Kary, Elizabeth (3 page)

It
was a few minutes later that Banister found Nathan Travis comfortably ensconced
at a corner table in the smoky, dark-paneled room that was the gathering place
and retreat of St. Louis's most influential men. It was here that they had come
for years to eat the game and other delicacies that the hotel menu had to
offer, drink fine brandy, and smoke their long, dark cigars as they discussed
the politics of the day. To Hayes, Travis seemed somehow out of place in the
plush, genteel surroundings. His worn black broadcloth coat and ill-fitting
trousers were in sharp contrast to the well-dressed men at the surrounding
tables, and his common manners the antithesis of those demonstrated by the
other patrons. He was, at first glance, an unremarkable man, neither handsome
nor ugly, with thin, sharply etched features to match the long, gangly body
that sprawled in his chair. Yet Hayes was not fooled by the man's appearance.
He knew there was keen intelligence in the coal-black eyes beneath their heavy
lids, and steely strength in his wiry form. Many years ago when he had first
met Travis, he had been taken in, but now Banister knew the truth. Nathan
Travis was anything but ordinary, for within him burned an instinct for
survival that had been honed sharp by years of being more than what he seemed.

They
had met when Banister was still living the sometimes wild and adventurous life
of a river pilot, at a fuel stop just below Memphis. The steamboat Travis owned
had put ashore with engine trouble, and while Hayes's boat had taken on wood,
cargo, and passengers, he and the chief engineer had gone aboard to offer their
services. It had taken a fair amount of tinkering to correct the problem, but
by the time the
Priscilla Anne
was ready to shove off again, the
disabled boat was running. It had been a chance meeting that first time, and it
was months before Hayes came to realize that he and Travis were bound by the
same stringent convictions and the same need to make things right. After that,
whenever Travis turned up, be it in Vicksburg, New Orleans, or at the Banister
Shipyards in Cincinnati, it had seemed less from fortune than from design.

"I
trust you've found the accommodations here in St. Louis tolerably
comfortable," Travis began conversationally as Hayes pulled out a chair to
join him.

"Yes,
the rooms are quite adequate," he agreed, "but I had expected to find
James Eads in town when I arrived. I was looking forward to meeting him after
finding so many of his inventions useful, first on the river and later at the
shipyards."

"He
was called to Washington unexpectedly to show the plans you came here to review
to Lincoln and his Cabinet. He's expected back any time."

"Have
his drawings been accepted, then?" Banister inquired.

Travis
snickered. "The river fleet is like a bastard child; neither the Army nor
the Navy wants to claim the responsibility or bear the expense."

"Don't
those men understand the importance of the Mississippi to both the Union and
the Confederacy?" Hayes demanded.

"Easy,
Banister, easy," the other man soothed. "Eventually one or the other
will admit the necessity of this project, and then it will get under way. Right
now the Navy's busy blockading the Southern ports and the Army's trying to
figure some way to keep the Rebs out of Washington. Besides, nothing like this
ironclad fleet Eads is proposing has ever been attempted. It's small wonder
they're reluctant to commit themselves."

"Well,
where does the responsibility for defense of the rivers lie?" Banister
wanted to know.

The
other man shrugged and sat back in his chair, laying his napkin beside the
empty plate.

"Traditionally,
the Army has had jurisdiction over the inland waterways, but in the end it
won't matter where the money comes from. This flotilla is vital to a Union
victory, and once those men in Washington stop dickering over who'll pay for
what, Eads's involvement in this project is inevitable. Properly educated or
not, he's one of the Union's most capable engineers."

"Then
why ask my opinion of his drawings?"

"Because
two heads are better than one, and you do have the advantage of schooling as
well as a lifetime spent around steamboats in one capacity or another. Have you
had a chance to study his plans?"

Banister
nodded. "There were copies at his office."

"And
what did you think of them?"

"I
think the plans are brilliant!" Hayes admitted, his voice deep with
admiration. "Oh, there are some problems as I see it. Covering
conventional riverboats with iron plating will make them heavy and slow to
maneuver, and I think the sheathing on the pilot house should be made thicker
since that will be the nerve center of any mission the ironclads
undertake."

"Do
you have any recommendations to remedy the problems you've outlined?"

"Yes."
Hayes nodded and launched into a complicated explanation of the revisions he
would suggest to augment Eads's original plans.

Travis
listened intently, obviously pleased with Banister's carefully considered
changes and his own correct assessment of the other man's abilities as an
engineer. "I'd be much obliged if you could write a report outlining what
you just told me. Anything we can offer those men in Washington to encourage
them to make up their minds about this project will give us that much more of a
head start on the Rebels."

Hayes
agreed. "I just wonder if St. Louis is the place to build this new ironclad
fleet. After what happened out at Camp Jackson this afternoon, it's obvious
that Southern sympathy is running high, so the place is bound to be riddled
with Confederate informers. The local papers seem to be full of Secessionist
doctrine and—"

Travis
laughed with what seemed to be genuine humor. "I think old Nathaniel Lyon
has the situation well in hand. He was out there scouting Camp Jackson just
yesterday, and when he saw evidence of the arms shipment they'd received from
Baton Rouge, he had the evidence he needed to move on that nest of
traitors."

Hayes
was stunned at the news that the commander of the Federal arsenal had been in
the militia camp. "Wasn't he shot-on sight?"

Travis
laughed again. "What those Confederates saw was Major Frank Blair's old,
blind mother-in-law out for her usual afternoon carriage ride. Lyon dressed in
one of her black gowns and bonnets, with a mourning veil added for good
measure. Not one of those Southern boys stopped playing soldier long enough to
question him."

"The
attack was well planned; I'll give him that. Frost never had a chance. But the
incident afterward was tragic."

"There
will be hell to pay for that, I reckon," Nathan Travis conceded as he rose
to go.

"You
write me that report now, won't you, Banister? Leave it at the front desk
addressed to Mr. Jones. And then you might as well go on home to
Cincinnati."

Hayes
looked up at the enigmatic man standing over him. "Now that I've seen
Eads's plans, I have a hankering to meet the man himself."

Travis
shrugged. "Suit yourself, Banister, but I have a feeling your involvement
with Mr. Eads and his plans for the ironclad fleet is far from over."

"Well,
I
for one think it's a disgrace that Union troops would fire on innocent
bystanders!" Althea Pennington's voice rose above the sounds of the meal
as she addressed the others who had gathered at her well-laid table. "And
when I think that our Leigh was exposed to that kind of danger—"

"As
you can see, Mother, I escaped unscathed, thanks to Mr. Banister," Leigh
broke in, "but I'd hardly say that mob out at Camp Jackson this afternoon
was innocent of any wrongdoing. If they had not taunted the soldiers and pelted
them with anything at hand, I doubt there would have been trouble."

Her
mother was outraged. "I don't know how you can say that, Leigh, when you
know that awful General Lyon has been spoiling for a fight ever since he took
over General Harney's command."

"Leigh's
right," Hayes Banister agreed, expressing his views on the afternoon's
episode for the first time. "There's no question that those troops were
provoked. I realize that's small comfort to the friends and families of the
dead and wounded, but it's the truth. The real tragedy is that women and
children were cut down along with the perpetrators, but violence is seldom just
in its choice of victims."

In
the several hours since the incident, rumors about the rioting at Camp Jackson
had flown through the city, and though the stories varied, most agreed that the
first shot had been fired by someone in the crowd, seriously injuring one of
the Union captains. The later firing had come from raw recruits pressed beyond
restraint by the crowd's venom. It had spread down the line of march, feeding
on its own panic and resulting in more casualties than if only seasoned troops
had been used for the mission.

Horace
Pennington sat back in his chair and eyed the younger man. "Do you think
we've seen the last of this uproar. Mr. Banister?"

"No,
sir, I'm afraid not," Hayes replied. "When I left the Planters'
House, a crowd was already beginning to gather, and what with the Confederate
sympathizers meeting at the Berthold mansion only a few blocks away, I imagine
that the police will be hard-pressed to prevent a confrontation. I don't doubt
that things could get pretty hot down at the arsenal, either. What's worse is
that I believe this trouble is only a foretaste of things to come."

"You
think we will have to fight to preserve the Union, then?"

"I
believe, with states seceding right and left and Lincoln's call for volunteers,
it's inevitable," Banister prophesied grimly.

Pennington
sighed. "Well, don't you worry about things down at the arsenal, at least.
General Lyon is sure to have things well in hand."

"I've
heard a great deal about this General Lyon in the past few days. I believe I'd
like to meet the man."

"Oh,
he's dreadful!" Althea exclaimed, her brown eyes wide with horror.
"He looks like a scarecrow with that scraggly red beard of his. And his
manners, my dear Mr. Banister, are simply unspeakable. But then, I understand
he's from New England somewhere, and what can you expect?"

"Your
friend Major Crawford is from New England, too," Leigh pointed out.

"Aaron's
from Boston; it's hardly the same thing at all," Althea corrected.
"And for all his Abolitionist views, he's undeniably a gentleman."

"Father,
what do you think will happen to the men who were captured at Camp Jackson
today?" Leigh asked as the servants began to clear the table.

"You're
worried about Lucas and Bran, I suppose," Horace observed, frowning.
"To tell you the truth, Leigh, I really don't know. Lyon can't keep those
men under arrest at the arsenal, not all seven hundred of them. He could ship
them up north, but I doubt the people of St. Louis would stand for that. If he
tried, there would certainly be more rioting—"

"And
even more bloodshed," his daughter finished for him.

"Most
likely that's right," Pennington agreed. "But don't you shortchange
Nathaniel Lyon. He'll find an equitable way out of this somehow. He's a capable
officer and will serve the Union well in these next months, mark my words. The
Hale brothers will be safe, Leigh. Don't you worry."

As
the dessert was served, a fruit compote in fine, stemmed glasses, Hayes
Banister studied his dinner companions. Horace Pennington was the
quintessential Western businessman: tall, broad, and ruddy with alert, green
eyes. In his late fifties, he was still a strong, vigorous man, but with
thinning hair and a heavily lined face that gave evidence of his years. Cut
from the same cloth as Hayes's father, Pennington was a deeply moral man with
the courage of his convictions behind him. His support of Lincoln and the Union
in the forthcoming confrontation would be complete and unconditional, as would
his loyalty to any undertaking worthy of his effort. In contrast, his wife,
Althea, who must be nearly twenty years his junior, was a delicate camellia of
a woman. Absolutely lovely with a deep, stirring beauty that would never grow
mellow or serene, she was obviously doted on and protected by both her husband
and daughter. Yet there was a quicksilver inconsistency in her that somehow
resolved the disparity between her air of childish petulance and her steely
willed support of the Southern cause.

And
then there was Leigh, somehow the amalgam of these two people, these two
personalities. She was the image of her mother with the same breathtaking
beauty, yet possessed of a fresh radiance that even Althea could not claim. But
there was something of her father in her too, if not in the features, at least
in her expression. He had given her his height, his air of quiet resolution,
and those steady green eyes. Hayes found himself studying her with determined
intensity: watching her toy with her dessert, listening to her easy laugh,
sensing the affection she felt toward both her parents, even when each seemed
to feel something less congenial for the other. Nor could he deny the strange
attraction he felt for Leigh, evident from the first moment he had held her in
his arms this afternoon with the bullets flying all around them. As the dessert
dishes were being cleared away, Horace spoke, breaking into Hayes's thoughts.