about this other part of me, or at least he hadn’t asked about it yet. Either my pen-name had protected my secret, or he had forgotten what I’d said at the Connersville station. It also struck me that Ambrose would make a far better character for a novel than Vallandigham. Fortunately, he was so preoccupied with framing his questions discreetly that he never noticed my sudden silence.
“In that speech he denounced General Carrington’s order prohibiting civilians from carrying weapons.”
“Ah,” I said, “so Clem invoked the Constitution.”
“How did you know?”
“I inferred as much,” I said. “Thanks to Miss Wright, the Constitution is one of the few things I remember from school:
‘the right of the people,’ ”
I recited solemnly,
“ ‘to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed
.’ ”
Ambrose gave me a look that may have been one of admiration. I had the feeling he was measuring the circumference of my head with his eyes, which of course would deceive him, for I was wearing a fashionable hairpiece.
“Precisely,” he said. “Of course, Carrington had a damn — a darned good reason for issuing that order. Besides, he’d talked it over with Ollie Morton. He got a report from Sergeant Perkins, who was in charge of an eight-man detail that was supposed to arrest deserters in Franklin. When word got out that Perkins and his men were there, a mob of at least two hundred horsemen gathered in the town square, all of them armed, and not only did they stop Perkins from carrying out his orders, they even cheered, ‘Long live Jefferson Davis!’ That traitor and leader of traitors, Lorraine!”
“Are you sure it happened?” I said. “Don’t forget, Carrington’s notorious for his vivid imagination — especially after he’s had a few too many.”
“Ollie confirmed it. And it wasn’t an isolated instance. The day before, another armed mob stopped them arresting some deserters in Putnam County.”
“But that’s —”
“Treason!” he said, looking straight at me. It suddenly dawned on me that my friend was rushing headlong into a new catastrophe.
“It could hardly be called anything else,” I said.
“In the face of treason, all available means must be used. That was why General Carrington issued the order,” he said stiffly.
And I could see where the rub was. “But there’s the Constitution,” I said.
“Well — yes, there is,” admitted Ambrose. “Of course —”
“Didn’t General Carrington declare martial law?” I interrupted.
“Well — no, he didn’t.”
“That was a mistake.”
“Maybe so,” said Ambrose. “No! It
was
a mistake. But treason
was
committed, and treason is treason!”
“But the Constitution is the Constitution.”
Ambrose’s brow furrowed. He crossed his legs — his shiny boots and the gold tassel of his sword glinted in the afternoon sunlight, the scabbard rang against the Chinese vase beside the armchair. I imagined him running along the hill at Marye’s Heights in those polished boots, his sword drawn, the boots spattered with blood.
He recited, “
‘On the orders of the United States and the people of the United States, George Washington, Commander.’
Now, whom do we obey: Carrington or Washington?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That was the question Vallandigham posed at the town meeting in Hamilton.” He was looking straight into my eyes.
There was a long pause, then I said, “What do you think, Ambrose?”
“What do
you
think, Lorraine?” He looked at my sizeable coiffure.
“I don’t know.” Outside the window, a cool spring rain had begun to fall. Raindrops trickled down the windowpane, picking up the occasional ray of sunlight. “But I do wonder,” I said slowly. “Suppose George Washington had found himself in a situation like that of the sergeant who was sent out to arrest deserters, and a mob of armed men had started cheering General Cornwallis —”
“Precisely, Lorraine,” said Ambrose
“In that speech he denounced General Carrington’s order prohibiting civilians from carrying weapons.”
“Ah,” I said, “so Clem invoked the Constitution.”
“How did you know?”
“I inferred as much,” I said. “Thanks to Miss Wright, the Constitution is one of the few things I remember from school:
‘the right of the people,’ ”
I recited solemnly,
“ ‘to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed
.’ ”
Ambrose gave me a look that may have been one of admiration. I had the feeling he was measuring the circumference of my head with his eyes, which of course would deceive him, for I was wearing a fashionable hairpiece.
“Precisely,” he said. “Of course, Carrington had a damn — a darned good reason for issuing that order. Besides, he’d talked it over with Ollie Morton. He got a report from Sergeant Perkins, who was in charge of an eight-man detail that was supposed to arrest deserters in Franklin. When word got out that Perkins and his men were there, a mob of at least two hundred horsemen gathered in the town square, all of them armed, and not only did they stop Perkins from carrying out his orders, they even cheered, ‘Long live Jefferson Davis!’ That traitor and leader of traitors, Lorraine!”
“Are you sure it happened?” I said. “Don’t forget, Carrington’s notorious for his vivid imagination — especially after he’s had a few too many.”
“Ollie confirmed it. And it wasn’t an isolated instance. The day before, another armed mob stopped them arresting some deserters in Putnam County.”
“But that’s —”
“Treason!” he said, looking straight at me. It suddenly dawned on me that my friend was rushing headlong into a new catastrophe.
“It could hardly be called anything else,” I said.
“In the face of treason, all available means must be used. That was why General Carrington issued the order,” he said stiffly.
And I could see where the rub was. “But there’s the Constitution,” I said.
“Well — yes, there is,” admitted Ambrose. “Of course —”
“Didn’t General Carrington declare martial law?” I interrupted.
“Well — no, he didn’t.”
“That was a mistake.”
“Maybe so,” said Ambrose. “No! It
was
a mistake. But treason
was
committed, and treason is treason!”
“But the Constitution is the Constitution.”
Ambrose’s brow furrowed. He crossed his legs — his shiny boots and the gold tassel of his sword glinted in the afternoon sunlight, the scabbard rang against the Chinese vase beside the armchair. I imagined him running along the hill at Marye’s Heights in those polished boots, his sword drawn, the boots spattered with blood.
He recited, “
‘On the orders of the United States and the people of the United States, George Washington, Commander.’
Now, whom do we obey: Carrington or Washington?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That was the question Vallandigham posed at the town meeting in Hamilton.” He was looking straight into my eyes.
There was a long pause, then I said, “What do you think, Ambrose?”
“What do
you
think, Lorraine?” He looked at my sizeable coiffure.
“I don’t know.” Outside the window, a cool spring rain had begun to fall. Raindrops trickled down the windowpane, picking up the occasional ray of sunlight. “But I do wonder,” I said slowly. “Suppose George Washington had found himself in a situation like that of the sergeant who was sent out to arrest deserters, and a mob of armed men had started cheering General Cornwallis —”
“Precisely, Lorraine,” said Ambrose
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