The Railroad War (8 page)

A large part of the population of the town had left with Johnston in May, but most of them had returned after Sherman’s departure.
They and Johnston’s soldiers had repaired as much of the destruction as they were able. Of special importance was the crucial
railway line to the east. That line was now back in satisfactory working order. Trains were even now being formed up in the
yards beside the station.

Sherman was again besieging Jackson, and again Jackson was defended by Joseph E. Johnston. This time, however, Johnston had
thirty thousand men under him, to Sherman’s fifty thousand, where previously he had only commanded six thousand. He now also
had a fine set of fortifications built in a great arc around the west of the city, and his flanks were well secured by the
Pearl River, which bordered the town to the east. It was a strong position, and Sherman would have a hard time rooting him
out of it, despite his superior numbers and the current high spirits of his men. For the Union armies had only ten days earlier,
on July Fourth, accepted the surrender of the great Confederate fortress of Vicksburg not many miles to the west of Jackson.
And on that same day, a thousand miles to the northeast, the battle near the Pennsylvania town of Gettysburg had ended, and
Robert E. Lee’s Army of Virginia began its long retreat back toward Richmond.

The guns on this scorching-hot morning in Jackson were silent, which was one reason so many people were about—the women with
their bundles and their children, the old people with just their bundles, and the men in bare feet and ragged clothes, with
their old rugs for sleeping and their toothbrushes stuck like roses in their buttonholes. Most, like the major and the lieutenant,
were either waiting for passage or trying to obtain it. No one had much appetite to be in town when Sherman entered it for
the second time.

The question was whether Joe Johnston intended to fight. The answer might lie in the numbers of soldiers who seemed to be
waiting for trains. But that was not a conclusive answer; more evidence was needed.

Because of the heat, the major had left open the top of his collar and uniform blouse. His wide-brimmed gray hat shaded his
face, concealing his expression from Lieutenant Stetson. Tom Stetson was from Kentucky, and he, unlike the major, had left
his collar tightly fastened, and he was suffering mightily for his propriety.

The lieutenant stared up into the sky, where thunderheads were piling up. There’d be thunderstorms later in the afternoon,
a welcome relief from the heat and dust. Then he looked again at the major, trying—and failing—to tell if the other man had
been successful in his quest. Even if his face had not been darkly shaded, Stetson knew he’d have a hard time making out the
major’s expression. He was a close one, behind his veils were curtains, and behind the curtains were walls of iron. But Stetson
liked him for all that. He was good to work with. He was fair and he watched out for you. And more to the point, they got
sent on assignments like this one, assignments that brought with them considerably more than the usual excitement—and danger.
He and the major risked hanging for what they were doing now.

When the major was close enough to address, Lieutenant Stetson gave him a salute. “How’d it go,” he asked, then added, “Major?”
The “Major” didn’t come easily to him. He was used to addressing the other man with another title.

“Fine, Lieutenant,” the major answered, returning his salute casually as he scanned the rail yards in front of him. The yards
were a hive of activity. An empty train was just arriving from Meridian; it was pulling across the recently rebuilt bridge
over the Pearl. Another train was forming up nearby, and yet others were being loaded. The area was surprisingly organized
and orderly for a city under siege. The major was not used to seeing Confederate operations so well managed.

The major turned his attention back to the lieutenant. “They can put us on a train that leaves here at one o’clock,” he said.
Then he made a come-on motion with his hand, to take the lieutenant away from the other people who were milling about the
station platform.

When they were a few feet out of earshot, he pulled to a halt. “So, Tom,” he said, pointing a finger at the train that was
loading, “what are they putting on that train over there?”

“Mostly looms, as far as I can tell. And tents.”

“Joe Johnston doesn’t want Sherman to get them this time.”

“I guess not.”

“I’m surprised he missed them when he had the chance before,” the major said.

“We had only two days to do the job.”

“Don’t say ‘we,’ Tom,” the major warned softly. “It’s ‘they’ for now.”

When Sherman occupied Jackson in April, he found the looms of the factories still producing tents for the Confederacy. Johnston
had pulled out so quickly and Sherman had pulled in so rapidly that no one thought to shut them down. Because Sherman was
in town just a few days, he only managed to destroy some of them. The next time he entered Jackson, the major and the lieutenant
both knew, Cump Sherman intended to make up for what he had missed the first time.

“Sorry, sir,” Tom Stetson said.

The major gave the lieutenant a tight little smile of acknowledgment, but his eyes were on the area next to the train that
was now forming up. The train was all flatcars. In the area beside the flatcars were big field cannons. If General Johnston
intended to defend Jackson from his well-fortified positions, he would need those cannon.

“See those?” The major nodded toward the train.

“Yes, sir,” Tom Stetson said.

“What do you make of that, Tom?”

“The cannon?”

“Right, the cannon,” the major said. “I wonder if they’re in the yard now because they’re on their way to the lines. Or are
they here because they’re on their way to Meridian?”

The lieutenant thought on that for a moment.

“If they’re sending them to Meridian,” Tom said softly, “then…” He paused to take in the sharp look the major was giving him.
After a moment, he resumed, making the correction the look demanded. “Then
we
would not have them for a battle with Sherman.”

“Right.”

“We’d
never be able to fight a battle without them.”

“Right.”

“So
we
aren’t going to fight a battle?” Stetson offered.

“
If
the cannon are waiting shipment to Meridian,” the major said.

“Son of a bitch.”

“On the other hand…” the major said, leaving the thought unfinished.

He then let his gaze swing around the yards again, taking as much in as he could. He needed all the information his eyes could
record, but it would not do to be obtrusive.

What seemed most in evidence, though, were women, children, and old people, the flotsam and jetsam of the battles that had
raged for months all across northern Mississippi and western Tennessee.

“Yeah,” he said to himself softly, pitying them all, “get moving again, you people. The bad times are coming soon and this
won’t be a good place for you. But where will you be safe?”

“What’s that?” Tom Stetson asked, unable to catch his words.

“Never mind,” the major said, shaking his head sadly. “There’s no help for it.”

He rubbed his chin for a moment, reflecting. Then he looked at the lieutenant. “Tom, here’s what we need to do before we catch
that train. You stay here and keep watching our horses. There are people here who believe they need them more than you or
I do. More important, I want you to keep an eye on the rail yards. Make a note in your mind of everything that’s going onto
those trains.

“Meanwhile,” he added with a smile, “I have an appointment with a lady.”

“A lady?”

“That’s right.”

“A real lady? As in lace and fine clothes and servants.”

“That’s right: auburn hair, a voice like an angel, fine clothes and servants, and no man to whom she is officially and legally
attached.”

“You lucky bastard. I thought every woman who called herself a lady had found some reason to absent herself from this part
of Mississippi.”

“Evidently not. Count trains, my son. I’ll return for you in due course.”

“So long—
sir,”
Tom Stetson said, managing to make it sound like a curse. His eyes, however, were twinkling.

But the major, having already turned and set off, ignored him.

As it happened, since the major had never previously met the lady in question, he was not telling the truth when he described
her to Lieutenant Tom Stetson. The woman the major went to see turned out to be quite different from the fine but imaginary
lady he’d left in Tom’s mind.

Her name was Jane Featherstone, and she looked to be somewhere between thirty and thirty-five. She was pleasant but ordinary
of face and figure, and her appearance was livened by quick, probing, though somewhat nervous eyes. She had one servant, and
she lived in rooms above a dry-goods store two blocks from the state capitol.

As it also happened, the major needed to see her not because she was an attractive woman, but because she was a Union spy.
For nearly a year she had been one of the agents operated behind Confederate lines by General Grenville Dodge, a railroad
man from Iowa who ran an extensive espionage network all through the South—when he was not rebuilding the railroads in Tennessee
for General Grant or protecting those railroads from the ravages and depredations of Confederate cavalry raider General Nathan
Bedford Forrest.

Miss Jane Featherstone was one of his top agents.

When the servant, a quadroon from New Orleans named Francoise, ushered Major Rusk into the parlor, Miss Featherstone rose
from her chair and extended her hand. There were two windows in the room, both thrown wide open, and they cast harsh light
on the dark and heavy furniture and the frayed rug. A big upright piano abutted almost one entire wall, and over it, in a
frame, hung a diploma from the Boston Conservatory of Music. Until very recently, Miss Featherstone had made her living providing
musical instruction to the children of Jackson’s better classes.

She was dressed in gray and brown, and there was a great stillness about her, even as she moved toward him.

‘Major Rusk?” Jane Featherstone said mildly, and let him take her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. But I’m pleased to make
your acquaintance, I’m sure.” She looked at him with caution and interest.

“Forgive me for intruding on your peace,” the major said.

“There’s no peace in this town,” she said simply.

“I reckon not,” the major said with a small movement of his lips that could have been a smile. “But I do trust I’m not disturbing
you. I don’t normally arrive unannounced to ladies I don’t know. Under the circumstances, however, there was no other way
to see you except to appear at your door.”

“So then, here you are,” she said with a wry smile. “What can I do for you?” As she said this, she motioned him into a dark
red plush love seat next to her own upholstered chair. With another gesture she ordered Francoise to withdraw.

“General Dodge,” the major said, coming immediately to the point, “sends his greetings.” He noticed that Miss Featherstone
took a long breath and raised her brows in the slightest flicker of movement. Then she held her gaze steady on him. “And his
thanks,” the major continued quietly. “He is most grateful for the information you’ve provided him during the past two months.”

“General Dodge,” she said. It was a statement, not a question.

He nodded.

“Please continue,” she said.

“I’ve been instructed to tell you that the general has caused two thousand dollars to be placed on deposit in your name at
the Wells Fargo Bank in San Francisco. Your passage to that city will be arranged whenever you choose to avail yourself of
it.”

She nodded slowly. “And what would a Confederate major know of General Dodge?”

“I’m not a Confederate major, Miss Featherstone,” he said, then handed her a paper he’d kept hidden in the lining of his tunic.

“You’ve come from General Dodge?” she asked cautiously after she’d glanced at it.

“No. From Sherman. General Dodge doesn’t normally divulge the names of his”—he paused, searching for the word—“associates,
even to General Sherman. But for various vital reasons, he did this once.” He looked at her. “You’re in no danger from me.”

She nodded again. “So what can I do for you, Major?” she asked quietly.

“It’s Captain,” he corrected. “Captain Hawken. I’m an aide to the general.”

“But you’re a southerner?” she asked, noting his accent.

“I’m a Texan,” he agreed.

“And you are fighting for the North?” She looked at him closely, cocking her head slightly to one side. He remembered another
woman holding her head that way long ago, but he did not remember when or where. It was a gesture that he found attractive.

“You are also a southerner?” he smiled, answering her by asking her the same question. “And you are fighting for the North
as well—a conspicuously dangerous choice in this place.”

She shrugged, her shoulders scarcely moving. She is so
still,
he thought. And yet she was not a helpless woman; she had produced a great deal of valuable information.

“But, yes,” he said, answering her question, “I’m a southerner, and I’ve chosen the northern side for reasons that satisfy
me—as I would think you have reasons that satisfy you.” He wanted very much to ask this lady why she’d become an agent for
General Dodge, but he thought better of it.

“Thank you,” she said, lowering her head, then throwing it back again. That quick motion amid her stillness became her.

Where have I seen
that
before? he asked himself.

“What can I do for you?” she asked. “Why have you come to me today?”

“General Sherman is most interested,” he said, “in learning whether General Johnston will fight or whether he will slip away.
And if he plans to try to slip away, when. General Sherman hopes that you will be able to give us answers to these questions.”

General Joseph Johnston was more famous for retreats than for assaults. This was not to say that he wasn’t a fighter, only
that he thought of himself as a spider rather than a tiger. He lured his opponent into a net of his own making.