by Jeff Shaara
The death of Lincoln ripped apart the nascent healing of a battered nation struggling to put the deep and bloody wounds behind. In the North the outrage grew, and to many it did not matter that the plot had been little more than the mindless actions of a conspiracy driven by one fanatic, a man named John Wilkes Booth. The voices of reason were swept away, drowned out by emotional cries of revenge an emotion that would give fuel to the self-serving needs of powerful men in powerful positions. They would now take control of the weaknesses of Lincoln's successor, Andrew Johnson, could easily point their fingers into the heart of what had been the Confederacy, using the emotion and the sorrow of a nation to punish those who could too easily be blamed.
In the South the voices of reason understood that they had lost the one man who was after all not the enemy, that with the muskets stacked and the cannon silent, Lincoln was the only man with the power and the influence to put the war behind them all, who wanted nothing more than to bind up the wounds, to reunite the people into one strong voice, the voice of hope and freedom. Even in the darkest hearts, where resistance to the peace, to the Union, was still hard, it was clear that the assassins bullet had taken away much more than one man. Now would come the angry times, a new brutality; not the guns and the blood of war, but something subtle, quiet and powerful. What had not been taken away from the southern people by the great crushing weight of the war would now be taken by a new kind of violence, a policy of reconstruction that would do everything Lincoln would not. The wounds would not be allowed to heal, the vision of the bright future would be pushed aside, replaced by a dark vision of revenge. Instead of healing, the wounds would be probed and ripped, would become scars that would never quite close, would be kept alive with anger and hostility for generations.
PART
FOUR
* * that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation shall have a new birth of freedom; and that this government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
A bra barn Lincoln November 19, 1863 Gettysbur& Pennsylvania
56. LEE
BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAINS, SEPTEMBER 1870
Tt HEY CLIMBED HIGHER, THE HORSES MOVING WITH SLOW GRACE, up past the small trees and rocks. He led the way, knew the rail well by now, and Traveller did not need to be prodded, the big horse knowing the ground, the long trail, as well as Lee did himself.
Mildred rode Lucy Long, the mare given to Lee years before by Jeb Stuart. The smaller horse did not have Traveller's strength, but Lee knew Traveller's pace, that he would carry them slowly, the steady climb. Lee also knew that Mildred was not afraid to use the whip, that his youngest child had become an excellent rider herself.
Of all the children, he was enjoying Mildred the most now. She was finally grown, as they all were, but as she passed out of the teenage years, she became less of the spoiled aristocrat, had grown to accept life in the valley, the life her father had chosen.
It had not been easy for any of them. Lee had accepted a position that seemed to be more tedious than the quiet retirement everyone felt he'd earned. Washington College had barely survived the war, barely survived the torches of David Hunter. The college was the neighbor of VMI, and when Hunter burned the "halls of treason," the pleasant red brick buildings next door had been looted, nearly destroyed as well. What remained of the college was little more than the will of those who worked to see it survive. The man chosen to lead that campaign had been Lee.
It would have been impossible for him to stay long in Richmond. From the earliest days after the war, he'd been under siege, great long lines of visitors, former soldiers, refugees, men who just had to see him, to look upon him with teary eyes, while others brought gifts, the devotion of a people who still saw him as their symbol. He tried to be kind, but generosity had a price, wearing him down physically, and he could not endure the pressure of the public eye.
The invitation to take on the challenge of rebuilding Washington College had come late in 1865, and at first there was nothing about the position that appealed to him. But the pressure simply overwhelmed him, the political turmoil in Virginia and all through the South, the efforts to bring him out into a public forum, all the pleas for some active role in the political chaos of reconstruction.
The offer to move to Lexington began to feel more attractive for a variety of reasons. There were many young men from his old command, soldiers who needed an education to survive, men who had the youthful energy and the intellect to move themselves forward, to create a new life for their families. Lee knew there was prestige in his name, and to use that to build something of value, to lend his name to the rebirth of an institution for learning, could not be ignored. There had been criticism, surprise that he would accept the position at this shell of a school in the small town of Lexington when larger, more prestigious schools would certainly have welcomed him, had they known he was inclined. But in fact the invitations did not come from these better schools, but from this one struggling place at the head of the Shenandoah Valley.
There was another reality, and he thought more of Mary than himself, though it was clear to the children and to anyone who knew him well-he was aging. Mary had become accustomed to the wheelchair, and the deterioration, the crippling effects of her arthritis, had slowed. There was even relief from the pain, and if she still could not walk or use her left arm, with the lessening of the pain came the return of the spirit, the hot anger, the impatience, the spoiled little girl who took command of the household once again. Lee had never shied away from her anger before, had simply endured her jabs, her sharp comments. It was always a fair price to pay for the guilt he carried. He had not been there for her, for the raising of the children; with him, it had always been duty first, the long career in the army.
But now he was there, and there was time to be with her, to sit for long hours, have conversations with the children, or endure Mary's long and angry monologues about the politics of the day. That had surprised him, her sudden interest in politics, her knowledge of detail, her passion and opinions about so many of the complicated issues that swirled through the country like some blinding dust storm. There were still times when she would rant to her friends, to their new social circle in Lexington, and her views were usually the popular ones-anger at the abuses endured by Southerners at the hands of the northern politicians, the carpetbaggers, those who made opportunity for themselves from the chaos and ruin of war. She would sometimes shock him with hot words, indiscreet assaults on politicians she would fearlessly name.
The move to Lexington was a difficult change for the girls as well.
Mary, Agnes, and Mildred had grown up in the shadows of great plantations, great social circles. Now they were replanted in a town that did not have the bright whirl of Virginia society. Here, the men kept a respectful distance; if they actually had the courage to keep company with the girls, it would take audacity to actually court a daughter of Robert E. Lee.
The best times for Lee were the quiet times, evenings when the girls would be at some local gathering, some function, and he would sit alone with Mary. Often they would not speak at all, just look out the windows across the campus at the tall oak trees, the green lawns.
The school had built him a new residence, near the traditional home of the president, the home that had been built for the founder, George Junkin. That had been the home where Stonewall Jackson had lived, long before anyone used that nickname. It was there that Junkin's daughter Ellie, Jackson's first wife, had died, a dark memory that followed Jackson into the war, through the last years of his life. Lee had lived there for a while, but the decision to build the new residence had been a blessing for him, more than he would tell the board, the men who provided the funds. He could never escape what had happened there, could not stand in the small rooms that had been Jackson's and not feel the weight of that, the terrible emotion that still echoed in those walls.
The new home was larger, more spacious, with la
rge windows, and Lee even added a sun porch, a patio enclosed with glass, so Mary could sit in the warmth, surrounded by the greenery outside. He'd been amazed to discover that she had a talent for painting, something he had rarely been around to see. Now he would watch her for hours, her one strong hand still nimbly creating beauty, paint on small canvases, idyllic scenes, forests and water, and scenes of young lovers, mythic celebrations, all enclosed by the beauty of God's world. She was especially skilled at faces, the small details, and he marveled at that, looked at his own rugged hands, and thought, She has paid such a price, and surely He has given her the gift, that through her one good hand will come His blessing, His beauty.
His work at the college had always been difficult, the hours long and the duties expanded as the college became healthy again. Each year the enrollment had grown. The endowment was now receiving funds from surprising sources, many in the North. He took great pride in that, but would not take the credit. The staff, the faculty, had grown as well, and all the energy was forward. Lee knew it was the effort from all of them, the dedication and labor from beyond his own small office, that had built the school's growing reputation.
He would not focus on it, but had felt the quiet illness spreading through him. The same pains and hollow weakness that had come to him during the war were never truly gone. The workload had made it worse. He'd thought often about retiring completely, but his presence was a great force at the college, and he was not yet ready to make the selfish move, give up all the good work, and the good work yet to come, just for his own well-being. Even the rides into the hills were fewer now, the discomfort of long periods on horseback something he found difficult to admit.
They reached the crest of the long hill, and he patted Traveller's neck, thought, You do understand. You were gentle today.
Many times he had come up here, on a pleasant ride past thick green woods, climbing, a long straight trail that would take him to this special place, the extraordinary view of the town and far beyond, the Shenandoah, the Blue Ridge Mountains. He often made the trip alone, but there had been something in him, a voice, caution, and now he would wait, find the right time, days when Mildred was not occupied with something more pressing than a long ride with her father.
He turned, saw the mare bringing Mildred up the last climb, and he dismounted, slowly, felt the stiffness in his back, his arms. He rubbed his hand on Traveller's nose, the horse nodding to the touch.
Now Mildred was down, said, "Oh, Papa, this is... wonderful. I forget about this place."
He stared out toward the long line of mountains, said, "Don't... forget. Never forget. This is God's place. He has led us here. This is where He wants us to come, to see His work."
She looked at him, saw a small frown and said, "Papa, are you feeling all right?"
He did not look at her, stared at a motion against the distant sky, a large bird, far away, a long slow turn, drifting. He said, "I am fine, child. I wish I could come up here... more often. There is no time."
The horses began to nuzzle the ground, pulling at small pieces of green, tufts of grass in the rocks.
Mildred was still watching him, said, "I wish Mother could see this." There was a quiet moment, and Lee nodded.
"I have brought her up here sometimes, in my mind. I have imagined she could ride, that she could see this. I have talked to her, right here, as though she was with me." He was suddenly uncomfortable, had revealed some very private place, looked at her, said, "I'm sorry. That was very personal. I hope I did not embarrass you."
Mildred was smiling', shook her head.
"Papa, you have never seen any of us as grown. I'm not a child. Mother is very happy where she is. After all, she has you."
He nodded, knew she was right, that often when he was with his army, he would send letters home to all of them, advice, small bits of knowledge, as though they were all still children. It was something he'd always done, even in the early days, stern letters then, the absent father teaching them from far away.
He moved forward, stood out on the edge of a large rock, peered down into thick brush, saw more birds now, small flecks of color.
Mildred was rubbing the neck of the mare, said, "Are you still writing?"
He sagged, took a deep breath, turned and looked at her.
"Not for a while now. It is very hard." He stared out to the mountains again, thought of Taylor, Gordon, Johnston, so many others. There was great interest in his own account of the war, and the letters were still coming, many from men he'd forgotten, commanders who looked to him to complete the task, as though it had to be from him and him alone. There were even letters from up North, from newspapermen and publishers, prompting him to tell his side of the story, a version that otherwise might never be told. He had tried, had asked many of the veterans, the commanders, to send him their own reports, to fill in gaps in the official records, or gaps in his own memory. The papers were stacked high in his study, and on those days when he had the energy, he would begin to read, to make some notes, but the energy would not last. Even when he would force the effort, taking the pen in hand and putting words on paper, something would hold him back. He would stare into some distant place, and the memories would come back, and many of the memories were very, very bad.
He thought now of the men themselves: I cannot judge them, it is not my place. If I tell the truth, there will be controversy, anger. We do not need that now. If a man was not a good commander, or if by some mistake a fight went badly, it is for God to decide the importance of that, not me. They expect me to give them some kind of Final Word, as though only I can tell the absolute truth. No, I do not want that responsibility.
He was suddenly very tired, thought, This is why... I come up here. It is far away from all that, from the eyes of the people. He'd received many invitations, social and political functions, places where he would certainly be an honored guest. No, he thought, they do not understand. They still want to talk about the war, to relive the great fights, the grand memories. I do not enjoy that.
Mildred was now close to him, said, "Beautiful... the valley."
"Yes... this is home. I always knew that." Mildred looked at him, then down, hesitated, then said, "Mother still believes... she still wishes you would reconsider all the offers."
Lee did not look at her, knew very well how Mary felt.
"Do you feel the way she does?"
Mildred raised her arms, a long stretch.
"I like having you home. If you were governor, you wouldn't be home very much."
He smiled, thought, I should have had her on my staff. There was never any doubt what Mildred's opinions were. He said, "She doesn't understand. She believes that I can do some good, help Virginia get through these times. She only sees one side, my influence, my... " He paused, hated the word. "... my popularity. She does not consider that I have many enemies. There are so many people in the North who would use me as an excuse to punish Virginia. I have to stay away from that. I am no good at being a figurehead, a symbol. If I thought my presence there would be for the good of Virginia... but it can only do harm."
"Papa, you have always been a symbol. You can't change that."
He stared out again, tried to find the great lone bird, saw it now, soaring in soft circles, quiet, without effort, carried on the wind.
"They must go on... move forward on their own. I cannot help them do that. The soldiers, the people..." He still followed the flight of the bird, saw it move beyond the crest of a far hill, drop out of sight. He felt a chill now, a shiver that Mildred saw, and she moved close to him, put her hands on his arm.
"Papa, you don't have to convince anyone. Everyone knows how much you have given."
The chill flowed all through him now, and he pulled at his coat, his hands shaking, said, "We had better go back."
He turned, looked back, saw Traveller raise his head, the horse rested now, ready for the ride back down the long trail.
SEPTEMBER 28, 1870 T
HE CHURCH WAS DO
WN THE HILL FROM THE RESIDENCE, ACROSS an open lawn. It was dark early now, and he walked slowly up the hill in a steady rain, thought of the meeting, the voices of the men. He had presided over the vestry meetings for a while now, the business of managing the church, and today's meeting had been as routine as any of the others. He rarely took a strong hand at running things, let the members work out the issues for themselves, would exercise whatever authority they had granted him only when there was some impasse. The meeting today was a Ion one, and it was nearly 9 seven o clock, past the supper hour. It had been difficult for him, the damp misery of the unheated church cutting into him, his mind drifting, pulling him off into some cold angry place. When he brought his attention back to the voices, his patience had been short, and the meeting concluded as they often concluded, with the announcement of a shortage of funds. He'd seen an opportunity there, to bring the meeting to a blessed close, offered to provide funds himself, to meet the shortfall. It had given the meeting an optimistic tone, and the men filed out with good cheer, while he moved out still feeling the misery of the Cold, and clenched his jaw for the uphill walk in the rain.