The Day After Gettysburg

by Robert Conroy

  “Oh no,” Hamlin agreed.

  “That crowd would tear them limb from limb.”

  “. . . why don’t you come to the door and watch over me?”

  Mary Lincoln was gazing away from him, her pudgy jaw set firmly. Seward chose that moment to get to his feet. “Perhaps it would best if the First Lady accompanied you.”

  The President looked inquiringly at him. He turned back to his wife. “What do you think of that? No one would bother us if you were there.”

  “Quite so, Mrs. Lincoln.”

  “Oh, I can’t go out in front of all those people.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “Well . . .” Seward could almost see that healthy little ego working.

  “All right, it’s decided then.” Adams appeared with Lincoln’s coat. “If you’ll help me get this on, Henry . . .”

  “No . . .” Seward took a step toward him. “No coat.”

  Lincoln eyed him a moment, then glanced down at the bandage. He relinquished the coat to Adams.

  “Abraham . . .” It was Mary. “You’re going out there without a coat?”

  Lincoln lifted one hand to her, then turned toward the door. The rest of the men in the room were on their feet. General Heintzelman was already headed into the hall to oversee the troops out in front.

  They followed Lincoln into the hall, soldiers coming to attention to either side. At the front door Lincoln paused to talk it over with Seward and Hamlin. He decided to say a few words first, after which his wife would join him. Lincoln struck Seward as looking very weary. He’d lain down to rest after his wounds had been attended to, but had simply been too charged up to remain in bed.

  Lincoln went to the door. Seward took a place beside Mary, wondering what he should do if she panicked. He smiled down at her. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see.” A corporal stepped forward and opened the door for Lincoln.

  There was a sudden mass intake of breath from the crowd as the door swung wide, suddenly transformed into a near howl as Lincoln emerged. A woman in front rank screamed and fell to her knees. A young man attempted to rush to Lincoln only to be shoved back by a soldier’s musket.

  They’re like children, Seward thought to himself as he inspected the nearest faces, some clearly glistening with tears. Children witnessing the return of a father whom they’d been told was lost forever. He glanced at Lincoln, standing with his arms held high. He couldn’t say that he didn’t understand that.

  Lincoln lowered his arms, then flexed the right one stiffly. “A fine night in Washington, my friends. Though a little more exciting than I might have wished.”

  The crowd burst into laughter, with a touch of hysteria remaining.

  “This reminds me of a fellow I knew in Kentucky, a mountain man. He decided to move west, and in doing so came to a disagreement with the Blackfoot. Well, they scalped him and left him for dead. But then he came to. He reached up and felt the top of his head, then felt his chin, and said to himself, ‘At least they left me my beard.’”

  The laughter was louder this time.

  “You’ll be happy to learn that Mr. Stanton has been rescued, and that the gang behind this sordid act has been dispatched.”

  The crowd roared. It was a good stretch before they went silent again.

  “. . . and this was accomplished by a group of our colored brethren . . .”

  This roar more than matched the first one.

  “. . . only recently escaped from bondage. The Good Lord chooses his tools carefully, his purposes to achieve.”

  Lincoln smiled as he waited out the uproar.

  “And now you must allow me to retire for what remains of the night. My arm grows stiff and I must rest. Tomorrow is another day, and we have a war to be won. But first . . .” he half turned. “Mrs. Lincoln would like to bid you good night.”

  Seward touched her elbow. The crowd roared again. Someone inevitably shouted “Hip hip . . .”

  Mary Lincoln made a little curtsy to the crowd. They cheered once more as the President put his arm around her.

  The crowd began to sing. A new song, one that Seward had only heard snatches of, here and there. He believed it was called “Battle Cry of Freedom”. It was a catchy melody, and he began humming it to himself, wishing he knew the words as well as they did.

  The Union forever, hurrah, boys, hurrah!

  Down with the traitor, up with the star.

  While we rally ’round the flag, boys, rally once again,

  Shouting the battle cry of freedom.

  Smiling despite himself, Seward watched the faces of the crowd, the president waving, his First Lady resting her head against his arm.

  Someone nudged him. He turned to see the sergeant who had delivered the message earlier. He bent close to hear what he had to say.

  “Mr. Seward . . . if you could inform the President that Jubal Early has been killed in battle . . .”

  “Sergeant, I will be happy to do so.”

  Seward stepped out of the doorway and walked toward the President. By God, he thought, for the first time since the fighting had begun two years ago and more. By God, we’re going to win this thing . . .

  ★ CHAPTER 20 ★

  Blandon took care in approaching the settlement, using a blind spot well covered by trees. They had watched the place for nearly two hours and still weren’t sure what was going on. There was plenty of activity, lots of people and animals moving around, but who those people might be . . . That was the question on their minds. Giddens had insisted that there were no menfolk about, only women, ancients, and children. Several of the others disagreed. Blandon was of two minds himself until one of the distant figures they’d been taking for a “man” walked up to one of the women and proved to scarcely reach her shoulders. “That’s either a kid or a dwarf,” Blandon had said. “Come on.”

  Pickings had been pretty slim over the past couple weeks. The Yankees hereabouts had started to smarten up, hiding their valuables and in some cases even fortifying their settlements. Blandon’s crew had been chased off with gunfire from one such about twenty miles northwest of here.

  Even worse were several towns populated by some kind of folk that Blandon had never heard tell of, who all dressed alike and spoke some language he didn’t recognize, though McCutcheon said it sounded to him like German. They simply ignored Blandon and his men, refusing to answer them, gathering together, gripping each other’s arms and singing what sounded like hymns in that outlandish tongue of theirs. They failed to shut up even when Blandon separated one of them and treated him to a good beating. At last they simply rode off in disgust, cursing the farmers still singing behind them.

  They’d had to depend on isolated farmsteads for food. But it just wasn’t enough. The men were growing impatient, and Blandon couldn’t blame them.

  They paused at the rear of one of the farmhouses. “Now, I want y’all to behave.” A couple of them had gotten out of hand during the last raid, beating a farmer who had merely been a little slow at handing over his watch. “No rough stuff, you hear?”

  They all nodded and muttered agreement. Raising his pistol, Blandon led them around the house at a quick trot.

  A woman with a basket of washing, likely headed for that very house, came to a dead halt and shrieked at the sight of them. Two other women swung around and stared. Spurring his horse, Blandon fired his pistol in the air. There was a shout from within one of the houses.

  “We’re Bobby Lee’s boys,” Blandon shouted. “You act right, nothing at all will happen.”

  His men quickly ushered all the women to the open area in front of the houses. A flagpole stood there, a union flag flapping from it. The men fired several shots at it before Benton cut it down and threw it into the dirt.

  Giddens had been right. There were no men around. All women and boys, the oldest in their early teens. Blandon rode up to the clustered women. “Where your menfolk at?”

  He pointed his pistol at one woman in particular, a skinny thing wearing a g
ingham dress. She refused to meet his eyes. “They’re at a . . . meeting.”

  “Meeting? What kind of meeting?”

  She licked her lips. “Business,” one of the other women said.

  “That’s right,” a third said. “Business.”

  “The hell they are . . .” one of the men said. “Militia.”

  There was a shout followed by laughter from one of the buildings. He turned to see two of his men chasing a graybeard off the porch. He stumbled and fell at the last step. “He had this here.” Smathers waved an old fowling piece. “Gonna chase us off, he was. I reckon this must be General Meade.”

  Blandon waited for the laughter to die down. “We are from the Army of Northern Virginia, sent out to requisition supplies. We intend to carry out our mission here as ordered, and we will brook no interference.”

  “Nothing but bandits,” one older woman said.

  Looking her straight in the eye. Blandon pulled out his gun and fired it once in the air. The woman started and looked away. “Now there’ll be no more of that kind of talk. You keep quiet, stay out of our way, and we’ll be gone before you know it . . .” His eye fell on one particular woman standing next to a couple of young boys. Blonde, shapely, and young. “. . . and ya’ll can go back to your washing.”

  He holstered his gun and got off the horse. The men were already looting the houses. They’d done that enough times so that needed no direction from him. Behind him someone called out. He looked back to see Giddens emerging from a farmhouse waving a jug. “Look what I got here!”

  He took a swig and handed it on. Blandon eyed the jug speculatively. A little bit of that wouldn’t hurt.

  He cast his eyes at the woman he’d noticed a moment before. Corn-colored hair gathered into a braid and wrapped around her head, big blue eyes, pretty round face. A fine-looking woman. A little young, but all woman for that regardless. The farthest thing in the world from those black bondwoman sluts he’d had to settle for.

  He approached her through the cluster of women. They moved out of his way. He halted in front of the blonde girl. She glared at him as if in challenge.

  He touched his hat. “Right fine day, miss.”

  She said nothing in response. She was wearing a cameo at the throat of her dress. He reached for it. “Now, that’s pretty little thing there . . .”

  She slapped his hand away. An older woman beside her said, “Abby, don’t . . .”

  Blandon took a step forward and loomed over her. She didn’t retreat an inch. “That’s right. Why you got to be that way? I just asked you . . .” He gestured toward the cameo.

  With no warning, the girl slapped his face. “Get away from me, you smelly Rebel.”

  The older woman gripped her arm and pulled her away. “Sir, she didn’t mean anything by that . . . She’s too young. She doesn’t know . . .”

  A boy with the same color hair appeared before him. “You keep your filthy Dixie hands off her.”

  Without so much as shifting his weight, Blandon struck him twice in the face. The boy dropped to the ground. Blandon gave him a good, sharp kick in the ribs.

  With a shriek, the girl threw herself at him, slapping him twice. He felt a sting.

  “Ooh, she got you,” McCutcheon called out. “You’re bleedin’, man.”

  He touched his cheek and looked down at the blood. The girl was staring at him wide eyed. Her mother stood paralyzed, her mouth wide open.

  “You clawed me, you little bitch . . .”

  He backhanded her. She fell back a step. Her mother made an abrupt move toward Blandon. He shoved her aside.

  Gripping the girl by the elbow, Blandon propelled her toward the nearest house. “You need some learnin’,” he told her. “And I aim to give it to you.”

  She started struggling again as he kicked the door in. He slammed her head against the doorjamb and pushed her onward. Kicking the living room furniture aside, he swung her to a halt on a rug in the center of the room. She stared at him dazed, her cheeks red, her mouth slightly open.

  Stripping off his belt, Blandon wrapped it around his fist and took a step toward her. He struck her once, then again. She started screaming as he pulled back his fist a third time.

  He gazed down at her, collapsed atop the rug. Outside, voices were gabbling madly with one wailing voice riding high above them all.

  He pulled his knife. Crouching down, he grabbed the fabric of her dress and cut through it from hem to throat with scarcely more than a single stroke. He sliced her up some but that didn’t matter. He stared down at her. That was it, that was what he was here for.

  She shook her head slowly and let out a small moan. Blandon liked that.

  He unbuttoned himself and then he was upon her. Her moans grew louder. She struggled beneath him, tried to bite the side of his face. He reared up and backhanded her, then slammed her head twice against the floor. They were always like this. Young or old . . . They had to be tamed, the nasty bitches. So prim and proper but underneath, nothing but animals. He knew how to deal with an animal. . . .

  Then he was lost within her. He thrust wildly, grunting to himself. She made a few noises and then went still.

  He spent himself and collapsed atop her. A moment passed before he realized that she wasn’t breathing.

  There was a shriek from behind him. He scrambled off the girl to see the girl’s mother staring at him wild eyed, her arms spread wide. Skinner appeared in the doorway behind her. He made a grab for her, but she broke away, running directly toward Blandon.

  Blandon swung wildly, knocking her to the floor. He stepped past her, fumbling with the buttons of his pants. He slipped his belt back on. Behind him the woman crawled across the floor, sobbing rhythmically as she went. He looked up to find Skinner gazing past him, his eyes squinting as if he found it difficult to believe what he was seeing.

  The sobs burst into a full-throated wail. He looked back to see the older woman poised over her daughter. Blood was dripping from her chin. As he watched, she gathered the dress and tried to cover the girl up.

  When he turned back Skinner was staring at him. “That weren’t a Christian thing,” he said.

  Blandon pushed past him, still slipping his belt though the loops. “I done warned you about this,” Skinner called out to his back, “I say, you listenin’ to me . . . ?”

  Outside they were all staring at him, his men and the Yankee women both. The women in open fear, the men in something like expectation. One of them lifted the jug to his lips. The liquor was doing its work. Blandon stood wordless, looking from one to the other.

  Skinner walked past him. “Gid,” he called to his somewhat dimwitted brother. “Get your horse. We’ve got to ride.”

  Gripping his confused brother by the arm, he pushed him toward the horses. “Come along. We’re leaving this godless bunch behind.”

  McCutcheon, sitting atop a pile of loot, got to his feet. “Well,” he said. “Well now . . .”

  He shot toward the women, gripping the arm of the one in blue gingham who had spoken up earlier. She let out a brief scream as he yanked her out of the crowd, then shouted, “No . . . no . . . no . . .” as he dragged into the house across the way.

  The others were already among the rest of the women, giving off frenzied hoots and yells as they made their choices. The shrieking women were dragged or carried into the houses, nearby barns, and even into the tall grass to the rear of the buildings. In a moment all that was left was the beaten old man, lying on his side with his hands over his face, a few older women clutching each other as they wept, and a handful of Blandon’s men who looked at each other, shook their heads and walked away amid the screams and howls echoing from the buildings.

  The liquor jug was lying where someone had dropped it. Descending the steps, Blandon picked it up. The whisky burned as he swallowed it.

  “Goddamn you, goddamn you . . .”

  It was the boy he had struck earlier, staring at him from a swollen and bloody face. “Goddamn you,” he rep
eated. And then again, “Goddamn you . . .”

  Swinging the jug, Blandon went on his way.

  ★ CHAPTER 21 ★

  The Volunteers were just breaking camp when a staff officer rode up to Wade and told him to gather his men together and follow him. Speaking in low, terse sentences, he explained the situation to Wade as they headed down the road past the marshes and low brush.

  “. . . pretty much the entire Union army, as far as we can tell, along with reinforcements up from Pipe Creek. They’ll be coming along in an hour or less.”

  Behind him Mayfield and the others began talking excitedly among themselves. Wade raised a hand to quiet them.

  “. . . marching straight down this highway, looking for a fight.”

  “Well, sir, that is what they will find.”

  “Right up here,” the lieutenant colonel gestured to his left and led them up a low ridge that overlooked the road. When they reached the top, he cantered on for about five hundred yards before coming to a halt. “Remain here, and dig in.”

  “Dig in?”

  “That’s right, Colonel. Dig in. And kindly don’t tell me that southern cavaliers don’t do any such thing.”

  Wade raised his hands. “I understand. We will do as ordered.”

  “Fine. I’ll find someone to put there on your left.”

  He saluted and rode off. Wade descended from his horse and started to give orders. The men bellyached about the digging, but got down to it. Noticing some trees to the rear, he sent out several enlisted men to do some cutting so as to build an abatis in front of their trenchline.

  The ridge looked good. Very much the same situation as at Gettysburg, but with the sides reversed this time. It was the Confederates holding the high ground now. If anything, it looked even better than Seminary Ridge.

  Along the crest he could see other units appearing—horses, artillery, the infantry bringing up the rear. As always before a battle, he felt a sense of breathless excitement, a stirring deep within, like nothing else he had ever experienced. He glanced down the road stretching east, still hazy under the morning sun. Come ahead, you bluebellies. Come and be whipped.