Mexico (79 page)

"I like Mexico," Clay said. "I see it as a country with a glowing future, but I have a daughter somewhere near Richmond, and I must care for her," so the two Jubals parted at shipside in a Cuban port, the general heading for Mexico, the colonel back to the risk of capture in the States. Theirs had been an adventure in Southern patriotism, and they made their farewells with dignity and mutual respect.

But General Early's invitation to Clay that he join him in Mexico had a mesmerizing effect on the Virginian, for as he worked his way carefully north from Texas to avoid capture, he began to have visions of that silver mine in Toledo, and the lonelier he became, a fugitive hunted on all sides, the more the mine became an obsession: "A man could find refug
e t
here..." And: "If a man found himself without a home, h
e c
ould work in a mine and build himself a life." But he took no steps to convert that dream into reality, for Virginia called powerfully to him.

Clay's experiences in his defeated Southland were not pleasant. Landing at Savannah, he made his way quietly and in disguise through Georgia and the Carolinas and into Virginia, at whose threshold he bowed his head in sorrow. As one who had obviously been a soldier who had helped defend the Confederacy, no questions were asked and he was helped by all who met him. In time he was back at Cold Harbor, where he surveyed the battlefield on which he had once played a significant role. Then he trudged the distance to where Newfields plantation had once stood, and there in grief, which swept over him like the fever of an ague, he could see in the ruins his wife, Zephania, as she went about her duties; he could hear the boys at play; he could visualize his daughter in a pinafore, and the house slaves at their chores. All gone, a way of life never to be recovered. From that moment of utter despair, Jubal Clay became a new human being, no longer a Southern planter, no longer a Confederate colonel.. Instead, at forty-three, he became a man with ties only to his daughter--and even that cord would soon be brutally cut.

Making his way back to Richmond, he slipped undetected into his club, now fallen on hard times but still populated by his old business and military friends, who gave him a robust welcome when they discovered who he was: 'Tell us about Cold Harbor and the defeat you slapped on Grant. How about General Early's gallant campaign up the Shenandoah? What happened to Early when he went into hiding after Appomattox?" They were surprised and pleased to learn that Clay had remained loyal to Early until the general had escaped to Mexico.

Hearing of Early's latest action, all the members wanted to speak, for each had known some planter friend who had refused to remain in the new United States, where they were forbidden to own slaves and where their gracious way of life had been destroyed. A few had fled to Canada, but most had gone south to Mexico, which they called "a land where freedom i
s s
till respected."

"Did you hear that Jake Tomlin has decided to take th
e j
ump south?"

"I can believe it. His friend Adams sent back a heartening letter. Land for almost nothing. And thousands of Indians eager to work for almost nothing."

"Did you know that Henry Bailey has moved his cotton handling office to Veracruz? Shipping to the same customers in Liverpool, but now it's Mexican cotton."

"Jubal, I remember that you served with General Scott in Mexico. How did you find it?"

With unexpected vitality, memories of those years in '47 and '48 came tumbling back: "It was a real country, not at all like we used to think. Some of its cities, away from the war, were quite habitable."

"Did you have a chance to see any of them?"

He started to tell of his visit to Toledo but judged it would be tedious to explain why he had been investigating a silver mine.

A man asked: "Would you consider emigrating there? Like the others?"

"I had a chance to go with General Early. I love Virginia. When 1 get my name cleared, I'd want to work here-- rebuild--get things going again."

"You should, Clay," one of the members said. "You're a real hero and we need you." Then he repeated: "A real hero. You must be amazed at what's happened with your daughter."

Clay leaned forward: "What did? I've been looking for her."

"After the fire ... some of us buried your wife, Jubal . .. the girl came here to a family in Richmond, where I saw her often, a true Southern belle, an honor to our people, and to you, Clay."

"What happened?"

"When the North took over our government they sent down a handsome young man from West Point, a lieutenant, and he worked in the governor's office, that is, their government, not ours. He was a bright fellow, good manners, treated us with respect while some of his seniors from the North were real bastards."

"And then?" Clay asked, afraid to hear the answer.

"Yes, they fell in love. He was invited to all the parties, such as we could afford, and he was widely liked. An excellent young man, except his war background, and they were married."

"Married?" He said the word with such force that for some moments no one dared speak, but then a club member who had also fought at Cold Harbor said: "Young Shallcross served as Grant's aide at Union quarters on the Pamunkey."

For two days my grandfather could not bring himself to visit his daughter, although he was willing to risk capture to see the only remaining member of his family--and capture would be probable if he was identified by an official in the government of occupation/But his curiosity and love for his daughter were so great that on the third day he allowed his fellow officer from Cold Harbor to take him to the small house occupied by Shallcross and his bride. There he waited behind a tree while his guide knocked on the door, was greeted by a man Clay could not see, and entered. Inside, as the man explained later, he arranged a truce of honor: "Captain Shallcross, you know me, Major Abernethy, reprieved by your government."

"Of course, Major. What can I do for you?"

"I know, here in Richmond, where a Confederate officer is hiding who is not reprieved." At these ominous words Shallcross held up both hands: "We no longer hound patriots, misguided though they were. I don't want to hear any more."

"Former Confederates are arrested daily," the major snapped, and Shallcross said: "If they force themselves upon us, if they have criminal records."

"I think you will want to see this one, but I must ask your word of honor once you have seen each other that he can leave freely."

"You didn't need to creep to my house to extract such a promise. Granted." The two soldiers shook hands, whereupon the major went back to the door and signaled. In a moment Jubal Clay edged suspiciously into the small room and stood facing his son-in-law. When neither man spoke, the major said: "Captain Shallcross, I have the honor to present Colonel Clay, late of the Virginia Third."

Shallcross flushed, hesitated, then extended his hand: "You are welcome here, Colonel. I'll call your daughter." In a moment Grace Clay Shallcross entered the room--an elfin girl of sixteen with a waist so small a man could encircle it with his hands. She was, thought Clay, in that first moment of seeing her after three years of painful absence, the kind of woman who would keep the South alive and functioning, for defeat had not touched her, and he saw her as a creature of inestimable worth. But as the four of them sat and talked he felt a hardness supplanting his first sensations of love.

"How was it your mother didn't escape, too?"

"She wanted to save her piano. The men tried to drag her away, but she wouldn't go and finally they had to flee, because of the smoke." She hesitated then added: "We thought that maybe she wanted to die ... the boys gone ... the house . .. and maybe you had been killed in the Valley defeats."

"When she died we were still winning. We were in Washington." His voice hardened not against his daughter but against the man she had married. Pointing at Captain Shallcross he asked: "Is it true that he served as General Grant's aide at Cold Harbor?"

Shallcross did not propose to have his young wife answer for him: "I was there, as you were, Colonel Clay. We had great regard for your performance that day. I heard General Grant say so."

"Regard for me? Did he have no regard for his own troops? That he left them dying out there in the blazing heat?"

Aware that this line of interrogation must end in verbal brawling, Captain Shallcross said: "Colonel, I am honored to have a wonderful woman like your daughter for my wife. And had you been available at the time, I would have come to you as one man of honor to another to ask for her hand. I pray that you will grant it now." Extending his hand, he moved slightly toward Clay.

"For an agonizing moment," reported the ex-Confederate who had arranged this meeting, "the two men looked at each other, Shallcross almost pleading, Clay with growing bitterness, at the end of which he said darkly: T must leave this contaminated house, and I shall never in this life see you again, Grace.' With that he stamped from the room."

Before he left Richmond, Clay went to a notary and signed a legal paper giving title to the two thousand acres of the former Newfields Plantation east of Cold Harbor to his daughter, Grace Clay, born on that site in 1850. After filing this with the registrar of such papers and asking that officer to advise her after he had gone, he returned to his lonely room, where he found awaiting him a letter that threw his plans into disarray:

My Dear Col. Clay
,
I have heard through the Brackenridges of Richmond that i
n y
our despair over the death of your wife and the loss of you
r h
ome you propose leaving the country. Surely, anyone who realizes the crushing losses you have suffered will understand your decision, and those like me know how you, more than most men, centered the better portion of your life upon the joys you knew with Zephania, your unequaled wife.

But, Jubal, I must remind you that there is a higher duty, and I beg of you to reconsider. Do not leave our homeland. It sorely needs you now. You are an engineer and command the skills we require for the rebuilding of our ravaged lands. There is so much work to be done that if we all labored 'til midnight for the rest of our lives we should barely accomplish a beginning. You above all are needed.

Therefore I implore you, and if I were still your general I would command you, to stay at home and commit yourself to the work at hand. If you plead, "I spent four years fighting the North, must I now help them rebuild what they destroyed?" I can only advise you that the wisdom of the Almighty oftentimes commands a man to do exactly the opposite of what he did ten weeks before, and if he defends his honor there will be no dishonor in obeying the dictates of One mightier than himself. I implore you to stay and work, for I am convinced that it is God's work we do.

But I am mindful of the oppression one suffers when one must live where a particular tragedy has overtaken him, so I want you to leave Cold Harbor and come to Lexington, where our faculty sorely needs your engineering and mathematical skills. You will find a new life instructing our young men whose duty it will be to rebuild the South, and I shall rejoice in having with me once more that, dashing, reliable Colonel Clay.

Yours quietly

Robert E. Lee

Reading the letter three times in his hunger to hear once more his commander's grave voice, he satisfied himself that Lee was offering him a teaching job at long-established Washington College, a school of good reputation, and the idea of working with Lee again was so exciting that any thought of sleep was ridiculous. Throwing a jacket over his shoulders, he walked out into the streets of Richmond, the city he had fought so diligently to protect, and the idea of separating himself from the gallant struggle brought tears to his eyes. He visualized Lee as the one man who had gone through four years at West Point without picking up a single demerit--Jubal Early had had nigh two hundred every year--Lee as the bright-eyed captain in Mexico, and, finally, Lee in defeat. It would not be easy to disassociate himself from such a man.

But suddenly the menacing image of Ulysses Grant took possession of his mind, and as it crowded out the gentle memories of Lee he cried aloud: "I cannot live in the same country with that man!" He ran to a friend's house, asked to purchase a horse, which was given him free, and as the sun appeared he rode quietly out of Richmond, still legally a fugitive and aware that never in this life would he again see his beloved city, or his revered commander, or his daughter.

Chapter
16.

AMERICAN ANCESTORS: IN MEXICO

WHEN MY GRANDFATHER landed at Veracruz in late 1866 and climbed the familiar road he had marched nineteen years earlier with General Scott as they fought their way to Mexico City, he anticipated no difficulty in locating his friend General Early: "Stands to reason. If he's still in that big white hat with the turkey feather and that long white coat, everyone will know where he is." Using his adequate Spanish, he asked a watchman: "Where might I find American soldiers who came down here after our war?" and the man pointed: "That little church. Many Americans drink there all day."

When he entered the courtyard of the church, set off by a high adobe wall, he found the Confederates, and one look at the motley crew assured him that he had joined the losers. They were an unkempt lot, unshaven, unwashed, some of their clothes in tatters, but intermixed with that type were a few men of obvious breeding, men who could not tolerate living in a nation governed by men like Butcher Grant. Clay naturally gravitated toward those of his own kind but was prevented from joining them by the others, who showered him with questions: "What battles did you see? What generals did you march with? Did you have to leave America?" Some rough types not only asked questions, they also demanded answers, and in their eagerness for news of home he detected loneliness and the fear that they might never again see their homeland.