Colonel Custer was dressing up again the next morning as he made his way by carriage to the Capitol. He wore his full dress uniform complete with gold wire epaulettes and cap lines. His war medals flashed on his chest and his sabre clanked at his hip. His yellow-plumed helmet was bright with the bald eagle in brass and his hair, even without John Burkman’s barbering skills, shone with pomade.
Batchelor had seen the Capitol before, but never from the inside. He tried not to look like a star-struck tourist but inevitably his neck craned upwards and his eyes bulged at the ceiling under the dome and the portraits of senators great and even greater who glowered down at him. Every one of them knew that Batchelor’s ancestors had tried to burn down the White House down the road and that the Capitol building, unfinished at the time as it was, would have been next for Admiral Cochrane’s torches.
But Batchelor didn’t have long to dwell on the splendours of all-American architecture or the chequered relationship between his country and Grand’s. There was an army of journalists on the marble steps where presidents past and present had taken their inaugural oath.
‘Over here, General!’ photographers were shouting, trying to balance their tripods and vanishing under black hoods.
‘General Custer, is it true about Fort Sill?’ at least a dozen of them wanted to know.
‘Are you gonna tame the Indians any time soon?’ was another question that Custer refused to answer.
As the little party reached the huge doors and flunkies held them open, the general who was only a colonel turned to the baying mob. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, tucking his helmet under his right arm and holding Libbie’s hand with his left, ‘my wife and I have come to have a quiet chat with Mr Hiester Clymer. Rest assured, your colleagues already inside the building will be making furious notes. And you gentlemen will be the last to hear about it.’
Batchelor was the only man to laugh. As a reporter who had faced such put-downs before, he thought that was rather a good one. Custer was pleased with it too, but Libbie hadn’t even cracked a smile.
‘Mr Batchelor,’ the General murmured once they were inside the lobby, ‘take Mrs Custer to the gallery, will you? If things get a little ugly in the next few minutes, I want to know she’s safe.’
‘Don’t worry, General,’ Batchelor said, ‘I’ll be there,’ and he whisked the woman away.
‘Anything I should know?’ Grand asked as he and Custer faced the open doors of the Committee Room and the faces inside, craning to get a view of them.
‘Just what I heard over breakfast this morning,’ Custer said, ‘William Belknap has resigned.’
‘He has? Well, that’s a victory in itself, George. You’ve got him.’
‘Have I hell?’ Custer sneered. ‘The story goes he was on his knees to Grant, begging to be let go.’
‘And?’
‘And Grant did what he has always done, let his cronies have it all.’
‘Like I said …’ Grand began.
‘Congress isn’t having any of it. They’re pushing ahead. Even if Hiester Clymer doesn’t want the truth to get out, there are others who do. Crawling out of the john in the nick of time doesn’t mean you’re not covered in shit.’
Custer straightened and marched through the doors, Grand at his side. The noise was deafening. When the hubbub had died down, the tall bearded man in the centre of the podium banged his gavel like a high court judge and a kind of order prevailed. He was Hiester Clymer and this was his committee, one of several that had convened over the last few months into various aspects of President Grant’s administration.
‘Colonel Custer.’ Clymer fixed the man with his steel-blue eyes.
The brevet-general stood there, back ramrod straight. ‘Mr Clymer,’ he nodded.
‘Before we begin, Mr Custer,’ Clymer said, ‘may I enquire as to the name and purpose of the gentleman standing beside you?’
‘This is Matthew Grand,’ Custer told him, ‘formerly captain of the Third Cavalry of the Potomac in the late war between the states.’
Grand stood up and nodded to Clymer.
‘You don’t need a soldier’s friend, Colonel,’ the chairman chuckled. ‘This isn’t a court martial.’
‘Isn’t it, sir?’ Custer said. ‘It sure feels like one to me.’
There was hubbub again and Clymer’s gavel put another end to it.
‘You have been invited here to tell us what, as the commander of Fort Abraham Lincoln, you have to say on recent Indian affairs. Your attendance is totally voluntary. You can leave when you like.’
‘Not before I state certain facts,’ Custer said as he and Grand sat down, ‘relating to corruption and financial mismanagement by William Belknap, who I understand – as of an hour or so ago – has recently resigned.’
There were more rumblings. Grand noted that Belknap’s resignation had come as a surprise to many in the Committee Room.
‘Does that resignation mean that you withdraw your accusations, Colonel Custer?’ Clymer asked.
‘No, sir, it does not. Ex-Secretary for War Mr Belknap is up to his neck in fraud. He has been short-changing my troopers, not to mention the Indians, throughout his time in office. He has been lining his own pockets at the expense of the American taxpayer.’
This time, Clymer had to batter the desk before he could be heard. ‘I assume, Colonel, that you have evidence of all this?’
‘I have, sir.’ Custer held up a leather-bound file. ‘Chapter and verse.’
This time, the mutterings were more muted. Whatever Custer had in that file, it could smear more of them than just William Belknap.
‘We will take that under advisement,’ Clymer said as a clerk passed him the file. ‘Was there anything else, Colonel?’
Custer’s eyelids flickered. He glanced at Grand, up at Libbie in the gallery. ‘Yes, sir, there is. And Captain Grand here is witness to my remarks – and to the reaction they are likely to cause.’
‘Say on.’
‘Mr Belknap is not the only culprit in this matter.’
Custer knew how to milk an audience. Had Libbie dropped a pin from her hair now, it would have set off echoes all the way to the Potomac.
‘Indeed?’ Clymer’s eyebrow was raised. So was his gavel. Whatever Custer was about to say was likely to cause a storm.
‘Someone else who had his snout in the pig trough, Mr Clymer, was Orvil Grant, brother of the President.’
The room erupted. Half the grey faces on the podium left, with snarls and expletives. Others waved papers at Custer, but old Iron Butt just sat his ground.
Clymer’s ‘Do you have evidence of that?’ went unheard.
Grand was on his feet again. ‘Time to go, I think, George,’ and he pulled the man out of his chair.
Somehow, they struggled through what had once been a slightly bored audience that had now turned into an angry, shouting mob. Democrats in the hall slapped Custer on the back, laughing and clapping. Republicans glared at him, jostling and pushing.
‘Custer!’
The General turned to face the speaker.
‘From today, you’re a dead man.’
Grand blocked the man’s path. Custer needed no one to fight his battles for him, but Grand stood three inches taller and the red scarf of the Potomac he wore that day spoke volumes for his fighting credentials too.
‘Libbie …’ Custer craned his neck, trying to see his wife.
‘She’ll be safe with James,’ Grand said. ‘You and I have to talk, George.’
‘So,’ Batchelor was trying to make sense of the day. ‘Does he actually have any evidence against the President’s brother?’
‘Always a little short on detail, was Fanny Custer,’ Grand said, lighting a cigar.
‘That’s not going to go well.’
‘Are you eating something?’ Grand looked around to see where the snacks had disappeared to.
‘In a way. It’s this. Have you tried it?’ Batchelor fished a small packet out of his pocket.
‘What is it?’
Batchelor read the label. ‘Adams New York Gum,’ he said. ‘Apparently, it snaps and stretches.’
‘Tobacco?’
‘No.’
‘Paraffin wax?’
‘No.’
‘Not spruce resin?’
‘Chicle.’
Grand was none the wiser. ‘Really?’
‘Want some?’
‘What does it taste of?’
‘Rubber – I should think; although I’ve never knowingly eaten rubber, so I couldn’t actually be sure.’
‘Thanks.’ Grand waved his cigar in excuse. ‘I’ll pass.’
‘Very wise,’ said Batchelor, discreetly spitting the gum into his hand. ‘It’ll never catch on.’ He looked down at the unlovely wad in his palm and searched around for somewhere to put it. In the end, he settled with pressing it firmly under the table. It shouldn’t bother anyone there.
There was a knock on the door and Grand got to it first. A distraught Libbie Custer stood there, desperately trying to keep herself together. ‘Captain Grand,’ she flustered. Then she caught Batchelor’s eye. ‘James. Oh, please help. George has gone to the War Department.’
‘He has?’ Batchelor was on his feet, helping her to a chair. ‘Why?’
‘Read this.’ She rummaged in her bag for a moment and finally brought out a letter, crumpled and half torn through. She tried to smooth it out but after a moment simply thrust it into Grand’s hand. He read it quickly. War Department stationery. Scribbled, semi-literate scrawl. For Batchelor’s benefit, he translated. ‘George has been deprived of his command,’ he said. ‘He’s lost the Seventh.’
‘They didn’t waste much time,’ Batchelor observed drily.
‘If you ask me,’ Libbie said through tight lips, ‘they wrote that before George gave his evidence. You recognize the signature, Captain Grand?’
‘I do,’ he nodded. ‘Phil Sheridan.’
‘Little Phil.’ She raised a furious eyebrow. ‘He’s no taller than me, James, but he’s George’s commanding officer in terms of the Army of the Plains. I’ve never seen Georgie turn so pale. He stormed off as soon as he got that. Knocking Sheridan down is the least he’ll do. He’s right, but he’s got himself into a position now. You were with him in the war, Captain Grand. What will he do?’
‘He’ll charge,’ Grand knew, reaching for his hat, ‘and he’ll need some support. James, stay here with Libbie.’ And he was gone.
The lights burned blue in the labyrinth that was the War Department that night. Soldiers in night capes saluted as people came and went and nobody challenged a man wearing the scarlet scarf of the Cavalry of the Potomac. It had been a long time since Grand had walked these particular corridors of power, and he took more than one wrong turning before he reached his destination.
Eventually, it was the noise of raised voices that drew him, like a good general to the sound of the guns, and he read Sheridan’s name etched on the glass pane in the door.
‘Who the hell are you?’ the little man on the other side of the desk was already on his feet, his knuckles white, his face a livid scowl in the lamplight.
George Custer stood opposite him, the full-dress glamour gone now and replaced by a plain civilian coat. His ringlets had tumbled over his forehead in the absence of his hat and he did not look as if this interview was going well.
‘Matthew Grand, General,’ Grand said. ‘I was a captain under your command back in the day.’
Little Phil Sheridan frowned and put on his glasses. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I remember. You were a tolerable soldier in the Shenandoah Valley, Grand, but that doesn’t give you the right to barge in here without so much as a kiss my ass.’
‘Beautifully put, General,’ Grand smiled, ‘but I was hoping for a word with Colonel Custer.’
‘Feel free,’ Sheridan snapped. ‘I’ve had all the words with him I intend to have.’
‘For one last time, Sheridan,’ Custer shouted. ‘Will you reinstate me?’
Sheridan paused, breathing hard, trying his best not to bend a brass paperweight over Custer’s head. He pointed to a large pile of War Department files on his desk. ‘You see these?’ he asked.
Custer nodded.
‘That’s a list of men available for duty in the West. George Crook, Nelson Miles, Alfred Terry – fine soldiers all, and all of them outranking you.’
‘Those three gentlemen,’ Custer growled, ‘couldn’t find their own asses with both hands and you and I both know that. You’ve taken the Seventh off me because of my comments about Orvil Grant and you know that too.’
‘I don’t play politics, Custer,’ Sheridan insisted.
‘The hell you don’t,’ Custer snapped back. ‘Ulysses S. Grant says “Jump” and you say, “Certainly, Mr President, sir. How high?” So I guess I won’t waste any more time on the monkey. I’m off to the organ grinder.’
He paused at the door. ‘Don’t get up, Phil,’ he smiled. ‘Oh, wait a minute, you already are.’ And the door slammed behind him.
Sheridan threw an inkwell across the room. He had an orderly somewhere who would clean that up later. He looked at Grand. ‘Are you still here?’
‘They don’t make men like George Custer every day, General,’ he said, mildly. No point in riling the man even more by being aggressive, though if memory served, it didn’t take much to rile Little Phil.
‘And aren’t we all glad of it,’ Sheridan countered. He caught the expression on Grand’s face. ‘Look, Grand, you know George and I go back a long ways. Hell, he was the most loyal lieutenant I had in the Shenandoah. But he just can’t go around bad-mouthing the President’s family like that. There have to be consequences.’ He motioned Grand to a chair.
‘Adams Gum?’ The General held out a packet that Grand had seen before.
‘No, thanks.’ The enquiry agent held up a hand. ‘But I’d settle for a Bourbon.’
‘Thank God,’ Sheridan said, reaching for his decanter on the sideboard. ‘That’s another thing about Custer. Ever since he married Libbie Bacon, he’s gone all blue light on us. Never trust a soldier who doesn’t drink.’ He poured the amber nectar for them both.
‘Unlike the President,’ Grand said, stony-faced.
‘Now, Grand …’ Sheridan wagged a finger at him. ‘No, women’ll do that to a man. They say he hasn’t touched a drop nor thrown a dice since he tied the knot. Mind you, they say he hasn’t dropped a profanity either and from what I’ve heard in the last few minutes, that’s not true, I can tell you.’
Grand smiled. Little Phil was quick to anger but it never lasted long.
‘As a matter of fact, I’m tying the knot myself in a couple of months.’
‘Congratulations,’ Grand said.
Sheridan passed a framed photograph and Grand was impressed. The future Mrs Sheridan was a stunner and could easily have been the general’s daughter.
‘I heard you’d emigrated to England.’ Sheridan took back the photograph and smiled at his bride-to-be, polishing off an invisible piece of dust from her lovely nose. ‘Slàinte.’ He raised his glass to Grand.
‘Slàinte,’ Grand echoed. ‘That’s right.’
‘Not still soldiering, I take it?’
‘Enquiring,’ Grand said. ‘Of the private, criminal variety.’
‘Ah. And that’s what brings you back to DC? Not pursuing your enquiries, I hope.’
‘No, no,’ Grand half-lied. ‘Just visiting the folks, you know. Not getting any younger, either of them, you know how it is. I ran into Custer by accident.’
‘Didn’t we all.’ Sheridan drained his glass. ‘Look, Grand. I’ve got no choice over this. A colonel in this man’s army can’t go around slandering the President’s brother and be seen to get away with it. It’ll blow over in a month or so and I’ll get Custer a post somewhere. Jefferson Barracks, maybe, Inspector of Cavalry, something like that.’
‘That would break his heart, General,’ Grand said. ‘You know George. It’s a fighting command or nothing for him.’
Sheridan shrugged and sighed. ‘Then, it’s nothing,’ he said.
For four days, Custer sat in the lobby of the White House. For four days, he was ignored, at least by the President. Mrs Grant swept past him once and smiled, not quite sure who he was. An Undersecretary of State cut him dead, and any number of aides, in crisp blue uniforms and white gloves, kept him supplied with coffee and cookies. But of General Ulysses S. Grant, there was no sign.
‘He’s using the back stairs,’ was Matthew Grand’s take on the situation. ‘That’s sort of like the back passage in England and with pretty much the same connotation.’
‘So, that’s it, then.’ Batchelor put down the Washington Post. ‘We’re going home.’
‘We are,’ Grand said, ‘but not just yet.’
Batchelor looked at him. ‘Matthew,’ he murmured, ‘you’ve got that funny look in your eyes, the one that says, “I’ve just thought of a cunning plan that’s probably illegal but we’ll try it anyway”.’
‘I have,’ Grand nodded, ‘but there’s no “we”.’
‘Come again?’
‘If the President won’t see Custer,’ Grand said, ‘he might see me.’
Batchelor guffawed. Then he realized he may have given offence and qualified it with, ‘You’ll forgive me for saying this, Matthew, but why would the President not see a decorated major general, albeit of the brevet type, and yet spare the time of day for a … and there’s no kind way of saying this, a mere captain.’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ Grand smiled.
‘I’m sure I would,’ Batchelor said, ‘but tell me anyway.’
‘I can’t do that, James,’ Grand said. ‘It’s too long a shot. Anyway, there’s a snag.’
‘There is?’
Grand nodded, looking at his partner in crime. ‘How do you break in to the White House?’
Batchelor blinked. ‘Well, we British did it a few years back,’ he said. ‘It can’t be that difficult.’
‘Ah,’ Grand wagged a finger at him. ‘That’s as maybe, but you British aren’t going to be involved this time. This one’s on me.’
‘What?’
‘If I’m caught, they’ll lock me up, quite possibly in a mental institution. If you’re caught, there could be a war.’
Batchelor disagreed. ‘After Lincoln,’ he said, ‘if you’re caught, they’ll hang you. And if I’m there, you won’t get caught.’
Grand was shaking his head. ‘Sorry, James,’ he said. ‘It’s not going to happen.’