Heaven and Hell (55 page)

Constance was tired, but happily so. She'd spent the evening in the kitchen, helping to bake pastries for the holiday. Every cranny of Belvedere was awash in pleasant scents that spoke of Christmas: the yeasty smell of bread dough; the tang of the huge blue spruce tree down in the parlor; the smoky sweetness of perfumed candles that burned throughout the mansion until very late in the evening. She looked forward to the warmth and festivity of Christmas--to the children being home from their schools, to the family being together.

Over the noise of the rain, she heard a distant whistle. She smiled.

That was his train. She closed the window, leaving it unlatched as she always did. Seated again, she gave her gleaming red hair twenty more strokes, then performed her customary evening inspection of the woman in the mirror.

A woman not unattractive for her age, Constance believed. But definitely overweight, by at least thirty pounds. Most days she ate sparingly, inspired by the previous evening's mirror inspection. And yet she gained weight. Who would have thought that a happy life could include that kind of struggle?

Smiling drowsily again, she stretched. George should be home and in bed within a half hour. Thoughts of him drew her attention to a small velvet box lying amid her pins and cosmetic pots and brushes. He was such a dear, generous man. He liked giving her presents," even when there was no special occasion. The velvet box held the latest--earrings.

She took them out. Two large pearls were clasped in tapered mountings of filigreed gold. The effect was that of teardrops. She held one up beside her earlobe, pleased with the effect. She thought of how much she loved her husband, how good their life was after four years of war and separation.

Gazing at the mirror, she didn't see the dormer window slowly begin to open.

Taking the full brunt of the storm, a contorted figure had clung to the roofpeak of the dormer when Constance opened the window in re"

sponse to the strange sound. Presently she had closed it, but the figure had remained still as a gargoyle on a cathedral.

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Down among the misted town lights at the foot of the mountain, an arriving train whistled into the depot. The man on the roof had palCl Banditti 349

no attention, caught up in what was about to happen. Tonight was the culmination of years of waiting. Months of wandering and planning.

Days of skulking about the town asking questions. Then more waiting, until nature provided the cover of this thunderstorm. Tonight, the guilty would begin to pay for thwarting and hurting him.

The climb to the dormer, using slippery gutters, ornamentation, window sills, had taken a half hour. The wetness, the slickness of everything increased the difficulty. So did his own memories of the fall into the James, the ghastly pain lancing his body as it caromed from rock to rock. He was proud, very proud of himself for overcoming those memories and the accompanying fright, and for making the climb successfully.

He

had waited a few moments, then reached down from the roof of the dormer. He worked grimy fingers into the thin space between the frame and the upper edge of the window. A wind gust tore the stolen top hat from his head. He grabbed for it, causing his right foot to slip and scrape the roof. The hat sailed away. He clenched his teeth, cursing silently. Just such a noisy slip had brought Hazard's wife to the window the first time.

He hung in a strained position, waiting. Nothing happened. Evidently she hadn't heard the second scrape. Slowly, he crept down the side of the dormer and with great care pried the window open.

Squinting through the narrow opening, he saw a gaslit room, handsomely furnished. Beyond a canopied bed a woman sat at a dressing table, holding earrings to her ears to study the effect.

He pulled the window open, stretched a crippled leg over the sill and jumped into the room.

Switchmen with lanterns uncoupled the private car. Above the dim lights of town George saw the shining windows of Belvedere on its terraced peak. To his left the sky shimmered red; the night crews at Hazard's were at work.

Preparing to leave the car, he enjoyed a rare moment of tranquillity.

In Pittsburgh he and Jupe Smith had negotiated the purchase of McNeely's Foundry. McNeely, a premier Pennsylvania ironmaster, had died in late summer, and George had stepped in to try to buy the foundry from the heirs. McNeely's was ideal for conversion to the new Bessemer process.

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Tonight he was coming home on the crest of success. He had McNeely's in his pocket, and here in Lehigh Station, Hazard's was

°Perating day and night, turning out everything from rails and architectural wrought iron to iron frames for a growing Chicago piano manufac"*fer, Fenway's. George felt very good about all of it, and in that way 350 HEAVEN AND HELL

he reflected the prevailing mood of the North. The North was enjoying almost unprecedented growth and prosperity. In the wake of four years of carnage and deprivation--years that had clearly shown war of any kind to be unthinkable--Americans of all classes exhibited a fierce dedication to turning a profit. Out of ashes, the industrial phoenix was rising triumphantly.

No credit was due the politicians. George thanked God that he'd gotten out of Washington before the war ended. He couldn't stand to be there now, enduring the sordid intrigues and partisan schisms. Indeed, some conversations he'd had in Pittsburgh suggested that a great many citizens were growing tired of the political war. They were tired of Johnson's harangues about constitutional principle, tired of the Radicals'

maneuvering to impeach him, and, sadly, they were tired of the issue of Negro rights.

As always, the politicians failed to recognize a changing mood, or chose to ignore it. But the signals were clear. In the fall elections, the Republicans had been turned out in New York and Pennsylvania and their majorities whittled away in Ohio, Maine and Massachusetts. Referenda on black suffrage had been defeated in Kansas, Minnesota and Ohio, states thought to be enlightened.

Despite a weakening hold on the electorate, the Radicals continued on their narrow course. Johnson remained the Arch-Apostate, or the

"arch-demon," as Mr. Boutwell, of the House Judiciary Committee, called him. The committee had brought in a 5-4 vote to impeach, although some moderate Republicans with whom George agreed--Wilson of Iowa who wrote the committee's minority report was one--refused to take part in the blood sport. So did the House as a whole. On December 7, it had rejected impeachment, 108-57.

Unfortunately the Radicals remained undeterred. They would find grounds. Stanley's crony and patron, Wade, was already in place as president of the Senate. The Congress might well name him President of the United States if Johnson could be removed.

Virgilia's friend Thad Stevens wanted him gone. Some said nothing else kept the old Radical alive. Stevens and his crowd wanted Johnson on trial for "monstrous usurpations of power," and one defeat in
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the House wouldn't spell the end of it. God, how vicious some men became when dogma drove them.

"Finally," Jupe Smith groaned. He pressed his upper dentures with his thumb and collected his carpetbag and umbrella. The men said good night to the Welsh porter and the black chef who traveled with the car. It was only a few feet from the covered platform to the waiting Lehigh Station hackney.

"Sorry we're late, Bud," George said, shaking water off his hat pst

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as he climbed in. "A fallen tree blocked the track for an hour. Thanks for waiting."

"Glad to," Bud said through the roof slot. "By the way, Mr.

Hazard. Been a man askin' for you in town the last day or so."

George moved to give the grumbling lawyer more room. "Who?"

"Didn't say his name. Queer lookin' bird, though. Looks like he was crippled in the war. Leon at the Station House Hotel told him you was away for a while. I s'pose it's just some fella wantin' to sell you something."

"I get my share of those, God knows."

"If this fascinating conversation is over," Jupe said, "I'd like to get to bed. I'm an old man."

"You don't have a corner on that, Jupe." George's bones ached; was he coming down with influenza? He signaled Bud and the hackney lurched off through the almost deserted streets.

One moment the mirror was empty, then his image filled it. She pushed away from the dressing table. She was so stunned and terrified that she didn't notice the earring as it dropped from her left hand. The other pearl-and-gold teardrop bobbed on her right earlobe.

He leaped at her, clapped his left hand over her mouth and pushed his right knee into her back. "You be quiet. One sound and I'll kill you." He pulled her harder against his knee to demonstrate his intent.

Her back bowed painfully.

Terror crippled her mind. Her eyes flew over the image in the
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glass, trying to make some sense of it. Who was this stubbled, paunchy hobgoblin in rain-soaked clothes? His eyes were dark and disturbed.

The nails of the hand on her mouth were black underneath; he smelled of dirt.

"Don't know who I am, do you? I'm an old friend." He chuckled.

A little rope of spit descended from his lip, broke, struck, and made a dark spot on the shoulder of her gown. "An old, old friend of your husband's. Down in Mexico, he and his lickspittle crony Main, they called me Butcher. Butcher Bent."

Under his hand, Constance screamed--or tried to. She knew the name. George thought Elkanah Bent had died, or at least disappeared.

But there he was, in the glass, chortling as his right hand dipped into

™s soiled coat, which was missing all its buttons. He drew something

»to the light.

"Butchers kill cows. You'd better be careful."

He shook the straight razor's blade open. It glittered in the gas

"8ht. Constance thought she'd faint. She mustn't. Her mind cried out: George> Children!

352 HEAVEN AND HELL

No. They weren't here. They couldn't help.

Slowly, tantalizingly, Bent lowered the razor past her eyes to her throat. Suddenly he jerked it inward.

Another muffled scream. Only then did Constance realize he'd turned the razor at the last moment. It was the dull top edge pressing her neck.

"Now I'm going to let you go, you dirty cow. I want to ask you some questions. If you yell, you're finished. Do you understand about keeping quiet? Blink your eyes if you do."

Her eyes reflected in the mirror, huge. She blinked four times instead of one. Gaslight flashed on the razor's blade as he lifted it away and then, slowly, his foul-smelling hand.

Constance nearly collapsed. "Please, oh God, please don't hurt me."

"Tell me what I want to know and I won't." He stepped back, almost affable. "I promise I won't."

Ashamed of her fear, yet unable to overcome it, she turned on the padded seat to face him. "Can I--can I trust you?"

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He giggled. "What choice do you have? But, yes, you can. I only want information. About the people who ruined me. About their families.

Start with your husband's bosom friend, Orry Main. Did he really die at Petersburg?"

"Yes." Constance held her hands between her knees, digging nails into her palms. She neither felt the pain nor saw the small seep of blood onto her gown. "Yes, he did."

"He had a wife--"

How could she endanger Madeline, or any of them? Struck silent by conscience, she stared at him, her mouth open. Bent yanked her hair.

"We made a bargain. No answers--" he waggled the flashing razor inches from her eyes--"it's all over."

"All right, all right."

He withdrew the razor. "Better. I really don't want to harm an innocent woman. Tell me about Main's widow. Where is she?"

"Mont Royal Plantation. Near Charleston."

He grunted. "And your own husband?"

On the way up to Belvedere this moment, Constance remembered.

She must hold Bent in conversation, detain him until George arrived.

The train was in; it couldn't take long. Oh, but what if he'd missed the train? Dear God, what if-- ?

"Mrs. Hazard, I don't have infinite patience." The man's left shoulder hung below his right one, giving him a look of vulnerability Strange, then, that she'd never seen a more commanding, terrifying figure.

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"George--" She licked dry lips. "George is in Pittsburgh on business."

"You have children."

New, cold terror. She hadn't imagined he would--

"Children," he snarled.

"Away at school, both of them."

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"I think your husband had a brother."

Which one did he mean? Better to name the most distant. "In California. With his wife and son."

It worked. The man acted disappointed. He didn't ask for specifics.

"And there was a relative of Orry Main's. A soldier I met in Texas.

His name was Charles. Where is he?"

"So far as I know, he's in the Army again, out in Kansas." She was so frightened, so desperate to please him and save her life, she quite abandoned caution. "He went out there after the war, with his little boy.''

The man smiled suddenly. "Oh, he has a child, too. What branch of the Army is Charles serving with?"

"The U.S. Cavalry. I don't know exactly where."

"Kansas will do. So many children. I hadn't thought of children.

That's interesting."

Constance was again on the verge of uncontrollable trembling. Just then, to her amazement, the filthy, rain-soaked man stepped back. "Thank you. I believe you've told me all I need to know. You've been very helpful."

She sagged, close to hysteria. "Thank you. Oh, God, thank you."

"You may stand up if you like."

"Thank you, thank you so very much." She pushed both palms against the padded seat and swayed to her feet, the tears bursting forth, tears of relief that he was going to spare her life. He smiled and stepped forward.

"Here, careful. You're unsteady." His free hand grasped her elbow.