The Day After Gettysburg

by Robert Conroy

  “Of course,” she sniffed.

  He decided it would be useless to tell her that only a handful had perished. One would clearly be too many for her fragile mind. “Then why don’t you pack up some things and come with me. I’ll arrange for you to go through the lines and down to Richmond.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late,” she said as she pulled back the shawl on her lap. She had a small pistol in her hand. It was cocked and pointed at him.

  Rutherford held out his hands to show he was unarmed. He had his own weapon in a shoulder holster, but that would do him no good if she pulled the trigger of what he recognized was a Colt 1849 pocket revolver that fired a .31 caliber bullet. Although the caliber was small, it would be deadly from across a room.

  “Where did you get that, Annette?” he asked, still trying to keep his voice steady.

  “I’m an old woman living alone. I bought it for protection.”

  “Shooting me will accomplish nothing,” he said in what he hoped was a calm and soothing voice.

  “I can’t go with you, sir. I can’t betray John. Even after everything. He is stronger than I. John will see it through to the end.”

  “John Wilkes Booth,” Rutherford said.

  Annette Cosgrove stared at him for a moment, then raised the pistol and fired. Rutherford reached for his own gun, but the second round shattered his wrist. The third caught him as he was rising from the chair. He collapsed atop the threadbare rug.

  Annette got up, took a step or two and gazed down at him. She let out a choked sound and ran her eyes across the pictures on the wall. She returned to the chair, straightened her dress, stuck the barrel under her chin and pulled the trigger. The bullet entered her throat and took out half her skull when it exited. The force threw her chair against the wall. She lay with her arms and legs splayed out.

  Rutherford eyed the pictures. He could hear shouts and footsteps on the street outside. John Wilkes Booth, he thought as the darkness closed in. He’d have to take a closer look at that . . .

  ★ ★ ★

  Abraham Lincoln was cold and shivering. He’d paid another visit to a nearby hospital and gotten ambushed by a sudden shower. Behind him, the fire in the fireplace was raging, but the heat didn’t seem to penetrate his tired frame. He felt alone, even though Stanton was with him, watching and waiting for him to make up his mind. He wanted to talk with Mary. She would comfort him. Many in Washington didn’t like her. Some of the more radical abolitionists didn’t care for the fact that a number of her relatives were supporters of the Confederacy—not to mention slaveholders. They snubbed and insulted her, which hurt both her and her husband.

  At times she drove him to distraction with her shopping sprees. Lincoln was not a poor man—far from it. He’d been a very successful lawyer before going into politics, and gave her a more than adequate allowance that she constantly exceeded, leaving him to pay the overdue bills. He suspected that she shopped so incessantly to compensate for the lack of friendship in Washington. He didn’t blame her. Assuming he won reelection, he would begin to count down the days when he could leave and return to Illinois, or perhaps someplace else. Right now he would take anyplace that was warm and dry.

  “Mr. Stanton, am I making a mistake with Grant?”

  “I do not see where you have a choice. We’ve been over this many times, and he is just about the only general who hasn’t been tainted with major defeats. And, as you once said, he fights. We do not have many generals who do. God knows what they expected out of a war.”

  “And who do you think he will bring with him?”

  Stanton thought for just a moment. “Why, I would presume he would bring General Sherman with him, and perhaps others. Thomas, I understand, is highly thought of.”

  “The Virginian.”

  “That’s right. One of the few southern officers to remain loyal.”

  “We could use a few more of those.”

  Lincoln tried to laugh but it became a cough. “My critics will have a field day. Grant, they will again accuse of drunkenness, Sherman, they will say, is insane based on some bad days early on in the war. Thomas is a southerner who cannot be trusted, and so forth.”

  “You paint a bleak picture, sir, but all it will take is one victory and all will be right with the world. Rumors that Grant will take command are everywhere. People are looking to him to be the savior of the Union.”

  “I certainly hope so. It appalls me that I am giving so much power and responsibility to a man I don’t know and have never met. Good lord, he could walk in to the White House right now and nobody’d know who he was.”

  Stanton chuckled, this time with genuine humor. “Don’t forget that I’ve not only met the man, but tried to negotiate with him. Anybody who doesn’t know who he is and thinks they can overawe him will be in for a rude awakening. He’s barely forty, which makes him one of our younger generals, but I count that as a plus. After all, he’s several years older than McClellan, our erstwhile boy Napoleon.”

  “As usual, Mr. Stanton, you have calmed me. However, I wonder how he’ll be received when he arrives.”

  “I hope somebody recognizes him. I’ve made arrangements for him to stay at the Willard. It’s both prestigious and very close by.”

  “Excellent,” said the President. “Now all we have to do is wait for him to make an entrance and solve all of our problems.”

  If only it were that easy, Lincoln thought-If only, if only . . .

  Josiah Baird was beside himself with anger. He stomped so hard that his artificial leg came unstrapped and sent him sprawling into a settee. Despite themselves, Cassie and her mother both thought it was funny. After a few moments, Josiah did as well. But he became somber very quickly when he thought of all the casualties.

  “I simply do not understand what anybody was thinking when they either ordered or permitted Meade to attack. Now, not only have we lost the battles, but we’ve lost Meade as well. The country, the Union, is in serious trouble. If Lee makes a move towards Washington, the whole army could collapse. I understand the morale is extremely low. Do you concur with that, Major Thorne?”

  Thorne had just entered and helped himself to some brandy. “I have never seen morale as miserable as this. The army truly thought it would march out and smash the Rebels and then go home. Now nobody can see an end to the fighting, although how much actual fighting there might be under Halleck is questionable. Somebody else has to command and it will be either Hancock or Grant. Hancock, unfortunately, is still laid up by the wound he suffered on Cemetery Ridge. There’s a tale going around that he was struck in the leg by a piece of metal and he had to dig it out of his thigh with his bare hands.”

  Cassie shuddered, thinking of what she’d witnessed in Washington, “How awful.”

  “You’d be surprised at what you can do if you have to. Did I ever tell you that I had to tie my own tourniquet when I was wounded?”

  “A number of times,” said Rachel, “and I’m sure I’ll hear it many times more in the future.”

  Steven grinned and winked at Cassie. She flushed and winked back. Too bad, he thought, that he could only stay for a very short while. It looked as if Cassie was in an adventurous mood this evening. Well, so was he. Unfortunately, he had a regiment to care for, even though it was getting smaller with each passing skirmish. If he didn’t get some more reinforcements it’d be unable to function and might just be disbanded.

  “So that means it must be Ulysses Grant unless Lincoln decides to resurrect somebody else, like Burnside or, God forbid, McClellan.”

  “I understand that Grant is quite crude and drinks too much,” said Rachel.

  “I like him already,” said her husband. “Personally, I don’t care what his personal habits are just so long as he can lead this army to victory. And I’m not alone in those feelings. How about your troops, Steven, what do they think?”

  Thorne thought it was interesting that Josiah had not referred to the Sixth as “his” regiment which, of course, it ha
d once been. Now it was Steven Thorne’s regiment.

  “They’re all looking for a savior, someone who can lead them to victory and the Promised Land. They’ve all seen that Grant not only fights, but wins, which intrigues them.” As well it ought—they’d seen little enough of it here in the east. “They know that more fighting will mean more casualties, but if that’s the price that must be paid to end the war, then they will fight for Grant. Unless, of course, he does something stupid like Burnside did at Fredericksburg. Then they would turn on him like wild dogs.”

  Soon it was indeed time for him to go. Despite the cold mist that had replaced the rain, Steve and Cassie stood outside and embraced fervently. For the first time, they said that they loved each other. This declaration was followed by an even fiercer series of kisses and hugs.

  “Are we going to get married?” he asked, “If so, I’d like the wedding to take place as soon as possible.”

  “So would I. Should we go back inside and tell my parents?”

  “Yes, but only for a minute. I’ve still got this damned regiment to put to bed.”

  She smiled wickedly. “Well, when we get married, you can put me to bed all you want and I promise not to complain. You won’t either.”

  The desk clerk at the Willard Hotel was an older man whose feet hurt. He was hungry because his relief was late. He was also bored and tired. He was also a snob, which was appropriate, since the hotel was the most exclusive and sought-after establishment in Washington.

  The Willard was located only a short walk from the White House, and had been rebuilt and renovated a few years earlier. Everybody who was anybody wanted to see and be seen at the Willard. The important and the self-important rubbed elbows in a perpetually crowded bar and restaurant and often spilled over into the hallway or the area where the clerk had his domain.

  This resulted in a clientele that the clerk sometimes thought were barbarians. He couldn’t keep them all away, but he tried to see the worst offenders off from the clean and elegant rooms.

  The clerk winced when he saw the short, grubby man with a young boy of about twelve approach. The man wore a slouch hat and had on an overlarge coat badly in need of cleaning. His beard was unkempt and he had an unlit cigar in his mouth. The clerk hated cigars. He first thought the man was in sales, an occupation which he considered crude, but the presence of the boy said otherwise. Perhaps the man was just tired and disheveled from a long journey. Well, that might prove to be too bad. The man was dragging a suitcase that was dirty and worn and must have weighed a ton. A shame, he thought. There were many other hotels in Washington that might be able to accommodate him. He decided to encourage the gentleman to seek one of them out.

  “May I help you?” he said in a voice that said he was in charge.

  “My son and I would like a room.”

  “I’m so sorry, but we’re full. May I direct you to another hotel in the area?”

  “Excuse me, but I forgot to mention that there is supposed to be a room being held for me.”

  Now the clerk was puzzled. Of course, he had several rooms vacant and a couple were indeed reserved for important people who were coming in later. He always held back. Everyone in the hotel business did. It was the prudent thing to do. Something began to register in his overtired mind. Oh dear, the man was beginning to look familiar. He’d seen that face in the newspapers . . .

  “And what name would the reservation be under?”

  “Grant, Ulysses Grant. And son.”

  The clerk’s knees began to shake. This nondescript little man was going to save the Union? The face abruptly came into focus. Grant’s eyes . . . they were as cold and icy as any he had ever seen. The clerk mentally juggled some rooms. Grant would have the best one available and if the senator from Maine who might or might not arrive tonight didn’t like what was left, that would be a shame.

  “Of course we have a room, General Grant, a very good one. Please accept my sincerest apologies for not recognizing you right away.” He now noticed that Grant wore a uniform under the dirty coat. He turned to the bellhop lounging against a wall.

  “Boy!” he said in an overloud voice that cut through the noise, “Kindly take the luggage of General Ulysses Grant to his room.”

  The crowd in the lobby froze. Then they surged forward chanting Grant’s name. Some reached out timidly as if he was a religious relic. Grant ignored them as he stood chewing on his cigar.

  “We can’t see you,” someone yelled and, after some urging, Grant stood on a chair. He looked astonished at the reception he’d been given. He waved and smiled almost shyly, then got down. “Please show me to my room,” he told the bellhop.

  A portly colonel stepped up and saluted. “General, I’ll get some men and seal off the floor you’re on so you can have some peace and quiet.”

  “Excellent.”

  “And with your permission, sir, I’ll send a message to the White House telling them of your arrival.”

  Grant nodded. He just hoped he would get a little sleep before he was summoned.

  ★ CHAPTER 17 ★

  Grant had arrived. The savior was here. Like the rest of the Army of the Potomac, the men of the Sixth Indiana were of two minds. Some were pleased, while others were angry and defiant. Another general meant more fighting and more of a chance of getting killed. End the damned war, they said. And besides, what had this Grant fellow done besides beat a bunch of roughnecks and crackers who weren’t proper soldiers? They wanted McClellan back, not some new guy. They all knew that Meade was recovering someplace and would likely never return. A shame, but he hadn’t won either and didn’t have the army’s confidence.

  After long arguments and not a few fistfights, the majority agreed that Grant could not do worse than any of his predecessors; therefore he should be given a chance. If Grant failed, there might not be anybody else to take the reins of the Army of the Potomac and they could all go home.

  But most felt that the war could not end without victory to honor the dead and maimed, and not without freeing the slaves, chorused more voices. To do otherwise would be criminal.

  “Now we finally have the right man to win this damn war,” said Josiah Baird as he again held court in his home. “At least I hope we do. Grant’s a predator and he’s brought others with him. Good Lord, I still can’t believe he travelled here all alone except for his son. But if he does what he’s done before, there will be action.”

  Cassie shook her head. She hadn’t seen Steve in a couple of days and now wondered just when the next time would be. “That prospect doesn’t thrill me at all, Father. I don’t want to see Steven as one of those casualties I tried to help.”

  Josiah saw her distress and softened immediately. “I don’t want that either, and I don’t want it for anybody, and that includes the Confederates. Only thing is, I can’t see a way around a lot of fighting.”

  Mariah entered the room, concern on her face. “There was a strange man looking at the house.”

  “Dear God,” said Cassie, “please tell me it wasn’t Richard Dean again.”

  “Oh good Lord, no,” she said. “I would recognize that little snake anywhere. No, this was a stranger and, when I confronted him, he ran off. Although I suppose it could have been somebody sent by Dean. More likely it was just a wanderer or a vagrant, but I thought I should tell you.”

  Cassie did not find that thought comforting. She hadn’t thought about Richard Dean and his treasonous beliefs in quite a while. But then, if it wasn’t Dean, then who could it have been? Perhaps they were jumping at shadows. Maybe it was just a vagrant or a wanderer. Dean would not show himself in Washington again. If caught, he might be hanged, since he was now suspected of several acts of sabotage in Baltimore.

  “Hey, Yank. I hear tell you got a new general.” The voice came from maybe two hundred yards away, although it was hard to tell in the night.

  “True enough, Johnny, and he’s gonna kick your ass clear back to Richmond and then we can all go home.”

&n
bsp; “Well, Yank, I like the going home part but there’s no way in hell that he’s going to beat Bobby Lee.

  “We’ll see. Now let’s get serious,Yank, you got any tobacco? And I mean the good stuff and not the dog turds you usually smoke.”

  “I might. How are you set for coffee?”

  “I reckon we can spare some.”

  Thorne listened as the negotiations went on. A price was set and two men, one from each side, stepped cautiously out into the open. Each carried a sack. They met and exchanged them, and after a few remarks retreated toward their lines. The soldiers did not check the contents. These trades were built on trust, and besides, they were too exposed to be comfortable spending time counting and weighing.

  “Don’t you think we should have stopped them?” asked Willis. “I mean, aren’t there rules against this kind of bartering or trading with the enemy?”

  “Of course there are, but we’re running dangerously low on coffee.”

  “And that takes precedence.”

  “It absolutely does, unless, of course, you’ve given up drinking coffee.”

  The two men retrieved their horses and rode back to where the regiment was camped. All was quiet on the Confederate side, matched by silence from the obviously close-by Union forces. It was as if both sides had decided that there had been enough fighting for the time being. Of course, the North was wondering just how life would be different under General Ulysses Grant. When, everyone wondered, would he attack the South? Or would Lee take advantage of Grant’s perceived inexperience and launch an assault on the Union lines? The consensus was that Lee would wait for Grant to move first and then lash out and destroy him just like he had done with so many other Union generals.

  The two armies were encamped only a few miles from each other. It was as if, after having searched for so long, neither wanted to let go of the other. It looked to Steve that this would be a campaign without any surprises. He could not think of anything that Grant could do besides use his greater numbers to bludgeon the Confederate army. He also could not see Robert E. Lee letting that happen. In the back of everyone’s mind was the fact that the two largest armies in the history of the Americas were poised to destroy each other.