Clay entered, carrying newspapers, eyes bright with pleasure. “That’s where we’re headed now.” He indicated the barrier of green which hid the White House from observers on Capitol Hill.

  Burden shook his head, not wanting to tempt fate. “A lot can happen in three years,” he said, all on exhalation.

  “Just keep the momentum going, and we’re in. All we have to do is keep this thing alive.”

  “Keep it alive,” Burden murmured approvingly, fingers feeling for his favorite talisman: the flattened bullet removed from his father’s shoulder after the Battle of Shiloh and kept by that sardonic and violent man as a memento of a heroic time…except that to his father there was nothing in that struggle but discomfort and folly, whereas his son regarded the War of the Secession as the last true moment of virtue in a falling world. For sentimentalizing those days, his father had despised him. But then they had always hated one another. Now the Confederate corporal was dead and all that was left of him was this lump of metal, crumpled from having struck the no longer living bone.

  “Keep the thing alive,” Burden repeated, his forefinger gently feeling the fissures in the metal. Was it here that the flesh first felt the metal as it cut? Or here? Unbidden the furious face of his father materialized midway between Jefferson and the desk. For an instant he saw the tobacco-stained teeth, the mad gray eyes, the mottled red skin; and vivid in that incorporeal face was all his father’s contempt for him. “You joined the bastards who cut us up. You’re one of ’em, Senator!” How he had snorted the title the last time they met, shortly after Burden’s election, shortly before the old man’s cancerous death. Burden blinked hard; the face went.

  Burden sat up abruptly; energy coursed through him. He gave Clay rapid instructions. Journalists to seek out. Editors to write to. Members of Congress to see. Money to be raised. He paused a moment at the thought of money.

  “That’s the worst of it. That’s the one thing which can stop us.”

  Clay shook his head. “The fat cats love you.”

  “Today. But maybe not tomorrow. After all, no one can be conservative enough for them and…”

  “…and be elected President,” Clay spoke almost too quickly. But he was right.

  “And be elected President. But no one can be President…I can’t be President…without their help. That’s the problem. Well, at least we’ve got three years to raise the money…”

  “And before then, you’ll have spoken in every state.” They planned; they plotted; they guessed; they hoped. But Burden knew that all too often political planning was nothing more than a form of mutual reassurance. The future was perfectly incalculable. Clay showed him telegrams of congratulations and invitations to speak. Mrs. Blaine interrupted them several times with news. The Supreme Court (unofficially of course) was delighted, and the Vice President would like to have a word with him if he could spare the time.

  Accompanied by Clay, Burden took the elevator to the basement, where they boarded the ridiculous but useful subway car that connected the Senate Office Building to the Capitol. They rode with a new Senator and three of his constituents, who were delighted to meet Burden Day. Everyone is delighted to meet Burden Day, thought Burden Day, greeting the constituents warmly, aware that the other Senator was visibly enhanced in the eyes of his people because he was acquainted with the Defender of the Constitution. Burden made a mental note to cultivate the new man.

  At the Capitol, they ascended back stairs. As always, Burden took pleasure in the subterranean corridors, which smelled of stone, harsh soap and, he was positive, woodwork burned by the British in 1814. Despite the rising heat outside, the inner depths of the Capitol remained cool all summer long.

  At the level of the Senate floor, Burden avoided the tourists by slipping into the Senate washroom, a noble chamber with enormous urinals. While Clay washed his face and hands, Burden asked casually, “Can you come to the house for dinner tonight?”

  Clay shook his head, face covered with soap. “I have a date.”

  Burden nodded. He dreaded collision, feared rebuff. Yet it was his duty as a father to net for his child the husband she wanted, and though Diana had never actually said as much it was apparent that she was in love, and helpless.

  Clay dried his face until the pink skin glowed like the face of a child who has put a flashlight in its mouth to amaze bystanders in the night with the blood’s luminosity. Yes, Clay was handsome. Burden experienced a momentary pang. He was not young, as Clay was young; not desirable, as Clay was desirable. Yet he lusted, too, and craved that response which is something more than complaisance; something more than tribute to solvency or to fame. A woman would burn at night for want of Clay. He became Diana, saw Clay as she saw him, and realized that she did not have a chance. Diana was plain to look at, shy but sharp, intelligent and good. How could she compete with softer beauties like…

  “…Enid Sanford asked me. It’s at Chevy Chase. Some sort of dance for a friend of hers from New York. I said I’d go.” Clay was placating. “Enid’s a lovely girl.” Obviously, Clay preferred Enid to Diana and there was nothing he could do about it. Burden arranged his hair so that the forelock would fall gracefully across the brow. In a moment, he would be on the floor of the Senate, and the gallery would recognize him and perhaps applaud. At least that was sweet. His mood improved as he set his mask.

  “…fascinating girl. But it’s not easy keeping up with her. That’s how I got this.” Clay touched his thickened nose regretfully. “Keeping up with her at Warrenton, riding through those damned woods in the rain and getting thrown. And how she laughed. There I was bleeding like a pig and she laughed. I could have killed her.”

  Yes, thought Burden, he was hooked. “Rich girl,” observed Burden. “All that Sanford money will be mighty useful to a young man who wants to serve his country in the highest councils of the state.” Burden parodied his own somewhat ornate platform style.

  Clay blushed and started toward the door. “She just wants a good time. That’s all.”

  They went out into the corridor. “Well, come visit us one of these days. Diana hasn’t seen much of you since she got back.”

  “I will. You know I will.”

  Duty is done, thought Burden, as he crossed the corridor to the door which led into the cloakroom. Clay was to wait for him in the gallery. At a certain agreed-upon gesture (placing of left hand against cheek) Clay would come and fetch him.

  Squaring shoulders, breathing deeply (and wondering why his heart was beating so erratically), Burden nodded to the huge Capitol policeman who guarded the door and stepped into the world of the Senate.

  The cloakroom, narrow as a corridor, ran the length of the Senate Chamber. Here, amid lockers, black leather sofas and writing tables, the Senators of his party gossiped and politicked. When Burden made his entrance, he was given a playful ovation. A Southerner in a Prince Albert gave out a Rebel yell and waved a small Confederate banner. Two New Dealers retreated to the far end of the cloakroom and pretended to study the day’s legislation. Happy, Burden drank a glass of soda water and listened to praise.

  “Best thing we’ve done in twenty years, and it’s all your doing.”

  “President’s sworn to have your neck if it’s the last thing he ever does…”

  “…will be the last. Old Burden’ll lick him every time…”

  “Burden can lick the President in 1940. That’s our year.”

  “Why spoil a good Senator by making a President out of him?”

  Then they were joined by the senior Senator from Burden’s state. Jesse Momberger was a lean man who wore hats that seemed like sombreros and built-up shoes that resembled boots. He liked to refer cryptically to famous Western outlaws, as though he knew more than he ever intended to say. “Well, pardner.” He took Burden’s hand in his own surprisingly soft one: the West had long since been won. “You’re goin’ to be the President. That’s clear as a mule’s ass at noon. Now I got some advice for you…”

  Burden smiled and listened until a pale-faced page in knickerbockers came to tell him, “The Vice President is on the floor. He’d like a word with you, Senator.”

  Burden slipped away from his admirers. At the frosted glass doors to the Senate Chamber, he paused to straighten tie, arrange hair. Then giving the swinging doors a somewhat stronger push than was necessary, he stepped onto the floor of the Senate, and was home.

  Careful not to look at the gallery, Burden walked up the aisle to his seat, chin held high so that he would be recognized. He was. There was a patter of applause, quickly gaveled to silence by the chair. He took his seat and pretended to study the papers stacked in front of him. But in his excitement he could not read a word. Finally he sneaked a look at the gallery. There were several men in the press box, while the gallery itself was perhaps a third full, which was remarkable on a day when there was neither a debate nor a vote. Evidently the people had come to see him, and the Senate which had humbled the President.

  Several Senators stopped to congratulate him, their gestures slightly larger than life: each aware of the hundreds of watching eyes.

  Then Burden saw the Vice President. He was not in the chair but beside it, talking to a group of Senators. Burden waved to him and then, solemnly, he walked down into the well of the Chamber. The murmur from the galleries increased as the knowledgeable wondered what they would say to one another. The answer, of course, was nothing. At best, the Vice President’s style was gnomic. In any case, Burden knew that the thing not spoken in politics is invariably the essential. Today the words exchanged were amiable, and seemingly direct. Details about the Court bill’s progress in committee, nothing more. But what the exchange meant was plain to those who understood the workings of The Club. The tiny red-faced man with teeth like black pearls had allied himself with Burden Day. Power had been exerted, and as with fire on contiguous metal fragments, fusion had taken place. They were one, for the time being.

  Delighted, Burden returned to the cloakroom, forgetting to signal Clay. This was better than he had hoped. With the Vice President’s support in 1940, the thing was his.

  Burden made his way briskly through a crowd of tourists who stopped him from time to time with fervent praise. He was halfway to the main door when Clay joined him. “What did the Vice President say?”

  “He’s with us. All the way.” They spoke then of a committee meeting to be held that afternoon. Burden would not be there. Clay was to tell the appropriate Senator to take charge. “Where will you be?”

  Burden shook his head. “Invisible. I want to think. Call me at home tonight.”

  Under the stone porte cochere of the Capitol, Burden waited for Henry, eyes shut against the glare. The heat was literally breathtaking. He ought to stay at the Capitol where it was cool but perversely he preferred to be alone with his triumph.

  “Nice work, Senator.” The voice was pleasant; the associations not.

  Burden turned as a man, slender and cool in brown gabardine, approached him. Reflexively, Burden’s right arm sprang from his side. He recalled it just in time, making an awkward circular gesture as though exercising a shoulder. “I am waiting for my car,” said Burden irrelevantly.

  “What else?” Mr. Nillson was amused, quite unaware of the effect he was making. “I saw you just now with the Vice President. He must have been pleased at what’s happened.”

  Burden turned to look down the driveway for Henry and the Packard. But neither was in sight. The amiable voice continued. “In fact, everyone’s pleased with you. Did you know that the Hearst papers are going to propose you for President?”

  The man was cunning, no doubt about it. Burden was unable to disguise his interest. “How do you know?”

  “I never disclose sources, Senator.” Mr. Nillson grinned. “You’ll find that’s my best quality.”

  Burden grunted and started to turn away again, but Mr. Nillson’s voice (was it Southern? Western?) recalled him. “But I can tell you that the Day for President campaign will begin with tomorrow’s editorial, written by the old man himself.”

  “That’s very interesting, Mr. Nillson.”

  “I think you would be a remarkable President. I would certainly vote for you.”

  “Mr. Nillson…”

  “Sir?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “A friend.”

  “No, you are not a friend.”

  “Then I should like to be. After all, we choose our friends because they are not like ourselves. I shall never be a great statesman, like you.” Irony, guile, truth in delicate balance. “You live a life that I might have wanted, but as there is not time for one person to be everything, I choose my friends so that through them I can be a politician, a journalist, an artist…”

  “A criminal?”

  “Yes, even a criminal.”

  “But what do you do?”

  “I’m a businessman. Now I have spoken very directly to you, Senator. I have been completely honest.”

  “Yes, you have. And do you know the penalty for bribing…for attempting to bribe a member of Congress?”

  “Among my many friends there are lawyers.” Mr. Nillson was genuinely amused. Burden felt himself losing control again, anger beginning to rise, also bewilderment. “I know the law’s penalties. Also the world’s rewards. I wish you would think seriously about what I said to you the other day.”

  “There is nothing to think about. I don’t take…” Burden found himself lowering his voice automatically even though no one was within earshot, “bribes.”

  “Others…”

  “I don’t care what others do.”

  “Is an investment in your career a bribe? A contribution to electing you President, is that a bribe? How do you think money is ever raised for a national campaign? Anyway, should I invest in your future, I shall demand a good deal less of you than, say, the CIO or the National Association of Manufacturers.”

  “I am not for sale, Mr. Nillson.” The pomposity and hollowness of his words appalled him and he wondered desperately what had become of his celebrated gift for the single withering phrase. Speechless, he stood, head filled with copybook maxims, a portion of his brain paralyzed.

  “I don’t want to buy you, Senator.” The easy voice was now as cold as his own. “I will give you the money that you need if you make it possible for me to buy what I want. That is a legitimate exchange. The word for what I propose may be strange to your ears. So I will say it to you slowly and carefully. The word is ‘business.’ ”

  Then Henry and the Packard arrived and Burden got in without a word. The car swung away from the starling-infested portico of the Capitol, gray as ash in the fiery noon.

  “Where to, Senator?”

  “Where to?” Burden recalled himself. “Cross to the Virginia side. Then we’ll see.”

  Henry knew exactly where Burden wanted to go. Near Bull Run there was a field where Civil War earthworks twisted like a huge snake beneath tall grass. Here Burden liked to sit and brood about the days before his birth and wish that he had been born in time for that good war in which he might have died, like his uncle Aaron Hawkins, struck down before Atlanta at nineteen years of age, right leg shattered by a cannon ball; two days later, dead from gangrene. Thus did fate shear the balance of that boy’s life.

  Burden looked out the car window and watched those few abroad in the heat as they moved slowly, trying not to sweat; and simply to watch them from the relative coolness of the car made him hot. He reached in his pocket for a handkerchief and felt heavy metal; it was the bullet that had struck his father. He had no recollection of having taken it from the office. Delicately he touched the metal and wondered, as always, which part of the bullet struck the flesh.

  At Chain Bridge they crossed the Potomac, narrowed by drought. On the Virginia side the woods were dense and almost cool. He rolled down the car window, breathed deeply, shut his eyes; dozed.

  “Here we are, Senator.” Burden awakened to find that they were parked in a country lane where the branches of trees met over head, filtering green the fierce sunlight. At the end of the lane was the field where the Confederates had built their earthworks.

  “Stay in the car, Henry. I won’t be long.”

  The field was bright with goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace, with sword grass that plucked at his trousers as he walked slowly to the place where two mounds of earth met at a right angle. With each step he was conscious of what lay beneath the ground, of the bones, the buttons, the belt buckles and misshapen bullets.

  Burden was breathing hard when he finally reached his usual place atop the earthworks. Beneath green saplings, he took his seat upon a boulder streaked with lichen. From this perch he could survey the terrain where the first Battle of Bull Run had been fought. The seventy-sixth anniversary of that battle had occurred the day before, when he had won his own victory. The omen was good, except that of course the Confederates had then gone on to lose the war.

  Across the field, pine woods broke the horizon, just as they had nearly a century before. A photograph made right after the battle showed these same woods burnt and splintered like so many matchsticks while in the foreground of the picture there lay what looked to be a pile of old clothes, until one saw a hand startlingly extended toward the sky, the sinewy brown fingers curved as though to seize a fallen rifle. Recalling that hand, Burden curved his own fingers in imitation of the dead soldier and as he did he realized suddenly that it was not for a rifle those fingers curved but for life, as though life was something literally to be seized and held. He shuddered and let his own hand fall to his lap, not wanting to know what it was the man had felt as the life left him.

  Grass steamed in the sun. From damp earth, a haze rose. Weeds stirred in the hot breeze, leaves rustled, clouds of gnats moved erratically back and forth. At peace, drowsy, Burden balanced the bullet in his hand as he had done a thousand times before. Now, he told himself, he must think, plan for the future, devise a timetable extending from this very moment to that day in November of 1940 when he would be elected President. First he would talk to Blaise about money. Then he would go to William Randolph Hearst and make it perfectly clear that…His mind shifted stubbornly: despite the boldness of Mr. Nillson’s offer (and the assumption behind it) he had never in his life taken a bribe. At worst, he had accepted campaign money with the vague understanding that he might some day be of use to the donor, a disagreeable procedure but the way things are done in the Republic. Mr. Nillson, however, had offered a straightforward bribe, which no honest man could accept. More to the point, to deprive the Indians of their land was both cruel and dishonorable.