Honor's Kingdom (5 page)

“I will tell you the truth of it, sir. No man can foresee all the turnings of the battlefield, but I will be surprised if General McClellan is victorious.”

“You think he’ll be beaten?”

“No, sir. Not beaten, either. He is too cautious of his reputation to take the risks that lead to great victories, see. But he will fight well enough to avoid a complete defeat and all its shame.” I smiled, a trifle bitterly, in remembrance. “In India, the rule was to risk everything, and to do so at once. To plunge in
amongst the enemy and give him a Cawnpore dinner, before he could so much as give us a wink. It rarely failed, at least against the natives. But General McClellan doesn’t have that sort of spunk, sir. Forgive the comparison, but the general is like a boxer afraid to hit his opponent too hard, for fear of what he’ll get in return. But he will not lose, either, for he is too vain ever to surrender outright. I do not think him the man to bring us Richmond. May the Good Lord prove me wrong.”

Mr. Adams gave a small, but distinctly ungentlemanly, snort. “I’m afraid I lack any military faculties. I can’t make any sense of that.”

“War makes no sense,” I told him, “until it is written down for the history books. That is the first thing to know about it, sir.”

He looked at me with something near ferocity. Not that he had grown angry or even impatient with me, see. Twas only that there was a devil in him, too, behind the solemn mask of high diplomacy. I would have followed him into battle sooner than I would have followed General George B. McClellan, I will tell you. But let that bide.

“Well,” Mr. Adams said, in a tone that marked the ending of our meal and our interview, “we shall allow the general to fight his war, and we’ll fight ours. By the way, I would like you to accompany me later this afternoon, to visit Mr. Disraeli before he joins the evening session of Parliament. I want you to listen to what he has to say. The way you listened in the morgue today. Perhaps you’ll hear more substance in his words than I do.”

“Mr. Disraeli is a political fellow, I believe?” His name had graced the pages of the newspapers now and again, even in America, but I would be ashamed to tell you how little I knew of him.

“Perhaps the most political fellow who ever lived,” Mr. Adams said. “He leads the Tory opposition, along with the Earl of Derby. To whom he pretends to be subordinate.”

“The Tories are hostile to the United States, are they not, sir?”

This time, Mr. Adams’s smile was genuine, almost full. “Not as hostile as they are to Lord Palmerston and his government.” Then he mastered himself and straightened his mouth. “Do you have any clothing beyond your uniform, Major? I think we might be better served if you were dressed less conspicuously.”

“I’m afraid I departed in haste, sir, and lacked the time to—”

A gentle rap tested the door.

“Yes?” Mr. Adams said, since we both thought it must be the waiter come to clear.

The door swung wide and two female creatures stood before us, painted thick and dollied up bright as heathens.

“As you gents is done with your dinner, would you fancy a pair of sweets?” With the speaker in the lead—a tiny, bird-boned thing got up in green—the women pushed their way into our chamber. Brazen as brass they were. “We’ll give you boys a treat like you won’t get back ’ome in Mayfair, and show you something what ain’t in the Exhibition.”

Mr. Adams, after overcoming his astonishment, shot to his feet. Red-faced, he was, and his tone was not diplomatic.

“Madame, how
dare
you suggest . . . the impertinence . . .
Waiter!”

The second creature, bountifully rounded and decked out in organdy satin that was not unstained, grasped her sister in misery by the shoulder.

“Come on out, Lucy. Din’t I say to you, soon as them two come in through the front door, ’ow they wasn’t but two old spankers by the looks of them? Knickers down and whoops-a-daisy, that’s them sorts.”

The tiny creature elevated her nose and turned away as if she were a queen. “I know those likes meself, from Mrs. Marker’s, and won’t ’ave nothing to do with ’em. I bet they give each other the dirty freckles.”

They disappeared and, shortly, we did, too. For virtue must not bide where vice parades.

We found ourselves another hack, for the legation studied economy and relied upon hire for its transport. As we clattered
through the busy, blazing streets, Mr. Adams suddenly laughed aloud, startling me proper.

“It’s dreadful,” he said. “I really shouldn’t say this—it’s hardly diplomatic. But that little unfortunate in green, the one with the gift for oratory? She rather reminded me of the Prime Minister, Lord Palmerston. Although I expect her morals are somewhat better.”

Twas the first time I saw Mr. Adams jovial. There would be but one other occasion when I would hear his laughter ring so rich and handsome. That, too, would have to do with Lord Palmerston.

TWO

ONE ALWAYS FEELS SORRY FOR CORPSES,” MR. DISRAELI said. “They do so resemble the Scots.”

He twittered. Now, you will say: “That is a figure of speech. Men do not twitter.” But I will tell you: Twitter Mr. Disraeli did, with a
hee-hee-hee
of delight at his own wit and a touch of the fingertips to his little goaty beard. Above two heavy crescents of flesh, dark eyes reflected the fellow’s delight in himself. Yet, those eyes remained cold, for all their glitter. Suited up in black cloth of the best quality, he spoilt his dignity by wearing a waistcoat bright enough to please pandy. Not one, but two gold chains crossed his little belly, and his florid necktie hung thick as a noose. He didn’t look English, either, but had an olive cast and oiled ringlets. He smelled of lavender.

For all his merriment and flash, he put me in mind of a cobra. I think it was the way his neck come up out of his collar, floating his head back and forth ever so slowly, as if awaiting the perfect chance to strike.

“You see my difficulty,” Mr. Adams said, in a polite, but matter-of-fact tone. We sat in our host’s study, surrounded by a rich fellow’s heaven of books, all gilded by windowlight.

“But of course,” Mr. Disraeli replied. “It really doesn’t do to have corpses littering the path of policy and obstructing one’s efforts. Yet, one musn’t over-estimate the importance of certain losses, as many of my parliamentary colleagues have discovered.” The slightest of twitters escaped him. “The unexpected is
the one thing we may fairly expect when diplomacy encounters politics, sir, and the most frightful crisis may simply evaporate. Indeed, it may vanish overnight.” He leaned toward Mr. Adams. “I believe the Reverend Mr. Campbell will be allowed to rest in peace, without the indignity of reinvigoration by the press.”

Mr. Disraeli’s upper lip curled back. “As for the letter’s ungentlemanly suggestions regarding your own activities, my dear sir, they are as infamous as they are impossible to credit.” He fluttered his hand dismissively. Twas almost a feminine gesture, yet left a body with a sense of danger. His head shifted, and his serpent’s eyes steadied upon our Minister. “I don’t believe you need concern yourself, Mr. Adams.”

Our Minister lifted an eyebrow, though not by much. For his part, Mr. Disraeli turned those hooded eyes toward me. I wish I could say he found himself impressed. But I am small, and neither fine nor handsome.

Mr. Adams read what I could not in that stare and said, “Major Jones is absolutely trustworthy. He has my confidence, sir.”

“‘Absolultely trustworthy!’ Oh, dear,” Mr. Disraeli exclaimed, as if he were an actor on the stage. “Then I shall have to be especially cautious.” He twittered and touched his little beard again. “But you haven’t discussed the matter with Lord John?”

“I have not, sir,” Mr. Adams told him. “I thought it wiser to seek your advice before proceeding. I am, however, considering a change in my plans so that I may attend Earl Russell’s Saturday reception.”

“Oh, but I should see no need of that at all!” Mr. Disraeli declared. “Generally, people change their plans to
avoid
dear Lord John’s receptions.”

He twittered.

“The Earl is welcoming Lord Lyons home from Washington,” Mr. Adams said. “For consultations.”

“Ah, Lyons. Our illustrious ambassador to your glorious Union! But, Mr. Adams, isn’t ‘consultations’ the diplomatic term for ‘utterly befuddled’? Really, you needn’t raise the
matter with Earl Russell. It will only confuse dear Lord John. I shall see to it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mr. Adams said. “I shall rely upon your discretion.”

Mr. Disraeli touched his fingertips to his beard. “Oh, dear, dear.”

We sat quietly for a brace of moments. Look you. I got a lesson that night in how a man’s silence may draw out more than his questions. Twas clear that Mr. Disraeli expected Mr. Adams to say something further, to want additional assurances, but our Minister had spoken carefully at the outset, got what he wanted, and now he sat there like a Hindoo
fakir,
apparently willing to let the world proceed.

At last, Mr. Disraeli, who had a considerable appetite for his own speech, could bear it no longer. He cleared his throat and announced, “Naturally, Mr. Adams, you must be curious regarding the means at my disposal to allay your concerns.”

“Not in the least,” Mr. Adams said. “I have complete trust in you, sir.”

But Mr. Disraeli was not to be dissuaded. It come out later that he was a novel writer, and those sorts always tell more than they should.

“I seem to recall,” Mr. Disraeli said, “the slightest breath of scandal regarding young Pomeroy’s sister. An event that occurred just at the beginning of the season, if my . . . acquaintance . . . may be trusted.” Our host leaned forward from the basket of his chair and his collar swelled around his neck like a hood. “I do despise gossip, Mr. Adams. Doubtless, young Pomeroy shares my distaste. I’m certain he’ll value my acquaintance’s assurance that no one will overhear the slightest whisper regarding his dear sister’s misfortune. After all, we must demonstrate compassion for the fallen.” More the cobra than ever the fellow seemed. “As the beneficiary of compassion and forebearance himself, Pomeroy will hardly be intent upon embarrassing others.”

“The letter may already be in the hands of
The Times
,” Mr. Adams said, in a voice suddenly gone cold as a north-woods
winter. Twas as if a layer of snow had been whisked away to show the ice beneath.

Myself, I was dismayed at such untoward dealings. But I am only an old bayonet, and never made a study of diplomacy. Unless you count that bully Agamemnon, and the rest of Mr. Homer’s sneaking Greeks, all of whom were nasty and wanted correction.

“I assure you,” Mr. Disraeli said, in a voice like naked bone, “that young Pomeroy will redeem any such folly. More successfully, no doubt, than he has retrieved his error with a young seamstress in Lambeth, who has been the recipient of his sustained generosity. I believe he has since contributed a great deal to the prosperity of the medical profession, as well. Old Pomeroy would be mortified to learn of his son’s charitable endeavors. Especially, given that gentleman’s hopes for a peerage before he sheds his mortal coil.” He sighed. “I do find that, these days, the sins of the son are more likely to be visited upon the father. There are certain gambling debts, as well.”

“You astonish me, sir,” Mr. Adams said in a toneless voice that did not sound astonished in the least. He would never be one for a Welsh choir, I will tell you, for the fellow showed less emotion than a board.

Mr. Disraeli twittered and gave his beard a generous, satisfied stroke. “I astonish myself, Mr. Adams. But may I offer you a glass of brandy? I find it a great facilitator of a parliamentary demeanor. And I do anticipate a long session tonight.”

Mr. Adams declined, and our host turned in my direction.

“I have taken the Pledge, sir,” I told him, “and partaking of alcohol is against my convictions, thank you.”

Mr. Disraeli smiled. “It has long seemed to me, Major Jones, that the purpose of maintaining convictions is to extract the highest possible price for their alteration. But, then, I have never understood the Welsh.”

I WISHED MY WIFE MIGHT HAVE SEEN ME. That is what I thought above all else. So proud she would have been, my Mary Myfanwy, though noting that pride comes before a fall.