Unholy Fire (16 page)

“They are wasting their time digging in up there,” I said, putting down the glasses. “No one in his right mind would try to attack that position.”

“Well, that's Burnside's plan,” said General Hathaway, his voice now drained of emotion. “As soon as his pontoon bridges arrive, the army will be sent across to attack those heights.”

“Why did it take so long to get the bridges here?” I asked dumbly.

“Ask the Quartermaster Corps,” said Val, “the same department that inspected the gun carriages.”

I heard the muffled stamp of men's boots farther down the corridor.

“It's time to prepare for the party,” said Val, breaking the silence. “All of our adversaries will undoubtedly be there, including General Nevins and Major Duval.”

“What party?” I said.

“Joe Hooker's forty-eighth birthday party,” he replied. “Dan Sickles decided to organize it. He loves giving parties, and this one is required attendance for every senior officer down here.”

I knew who Sickles was; every citizen in the country did. A congressman before the war, he had cold-bloodedly murdered his wife's lover, who was the son of Francis Scott Key. Sickles had somehow won acquittal for the crime on the basis of temporary insanity. After the war began, Lincoln had made him a general, and he was now commanding a division.

“Last week Sickles wired a ten-page list of required delicacies to Delmonico's restaurant,” said Val. “Yesterday, a train of thirty-two Pittsburgh wagons rolled into camp, having come all the way from New York under full military escort. I'm told that one of them had an insulated metal compartment containing two thousand pounds of chocolate ice cream.”

“Why didn't they put the pontoon bridges on that train?” I blurted without thinking. Even General Hathaway laughed at that.

“You're learning, Kit,” he said.

“Who is General Nevins?” I asked.

“Nevins is in charge of military procurement at the War Department, and he is Major Duval's commanding officer,” said Val. “Before the war he was an intimate of Simon Cameron and one of the biggest campaign contributors to the Republican Party in Pennsylvania. He is financially connected to several influential members of Congress, so we must move carefully. These are some of the most powerful men in the Union, and they will stop at nothing to protect themselves. For tonight, our sole task is to discover any scrap of information that can help us identify the defective carriages.”

Val and I left the library together, slowly working our way through the crowd of officers choking the corridor.

“I only wish we had more men like Sam Hathaway in the department,” said Val. “He is the most dedicated and effective officer I have yet worked with in the army. Not only is he honest, but he is totally unafraid of taking on the high and the mighty … As you saw for yourself.”

“You never defended the president,” I said.

“For one thing, Sam was right about those decisions. Aside from that, I cannot afford to let anyone know about what we are doing for the president, even Sam. Secrecy is vital.”

“How were his legs paralyzed?”

“Wounded at Second Bull Run, I believe. He is to receive a presidential commendation from Father Abraham himself in a few weeks for what he did during the Seven Days.”

Outside, night had fallen, and across the river I saw the distant fires of the Confederate army. As we passed a row of stables, I could hear the sound of a hammer clanging against an anvil.

Val turned and said, “‘Piercing the night's dull ear; and from the tents, The armourers accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation.'”

“Henry the Fifth,”
I said, grinning. “Funny, looking at all those Rebel fires across the river, I was thinking of a line, too,” I said.

“Let's hear it.”

“‘I wandered lonely as a cloud … When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils,'” I said.

“A true warrior's refrain,” said Val.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

I went back to the tent and pulled out my satchel bag. The frigid air had begun to make my wound ache again, and I did not tarry in my ablutions. Cracking the ice in the pitcher, I poured a few inches of water into the bowl, washed my face with lye soap, and combed my hair. Although I had lost a great deal of weight since the start of the war, my spare uniform coat was still fairly presentable, and the pants were of good broadcloth. I buttoned my greatcoat over the uniform and headed for General Hooker's party.

Fog had settled near the ground, creating strange ghostly halos around the soldiers' fires and muffling the usual noises of camp. The raw air was keeping most of the army inside their tents and shelters.

Suddenly I heard the strains of what sounded like a full orchestra, and a moment later, a canvas wall materialized out of the fog ahead of me. It was like no tent wall I had ever seen before, stretching fully twelve feet into the air. It took several minutes of walking around the perimeter before I came to an opening in the wall. Sentries were posted on either side of it. Neither of them asked me for an invitation, and I stepped through the opening.

The first thing that struck me was the blessed warmth. An odd assortment of wood-burning stoves, probably stripped from homes in the surrounding countryside, dotted the perimeter of the vast canvas hall, conveying light and heat toward the crowd of pressing figures. A newly constructed hardwood floor provided further insulation from the cold. The word
HOSPITAL
was stenciled into many of the canvas panels, and I surmised that the party hall had been constructed by lashing together dozens of huge hospital tents. Army engineers must have spent a week constructing it.

The walls and support beams were decorated with Chinese lanterns, regimental battle flags, boughs of evergreens, and gaily colored bunting. More than two hundred officers congregated near the plank bars in each corner. There were kegs of whiskey and brandy stacked behind the bars, along with crates of French wines and champagne. Enlisted men in white cavalry-length tunics were making and serving the drinks.

Scanning the crowd, I recognized some of the most senior generals in the Army of the Potomac, including several I had heard General Hooker refer to as morons and cowardly imbeciles. There were famous senators and congressmen there, too. More than a hundred gaily dressed women, officers' wives and daughters, were gathered in the center of the pavilion. No one was dancing yet, but the orchestra was playing quadrilles from an elevated stand along one of the walls.

A line of plantation tables, each covered by a starched white tablecloth, was heaped with Delmonico's fare, all of it giving off a heavenly aroma. Engraved cards identified the lobster bisque, scallops bouillabaisse, Normandy-style fish stew, coq au vin, lamb en croute, suckling pig stuffed with apricots and sausage, and a selection of roast meats including beef, duckling, goose, and pork. Two men wearing rubber aprons were expertly shucking large oysters and laying them down in half shells on a vast bed of chipped ice.

As I stood staring at the opulent buffet, an officer strode briskly up to me. He was barely over five feet tall, with thin brown hair and close-together eyes.

“I tell you, Kit, it's sordid,” he said, in a tremolo voice.

For a moment, I didn't recognize him.

“Charles?” I said uncertainly.

“Of course, it is I,” he responded.

Charles Francis Adams Jr. had been another one of my classmates in Cambridge. He was the grandson of former-president John Quincy Adams.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

“I'm posted with the First Massachusetts Cavalry,” he said. “It's disgusting.”

“The cavalry?” I asked.

“Not the cavalry,” he exclaimed. “Him!”

He pointed across the planked floor, and I looked up to see General Hooker making his entrance across the hall, surrounded by a dozen staff aides.

“The man of the hour,” said Charles, his voice laden with sarcasm. “Look at him swaggering in front of the ladies with that priapic strut.”

A burst of spontaneous applause erupted from the women in the center of the pavilion as he went by. The tailored uniform he was wearing seemed sculpted to his powerful body. Towering over the men around him, he looked more than ever to me like one of the warrior gods of old.

“He is a satyr, a debauched womanizer.… everyone in Washington knows it,” Charles declared, rocking rhythmically up and down in his tiny cavalry boots.

A soldier with sweat running down his corpulent face came by with a tray of drinks, and I took a glass of what looked like new cider. Charles was drinking from a pewter mug with his family crest engraved on it. I was confident it also contained no alcohol. At Harvard, Charles had been the head of the campus temperance society.

“I'm reliably informed Hooker is already belittling the ability of General Burnside to command the army,” he said in a confidential tone.

“That wouldn't be difficult,” I said.

Val Burdette came up to us, his mammoth form blocking out the light from the Chinese lanterns. As Charles turned to face him, his jaw dropped. Although in honor of the occasion Val had attempted to shave, he had apparently lost patience with the effort, and the left side of his face retained several days' growth. His thick gray hair spilled out well below the edge of the collar of his seedy uniform coat. He was holding a foul-smelling cheroot in the fingers of his right hand.

“Captain Adams, I would like you to meet Colonel Burdette,” I said by way of introduction. The top of Charles's head barely came to the height of Val's chest, and his open-mouthed stare suggested a man gazing up at a reptilian monster.

“Charles Francis Adams Junior,” said Charles, carefully enunciating each syllable. When he was nervous, he trotted out the mantle of his family's famous name like a gold-hilted sword.

“Charles,” I said, “Colonel Burdette is in charge of investigating serious contracting fraud on behalf of the army.”

I'm not sure the words registered. Val took a deep drag on his cigar and said, “Do you want to hear the latest rumors? I picked up several good ones at the bar.”

“Jeff Davis is about to sue for peace?” I suggested.

“To the contrary. The Confederate navy is secretly constructing a fleet of ironclads down in Cuba. They are all more powerful than the
Merrimack,
and the Rebs are planning to send them up the Chesapeake to attack Washington as soon as they are ready.”

He took another puff of his cigar before adding, “Of course, that one happens to come from the biggest shipbuilder in the North.”

“I assume he is offering to construct enough federal ironclads to meet the threat,” I said.

“Precisely,” he said, his dark gray eyes glinting with humor.

“But it sounds exactly like something the rebels would do,” protested Charles.

“The second is far more troubling,” went on Val, his face now serious. “It's another plot to assassinate Lincoln, this one involving disgruntled officers who are afraid that some of his blunders will kill most of the army before he's through. I have heard it now from two different sources, both of them unimpeachable.”

“And the third rumor?” I asked.

“That's the best one of all,” he said, with a ferocious grin. “Jeff Davis has personally hatched a plan to burn the capital to the ground using Japanese mercenaries.”

“Well, at least they should be easy to spot,” I said.

“Speaking of plots, our Major Duval has arrived. He is currently indulging his fondness for seafood over there at the buffet table,” said Val, moving off in that direction.

I looked over at the crowd in front of the seafood bar. An officer with imperial moustaches that curled up at each end of his mouth was sucking down a raw oyster. With dramatic flourish, he tossed the empty shell over his shoulder and reached down to pick up another. Charles began rocking up and down in his boots again as a great round of applause burst forth from the ladies in the center of the pavilion.

“Here comes the other disciple of debauchery,” he said, glaring over my shoulder.

General Dan Sickles was striding across the floor toward the guest of honor with the springy step of a bantam rooster. Joining the group of officers surrounding General Hooker, he stopped and waved to the cheering crowd. As General Hooker turned to greet him, he glanced momentarily in the direction where Charles and I were standing. Less than a minute later, I saw Major Bannister coming toward us through the crowd.

“I'm extending General Hooker's compliments,” he said, with a formal bow. “He was hoping you would join him for a libation.”

Charles began staring at me as if I had somehow betrayed the honor of the Republic. I knew it would have been impossible to explain it all to him right then. I didn't bother to try. As he pivoted on his heel and stalked away, I followed Major Bannister across the floor.

“I'm surprised to see you again,” Bannister said coldly. “Perhaps, it will not be the last.”

General Hooker was standing in a circle of other officers. Aside from Dan Sickles, there were two other generals in the group whom I didn't recognize. It wasn't until one of them briefly stepped back that I saw General Hathaway seated in the middle of the group in his wheelchair. Sergeant Osceola was standing just beyond the generals at the edge of the circle.

“I thought I saw you over there, Lieutenant,” said General Hooker, greeting me with a warm handshake. Then he noticed the captain's bars on my tunic and added, “A promotion, I see. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“Allow me to introduce General Sickles, General Couch, General Nevins, and General Hathaway,” he said, gesturing at each of them in turn. “Gentlemen,” he said with a grin, “I was privileged to meet Captain McKittredge when we were both confined to the Washington Insane Asylum.”