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  “Mr. Lincoln is adamant that you should invade the South and force her to her knees,” Nathan said. “I believe that is his definition of preserving the Union.”

  “The president of the United States is a buffoon and a baboon. Surely you've noticed that he is no more fit to be president than I am to be pope. It is a tragedy that, at this most critical time in our history, we are led by a man who has no concept of reality. I sometimes wonder if Lincoln is even sane. I'm sure you've heard that he suffers from periodic fits of deep melancholy that he calls the^: hypo,' and that he is incapable of functioning for days at a time.”

  “Yes, I've heard that,” Nathan said. “So what are you going to do about the invasion that is on everyone's mind?”

  “And in all the newspapers,” McClellan said wryly. “What I shall do, Nathan, is quite simple. I shall give the baboon his attack, but I will act in such a manner so as to prevent disaster. We shall probe southward in force while protecting the Shenandoah from a flanking attack. I shall move west of Manassas and try to find the rebel flank. However, I will take care to ensure that I am not myself flanked.” He laughed sardonically. “It would not do for me to have the Confederates in my rear while I am in theirs. No, I would be cut off, overwhelmed, and destroyed.”

  “And when you meet the rebels? What then?”

  “We will fight until I feel that we are compromised. Then we shall withdraw to our defenses around Washington. At that time, I trust that the president will see the light and recognize that 'preserving the Union' means hanging on to what one has, and not grasping futilely and childishly for what one cannot have.”

  “I understand,” Nathan said thoughtfully. After all the words had been spoken, the meaning was simple. General George McClellan was not going to risk victory. He was dazzled to paralysis by the fear of a Confederate army that was too large for reality.

  “Is there no chance of victory, General?”

  “Only if Johnston makes a serious mistake. If he does, then be assured I will pounce. But do you really think a general of Johnston's experience will make a mistake? I don't.”

  “May I ask a favor of you: General?”

  “Name it” McClellan said expansively. He felt that he'd found a good listener to his philosophy in Nathan.

  “I would like to accompany you when you take the army south.”

  “Excellent,” said McClellan. “I am honored to have you. Then you will see the truth.”

  The lunch was over and they stepped outside. As they were shaking hands: a courier rode up in haste and handed McClellan a message that he opened and read. A look of surprise and dismay crossed his face

  “Well well” he said thoughtfully. “It appears there has been a change in the Confederacy. Mr. Davis has replaced Joe Johnston with Robert E. Lee.”

  “I must admit:” said General Scott in his library, “that I am more surprised by the timing of the act than by the act itself. I had rather assumed that Joe Johnston, the victor of Manassas, would be given another battle to prove himself.”

  Scott sipped his brandy. “On the other hand, it is the correct decision. General Lee will prove the greater menace to McClellan than Johnston.”

  “I don't understand,” said Nathan. He had a snifter of scotch whiskey and was puffing on a Cuban cigar. Both were acquired tastes: and at the moment he was damned glad he'd acquired them.

  “Did you know either of the three men?”

  “I shook Jefferson Davis's hand once: and I met Johnston when he was with the First Cavalry,” Nathan said. “I cannot say I actually know either man at all. Lee I never met.”

  Scott smiled. “Of course, I knew them all. Davis is the most important, of course. He is a West Point graduate, served in the army, and fought with distinction in the Mexican War. Later, he served as both a U.S. senator and as secretary of war. Along with having a keen intellect, he is a very strong and stubborn man, which can be advantageous when trying to form a new nation out of fractious pieces. He is blunt and easy to dislike. He is also aggressive, which General Johnston is not.

  “Johnston is very cautious. I knew him well when he served as my quartermaster general in 1860. He is undeniably brave and smart, but his plans for defending the South against McClellan would not meet with Davis's blessing, nor would they stand the criticism that would be heaped upon them.”

  “And why not?” Nathan asked.

  “Presume that you lead an army that is vastly outnumbered, but confronted by a timid general who thinks otherwise. What would you do?”

  Nathan pondered. “I would fall back and bleed the enemy in a hundred skirmishes. I would not risk a major battle in which the disparity in numbers would be found out.”

  “And that is just what Johnston doubtless suggested.” Scott said. “And it is excellent strategy. However, that was his downfall. When the South placed its capital tauntingly close to Washington, it made the seventy-mile corridor between Richmond and Washington the focus of the war. In short, General Johnston had very little room to retreat, maneuver, and bleed his confused enemy. Seventy miles can be covered in an easy week's marching by an unopposed army, although the miserable winter roads and trails will make that journey far longer. I wonder if Johnston proposed evacuating Richmond? Certainly he could not permit himself to be cornered and trapped in a siege. If the Confederacy had kept its capital at Montgomery, Alabama, then Johnston might have been permitted to tease McClellan, playing fox to his hounds, for a couple of hundred irrelevant miles. McClellan would have had to garrison points in his rear, which would have bled off his numbers, and his supply lines would have been vulnerable to cavalry raids.

  “After a while, the Union army would consist of a spear with a very small point and a very long shaft. It would be broken easily and rolled up back from whence it came. No, Johnston was betrayed by geography, as well as the warrior code of the Southern male, and not by his own military skills. Please recall that I came from Virginia and understand fully that retreating in the face of an invading enemy is something Southern men will not do without first being totally and utterly defeated. The failure to recognize that fact is why Joe Johnston is awaiting reassignment and Robert E. Lee commands in his stead.”

  “And what will Lee do differently?” Nathan asked as he refilled both men's glasses.

  “Lee served on my staff in Mexico. I knew him well and both liked and respected him. He was a genuine hero and was wounded in combat. I offered him command of the Union armies when secession occurred. He refused by saying his duty lay with Virginia. Duty, he said, was the sublimest word in the English language, and then he followed that misguided sense of duty southward. It is a shame. I would a million times rather see Lee in charge of our armies than McClellan.”

  “I would, too,” Nathan admitted. It was a thought he would not have considered a couple of months ago.

  “What will Lee do differently? Why, he will attack. Lee is brave and ruthless. He may look like a courtly gentleman and a scholar, but he is all warrior. He will attack, attack, attack, even with inferior forces, to keep McClellan off balance and confused. He will never let McClellan begin to gain the confidence he needs to lead the large host he has. Lee will baffle him, lure him into a trap, and then defeat him. McClellan's one hope is to move rapidly and attack now, before Lee can get his command organized. There's bound to be confusion in the Confederate hierarchy because of such a precipitous change in high command. Attack now is what he should do. However,” Scott said with dismay, “he won't, will he?”

  “No, he won't. His plans are made for the invasion to commence three weeks from now.” Nathan sagged back in dismay. “Then our cause is doomed.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “It isn't?” Nathan asked in surprise.

  “McClellan will be defeated, but not destroyed. The South simply doesn't have the capacity to destroy McClellan's army, and McClellan, for all his shortcomings, is not a total fool. He already told you he will withdraw at the first hint of harm, and that will sav
e the army. Where we go from here depends on Mr. Lincoln.”

  Nathan understood. If McClellan faltered, then the president would have no choice but to search elsewhere for military leadership. At such a point, it was almost a given that he would ask the opinion of General Winfield Scott. The continued meetings between Nathan and John Hay might be interpreted as representing an almost wistful thought on Lincoln's part to be able to confide in Scott.

  If defeat was as inevitable as General Scott said it was, then it would be tragic. However, it might also contain within it the seeds of victory.

  “By the way,” Nathan said, “McClellan even knew about Attila Flynn's proposal to develop and organize an Irish-American army. He thought it laughable. He said there was no such thing as an Irish organization, and that attempts to create one would make a drunken mob look good by comparison.”

  McClellan had said no such thing and Nathan winked so that Scott understood. The comment was totally for Flynn's benefit, and it amused Nathan to say it. Bridget Conlin was certainly listening at the door and would get the slur back to him as quickly as she could. Let Flynn do with it as he wished.

  Scott gestured for one more drink and another cigar. “We may have to start rationing these,” he said sadly. “If the British blockade becomes effective, we may have seen the last of these little life-sustaining luxuries.”

  It was unthinkable for women of status and breeding to actually work for a living, which meant that both Rebecca Devon and Valerie D'Estaing had a good deal of time on their hands. Shopping was always a sport, but the war had made items rare and prices high. Besides, it was a shallow sport, and, as Rebecca had said, “how many gloves can one wear?”

  Another source of genuine usefulness and satisfaction was working with the war wounded. But there hadn't been a major battle in some months, so the multitudes of hurt young bodies that had come from Bull Run had largely been sent to their home states. Those who remained were either too grievously wounded to be helped or were surrounded by other volunteers.

  Working in favor of emancipating the slaves took up some time, but little was happening in that quarter, as President Lincoln seemed impervious to pressure. He continued to inform abolitionists that his primary goal was to preserve the Union and that all good things would flow from that event.

  That left the two women with their mutual love of art and scholarship to occupy them. Valerie and Henri D'Estaing owned a large two-story converted farmhouse a mile north of Washington, yet well within the city's defensive perimeter. Valerie had had the attic renovated into a studio where she could paint, sculpt, read, or do whatever else she wanted. At some expense, a skylight had been cut into the roof so that sunlight was abundant virtually every day. There were no other windows, which ensured utter privacy for Valerie and any guests. A Franklin stove provided warmth on those winter days when the damp chill threatened to cut to the bone. A few logs in the stove and the studio became extremely warm.

  Both Rebecca and Valerie wore robes as they finished an enjoyable snack of cheese and wine. They considered the studio a wonderful retreat from the world and its worries. It was a place where they could quite literally let their almost waist-length hair down and get out of the voluminous and restrictive garments that fashion dictated women wear in public.

  “Where is your Mr. Hunter tonight?” Valerie asked.

  “I don't think he's mine, thank you, and he is preparing to go soldiering with McClellan. I still shudder every time I think of men going off to war.”

  “And him in particular?”

  “Yes,” Rebecca admitted.

  “Does he know that?”

  “I don't know.”

  Then why don't you tell him, Valerie thought. “Do you think he cares for you?”

  Rebecca grinned. “Well, he does keep coming around.”

  Valerie finished her wine. She hand-rolled a pair of cigarettes from a bowl of shredded Virginia tobacco. Cigarettes had been developed by soldiers during the Crimean War, and their usage was spreading throughout Europe and the United States. Valerie found Virginia tobacco milder and more pleasurable than the Turkish blends she had been introduced to.

  Valerie lighted both women's cigarettes from a candle. “You are becoming quite a libertine,” she said of Rebecca. “This is the third cigarette in my lifetime. I hardly think this qualifies as debauchery.”

  To her own astonishment, Rebecca had lately been finding herself cramped and chafed by the restraints imposed on womanhood by a male-dominated society. While a glass of wine was acceptable for a woman, brandy and smoking were not. If found out, she would be ostracized; thus, the need to hide in Valerie's studio. Also, men could swear like troopers, but not in front of women. If they inadvertently did, they would apologize profusely as if bad words would cause ladies to fall to pieces. And some ladies would, Rebecca thought with wry humor.

  Of course, if a woman was heard swearing, she was considered a trollop. This was another reason they enjoyed the seclusion of the studio. Along with drinking and the occasional cigarette, they could swear if they wished and speak freely about topics that were normally taboo.

  “Has Nathan ever touched you?” Valerie asked, interrupting her thoughts. The tobacco was relaxing Rebecca as if it were a mild narcotic.

  “I've let him take my arm while we walked, but I don't think that's what you had in mind,” Rebecca answered impishly.

  “In that case, I won't even ask if you've made love with the nice man,” Valerie sniffed and they both laughed. “Enough,” she announced, “it's time to be artists.”

  Valerie stood up and let the robe drop from her shoulders. She stepped naked onto the low pedestal as Rebecca gathered her tools. Today Rebecca would work in charcoal.

  It had been Valerie's idea to be her model. She had seen some of Rebecca's works that awkwardly reflected human figures. One time she had unkindly said that they were all so lifeless that it looked as if they were about to fall down. She had convinced Rebecca that the only proper way to paint or sketch people was to understand human anatomy, and that the only way to do that was to actually see it. When Rebecca had demurred, Valerie had told her that she had modeled for a number of artists in France, some of whom she hadn't slept with.

  Valerie's logic overcame Rebecca's reluctance, and the improvement in her efforts was surprising as she understood how the human body operated. Valerie was a voluptuous woman who seemed to enjoy displaying herself.

  “I'll stand naked in the daylight for as long as I can,” she'd proclaimed during one of their first sessions. “Right now I am the type of model a Renaissance painter would have loved. In a few years I'll be fat and will have to pay men to paint me or make love to me.”

  “You'd do that?” Rebecca had asked in surprise.

  “Only for the right man,” Valerie had said and laughed. “I will not always have my figure, but I will always have standards. And money.”

  It hadn't taken long for Rebecca to realize that Valerie truly enjoyed being without clothes. In younger years, Valerie had swum naked in the warm waters of the Mediterranean off the southern coast of France and also in the Caribbean. She had also frolicked nude in the snows of Sweden, where she'd warmed herself in something called a sauna. Rebecca felt it would be interesting to swim unencumbered by clothes in warm water, but had no interest whatsoever in romping naked through the snow.

  Valerie's sexual experiences no longer shocked Rebecca, although she was astounded at how many lovers the French-woman had taken. That not all of them had been men was no longer shocking either. Nor was the fact that Rebecca now understood just how women could physically love and pleasure each other.

  As Rebecca continued to sketch, she wondered how her thinner body compared with Valerie's in Nathan's eyes. She was much slenderer in comparison with Valerie, who truly was beginning to show a little fat. Rebecca felt that any comparison would be basically favorable, although her breasts were smaller and there was the nagging feeling that her calves were a little too muscular
.

  “Did you ever shave your legs?” Rebecca asked. “I remember hearing that women in Europe sometimes do that.”

  Valerie shifted slightly, but still retained the pose. “I did it once, but never again. I thought it would make myself more attractive as a model. My legs were a mass of little cuts and the skin was raw. Then, when everything grew back, I itched horribly. However, I will shave my underarms if I am wearing a revealing dress. I do think a black pelt of fur under a woman's arms can be very unappealing. I think you should wear dresses that expose your bosom. That'd get Mr. Hunter's attention.”

  Rebecca laughed. “If I had bosoms I'd display them.”

  “You're hardly that tiny,” Valerie said. She stepped off the pedestal to see what Rebecca had wrought. “Excellent. Now it's my turn.”

  Rebecca hung her robe over the back of a chair and stepped onto the pedestal, where she took a deep breath. She was still unused to nudity, although she found it liberating and exhilarating. As usual, Valerie did not put her robe back on. When they were done, there would be one more glass of wine before returning to the reality of the outside world. Rebecca made a decision. When Valerie was done sketching her she wouldn't wear her robe either. “I think Mr. Hunter would approve if he saw you today.” Rebecca flushed. “I wonder. Perhaps my scar would frighten him away.”

  “Hardly. You make it larger than it is. It scarcely covers even part of your neck and none of your bosom. How did you get it?”

  “An oil lamp spilled and burned me when I was a child. After that, I always felt that people were staring at it and me. Do you really think it is inconsequential? I always felt that it was one reason my late husband wanted so little to do with me.”

  “Your unlamented late husband was an idiot as well as a criminal. Your scar is barely visible.” It wasn't quite the truth, but the comment pleased Rebecca. “Do you want Nathan to touch you, Rebecca? Do you want him to make love to you? Do you want this relationship to go further?”