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Authors: Thomas Fleming

BOOK: When This Cruel War Is Over
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“You better write it down.”
In ten minutes the boy was back, his eyes wide, balancing a tray with a bottle in an ice bucket and two fluted glasses. “This costs five bucks!” he said. “That's more than you're payin' for the room!”
“Put it on the bill,” Paul said.
“The boss says you gotta pay cash. You're an actor.”
Paul gave him five dollars and a quarter tip. He unwound the wire around the cork; with one twist it popped and shot to the ceiling. “The campaign has begun!” he said, pouring the pale foaming wine.
Unfortunately, the champagne too reminded him of his visits to Charlie's favorite bordellos in New Orleans. Gentlemen were expected to buy champagne to entertain their girls. What was happening in his erratic head? Was his Gettysburg wound trying to sabotage him?
They clinked glasses and discussed their steamboat rides. Paul described Captain Wallace's jeremiad against Lincoln. “I met a Kentucky woman who hurled equally atrocious insults at Jefferson Davis,” Janet said. “She called him a military ignoramus.”
“He's a graduate of West Point,” Paul said. “I'd like to
defend him. But I fear the lady is right. His strategy, especially in the West, has been ruinous.”
Janet took a large, somewhat unladylike swallow of her champagne. “I made the most awful discovery about Lucy,” she said. She described Lucy's betrayal, her confession and her suicide attempt.
It was Paul's turn to gulp his drink. “I wondered where Gentry got his information about you.”
“He has information about me?”
“He says you're a Confederate agent.”
“Why would he tell you that?”
Paul poured himself more champagne. “He's tried to seduce me—I suppose
persuade
is a better word—into spying on you.”
“You didn't tell me this? You were aware that he knew my father and I were involved in the Sons of Liberty?”
“I don't recall him mentioning them. I saw no point in disturbing you—”
“Disturbing me! Paul—we could have taken precautions. We could have met Rogers Jameson and his colonels at some less obvious place. How could you treat me like this? As if I were a child. Is this what you think about women?”
She left the bed and sank into a chair, clutching the peignoir about her. Paul put down his champagne glass. It was amazing—and dismaying. She was penetrating the ambivalence in which he had been living and thinking and feeling. He took a deep breath. But all he got was Cincinnati's stink, further unraveling his composure.
“At first I didn't take Gentry seriously. I thought you were planning a trivial little local uprising. But when I saw the real dimensions of your plan—”
It was not working. She put down her champagne glass. Their celebration was evaporating with the bubbles.
“Janet,” Paul said, taking her hand. “Those moments
by the river are the most precious memory of my entire life.”
“But you still didn't tell me about Gentry.”
“There? You wanted me to bring something that ugly into our act of love?”
“Afterward! On the way back to Hopemont? Or anytime in the next two days!”
“I—I was in the process of changing my loyalty. That's not easy for a man who takes his oaths of allegiance seriously.”
“You mean there was still a time when you might have changed your mind—and become another of Gentry's spies?”
“That was never an option. But I might have decided to do nothing for you—or him. I would have volunteered for the front immediately. I told you I was thinking about it.”
“Would you have done that before—or after—we visited the Happy Hunting Ground?”
“That changed everything. You know that as well as I do.”
Suddenly Paul felt confident again—in control of the situation. “Tell me about Adam Jameson,” he said.
Janet held out her glass for more champagne. She walked over to the window, as if she wanted to put distance and shadows between them. “You're jealous of him? I suppose I should be flattered.”
“Or ashamed.”
“Of what?”
“Of keeping two soldiers enslaved to you.”
She said nothing. His attempt at raillery expired. Janet studied him for a long moment. Her expression, her manner, softened. “I—I—was amazed by my feeling for Adam when I saw him. He was so totally different from the awkward oversize boy I'd last seen in 1861. But it wasn't remotely like what I've felt for you.
From the first time I saw you I was
attracted
to you. Women aren't supposed to have such feelings but I did. There was something
elemental
about it, something almost shameless. I find myself asking, Is it part of love or does it interfere with love?”
“It's part of love. I felt exactly the same thing.”
He poured her more champagne. Suddenly everything was evolving exactly as he had hoped. They were healing the wound Jameson had inflicted. “In vino veritas,” he said, raising his glass.
“Yes,” she said. “Veritas.”
To his dismay she looked unutterably sad. “What's wrong now?” he asked.
“I was thinking of Lucy. I fear Father will beat her terribly.”
“Blame it on Gentry. He seduced the poor creature into the game.”
She shook her head. “I begin to think love and war don't mix.”
“We'll make them mix. We'll challenge fate!” He drew her to her feet and kissed her tenderly. “Undress me,” he said.
He was trying to replicate the memory of the Happy Hunting Ground. But it was impossible in the thick foul humidity of midsummer Cincinnati. As she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, he sensed, he saw, her inner reluctance. What irony. Now she was the unwilling one.
Naked, they lay together on the bed and Paul began caressing her. “Janet, dearest Janet,” he murmured. “There's so much happiness in store for us. We can't let it escape us.”
“I want that happiness. I want it as much as you do!”
The words were almost a cry. Paul heard desperation in her voice. Was it anxiety for the southern cause or an inner struggle between him and Adam Jameson? Were they the same thing?
In his head, his Gettysburg wound whispered,
How do you like the imperatives of the heart, Paulie? Are you ready to go back to the real world?
Jeff Tyler challenged that mocking adversary:
Doesn't this prove something? Doesn't this prove something?
While around them Cincinnati, Queen City of the heartland, reeked with the war's stench.
THE CLATTER OF A WAGON on the road outside his house awoke Henry Gentry. He struck a match and peered at the clock. It was 4:00 A.M. An odd time for anyone to be riding around Hunter County. He lay awake in the humid darkness, brooding on the stalemated war, reports of draft resistance in a half-dozen nearby towns, and the probable defection of Major Paul Stapleton to the enemy. Not even Lincoln's clemency for the deserter Garner had seemed to impress him. A week or ten days on the way to Richmond back with Janet Todd would very likely turn him into every intelligence director's nightmare, a double agent. Gentry could see Paul telling him in his best duty, honor, country style the wrong date for the Sons of Liberty uprising.
Uhhhhhhhhhhh.
A sound not unlike the autumn wind in the branches of the beeches on the lawn puzzled Gentry. There was not a breath of wind stirring.
Uhhhhhhhhhh
. There it was again. It seemed to be coming from the veranda, directly below his bedroom.
Uhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Gentry shrugged into his night robe and lit a candle. Downstairs the sound was louder. It was definitely coming from the veranda. He opened the door and gazed in stupefaction at Lucy. She was lying on her side, wearing her usual calico dress. The back of the dress was soaked a dark red. Flesh hung in ribbons off her bare arms, where the lash had curled around them as it struck her back. On her breast was pinned a note:
HEREBY CONSIGNED TO YOUR INFAMOUS CARE: ONE TREACHEROUS LYING NIGGER.
“Lucy—what happened?” Gentry gasped.
“They whupped me, Colonel. They whupped me bad. I tole'm everything but Master whupped me anyhow.”
She shuddered and seemed to go into a convulsion. “Lemmy die, Colonel,” she said. “Miz Janet hates me and I wants t'die.”
Gentry rushed upstairs and awoke Captain Otis. He in turn awoke two of the black troopers in their tents beyond the barn. Together they carried Lucy upstairs to Major Stapleton's bedroom. She was breathing in slow spasmodic gasps. Otis volunteered to ride into town and fetch Dr. Yancey. With the blacks' help, Gentry forced some brandy down Lucy's throat.
Yancey arrived as dawn was breaking. With Otis's help he stripped off Lucy's dress. “My God,” he said, gazing at the mass of deep welts on her back. “This will putrefy if we don't do something immediately.”
“What do you recommend?”
“I remember reading that in the eighteenth-century navy after a man was lashed they washed his back in brine. Can you spare a pound of salt?”
“Of course,” Gentry said.
In the kitchen, Minnie, his aging cook, was beginning breakfast. Gentry asked her to stop everything and prepare the brine. As Minnie concocted this potion, Millicent Todd Gentry loomed in the kitchen doorway. “Henry, what in the world is happening?” she asked.
“We have a medical problem, Mother. Lucy, Janet Todd's slave, has been badly beaten.”
“By whom?”
“I'm not sure. I fear it was by your nephew, Gabriel Todd.”
“Todds don't beat their slaves. Where is she?”
“In Major Stapleton's bedroom.”
“You've put a nigger in one of my beds? A nigger who's probably a bleeding mess?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Take her to the servants' quarters immediately.”
“I'm afraid I can't do that, Mother.”
“Henry, I'm ordering you to do it.”
“Mother—I have news for you. I own this house. It's my property. It was left to me in Father's will, along with the rest of the estate.”
“That was a mere legalism!”
“I don't care what you call it. That poor girl stays in that bed.”
Millicent Todd Gentry whirled and stormed upstairs to the bedroom. By the time Gentry got there, she was standing over Lucy's bed, demanding to know who had whipped her.
“Master,” Lucy said. “I deserved it, Miz Todd. I never should've had nothin' to do with Colonel Gentry—”
Dr. Yancey was busy soaking cloths in the brine. But he was listening to this byplay. Gentry saw his cover as an intelligence officer vanishing. “Mother,” he said. “Will you please get the hell out of here?”
“How dare you speak to me that way?” Millicent Todd Gentry cried.
Something very akin to pleasure coursed through Henry Gentry's flesh. “I'm in charge here, Mother. Go or I'll have Captain Otis drag you out.”
Millicent Todd Gentry departed, wailing, and Dr. Yancey proceeded to drench Lucy's back in brine. It was hellish work. She screamed with every application and begged them to let her die. When Yancey pronounced himself satisfied, he ordered Lucy to remain in bed, without a nightgown or dress, until the wounds started to heal. A liquid diet of whiskey and water was also prescribed.
“How'd she get here, Henry?” Yancey asked. “I can't imagine anyone that badly beaten swimming the Ohio—or even rowing herself in a boat.”
“I have no idea,” Gentry said. “I found her on my porch.”
“So someone dropped her there. Someone who wanted to send you some sort of message, it would seem.”
“So it would seem. But I can't imagine why,” Gentry said.
Yancey put on his coat, a knowing smile on his face. He had figured things out; Gentry was sure of it. “I know you're not a neutral in this war, Walter. But I hope you'll keep quiet about this,” he said.
“I don't discuss my patients, Henry,” Yancey replied.
“I hope that extends to their circle of—acquaintances.”
“Absolutely, Henry. Is she pregnant?”
For a moment Gentry was too astonished to say anything. “I don't know,” he said.
“Shame on you, Henry. I know you must be hard up. But if you told me, I could have imported Steamboat Lil or one of our other old friends from Louisville.”
“Beggars can't be choosers, Walter. As a friend I hope you'll say absolutely nothing.”
“Absolutely,” Yancey said, complacently certain that Gentry had told him the truth. It proved his cynical view of human nature was still on the mark.
Retreating to his cellar office to escape his mother's wrath, Gentry tried to think intelligently about his situation. His cover was unquestionably blown across the river in Kentucky. He could be sure that Gabriel Todd would tell Rogers Jameson about Lucy and arouse that behemoth to a new. pitch of fury. But there was not much Jameson could do, as long as Colonel Gentry had a hundred armed men on his farm.
He told himself not to worry about his own skin but about the clandestine war he was fighting. He had no difficulty getting the message that was delivered with Lucy's bleeding body. What could he or should he do about it?
Think, Henry
, he told himself.
Think like a soldier. You have spent four months listening to Major Paul Stapleton discuss the war from the point of view of an
intelligent West Pointer and aide to several generals. What have you learned about military science?
The most important word in Major Stapleton's vocabulary was
initiative
. The general who retained the initiative, forcing his enemy to fight where he chose, was the man who won the battles and wars. How could he apply that idea here? The Sons of Liberty retained the initiative as long as no one knew the date of their insurrection. That was why they could arrogantly dump Lucy on his veranda, in effect telling him that they were still in control of their piece of the war.
He could not do much about the Sons. If he arrested leaders such as Rogers Jameson and Gabriel Todd, other men, harder to track, would replace them—and the disaffection of their Democratic followers would be confirmed. Their resolution to sink the Lincoln ship of state would only harden, making them even more difficult to defeat if it came to shooting.
But there was one part of the Sons' plan that was not only visible—it was vulnerable. Adam Jameson's cavalry, waiting up there on the mountainous border between Virginia and Kentucky, was essential to the insurrection. Could he persuade the Union Army in Kentucky to attack it? A successful assault would cripple the Sons of Liberty. The news would spread through Kentucky and Indiana, taking the steam out of the proto-rebellion.
Henry Gentry decided to begin at the top. He composed a long coded telegram to Abraham Lincoln, explaining the urgency of his request. Thanks to the telegraph's lightning communication, he had reason to hope that the assault could be organized quickly—if he persuaded the president. For a clincher he suggested that the expedition be described as an attempt to destroy the Confederate saltworks in the town of Saltville, near Jameson's camp. There would be no need to reveal any knowledge of the existence of the Sons of Liberty.
As twilight descended, a messenger arrived from the
telegraph office. Gentry pinned the envelope under an encyclopedia on his desk and cut it open with a scissors. It was one of the many little maneuvers a one-armed man learned to do without thinking about it.
YOUR MESSAGE RECEIVED. I THINK IT MAKES EMINENT SENSE AND HAVE ORDERED GENERAL BURBRIDGE TO TAKE AS MANY MEN AS HE CAN SPARE WITHOUT LOSING CONTROL OF KENTUCKY AND LAUNCH THE ATTACK ON JAMESON AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. I HAVE ADVISED HIM THAT YOU WILL JOIN HIM TO FURTHER INFORM HIM OF THE PURPOSES AND IMPORTANCE OF THE ASSAULT. I SUGGEST YOU LEAVE FOR LOUISVILLE IMMEDIATELY SINCE TIME IS OBVIOUSLY OF THE ESSENCE IN THIS THING. GOOD LUCK. A. LINCOLN
For a moment Gentry felt dazed. He was getting back into the fighting war. Almost immediately he started to worry about General Burbridge. Everything Gentry had heard about the military commander of Kentucky made him think he was as bad as Indiana's General Carrington, or worse. Maybe Lincoln was obliquely telling him what he had painfully learned in the last three years: once a war begins, you have to work with whatever turns up, including generals.
Gentry had other worries—notably his favorite spy, Lucy. Minnie told him she was refusing to take any nourishment—not even the whiskey and water Dr. Yancey had prescribed to prevent fever. His mother was immured in her room, refusing to speak, much less eat, with her order-giving son. Gentry sought out his house-guest, Dorothy Schreiber, in the music room. At the grand piano that he had tormented for a few youthful years she was playing the most popular song of 1864, “Weeping Sad and Lonely, or When This Cruel War Is Over.”
“Weeping sad and lonely
Hopes and fears how vain!
When this cruel war is over
Praying that we meet again.”
Tears streamed down Dorothy's pretty face. Gentry asked her why she was so upset.
“I've just come from a visit to that poor boy, Garner. He expects to be shot tomorrow or the next day. He doesn't believe President Lincoln will pardon him. Nor do I. Why should he worry about one life more or less?”
“I'm sure Mr. Lincoln will pardon him,” Gentry said. “He worries about individuals whenever he gets a chance. Most of the time he's overwhelmed by the war. We're the ones who have to apply his principles to individual lives.”
Dorothy's sixteen-year-old mind struggled to absorb this thought. “Have you heard what's happened to Lucy, Janet Todd's slave?” he asked.
“I heard she was whipped almost to death for doing something bad. Why did they send her over here?”
“She was whipped for doing something good, Dorothy. She was trying to help us win the war by telling me secrets that she'd learned in Kentucky.”
“Secrets about what?”
“I can't tell you. I can only tell you she's a heroine and needs your help. She needs to feel someone cares about her.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Just sit and talk to her for a while each day. Get her to eat and take her medicine.”
Dorothy wrinkled her nose. “I wouldn't know what to say.”
Gentry did not blame Dorothy for her reluctance. She was the granddaughter of a Democratic congressman. Her mother had been an ardent Democrat, who had opposed her husband's decision to volunteer for the army.
Eight years ago, Dorothy had watched her older sisters march in a Keyport Democratic parade during the election of 1856, carrying placards: SAVE US FROM MARRYING NIGGERS. Negrophobia was very strong in the Indiana Democratic Party.
“Ask her what she wants to do now that she's free. Suggest things. Read her stories from the Bible or some other book.”
“Maybe I'll read her
Uncle Tom's Cabin,
” Dorothy said, a nasty light in her eyes. Harriet Beecher Stowe's novel was not a favorite among Democrats. Dorothy seemed to be hoping Lucy would say the book was nonsense.
“Wouldn't it be interesting to find out what she thinks about it?”
“I guess it might,” Dorothy said.
“I want you to do it, Dorothy,” Gentry said. “Even if my mother says not to, I want you to do it anyway. Think of it as your contribution to the war. Maybe it will bring your father home faster.”

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