When the War Is Over (20 page)

“Hallelujah!” Catto crowed. “But if you're not old enough to be a crimnial, you're not old enough to be a soldier.”

“I don't know how old I am,” the boy said. “I could swear I was eighteen. That's all they want.”

“This will be one hell of an army,” Catto said. “The redskins will fling us back into the sea.”

“Then you'll be staying in?”

“Can't think of anything else to do.”

“Well, I will if you will,” the boy said.

“Why the hell not,” Catto said. “Maybe the three of us could serve together,” and they were silent until Catto said, “and we could see the Pacific,” and they all grew dreamy and ambitious, and passed half an hour in talk of California and the Rocky Mountains and squaws. It seemed to Catto that his life was rounding to an admirable shape.

General Willich approved. “Hooker and I will recommend jointly that you be permanently commissioned. He should be back today.” The general raised a hand to him, as if in blessing. “Why don't I swear you in right now?”

“Right now!” Catto was unnerved, and looked to Booth.

“Technically your hitch is up at midnight,” Willich said.

Booth smiled, bland and neutral. Catto studied him briefly. Booth was self-assured, graceful, quiet but nothing of the milksop about him. He was perhaps too beautifully turned out, but between him and Dunglas there was a great difference: professional and amateur. Professional: the word pleased Catto inordinately. So did Booth, and Catto was immediately puzzled, almost ashamed, as if he had begun so soon to shift his loyalty and love from Phelan. He remembered the boy then, and Haller, and asked, “What about my assignment?”

Willich wagged a finger almost roguishly. “Nix, nix. The army can make no promises. I can recommend you for duty in the west, with Hooker's endorsement. But nothing more.”

Catto looked again at Booth, who was still smiling faintly. Catto grinned at him and said, “Well, hell, why not? What do I say, and where do I sign?”

Booth's smile broadened, and he winked.

Later Catto joined his civilian friends. “Gentlemen, I have gone and done it.”

“No.” That odd melancholy crossed Phelan's face.

“Fact. I was carried away. And the general went all patriotic and solemn and I really couldn't disappoint the man, so there I was with my right hand up, and Booth standing there like my best man, and I signed the papers.”

They meditated this heroism.

Silliman said, “Rank?”

“He thought that between him and Hooker they could keep the straps for me.”

“Second lieutenant. Like me.”

“Like you, hell. You're a dirty civilian at heart.”

“This is a holy hour,” Phelan said. “A time to give thanks. The world reverting to its natural serenity. We are all alive, Catto has swindled the government out of a commission and Silliman can go home and run for president.”

“That reminds me, Ned. He said you'd be out by the twentieth.”

“This is also unbearably sad,” Phelan said. “I suppose surgeons will have to stay in until the last gleet is cleared up.”

“Time for a drink,” Catto said. The realization was striking him and he was a bit frightened.

“When is it not,” Phelan said, and dropped a heavy hand to Catto's shoulder.

“You pay, Jack,” said Catto. “Peace makes all men equal.”

After supper he lay on his bunk studying a map of the western territories. He was at rest: older, thoughtful, settled, inviting repose. He would write again to Charlotte. Now the southwest fascinated him. He must lay in a few boxes of better cigars. He must see about attaching Haller to his future, and the boy if possible; a wry end to a tale of war. The desert, even the mountains, would be a happy contrast to these years of rainy bivouacs, muddy roads, rubbishy towns. He was almost asleep, the map fallen to his chest, when knocking roused him. “Come in,” he called.

This time it failed him, that sixth sense, that starry instinct; at this exotic social call there was no premonitory nudge, and when he saw Jacob's grief he assumed that the poor man had mislaid his silver dollars, or had been choused by a woman. “Man, man,” he said, “it can't be that bad.”

Jacob told him.

They were in the darkened street, arm in arm, Catto tugging Jacob along. “I heard him,” Jacob said. “I heard him myself.”

“Who was he talking to?”

“That judge.”

“Stallo?”

“The other one.”

“When was it?”

“Before dinner.”

“What did he say?”

“He wroth, and he yell a lot.”

“Wroth.” Yes. Why not wroth. “I wroth too. Have you seen Thomas?”

“The Cap'n say they ain't lettin nobody in to see Thomas.”

Catto snarled, whimpered, as a wave of rage broke. “Ah, Jacob,” he said, and was instantly ambushed by one aching sob; tears disgraced him.

“Don't cry now,” Jacob told him. “This ain't your doing.”

“It's not that. It's just that he, he, he didn't
do
anything except to me; and the army—the army, Jacob, the army, what do they want with him anyway?”

Jacob had no answer. Before the barracks they paused, as if gathering their forces. Catto looked into Jacob's soft brown eyes and thought that he—officer, white man—ought to say something; but what? He set a hand on Jacob's shoulder.

“A disgrace,” Jacob said. “Dishonor and disgrace to all.”

Catto's tears had dried. He left Jacob sitting under the gas lamp and went in to Willich. He was rendered weak by a sense of repetition. His knock, his voice, his entrance, and there they were: Willich, Stallo, Dickson. No Booth. He closed the door and stood, impassive. No one spoke for many seconds, and the heart went out of him.

At last Willich said, “I'm afraid we have some bad news.”

“Yes sir.”

“General Hooker returned this afternoon.” Willich paused to realign his inkstand. “He has ordered—Catto, I have been transferred! I am to rejoin my command near Nashville next week! And now this!” With his good hand he rubbed his eyes.

“Jacob told me,” Catto said, calmly because he had already assimilated the worst. “I didn't believe him at first.”

“Who is Jacob?”

“A handyman. The boy's black friend. I suppose if you've been a slave you know these things right away. I was ashamed for all of us, as if I was naked in the street. I couldn't think of anything to say to him.”

Willich gestured to Dickson like a teacher calling for a recitation. “Tell him.”

Dickson was standing at the window, beside Stallo's chair, hand clenched about a lapel. All these men seemed sightless; they stared at furniture, at ghosts. “It was my purpose,” Dickson said, and cleared his throat, “to advise General Hooker, on his return, of last week's events; but I first learned of his return, a few hours ago, from Captain Dunglas, who handed me a note from the general requesting my presence at his headquarters. I went to him immediately.”

“Have a drink,” Willich said.

Catto took up the small glass and listened.

“The moment I saw him,” Dickson said, “I knew that he was Tinder great excitement. He was trying to suppress it, and to some degree succeeding. He did not look me full in the face, but sat sideways, looking obliquely, now and then casting a furtive glance at me.”

“Like us tonight,” Catto said.

“Like us tonight. He spoke slowly, and said, ‘Judge Dickson, I was very angry at you on my return and ordered your arrest; but I have reconsidered it, and am now more composed.'

“I was shocked. ‘Why, you surprise me, General,' I said. ‘What is the matter?'

“‘Why, sir,' he said, ‘on my return to the city I found that my administration of this department had been interfered with; that Martin, whom I had ordered shot, had not been shot; that Mister Stanton had suspended my order. I immediately telegraphed him, demanding why he interfered. He replied that it was in response to the Gaither telegram—your work. I demanded of him to send me a copy of this telegram, which he did. Oh, yes, sir! I have got it! I know all you did.'”

Dickson sighed. “You know what General Hooker looks like. Florid. Well, he was a brighter red now, and his eyes were fierce, flashing. ‘Well, General,' I said, ‘was it not all right?'

“‘No, sir,' he said; ‘it was not all right. No, sir. Why, sir, when I was in command of the Army of the Potomac, Lincoln would not let me kill a man. Lee killed men every day, and Lee's army was under discipline; and now, sir, Lincoln is dead, and I will kill this man. Yes, sir, I will. The order is given to shoot him tomorrow, and he will be shot, and don't you interfere.'

“‘Did Stanton order you to shoot him?' I asked.

“‘No, sir. He left the matter in my hands, and I demand that he be shot—and shot he will be.'”

Catto took a chair, and sipped at his caraway liquor. He was saying farewell to the boy. He knew that. Possibly he had died in his sleep and gone to Hell. Here we are in Hell. His calm amazed him and saddened him, and he remembered what Colonel Bardsley had said about laughing when it was the next fellow.

Dickson went on. “‘Well, General,' I said, ‘this boy was only a guerrilla. The war—'”

“But he wasn't,” Catto said.

Dickson shrugged. “He may have been. And there was the verdict, on paper. ‘The war,' I went on, ‘is over. He belonged to Colonel Jessee's command—'”

“Then he wasn't a guerrilla,” Catto said.

“Catto, Catto, be silent. None of that matters to Hooker.” Dickson paced. “‘He belonged to Colonel Jessee's command,' I said. ‘This morning's papers tell us that the government has given Jessee the same terms given Lee; that he is now in Louisville, where he has been feasted and fraternized with by Union officers. Will it not be shocking to shoot one of his deluded followers here?'”

This man is making a speech, Catto thought. He talks like a schoolbook. Will it not be shocking? Yes it will be shocking.

Dickson had both hands at his lapels now. “‘It makes no difference,' replied the general. ‘Louisville is not in my department. I am not responsible for what is done there. I will do my duty in my own. Yes, sir, I will; and that tomorrow.' And then he dismissed me.”

No one spoke for some time.

“His manner,” Dickson said, “as well as his words, told me that his mind was oppressed with the thought that Lincoln's humanity had thwarted his career; that if the general had been permitted to shoot deserters and sleeping sentries when he had the Army of the Potomac, he would have won the war and become a national hero, instead of slipping down the ladder to Cincinnati. In some way it is a relief to him to sacrifice this boy.” Dickson bowed his head. “And not long ago this man held the fate of the whole country in his hands. The Army of the Potomac.”

But Catto was watching Willich. In time Willich looked up and said, “General Hooker has ordered that the boy be shot tomorrow between noon and two o'clock, and that you command the firing party.”

Catto nodded briskly, as if he had known this for years. He downed his liquor, wiped his mouth and said, “What will you do?”

“There is no choice,” Stallo said.

But Catto waited, still watching Willich.

“There is no choice,” Willich said.

“I see.”

“I have changed the site. To keep the crowds away. You know the country stone quarry? In Deer Creek Valley but over by that Short Line tunnel.”

“I know it.”

“There is a small field, with a steep hill behind. There.”

“I see.”

“I cannot argue the morality of command,” Willich said. “I am a general officer and not a private revolutionary. I am probably more horrified by this than you are, because I have seen it before. But I will obey orders. I expect you to do the same. You are a commissioned officer and a professional soldier.”

“Ah, yes,” Catto said.

“Ah, God,” Willich said, his voice at last breaking. “Here! Here! In Germany, yes, but here!”

“Alle menschen,” Catto said, in a foolish tone.

“Hooker!” Dickson said.

Catto thought that village idiots must feel this way: the frozen grin, the numb mind. “What happened to Prentice?”

“Prentice has gone home,” Willich said. “Hooker's orders were specific. He seemed to find some poetic justice in it. It's a bad assignment, Captain. All we can do is get it over with and do better next time. I'm sorry. I can offer no hope. You are to report here at eleven tomorrow morning.”

“No,” Catto said.

They all stared, and he nodded politely. They waited for him to speak, but he had nothing more to say.

Willich asked, “Do you mean to refuse the order?”

“That's right,” Catto said.

Willich began to speak but stopped himself. Catto knew what the general had been about to say: the whole silly speech, the carrot and the stick, discipline, the greater war won, the small sacrifice, the worm in the rose. He felt again the beat of his own blood, the stretch of air in his lungs, the strength of his heavy thighs. He felt life. That was funny, was it not.

He rose, set the glass on Willich's desk, and stood to attention.

Outside, he threw an arm around Jacob's shoulder. “You were right.”

Jacob wept.

Catto looked up at the gas lamps, at the faint stars.

“You can't do nothin?”

“I can't do nothin,” Catto said. “Not only that, my friend, but I am under arrest and confined to quarters.”

“They arrest you,” Jacob said quietly.

Catto nodded.

“They crazy,” Jacob said. “They crazy men.”

Catto nodded again.

“All they have to do is not kill him,” Jacob said. “That's all they have to do.”

Catto nodded yet again.

Phelan came to him next morning, haggard and deranged. “My God, boy, I just heard! I just got my orders! Dear Jesus!”