CHAPTER SIX

LORD PALMERSTON FELT only relatively pleased by events as he sipped brandy in his office and read the latest dispatches. His partner, Lord Russell, dozed easily in a large chair in the corner. Papers lay loosely on his lap.

The very first cable message from Canada had brought the obvious and welcome news that the cable was fixed and working, and that the reinforcements landed in Maine had successfully crossed into Canada and were resting in Ottawa. Also, the cable was being extended from Canada to a terminus in the Confederacy, probably Norfolk. The cable was maddeningly slow, often requiring several minutes and several tries for the transmission of a single word, but it was vastly superior to waiting days, even weeks, for news of events. The cable's inherent limitations had forced both London and Canada to be both brief and explicit in their communications.

In his message, Lord Cardigan had informed Palmerston that he would move the bulk of his army to Kingston, a city on the coast of Lake Ontario. Just south of it there was a substantial British garrison entrenched in the St. Catherine- Niagara area across from the American city of Buffalo, New York. Such a force would also protect the Welland Canal, the only means of getting shipping from Lake Ontario through to the other great lakes.

Cardigan felt that any real American move against Canada would come from their base at Sacketts Harbor and across the St. Lawrence River. From there the Americans could move either east towards Ottawa and Montreal, or west towards Toronto. Cardigan felt that he was positioned to counter either event. All this did was to drive home the point that the Canadian border with the United States was enormously lengthy and virtually impossible to defend.

Even with the reinforcements at hand, Great Britain had virtually written off Lakes Michigan, Superior, and Huron as there were only a handful of armed schooners available for service on the lakes. Britannia might rule the waves, but, even with her might, she could not have ships everywhere. The Confederate navy was virtually nonexistent as regards blue-water ships. What vessels the Confederacy possessed were for use in rivers, bays, and other shallow, coastal waters. Even their ironclad, the Merrimack, would not venture out into the ocean, presuming, of course that the Confederates actually completed the thing.

It was mortifying that the Canadian population had so far proven largely disinterested in defending themselves. He had to concede that the Canadian militia was small in number, poorly armed, and even more poorly trained, and that this was the result of years of British policy. Canada had been secure for generations, and the widely dispersed and small population had seen no external threats to defend against. The periodic border problems with the United States had never been of much concern to those more than a few miles behind the border. The farmers and merchants in eastern Canada had focused solely on the problems of crops and produce.

The situation in Canada was further complicated by the fact that Canada was in political ferment. There was a great deal of frustration regarding elected representation and self-government, which was all directed at Great Britain.

If the Americans did come, Palmerston thought, the Canadian people would sing a different tune. Fortunately for all concerned, the Americans appeared to have no intention of warring with Canada. As yet there had been no massing of troops along the border. It was as if the truncated United States was still transfixed by the Confederate army and Richmond. Let it remain so, Palmerston hoped.

On the seas, the war was one-sided, but not overwhelmingly so. As feared, the Americans had sent a number of commerce raiders against British shipping. However, with their own ports under loose blockade and with European ports closed to them, the Union navy had to sink its prizes rather than reap any profit from them. Even so, Lloyds of London was screaming about the losses the British merchant fleet was taking. American warships were even operating in the Pacific, although the Royal Navy's taking of the Sandwich Islands had deprived the Americans of the use of the magnificent anchorage at Pearl Harbor and the small city of Honolulu.

As for American merchant ships, they were now virtually nonexistent. They had been driven from the seas. They had either been captured or were skulking in their harbors.

Still, it would be vastly preferable to end the war as soon as possible. England was suffering economically and there was the never-ending problem of her supporting a slaveocracy. Even though Lord Lyons and Jefferson Davis had agreed that slavery would be ended after the war, the average Englishman continued to denounce slavery. Queen Victoria, still in deepest mourning, was blessedly silent on the subject, which disarmed many of Palmerston's political foes.

The British government fully understood the Confederacy's reluctance to attack the North. The South was fighting for its independence, which meant there was no need for an invasion of a land it didn't want. No. the South wanted the North to attack it. and it looked like that was exactly what Lincoln's forces were planning to do.

“What incredible folly,” Palmerston muttered.

Russell blinked his eyes open and smiled. “And which folly is that?”

Palmerston laughed. That there were a number of follies to choose from was irrefutable fact. 'That the North and the South can keep no secrets from each other. Thus, we know that McClellan will attack towards Richmond within a month. I pray that a great calamity befalls him that will expedite the end to this damned war.” “But it is a war you wanted,” Russell teased.

“And it is one I still want,” Palmerston said, “but I do still fear that the United States is a sleeping giant that we should not totally awaken, Not everything is going the South’s way, I have no idea where the places are, but the North is excited over the capture of two Confederate forts, Henry and Donelson.”

“They are well west of both Richmond and Washington, my friend,” Russell answered. “They are over the Appalachians and by the Mississippi. They are on the periphery of the war and of no concern to us.”

“I hope not,” Palmerston said softly. “I hope not.”

Hannibal Watson was bent over pulling weeds when Mr. Farnum lurched up to him. Hannibal was tired and his back ached from the useless chore. The crop was going to die from lack of rain. The only things actually growing were the weeds, while the crop of vegetables was withering.

“Dumb fucking nigger,” Farnum said, his voice slurred from drink, “that's goddamn vegetables you're pulling up.”

Hannibal knew the difference between vegetables and weeds, and knew full well he was pulling the right items. He normally wouldn't mind damaging Farnum's property, but vegetables also meant food for himself and the other slaves once the Farnums had their fill.

Hannibal bowed his head, waiting for the inevitable blow. “Fucking nigger,” snarled Farnum. He kicked Hannibal hard in the ribs, causing him to topple and roll over in the dirt.

As he rolled, Hannibal's hand found a good-sized rock and grasped it. With it solidly in his possession, he rolled to a crouching position, a black panther ready to pounce. Later he thought his mind might have snapped.

Hannibal screamed and pounded the rock into Farnum's face. Blood gushed from Farnum's smashed nose and mouth as he lurched backwards. Hannibal struck him again and Farnum sat down on the ground. Hannibal screamed in rage and smashed the rock down onto Farnum's skull, hearing the sound of bone cracking. Farnum fell backwards and lay still while blood spread and soaked into the dry ground.

Hannibal's rage departed. He stood for a moment and contemplated the awful thing he had done. He had killed a white man. Buck, the slave he considered closest to a friend and ally, stood a few yards away, his face frozen in shock. None of the other slaves were around.

Think, Hannibal ordered himself. “Get Mrs. Farnum. Say her man's hurt.”

Buck paused and then laughed harshly. He spit onto Farnum's lifeless and ruined face. “Well, that's true enough, ain't it.”

While Buck ran off, Hannibal dragged Farnum's body into the brush, where his old lady wouldn't see it until it was too late. Sure enough, in a few minutes, Farnum's skinny bitch of a wife came running up, her mouth open in concern. For the briefest of moments, he felt sorry for her.

Hannibal gestured to her and she ran past him. As she did, he struck her on the back of the neck with the same rock that had killed her husband. She fell and lay limp. “Goddamn,” said Buck, “that was good. You done broke her ugly neck.” Then he looked puzzled. “What we gonna do now?”

Think, Hannibal ordered himself. Think. It had only taken a little while for his absence to be noticed the last time he'd run off. This time it had to be different, or he stood no chance at all of staying alive and reaching freedom.

He and Buck grabbed the Farnums by the ankles and dragged them farther into the brush, where they dug a shallow grave and buried them. Few people ever came to visit the disagreeable couple, but he couldn't take the chance that the bodies would be discovered, at least not for a while.

For Hannibal it was important that he buy time. Thus, it had to appear that the Farnums had simply packed up and left. It wouldn't be at all unreasonable. Their “plantation” was failing and, war or no war, other people had run off west to escape their failures.

He and Buck, joined by the woman, Bessie, scoured the Farnums’ house and took away from it things they thought white people would carry if they were running away. These they either kept for themselves or hid in the woods.

It hurt to take most of the livestock and poultry into the woods and slaughter them, but Hannibal knew he couldn't take them. They would be travelling as far from the roads as possible in order to avoid army patrols, and animals would only slow them down. The same thing with the wagon. It struck him as reasonable that the Farnums would be expected to take it if they ran off west, so it. too. was driven into the woods and torn apart.

By nightfall. Hannibal was satisfied that he had done what he could to confuse anyone who stumbled onto what appeared to be an abandoned homestead. That only left the question of the remaining slaves. If they were captured, there would be nothing as simple as a flogging and sale to a new, harsher master. No, this time capture meant death. They had killed not only a white man, but a white woman. That Mrs. Farnum had been a slattern wasn't important. She had been killed by a nigger and that meant she was a saint. The nigger who killed her would be whipped, castrated, and maybe skinned alive before being permitted to die.

“Buck, what about the others?” Hannibal asked. He had his own opinions but wanted to hear the other man's.

Buck shrugged. Like Hannibal his few possessions were on his back and he was anxious to leave. This place was dangerous.

“Bessie's with us_:” Buck said_: “but I don't know about the other two. They so scared they can't even shit. But they do understand that they'll be considered as guilty as we are. Hell they saw two dead white people that were killed by nigger slaves. They know they'll die just like us if they're caught.”

Hannibal thought it over. They could come with them and live, he decided, but he would watch them like a hawk. If they faltered for any reason, he would kill them. He had never killed anyone before, and was astonished at just how easy it was.

The thought of freedom was exhilarating. It didn't matter that he could be a hunted animal at any time. What mattered was that he was free. He was willing to kill and kill again in order to keep that freedom. If his freedom was born in blood and bathed in blood, then so be it. He would find his wife and son.

They would go north to Mr. Lincoln's land.

The invitation to join General George McClellan for lunch in the field during maneuvers came as a pleasant surprise to Nathan Hunter. He accepted, of course. He was more than a little curious as to why the Union's commanding general wanted to talk and about what. Nathan also looked forward to seeing the new army in operation.

On the way to his destination a few miles north of Washington, Nathan managed to spend some time watching regimental-sized units maneuver, and was impressed by the alacrity with which they carried out their orders. That this was from an army that didn't exist a year before was what made it truly impressive.

At midday, Nathan was passed through a number of well-turned-out sentries and directed to a large tent where Major General George Brinton McClellan was surrounded by several of his brother generals. Nathan easily recognized John Pope, Joe Hooker, Ambrose Burnside, and several others. Men he'd known from prior service nodded greetings that were friendly but reserved. After all, he wasn't in uniform, but he was visiting the general. He could see them wondering just what he was doing there.

Alan Pinkerton, McClellan's intelligence expert, was departing as he arrived. Pinkerton glanced furtively around and saw Nathan. He averted his face and walked away. A truly strange duck, thought Nathan.

McClellan greeted Nathan with great cordiality, which surprised Nathan. He'd known McClellan, but not well enough to warrant such a degree of friendliness. As befitting a commanding general, McClellan was dressed in an impeccably fitted uniform. He may have been a short man, but Nathan thought he looked every inch a general.

Like so many of his peers, McClellan had served with distinction in the Mexican War, had fought Indians on the frontier, and had been an American observer of the British in the Crimea. He had resigned his commission in 1857, but had come back as a general of Ohio volunteers. McClellan had won two small battles over thoroughly outnumbered Confederates in western Virginia. As a result, West Virginia was now separate from Virginia, and George Brinton McClellan had become commander of the Army of the Potomac and, later, commanding general of all Union armies. It was a heady climb for someone whose highest rank in the regulars had been captain, and Nathan now wondered if the man was up to the awesome task.

McClellan finished with his fellow officers and gestured for Nathan to have a seat in the tent. It was heated, which kept out the winter chill, and a cook had prepared a lunch of pork chops and potatoes, and a bottle of port sat in the middle of the table. Nathan didn't begrudge McClellan, or any general for that matter, the ability to eat better than the ordinary soldiers. That simply came with the rank. The food was excellent.

“This is the first time we've seen each other in a couple of years, isn't it?” asked McClellan as he finished his meal. “If so. it's been too long. With your background and experience, you should be in the army. If you like, I can offer you a colonelcy on my staff.”

“It's a gracious offer,” Nathan said, “and I'll think about it. I admit I have been wondering just what is the best way I can serve my country.” “Surely,” McClellan said, “you can do better than espousing the cause of General Scott.”

Ah, there it is, thought Nathan. “I'm not sure I espouse his cause or anyone else's, General. He invited me to join him because he had some concerns that, quite honestly, I didn't understand or share at the time.”

“Do you share them now?” McClellan asked. He allowed himself a small smile, but Nathan saw that the man was tense, a coiled spring, and he thought he saw a flicker of indecision, even fear, in McClellan's eyes.

“Not particularly. Right now I'm more curious than concerned. I must admit that I am also enjoying the social life in Washington.” This time McClellan grinned widely. '^:Ah yes, the Widow Devon.”

Nathan bristled inwardly with both anger and surprise. What the devil concern was his personal life to General McClellan and the Army of the Potomac? He'd had a couple of pleasant lunches and one evening at Ford Theater with the Widow Devon, but that was as far as it went. In each case, the D^:Estaing^:s had been present, which meant it was more than aboveboard as far as propriety and scandal were concerned. He was growing quite fond of Rebecca and didn't like the idea of anyone prying into what might develop into something very special.

It was Pinkerton, of course, who was doing the prying. The man had been a private detective before the war. Now he was feeding information to McClellan about the size and composition of the Confederate army, along with whom Nathan Hunter dined. Incredible. If he caught Pinkerton or one of his men spying on them, Nathan decided he would give them a very solid warning to back off.

Nathan was now determined that he would never be an official member of McClellan's staff, although he wouldn't mind being an unofficial member for a period of time.

McClellan brought the conversation back to his main topic. “And what are General Scott's concerns? That he is too old and I am too young? I agree with the former, but the latter has to be determined. I do not think I am too young or too inexperienced.” He smiled. “You and I are about the same age, aren't we? Wouldn't you like to command here?”

“Absolutely not,” Nathan replied. “As to the general's concerns, your youth is not the issue. He is not confident that you will move resolutely against the Confederacy,” Nathan answered. “He feels that you have been misled by information provided by your intelligence that Joe Johnston has far more soldiers confronting you than he actually does.”

McClellan's expression turned stern. “Mr. Pinkerton provides me with exactly the information I wish. His operatives count regiments and make estimates as to their numbers and quality. The work is excessively dangerous and I am impressed by their achievements. I take Pinkerton's results and increase them by a factor that would include those regiments that cannot be found, and soldiers who cannot be seen. I am governed by the fact that the South has the capability to put a very large force into the field to confront me, and that their force outnumbers mine. Their capabilities define their potential and, thusly, their threat to us. I believe the Confederates number well in excess of two hundred thousand well-trained men, and that they are increasing daily. God only knows how large the Southern army will be when the British arrive to further strengthen it. My poor army could easily be overwhelmed.”

Nathan was astonished that McClellan would state his case so bluntly and so negatively. “I find that difficult to comprehend. In order to do what you believe. Jeff Davis would have to enlist or conscript just about every man in the Confederacy, which would ruin their economy. Then they would have to strip every garrison and send the soldiers here. I cannot imagine that they would leave New Orleans, Charleston, Mobile, and other places vulnerable.”

Nathan didn't bother to ask where the South would get the weapons and ammunition to arm such a host, or the food to feed it, or the uniforms and other accoutrements of warfare necessary for its existence. McClellan's stern expression told him not to ask.

“My duty,” McClellan announced solemnly, “is to see to the preservation of the Union. If that means I plan for the worst possible contingency, then so be it.” “The preservation of the Union is Mr. Lincoln's goal.”

“Yet it is a vision we see differently,” McClellan said. “He wishes to bring the departed states back to the fold, while I wish to retain what we have until such time as a peace with honor can be negotiated. I have an army that cannot win in a decade, but can be defeated catastrophically in an afternoon. If my army is defeated, it may mean that the border states, which are very pro-South, might rebel and secede. Can you imagine what would happen if we lost Maryland, for instance? Washington would no longer be on the border of the Confederacy. No, she would be surrounded by it and would have to be abandoned.”

“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 save 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?”

Rebecca found it difficult to hold her pose. “I don't know. No_: of course I know. Yes_: I do want it to go further.”

“Then tell him. If not in words_: tell him in actions. He is a widower and you are a widow. Better you are both young. Do you think you will ever take him to bed with you?”

“Ever is an interesting word, dear Valerie.”

“Then do you want him to be pleased with you as a lover? Do you wish to be pleased as well?”

It was a question she would not have even considered answering a few months ago, but now everything was so very different. Now she could imagine Nathan Hunter's strong arms around her and she knew that their lovemaking would be different from what it had been with poor confused Tom. When she permitted herself to think of it. she felt stirrings of pleasure that had been totally lacking with Tom.

“Yes,” she answered quietly.

Valerie smiled knowingly as she continued to work Rebecca's lithe body onto the sketch pad. Rebecca's answer might have been demure, but her body had betrayed her. Her firm and younger breasts showed definite signs of arousal. Valerie smiled inwardly. It was time to prepare young Rebecca for Nathan Hunter.