOWLEDGED WITH THANKS, he took Amanda's pen from her fingers and scribbled on her pad: 12,875 shares as of last Wednesday afternoon-representing 38 percent of outstanding shares.

She nodded, aware of Michael lingering just behind her as she rapped out the signal for a further transmission, then began to send the dots and dashes: SPEED UP ACQUISITION STOVALL WORKS STOCK BY BOSTON HOLDINGS. URGENT REPEAT URGENT WE REACH FIFTY-ONE PERCENT OWNERSHIP SOON AS POSSIBLE. END.

In a moment, the sounder replied with words Amanda didn't bother to copy: ACKNOWLEDGED ROTHMAN'S BANK.

Satisfied, she stood up.

"You think Stovall will attempt to block your purchase of shares?" Michael wanted to know.

"Of course he will-if he finds out who I am before we have a controlling interest. I'm sure he's aware of movement in the issue. He may not realize the individual blocks have been resold to Boston Holdings, but he could certainly track down that fact if his suspicions were sufficiently aroused."

"You're quite right. The bank that acts as the registrar of the stock has the information. There's no legal way to prevent them having it. You're gambling they'll neglect to inform Stovall-"

"I'm gambling they haven't yet. Joshua Rothman and I have already agreed to the final step. When Joshua's intermediaries have acquired the shares representing the last thirteen percent, those shares won't be transferred to Boston Holdings in small batches, as we've done in the past. They'll all be held and transferred in a single day. It'll be too late for Stovall to do anything about the takeover then. Still, you're right-the risk has always been high-" She paused only a moment. "I think it's time we developed an alternate plan. Just in case the stock scheme's uncovered."

Michael looked wary. "What sort of plan, Mrs. A?"

"You told me some nasty gossip about Stovall-that he's spent time with a brother and sister on Mulberry Street-both of whom are prostitutes?"

Glumly, Michael nodded. "Yes."

"What are their names?"

"I fail to see how their names could be of any-"

"Tell me anyway."

His face had lost its cheerful look. "The Phelan twins. Joseph and Aggie."

"Are they still-what's the term for that sort of thing? Practicing?"

In a clipped voice: "I don't know."

"I think you do."

"I really don't inquire too deeply into such matters-"

"Well, I want you to inquire. I want you to see whether you can get a deposition from them. Concerning what goes on during any one of Stovall's visits. In detail, Michael. Such complete detail that there can be no doubt of the-the customer's identity. Or his intention."

She tried not to see his stunned look.

"Christ!" he whispered. "You don't mean that-"

"I do."

"Manipulating stock is one thing. But mucking around in slime is quite another-"

"Are you telling me you won't do it?" A long silence. Amanda said, "If you won't go to the Five Points, I will."

He studied her face for a sign that she was bluffing him, saw none. With a shake of his head, he said softly, "All right. I suppose I'm obligated to do whatever you ask as long as I'm in your employ."

"And you are still in my employ-"

"For the moment."

The dull-voiced threat didn't even make her blink. "Can these Phelans be persuaded to give you the information I want?"

"Mrs. A, listen! You mustn't soil yourself in this sort of-"

"Answer me, Michael!"

He sighed. "Yes, I think the information could be gotten-if the Phelans were given enough money, and frightened a little in the bargain."

"Would they speak to you in front of a notary?"