When This Cruel War Is Over (9 page)

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Authors: Thomas Fleming

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“No—I mean—they're all neighbors—friends.”
Colonel Gentry struggled to realize Major Stapleton was paying him a compliment, one soldier to another. One soldier who had also met an enemy bullet and knew what it could do to a man. Was it possible, in his blundering way, Henry Todd Gentry had been courageous? Perhaps he had lost touch with the febrile amateur soldier who had marched to Shiloh dreaming that martial glory might give him the reputation he needed to become a leader who could wrest political control of Hunter County from know-nothings like Andy Conway. Perhaps the amputation, his mother's barely concealed contempt, which the amputation seemed to confirm and
deepen, the envy that had snarled and slashed around him all his life, had blurred his vision of himself.
Major Stapleton clumped back up the stairs. Colonel Gentry folded his lamentation and stuffed it into an envelope, on which he wrote:
A. Lincoln
Executive Mansion
Washington D.C.
Gentry decided to put his pistol someplace where it would stop tempting him. He went upstairs to his bedroom and thrust it into the wall safe behind the painting of Alexander Hamilton that hung over his bed. Whatever was going to happen next, he wanted to be around to see it.
Is this the latest policy of the Lincoln Administration? Negro brutes are encouraged to beat up honest Democrats on the Fourth of July? We call upon the government and the army to answer this question as soon as possible! Every Democrat in Indiana is entitled to know whether he can venture on the streets and roads of the state without fear of assault.
PAUL STAPLETON SAT IN HIS hot room at the Gentry mansion, reading the latest edition of the
Keyport Record.
Editor Andrew Conway was trying to make Rogers Jameson's broken jaw into a major political issue. But Paul found it hard to concentrate on the problem. In his head he kept hearing Janet Todd's sibilant southern voice. His hands yearned to cup those welcoming breasts. His lips longed for that yielding mouth. The wildness of his desire transcended anything his brother Charlie had ever described to him.
Above all Major Stapleton savored the risk, the challenge, of loving her and persuading her to love him, even if he betrayed this febrile plan for a local insurrection. Paul found it hard to take it seriously, no matter how agitated it made Henry Todd Gentry. The Union had a half-million trained soldiers in its ranks. He could not imagine amateurs disturbing the vast military machine that was relentlessly grinding the Confederacy into history's dust. Janet was too intelligent not to see
this, eventually. In the end she would be doubly grateful for his loving protection.
“Major?” It was Colonel Gentry outside his door again. Remembering his intrusion three nights ago, for a moment Paul could feel, think, nothing but
Janet.
Her name expanded to fill his mind and body. Paul opened the door to find Gentry looking more than a little agitated.
“We've gotten some bad news from Indianapolis. General Carrington is coming down here personally to court-martial Moses Washington.”
Paul had heard little good about General Carrington from people in Keyport. Even Gentry seemed to dislike him. “What's he got in mind?”
“Placating the Democrats—and embarrassing me, I suspect. Andy Conway's editorials have been reprinted all over the state. Carrington never wanted blacks here in the first place. It was my idea. I thought it might convince a few Democrats that they could be good soldiers and good citizens—”
“What can we do?” Paul asked.
“I could write Lincoln. But I hate to bother him with local quarrels. General Carrington says he also wants to court-martial the deserter, Garner, and execute him in the courthouse square if he's found guilty. I may write to Lincoln about that. It would be murder to kill that kid.”
Paul had seen more than a few deserters shot. None had sworn allegiance to the enemy like Garner. But he saw no point in lecturing Colonel Gentry on the realities of military discipline. “I'll talk to Moses. Let him know what's coming,” he said.
Outside in the ferocious sun, Paul found Sergeant Washington drilling his men in the art and science of the saber. Paul had paid $500 to bail Washington out of the Keyport jail. He was demonstrating his gratitude by honing the men's combat skills.
A stuffed dummy sat on a large wooden horse. One
after another, the troopers charged this scarecrow and hacked off an arm or part of his head with their hissing blades. Watching them, Paul felt the unique satisfaction that comes from commanding men—something civilians would never experience or comprehend. He—and Washington—had made these men into first-rate cavalry. They were as good as any troop Paul had seen in George Armstrong Custer's division.
Paul motioned Washington to join him in the barn. “I just talked to Colonel Gentry. He tells me General Carrington, the federal commander in Indiana, isn't accepting any excuses for what happened on the Fourth of July. He's coming down here to court-martial you. You're probably going to lose your stripes, Moses—and maybe get a reduction in pay and two weeks in solitary confinement on bread and water.”
“What that guy was singin' won't make a difference?”
“Not to General Carrington. He's trying to keep the Democrats happy.”
Washington sighed. “I knows you done your best for me, Major,” he said. “I'll just have to bear it.”
“I'll testify for you in the court-martial. I'm just warning you it doesn't look good.”
“Thanks, Major.”
For a moment Paul heard General John Reynolds lecturing the first classmen at West Point.
Let me quote the wisest man who ever wrote about an officer's role, George Washington's friend, Baron Friedrich von Steuben: “Love is what an officers should feel for his men, what they should feel for him.”
Did he love this man and his fellow blacks? Not the way he loved Janet Todd. But he had developed a rough affection for Sergeant Washington, and with his help he had gotten to know some of the men. They were as varied in temperament and intelligence as any similar group of white men. There were workers and shirkers,
wise guys and men eager to obey reasonable orders. Above all he sensed their gratitude for the time and attention he had devoted to training them.
“You better talk to the men. Get them ready for it. We don't want a breakdown in discipline.”
“I'll get to work on it, Major,” Washington said. There was a weariness—or was it a resentment?—in his voice that worried Paul.
“It stinks, Moses,” he said. “But a soldier learns pretty quickly that the army has reasons for doing things that an individual may not like.”
Lying for the government again, Paulie, his
Gettysburg wound sneered.
Back in the house, dark-haired Dorothy Schreiber, daughter of the colonel of the Lincoln's Own regiment, presented Paul with a scented letter. Dorothy kept close track of his correspondence. It was part of a game of make-believe love Paul played with her. At sixteen Dorothy was old enough to enjoy it but too young for him to take seriously.
“It fairly reeks of perfume,” Dorothy pouted. “I presume it's from Janet Todd.”
“How can you be sure of that, Miss Dorothy?” Paul said. “Haven't I told you I've broken hearts from West Point to New Orleans?”
He ripped it open and read:
Dearest Paul:
I long to see you again. Can you visit me here at Hopemont for a few days? There are matters we should discuss. I had hoped to do so in Keyport, but events prevented us from reaching an understanding I hope will unite us in a bond deeper than ordinary lovers ever know.
Yours,
Janet
“What's she say?” Dorothy demanded.
“She's invited me to Kentucky for a visit,” Paul said.
“A
visit,
” Dorothy said, puckering her lips as if the word had a sour taste. “There's another letter for you. I left it on the hall table. It smells of the barnyard—or the battlefield.”
Shoving Janet's note into the pocket of his shirt, Paul strolled into the hall to pick up the second letter. It did not smell of the barnyard or the battlefield, except perhaps to Dorothy Schreiber's refined nose. But it had the look of a long journey and handling by fingers rougher than those that toil in post offices. Paul ripped it open and read:
Dear Paul:
I'm writing to you by the light of a campfire near Peach Tree Creek, north of Atlanta. I send you mournful news. Jeff Tyler is no more.
I found him among the badly wounded on the battlefield after the Confederates attacked us and were repulsed. had him carried to our field hospital, but he died before the doctors could do anything for him. He had been hit in the chest by two bullets.
After weeks of defensive maneuvering around half of Georgia, the Confederates gave John Bell Hood command of their army and he promptly launched one of his patented attacks. General Thomas had crossed Peach Tree Creek with about half our corps when Hood struck. The assault was poorly coordinated and they advanced in an oblique line which gave us a chance to enfilade them with devastating volleys from both flanks. Jeff was leading a regiment in Loring's division. I had ridden to the front with General Thomas and saw him go down within twenty yards of our front line.
Jeff asked me to send his love to you and said he was sure you and he would meet again in a better world. I feel as if I have lost a precious friend. I can only imagine how you will feel.
By my count, Jeff is the twentieth of our class to fall in this stupid war. The Confederates show no sign of quitting. They attack with the same reckless spirit that they've displayed from the start. Have you recovered from your wounds enough to join us? I'd be happy to recommend you for a place on General Thomas's staff.
As ever,
Jim Kinkaid
Paul did not know how long he stood there in the silent hall of the Gentry mansion while his eyes mechanically retraced Jim Kinkaid's words on the crinkled page. Behind him he heard Dorothy Schreiber say, “Major Stapleton. I've called you to dinner twice. What can be in that letter that absorbs you so?”
“It's news—from a West Point classmate,” he said. “One of my close friends has been killed.”
“In battle?”
“Yes. In Georgia.”
“Captain Otis is at the table. It's the first time he's come downstairs.”
“I'm glad to hear that,” Paul said.
“I've begun to think there's something
noble
about him. He cares so much about the outcome of the war. Each day while he was recuperating from his wound he gave me a dollar to buy newspapers from passing steamboats. He wants to know everything that's happening, on all the battlefronts. I read the papers to him—”
Paul found himself grateful for Dorothy's chatter. It saved him from thinking about Thomas Jefferson Tyler.
“You seldom seem interested in the war,” Dorothy said. “I've begun to wonder if that suggests a certain lack of grandeur in your soul, Major. Perhaps I'll transfer my affections to Captain Otis. Will that upset you?”
“I'll be devastated, Miss Dorothy. I may issue Otis a challenge.”
“To what?”
“Oh, I don't know. Mud pies at twenty paces?”
“If Janet Todd told you that, it would be something more serious than mud pies, wouldn't it.”
“I'd let Miss Todd choose the weapons. She'd probably opt for carbines with the hope of eliminating two Union soldiers at once.”
They were at the doorway of the dining room. Rotund Millicent Todd Gentry was presiding over a platter of sliced chicken. Cold cider sat before each place in frosted glasses. Colonel Gentry was telling Captain Otis the latest news from the East. General Ulysses Grant had abandoned his costly assaults and settled into siege tactics before Richmond.
Gentry did not approve of this shift in strategy. “Lincoln needs a victory, a very big victory, to win this election,” Gentry said. “He needs it soon.”
“I hope Frémont runs. He'll get my vote,” Captain Otis said. “He favors arming the slaves and making them the rulers of the South. Each one should get a hundred acres in compensation for his ordeal under the lash.”
General John Frémont represented the left wing of the Republican Party. The radicals had nominated him on a separate ticket to express their disenchantment with Lincoln. Moderate Republicans were frantically trying to persuade the general not to run.
“Isn't it good to see Captain Otis out of bed?” Gentry said as Paul sat down.
“A pleasant surprise,” Paul replied. “I thought he was
ready to claim a furlough wound. It's good to see his ardor for battle has sustained him.”
Otis squirmed in his chair. He suspected Paul was mocking his panic at the Fitzsimmons farm.
“What do you hear from New Jersey about Lincoln's chances?” Gentry asked.
“My mother, whose political instincts are keener than most men's, says he won't carry the state—and he'll probably lose New York, too.”
“He doesn't deserve anyone's vote,” Captain Otis said. “He's been a trimmer from start to finish.”
“What will happen to the country if he loses?” Gentry said. “Have you given that any thought, Captain?”
It was impossible. How could he sit here talking politics with these people, when Jeff lay in the earth, his rakish smile forever extinguished, his face empty, like the faces of the dead at Antietam and Fredericksburg and Gettysburg?
“What we need is a leader with principles,” Captain Otis said. “Lincoln is not a man soldiers will follow into the cannon's mouth.”
“Do you think that's true, Major Stapleton?” Millicent Todd Gentry asked.
“If Mr. Lincoln dared to step onto a battlefield and charge a cannon or two, I'd follow him gratefully,” Paul said. “But the moment a ball separated his head from his shoulders I'd proclaim an end to this miserable war. I daresay a veritable chorus of ‘yeas' would support me from both sides of the battle line. Even Captain Otis would join it, I suspect—in preference to continuing the charge.”

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