Unholy Fire (17 page)

Seeing the expected befuddlement on their faces, he laughed out loud. From the rosiness in his cheeks, it was obvious he had been indulging his fondness for whiskey. General Sickles gave me a curt smile. Of medium height, he had restless brown eyes and a blunt face adorned by a Roman nose and a drooping black mustache.

“I'm sure there is a point to this story somewhere,” he said.

“It isn't what you might think,” said General Hooker, and he began to explain why we had both been there. He left out the part about our meeting by the thunderboxes.

“Kit has seen me at my worst, I'm afraid,” he concluded, with another grin in my direction. “Thankfully, he is the only officer with a Harvard degree who knows how to keep a confidence.”

“You hope,” interjected Sickles, glancing sharply at me.

“He is a young Homer with innocence in his nature,” said General Hooker, “although he has some dark secrets of his own.”

General Nevins was whispering in the ear of General Couch. From what I could see, there wasn't a hint of avarice or deceit in his highbrowed, distinguished face. He had the same mournful eyes and benign countenance of the Presbyterian minister who used to come across from the mainland to preach at our island church over Christmas week.

Looking down at General Hathaway, General Hooker said, “Are you getting any closer to identifying the men responsible for supplying us with those collapsing gun carriages, Sam? As far as I'm concerned, they should be lashed to the barrels of our siege guns and fired off at the Rebels.”

I was still looking at General Nevins. The benign expression never left his face.

“Yes,” said General Hathaway. “Actually, Captain McKittredge is down here to help us with our investigation.”

“Excellent,” said General Hooker, as Nevins's eyes connected with mine. When I smiled pleasantly at him, he turned away.

“The miscreants are probably right here lapping up your whiskey,” said General Couch, speaking for the first time. His head was shaped like a giant acorn.

A waiter came up, balancing a platter of drinks on his hand.

“Gentlemen, I would like to propose a toast,” said General Hooker, picking up a glass of whiskey from the tray. “You must all try this single malt … sent all the way from Scotland for me.”

Not having had a drop of alcohol since my time in the cellar, I refrained from picking up a glass. As he was raising his own, the general noticed me without one.

“Surely you will join me in my birthday toast, Kit,” he said, with a friendly grin.

Sensing all their faces on me, I picked up a glass from the tray and raised it with the others.

“To the honor and glory of noble warriors,” said General Hooker.

Like the others, I drank it down in one swallow, almost instantly feeling its burning comfort speeding through my system and straight to my brain.

To my utter astonishment, the general then stared down at Sam Hathaway and said, “To you, Sam.”

General Hathaway turned his head away as if struck. He was wearing his spectacles again, and with his professorial air, it was hard to believe that he had ever seen combat.

“Before he was consigned to a desk, Sam Hathaway was the best regimental commander in my division,” said General Hooker. “I hope he won't mind my telling some brother officers about his exploits on the Peninsula.”

“That was another man, General,” said Sam.

“It was you, my friend.”

Looking back to us, he said, “During the fighting at Fort Magruder, we were being raked by Confederate artillery and in danger of being driven. I even had to post a line of cavalry across the read just to cut down the deserters as they tried to run. On his own initiative, Sam led a counterattack against the batteries that were murdering us. I watched it all through my binoculars. Damnedest thing I ever saw on a battlefield.”

General Hathaway was looking ever more uncomfortable. His fingers moved toward the wheels of his chair.

“Sam was calmly strolling out ahead of his men carrying a furled umbrella under his arm … just as if he were on his way to the library.”

He turned to look down at him again and smiled.

“When he was within a hundred yards of the Confederate position, an artillery shell exploded at ground level just behind him at the edge of a shallow ravine. Naturally, a few of his men decided to take advantage of the situation and dove straight into the cover. The rest of the regiment halted as one right behind them. That's when Sam walked back there with the shells exploding all around him.”

I tried to imagine him when his legs still worked, tall and fearless.

“According to a subaltern who saw the whole thing, Sam just spread his umbrella over the men in the draw and declared, “Come along, boys, we need you up ahead.”

General Sickles was nodding his head in approval.

“Isn't that what you did, Sam?” asked General Hooker.

General Hathaway didn't acknowledge him. He was staring straight ahead, his fingers now gripping the wheels of his chair.

“That's exactly what he did. But that wasn't the best part,” said General Hooker. “When they stayed glued to the ground, Sam reassured them by saying, ‘Don't worry, boys, I've got an umbrella.'”

All of us laughed together.

“Shamed into action, his regiment returned to the attack and drove the battery from the field. You saved more than my reputation that day, Sam.”

General Hooker removed a thin leather case from his uniform coat and opened it in front of us. Inside, resting on a bed of white silk, was a red enamel-and-gold medal. He leaned down and pinned it on General Hathaway's chest.

“The president authorized me to have this struck for you personally, Sam.”

A feeling of profound sadness came over me just then, looking down at him as he tried hard to control his emotions. I knew what he was going through, all that he had lost.

“As I said, General … that was another man,” Sam Hathaway declared grimly. “Thank you for the generous words, but I need to return to my office now.”

We watched as he navigated his chair through the crowd. Sergeant Osceola followed him across the floor.

“When did his luck run out?” asked General Sickles.

“Second Manassas,” said General Hooker. “He was shot in the spine after doing his best to carry out one of Pope's harebrained orders. That young aide of his, Osceola—full-blooded Seminole I believe—saved his life … was shot several times doing it.”

“Bad luck,” said General Couch. “Sam had a brilliant future.”

“By your leave, Joe,” said General Nevins, giving him a formal salute before heading across the floor. I watched as he disappeared into the crowd at the buffet tables. A few moments later, the crush parted long enough for me to see him talking animatedly to Major Duval. Some distance behind them, Val's familiar bulk loomed above the rest of the celebrants.

The military orchestra struck up a Strauss waltz, and the romantic music quickly drew scores of couples to the dance floor. General Hooker handed me another glass of whiskey. I reluctantly took it, telling myself it would be my last.

“There's a rumor going around that McClellan will soon be restored to command,” said General Couch, his acorn head now swaying back and forth to the music.

“The gravedigger of the Chickahominy back again? Where did you hear that?” demanded General Sickles.

“From Ben Wade,” said Couch. “He said a group of senators are actively working on Little Mac's behalf.”

“The nation's capital,” said Sickles in disgust. “Built by giants; inhabited by pygmies. I can tell you this … the cock will crow three times before Abe Lincoln puts that pigeon-livered bastard back in command.”

“Well, at least Burnside is loyal to the cause,” said General Couch. “I've always had my doubts about McClellan.”

“Burnside is loyal all right,” said General Hooker, “but one only has to look into those Guernsey eyes to realize he is a complete imbecile. If his current battle plan is allowed to stand, he will go down as the greatest corpse maker of the war.”

I happened to be looking toward the dance floor when my eyes were drawn to a small group of people standing to the side. Something about one of them jarred my memory, but at first I couldn't place what it was. Continuing to stare at them, I suddenly recognized the debonair man with the leonine head and pale eyes who had threatened me at the Silbernagel trial.

“Pardon me, sir. But do you know who that man is?” I asked General Couch, who was standing next to me. As I pointed toward him, my quarry smiled back at me and gave a jaunty wave. He was the only man in the group not wearing a uniform.

“Which one?” asked General Couch, but as I looked again, he had disappeared. I immediately started walking toward the place where I had last seen him. General Hooker's voice brought me up short.

“Kit,” he said, motioning me to his side, “when the business with the gun carriages is concluded, I want you to join my staff. I need a younger officer who has seen real action. There are too many armchair warriors as it is.”

“Thank you, General,” I said, continuing to stare at the spot where I had seen the stranger last.

“It's agreed then,” he responded. “We'll drink to it.”

I knew it was a mistake but was no longer thinking clearly, and I consumed the drink in two swallows. It followed the first two down my throat with the old familiar ease. I remained at the general's side, joining him in another glass of whiskey when the waiter came through again. The stranger did not reappear.

I was about to take my leave when the music suddenly stopped and I heard an angry yell, followed by the loud smack of a physical blow. As the crowd parted on the dance floor, I could see an officer lying spread-eagled on his back. Another officer was standing over him with his fists raised. I recognized him from the shoulder straps. It was Major Bannister. A woman in a red satin dress was standing next to him.

In the ensuing silence, Major Bannister's next words carried across the floor to us.

“Stay away from her or I'll kill you,” he said.

General Hooker motioned to another staff officer standing near us, and he immediately came to his side. “Have Bannister sent back to his tent under guard,” he said, as the man on the floor struggled to regain his feet.

The staff officer moved off to carry out the order. I was standing close enough to hear General Hooker's next words when he turned to General Sickles and whispered, “You need to talk to Mavis right away.”

Sickles nodded. A second later, the orchestra resumed playing a gay waltz, and couples began dancing again as if nothing had happened. General Hooker's cheeks were as fresh as cherries.

“The truth be told, Kit,” he said, shaking his head in world-weary fashion, “if you look down through the wars in history, most of them were fought over women.”

He must have interpreted the boozy look on my face as one of condemnation, for with genuine affection in his voice, he added, “Try not to be too judgmental, my boy. You're going to be forty-eight yourself someday.”

With that, he handed me another round of single malt.

The woman in the red dress had remained standing in the same place where the two officers had been fighting. No one made a move to comfort or assist her. She slowly walked to the edge of the dance floor, pretending to examine her dance card.

At the same time, a large group of officers and their wives began forming at a respectful distance from General Hooker in order to extend their birthday greetings.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose I must attend to my well-wishers.”

As he left us to receive them, I turned to say good night to General Sickles.

“You will remain here for a moment, Captain,” he said, in a peremptory tone.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

General Sickles was gazing steadily in the direction of the woman in the red dress. When she finally happened to look in our direction, I saw him nod, almost imperceptibly. She walked straight toward us.

“Good evening, Mrs. Bannister,” he said, as she came up.

“It's good to see you again, General,” she responded.

“I would like to present Captain McKittredge, a friend of General Hooker's,” he said next.

From her dazzling smile, it did not appear that she drew any distinction between a general and a mere captain. I took in the fragrance of lilacs.

“It must be wonderful to be so tall,” she said.

“Not when you're in the line of fire,” Sickles came right back.

“No, I suppose not,” she said.

She had pale gray eyes and dark russet hair that fell in natural ringlets down to her bare shoulders. Her pretty oval face was marred only by a tiny field of smallpox scars on her cheeks that she had artfully concealed with paint and powder.

She turned back to face General Sickles.

“On behalf of my husband, I deeply regret what just happened,” she said, her breasts swelling the low-cut gown with each breath she took. “I was simply dancing with Lieutenant Mitchell, and the next thing I knew.…”

“Please don't give it a moment's concern, Mrs. Bannister,” replied General Sickles. “These things always happen as battles loom close. Right now, the men's emotions are on a razor's edge.”

“Thank you for your understanding,” she said. “I didn't want anything to spoil General Hooker's party.”

“It would be impossible for you to do that, Mrs. Bannister.”

As they looked at one another, silent messages seemed to be passing between them. Then General Sickles turned to me and declared, “Captain McKittredge, I would like you to escort Mrs. Bannister to her lodgings. After that, you are free to return to the party.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, although at that point I wanted nothing more than to return to my tent.

“Where are you staying, Mrs. Bannister?” asked the general.