"Legally it's mine. I am your husband."

Creak and creak, the express wagons passed, lanterns bobbing like skiffs in a rough sea. A man shrieked; another wept; two more signal lights burst, cascaded, and died behind the rooftops. "James," she said, "what is the matter with you? I have increased our wealth-"

"Illegally," he shouted. "Unpatriotically. What else have you done that's immoral?"

Instinct said she must attack, and quickly, or he would suspect. "What do you mean by that insulting remark?"

"Noth-" He pushed at hair straggling over his greasy forehead. "Nothing." He turned away.

Ashton jerked him around. "I demand a better answer than that."

"I just-" he avoided her eye-"wondered-is Powell in Richmond?"

"I believe so. I can't swear. I told you, I don't see him. I delivered the initial investment to an attorney handling formation of the syndicate. Powell was there, but I have not met him since."

Her breast felt fiery, painful because her heart beat so fast. But she had learned long ago that successful deception depended on strong nerves, a controlled expression, and eyes that never wavered from the person to be deceived. She knew Huntoon's emotional temperature was falling when his shoulders returned to their customary droop. His attempt at masculinity had been brief and unsuccessful.

"I believe you," he said, then noticed her dark eyes fixed behind him. Turning, he saw Homer on the terrace, drawn by the shouting.

Ashton lashed him. "Get back to your rounds!" He disappeared.

"I believe you," Huntoon said again, "but do you realize the stigma you've put on yourself? You're a speculator now. They're a scorned breed. Some say every one of them should be arrested, tried, and hung."

"Too late to worry about that, my sweet. If anyone calls for a noose, two will be needed in this family. So I suggest you follow my example and be discreet about the subject of Water Witch. You might also be glad I had the foresight you lacked."

It was harsh and slipped out, but she was tired of dealing with a child. This child deserved whipping, not coddling. Fortunately, he could no longer summon anger, just his customary whine: "But, Ashton-I don't know whether I can accept money from-"

"You can. You will." She pointed to the packet. "You already have."

Suddenly he squeezed his eyes shut and clutched the edge of the tall window as the last ambulance rolled out of sight. There came sudden rumblings and boomings. Rooftops flickered red. Responding to pent-up fear, people poured into nearby streets, shouting questions. Was the invasion at hand?

Oblivious, Huntoon whispered, "Jesus, you're so hard." Tears trickled from the corners of his eyes. "So hard-You leave me nothing. I feel-You make me feel like a man not worthy of the name."

How shortsighted and pathetic he was. It made her angry all over again, with no desire to spare him.

"Is the word you want castrated, darling?"

Trembling, loathing her, he watched her affirm her own question with a small, neat nod. Businesslike, she continued. "In this matter and in some others we might name, you're exactly that. We've known it for years, haven't we?"

Red flashes; cannon fire. "You bitch."

Ashton laughed at him.

Huntoon's face changed from red to a color close to purple. He blinked, and again, and kept blinking as he rushed to her, grasping and stroking her hand repeatedly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, sweetheart. Will you forgive me? I'm sure your decision is an intelligent one. Whatever you want is agreeable. God, I love you. Please say you forgive me?"

After letting him writhe a few moments longer, she did. She even let him fondle and attempt to make love to her when they went to bed. She was relieved when he was unable to finish and withdrew, flaccid, but saying how happy he was that she had forgiven him.

Simpleton, she thought, smiling in the dark.

56.

"NEVER IN MY LIFE have I spent a more peculiar Independence Day," George said to Constance.

William was leaning from the parlor window, hauling in bunting he and Patricia had hung the night before. "Why, Pa?"

"Because," George said, folding the tricolored material and putting it in a box, "the speeches were so brave and full of hope"-in the afternoon they had attended a long public ceremony-"and down on the peninsula we're whipped."

"It's really over?" Constance asked. "Nearly. The departmental telegraph reports the army's withdrawing to the James. McClellan almost had Richmond in his hand and couldn't take it."

"Because Lee brought Stonewall marching to help him," William said. George responded with a somber nod. His son sounded like an admirer of Old Jack.

There were none at the Winder Building. How often had George listened to departmental blowhards mock Jackson because he held his arm in the air before or during a battle so the blood would flow properly? How often had he heard it said that some of Jackson's own subordinates declared him certifiably insane? George was often pressed to provide anecdotes of Jackson's bizarre behavior from their cadet days, but, although there were plenty, he declined. The mockery disgusted him because its source was fear. Tom Jackson was smart and relentless as a Joshua. His foot cavalry had quick-marched all the way from the valley and helped save Richmond.

For a full week, the battle for the Confederate capital had seesawed through a series of hot engagements. Mechanicsville-there, inexplicably, Jackson was late to come up to reinforce General A. P. Hill, and his reputation suffered; Gaines's Mill; Savage Station; Malvern Hill. Despite mistakes and minor successes on both sides, at the end of the seven days, the Richmond defense perimeter, which Bob Lee had worked a month to set and strengthen, still held. Old Bob had outthought and outfought Little Mac and his commanders at every turn. He had slipped and slid in the early months of the war, and suffered for it. But the seven days wiped out all that. George feared for the Union's fate if Lee took charge.

Organization of the Bank of Lehigh Station hit a snag. Attorney Jupiter Smith rushed to Washington to report that the legislature respectfully suggested the state participate in the bank's profits, if any. "What they're proposing, George, is that we give the state shares amounting to forty thousand dollars and a ten-year option to buy an equal amount at par."

George barked, "Oh, is that all?"

"No, it isn't. A donation of twenty thousand dollars to the road and bridge fund would be welcome. But I repeat-the suggestions were made very respectfully, George. The legislators realize you're an important man."

"I'm a man with a big club over his head. Goddamn it, Jupe, it's bribery."

The lawyer shrugged. "I prefer to call it accommodation. Or standard practice. The Philadelphia and Pittsburgh banks entered into similar arrangements to get their charters. Whether you want to do it is up to you, of course. But we've bought the building, and if you say no, we'll have to put it up for sale. If you do say no, it won't bother me. I'll be shed of huge amounts of paperwork."

"And huge fees."

Smith looked aggrieved.

George chewed his cigar. "I still say it's bribery." More chewing. "Tell them yes."

George proved a poor prophet of military affairs. McClellan stayed on, evidently for want of a competent replacement. The only West Point officers who seemed capable of winning were those who had gone south. This renewed the outcries against the Academy. In mid-July, George received a letter asking him to serve on West Point's Board of Visitors as a replacement for a member suddenly deceased. The mounting attacks inclined him to accept, so he requested an interview with Stanton. The secretary gave him permission to serve so long as it didn't interfere with his assigned duties.

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 underdrawers, 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.

Except on one subject. He invited his brother to dine at Willard's, so he could gloat.

"I wouldn't devote much time to that Board of Visitors, George. If Ben Wade and some others have their way, this time next year West Point will be nothing but abandoned buildings and memories."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"There will be no more appropriations to operate that place. It's provided a free education to traitors, but what has it given our side? One general reportedly drunk as a lord at Shiloh, another so egotistical and inept he couldn't win against an army half the size of his. I could also mention-a host of-lesser-"

The sentence became mumbling; George had laid his fork next to the slab of venison and was glaring.

"You said this was a social occasion. No politics. I should have known better than to believe you."

He walked out, leaving Stanley with the bill.

Stanley didn't mind. He felt expansive that day; affluent-even handsome. He had just achieved a nice little triumph. His strutting brother's precious institution was doomed, and there was not one damn thing he could do about it.

She was black and beautiful. Coppered oak, over two hundred feet long from bowsprit to stern. A single low stack amidships enhanced her rakish appearance. The red of her shield figurehead and the gilt of her stern carvings were her only vivid colors.

Cooper knew her intimately and loved her without reservation. She was a steam barkentine, a thousand and fifty tons, with two oscillating engines of three hundred and fifty horsepower driving a single propeller that could be raised from the water to reduce drag. Her three masts could be donkey-rigged with plenty of canvas. She lay in the Mersey this twenty-ninth day of July with everything from bedding to galley stores in place and her full crew aboard.

A stream of carriages discharged passengers on the cobblestones of the pier. Bulloch greeted each local businessman or officeholder by name; all had been invited-hastily-for an afternoon's excursion on Number 209.

Captain Butcher, lately second officer on the Royal Mail vessel Arabia, had steam up and was waiting for the last few guests. They might or might not arrive before the order that Bulloch's spies had reported to be on the way from Whitehall: the ship was to be prevented from sailing because her ultimate mission violated British law.

Bulloch maintained a fine front, smiling and chatting as he saw guests to the gangway and directed them to refreshments on trestle tables beneath a striped awning. Cooper paced the pier, snapping his watch open every couple of minutes. If they didn't get away-if Charles Francis Adams succeeded-this beautiful, invaluable commerce raider would be lost to the Confederacy.

A clerk hovering close to Bulloch showed him a list. "All but these two gentlemen are present, sir."

"We shall go without them."

Up the gangway he went, past the seamen recruited from Cunard and other lines to sail Number 209 on the first leg of her voyage. Suddenly, beyond some dockworkers, Cooper saw a hack careen through Canning Street, heading for the ship. From the foot of the gangway, he called, "Our last guests may be here, James."

Quickly, Bulloch stepped to the helm and spoke to young Captain Batcher, whose light whiskers danced in the Mersey breeze. The hack rattled along the pier, slowing. Before it came to a stop, a man jumped out. Cooper's stomach wrenched as he recognized Maguire. Preceded by the smell of leeks, Marcellus Dorking also appeared.

The sight of the man enraged Cooper. Since that afternoon in the Pig and Whistle, he had been followed intermittently by several different spies, all of whom undoubtedly worked for Tom Dudley. Of Dorking, however, he had seen no sign. The threat against Cooper's family had been nothing but air; a coward's way of inspiring fear. That lowered Dorking even further in Cooper's estimation.

Maguire and Dorking bolted toward Cooper, who barred the gangway. Dorking's right hand dipped into the pocket of his garish plaid coat. "Little pleasure cruise, sir?" he asked with his familiar smarmy smile.