He shuddered and it wasn’t from the cold. He wondered what Cassie was doing and desperately wanted to be with her. The constant talk of war and dying was utterly depressing. He needed her smile, her laughter and her body crushed against his. He smiled at the thought. Now, that was something worth fighting for.
Standing next to Lincoln, Grant was absolutely diminutive, a fact that amused both of them. Lincoln felt that he had a wonderful view of the top of Grant’s head while the general had an equally charming view of Lincoln’s belt buckle.
Shortly after he arrived at the Willard, a detachment of soldiers had been sent to rescue Grant from a growing mob of well-wishers and the curious. The press was so great that there was a real fear that Grant might be crushed. Several had fainted and needed to be rescued.
A wedge of soldiers had whisked him to the White House, where the President hosted an informal dinner that included Stanton, Seward, Halleck, Meigs, and Grant’s son Fred. Fred was eleven and totally unawed by being in the presence of so many important people.
A huge crowd outside chanted for Grant, who finally went to a window and waved almost shyly. That satisfied many of them and the crowd began to break up. As it was obvious that Grant was tired and young Fred exhausted, the others soon departed, leaving Grant and Lincoln alone while Fred slouched on a chair and dozed.
Grant smiled fondly at his oldest of his four children. “It’s amazing how children can sleep anywhere. I sometimes envy them that skill.”
“Indeed. I know you’re as tired as young Fred, so I won’t detain you.
“We need you well rested. However, indulge me. I do want to know if you have any plans for dealing with General Lee.”
“Sir, I have a number of thoughts but nothing definite yet. I want to meet with my corps commanders first and determine what changes need to be made.”
Lincoln nodded solemnly. He had agreed to let Grant get rid of some of the political generals who had proven lacking in the past. Lincoln himself would have to deal with the repercussions and hope that they didn’t impact negatively on the upcoming elections. He would have to find a home for those politicos who didn’t want to resign from the army, someplace safe where they could parade around as generals but not harm the war effort. He admitted to himself that it was something that he should have done a long time ago. He assumed that Grant would also avail himself of the opportunity to replace failures like Burnside and Hooker. Perhaps Benjamin Butler would be added to the list. Everywhere that man went, trouble seemed to follow. He had insulted the women of New Orleans shortly after that city had fallen to the Union forces by threatening to charge those who caused disturbances with being prostitutes.
But who would replace them and how long would it take? Perhaps Grant would be better off with the devils he already knew.
“And you are still planning on keeping secrets from me?”
Grant smiled engagingly. So far he and Lincoln were getting along famously and neither man wanted to jeopardize the growing relationship. “There are no secrets to keep as of yet. But when there are, I may just keep a few cards close to my vest. But when I finally play them, be assured that I will do everything in my power to make them a winning hand.”
Cassie and Mariah sat side by side on the buckboard in companion-able silence. The fall sun that had warmed them all afternoon was just beginning to set. Cassie was content. Her long day of working with some of her better students had gone well. She had come to realize that some of Hadrian’s people would never master the skills necessary to read and write. The smart ones, however, were leaping ahead of the others. She had formed three groups: the haves, the maybes, and the never wills. Of course, she didn’t mention any of this to her students, although she was fairly certain many of them had already figured it out. Working with the smarter ones gave her the most satisfaction, although she made certain she didn’t cheat the others of their opportunities. And every now and then one of the dimmer lights would suddenly comprehend and she would laugh and say “Eureka.”
She didn’t see the horsemen approach. Suddenly the shapes were simply there, black against the still-golden sky. Cassie drew her breath in sharply as Mariah clutched her arm and let out a stifled scream.
The shape that was Dover reached for the brim of his hat and for a grotesque moment Cassie though he was going to greet them. “Grab that horse,” he called out. One of the others rode forward and grabbed the horse’s harness before Cassie gathered the presence of mind to give the reins a snap. The horse neighed nervously as it was brought to a halt.
“Bring them down,” Dover commanded. “That godless jade in particular. Try to quote scripture to me, you strumpet.”
“Lemme get a handful of this one here,” one of them said, as he reached for Mariah. She shrieked and jerked away, colliding with Cassie. A man gripped Cassie’s arm and began pulling her from the bench. She drew back, but then, aware that it would avail her little if at all, threw herself out of the buckboard. She slammed against him, half knocking him to the ground. Finding her feet, she started running, but the man holding the horse blocked her way. A second later the first man was clutching her by the shoulders.
Mariah was still struggling with the other two. Dover was hollering to no one particular. As Cassie was being was being dragged back to him, her horse let out a panicky shriek and started down the road, buckboard clattering behind it.
“Stop that wagon!”
The man on horseback stared after it and protested, “Well, I can’t do two things at once, can I—”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, she was runnin’—”
“Never mind that! Get that buckboard. Bring it back here.”
The rider started down the road, muttering to himself.
“Bring them along,” Dover told the others as he started off through the brush. They had only gone a few yards when Cassie smelled a harsh odor that made her heart skip a beat: somebody was boiling tar.
Moments later they arrived at a clearing where a good-sized pot was hung above a fire. Dover hitched his horse to a tree branch and turned. It was just light enough to see the expression on his face. “Well,” he said. “Well now. As you see, missy, we have our own little school here. We’re going to teach you a lesson. And I guarantee you, it will stick.”
One of the others started cackling. Dover glanced around, pleased with himself. “That’s right. An education. That’s what we’ve got here.”
One of the other men was standing before Mariah, cooing and running his fingers though her ringlets. The other laughed. “I like this,” the first man said. Mariah shook her head to knock his hand away. Reaching out, he gripped the throat of her dress and tore it open, revealing her full breasts. “And I like this even better.”
He was closing in with both hands when Mariah jerked forward and sank her teeth into his cheek. He let out a shriek and fell back. Cassie could see Mariah’s face clearly, her eyes wide, her teeth gritted. It was an expression Cassie had never seen before. Thrusting herself against the man holding her she kicked out with both feet. The one in front of her let out a shriek and fell to his knees.
Dover waded in, shouting once again. Cassie wrenched against the arms holding her tight, but did nothing more than swing herself around slightly. Reaching Mariah, Dover struck her twice across the face. She sagged against the man holding her.
Cassie let herself drop backward. Unprepared, the man gripping her arms stumbled backward. He came up against something and let out a shrill cry. Cassie gritted her teeth as something terribly hot splattered on her foot. There was a blow to her head and she fell to her knees.
She looked to see Dover standing over the kettle, which lay half on its side, dripping tar. A large puddle lay on the ground beside it. He peered into the kettle mouth and nodded to himself. “There’s enough.”
One of the men was clutching his face and muttering to himself. He kicked at Mariah. “Dirty animal.”
Cassie attempted to get to her fee
t, but the man holding her slammed her back onto the ground. “I’ll fix you, you bitch. You ruined my good shoes.”
She twisted her head toward him. She could see nothing of his face, but smelled his foul breath clearly enough. “Wait’ll my father gets hold of you, you bandit.”
“Yes, her father, the cripple—”
“Man enough for you, Dover. You’re a coward. Look at you. Four men against two women.”
“That’s enough—”
“My father will see you flogged. You Copperhead. You dirty, stinking little Rebel.”
There was a disturbance within the brush. They all turned to see the man sent off to chase the buckboard come into sight, leading his horse.
“Well?”
The man—more of a boy, really, barely out of his teens—raised a hand. “I couldn’t catch it.”
“What do you mean you couldn’t catch it? Couldn’t catch a buckboard pulled by a single horse . . . ?”
“There was people.”
“What’s that? People? What kind of people?
“People. Up ahead. On the road.”
Dover gestured at Mariah. “Drag her over here, now . . .”
Still dazed, Mariah raised her head. “Cassie . . .”
“Don’t you dare touch her! Leave her alone! You’d better start running now. All of you! My father—”
“Your father had best be ready to invade Virginia to find us. I’ve got people there.”
“Virginia?” The boy said. “I don’t wanna go to Virginia. I don’t like it over there. They ain’t friendly thereabouts.”
“Oh, shut up . . . Drop her right there.”
Mariah let out a moan as they let her fall into the puddle of tar amid the brush.
“Now, grab the handle . . .”
The moaning rose to a shriek as the hot tar poured over her. The man she had injured stood behind the others, kicking at her legs. Cassie let out a wordless shriek of rage.
“It’s Miss Baird’s turn now. Bring her over here.”
Cassie jerked against the man’s hands. He lost hold for a moment and let out a curse. One of the others raced eagerly to help him.
There was a hallooing from the direction of the road. Cassie let out a scream as loud as any sound that she had ever uttered.
The man reaching for her looked up, then turned and vanished into the brush. The pressure on her shoulders eased and she momentarily lost her balance. Pushing herself erect, she stumbled away from the fire. “Help . . .”
“Corporal, circle around there . . .”
“Smell that? That’s tar . . .”
Cassie let out another shriek. She looked over her shoulder. All of them had vanished except for Dover, who stood staring after her as if undecided what to do. She heard footsteps approaching. Running to his horse, Dover grabbed the reins and vanished into the darkness.
A shape appeared to her left. “Miss? What’s wrong here?”
She wordlessly waved in the direction Dover had gone. He went on, followed by two others.
Mariah was sobbing by the fire. Cassie went over to her. Her fingers encountered warm tar. She pulled them back, but there was no helping it. Putting her arms around Mariah, she drew her into her lap. Mariah’s chin was quivering and she was making small noises like those of a child. Her eyes opened and gazed into Cassie’s. “Did they . . . did they touch me?”
“No darling. They didn’t.”
“Miss . . .”
She looked up. A man in an officer’s broad-brimmed hat was kneeling on one knee. “Who were they?”
“They were . . . Copperheads.”
He nodded and called his men over to help.
Robert E. Lee contemplated his paladins, seated around the sturdy table of the farmhouse he was using as a headquarters. They were discussing the latest victory over the Federals with some pride, as was understandable. Mugs of coffee littered the table and at the far end of the room, the fireplace blazed.
Longstreet sat stolidly to Lee’s left. Hardee, Hill, and Anderson sat at either side of the table. Beyond Hill was General Porter Alexander, looking far too young for his responsibilities. Across from them sat Jubal Early. He had yet to meet Lee’s eyes. Ashamed over his tantrum at Gettysburg, perhaps? Lee dismissed the thought from his mind.
He considered the faces that were not present. John Bell Hood was recovering from his terrible injuries in Richmond. George Pickett had failed to appear. That pleased Lee more than he cared to admit. The thought of that nightmare moment at Seminary Ridge was never long absent from his mind. It had been worst moment of the war for him—worse than Malvern Hill, worse than Sharpsburg. He knew Pickett was not to blame, but the sight of that prissy face, those carefully ringletted curls, annoyed him no end. He couldn’t help it. It was better the man stayed away.
The cavalier, Jeb Stuart, was dead, at the hands of a sneaking rifleman. Unable to overcome him on the field, his foes had sent an assassin.
The face he missed most was that of Thomas Jackson, his firm right hand. There had never been such a soldier. Jackson had been like one of Napoleon’s marshals—unbreakable, utterly dependable, ruthless in his loyalty to the southern cause. If you told Jackson something must be done, you could consider it accomplished, no matter how desperate or unlikely.
He cast his eyes over the men before him. Good soldiers all, fine commanders many of them, with perhaps some reservations. But there was not a Jackson among them.
Emerging from his reverie, he cleared his throat. The men ceased speaking and gazed attentively at him. “We have learned the name of the new commander of our opponent’s forces. General Ulysses Grant.”
They murmured the name after him. Lee was certain they had heard it already. The rumor mill of the army was a marvel beyond understanding.
“Ulysses Grant,” Lee repeated. “West Point 1843.”
“Desdemona,” Longstreet said under his breath.
Lee frowned at him. Several of the others bent closer to the table. Ambrose Hill touched his ear as if he hadn’t heard correctly.
“During the Mexican campaign,” Longstreet went on. “Some of the troops put on a performance of Othello while we were waiting in El Paso. Grant played Desdemona.”
“Did he now!” Hill brayed. “Well, that’s something I’m sorry I missed.”
Longstreet nodded. Anderson was smiling, and even Hardee had an amused look on his face. “That’s right. I didn’t see it, mind you, but I did see Ulyss in costume, with his dainty gown and sweet blond curls . . .”
“Who is this here Desder Moaner?” Early demanded.
Hill waggled his head. “Shakespeare,” he said. “from Othello.”
“Oh, them plays.” Early said. “I see. And this Desdermoaner is a female, I take it?”
“Gentlemen,” Lee bent forward. “It was not Desdemona who took Vicksburg this past summer.”
A chorus of “yes sirs,” echoed around the table. Longstreet had the good grace to look abashed.
“So he served in Mexico,” Hill said. “Were you acquainted with him, General Lee?”
“No, I was not. I don’t believe I met him during the Mexican campaign. I don’t recall so, in any case. But he had a fine reputation. Very innovative. In one encounter our troops were being held up by Mexican forces who commanded the streets. Instead of confronting them head on, Grant smashed his way through the adjoining houses and came out behind them.” He nodded. “General Scott was very impressed.”
Hill nodded. “I understand there are some character questions?”
Hardee grunted. “The man is a drunk.”
There were a few murmurs of agreement. Longstreet made a face, difficult to interpret amid that mass of beard. Lee swung toward him. “General Longstreet—you knew him rather well.”
“Yes sir. Ah, he had his bad days before the war . . .”
So Lee understood. Resigned from the army for obscure reasons, living hand to mouth in some farm town in Ohio. On the charity of family, according to some,
selling firewood from a wagon, according to others.
“Grant is a very quiet, reserved man. But there is steel underneath and total determination. He may stumble against you in the beginning, but he will learn and he will not quit. He is also far more intelligent and learned than people give him credit for. They mistake silence for stupidity when, in reality, he is intently plotting the best course of action, and when he decides on that, he will pounce. And he will not give up.”
Hardee frowned. “And the drinking?”
“I believe the drinking is exaggerated.” Hardee looked unsatisfied. “Well, sir, to paraphrase something just said at this table, a drunk didn’t take Vicksburg.”
No—nor Fort Donelson, nor Shiloh Church, nor Cedar Ridge . . . Lee did not know quite know what to make of Grant’s advance down the Mississippi. The strategy—if there had been a strategy—was opaque to him. It followed no pattern of warfare with which he was familiar. He suspected that he lacked the information to judge it clearly. Obscure, almost aimless meandering would be followed by swift, decisive strokes, as if the Union forces were being commanded by two distinct individuals. Entire armies disappeared and then suddenly burst forth into existence once again in the last place conceivable. Union forces often appeared to be doing their best to avoid contact rather than confronting their adversaries, before attacking targets that seemed to be of no real importance. There appeared to be no trace of rationality to any of it. And yet it had worked. Grant’s advance down the valley had been nearly unstoppable after Pittsburgh Landing, one victory after another, with scarcely a single serious setback.
He explained this to his generals as clearly as could manage. “. . . Grant follows no pattern. He is of no school of strategy that we would recognize, not that of Jomini, or Clausewitz, or any other. He is an innovator, and that can be dangerous.” Lee sat back. “Any comments?”
The Day After Gettysburg Page 25