Leslie looked at him shrewdly. “It hasn’t escaped my notice that you came within a hairsbreadth of being expelled from Charles Town during John Brown’s trial, along with Greeley’s man.”
“Oh.”
“At any rate, young Waud’s English and the Southerners want to court allies abroad. And reporting on the new Southern government will take a good deal of moving about in society. To be frank, your own strength lies solely in your facility as an artist.” David nodded in resignation. He didn’t have half Bill’s social graces, he knew.
He turned his attention back to Bill’s drawing now, automatically reversing it left to right as he copied. Earlier in March Leslie had published Bill’s portrayal of Jefferson Davis’ inauguration as Confederate president, in the same issue with illustrations of the inauguration of Abraham Lincoln. Outside of that, during the four months he’d been in South Carolina Bill had sent little besides portraits of secessionist leaders, sketches of rallies, parties and gallantly posing soldiers, and chatty notes describing the fervor of the South Carolinians for their new nation.
Despite the South’s revolutionary fervor, conservative Northerners still cherished hopes of mollifying the Southerners sufficiently to restore the Union. Abolitionist meetings were set upon by mobs led by lawyers and clerks as well as lower class ruffians. In the abolitionist stronghold of Boston, anti-slavery meetings were broken up with the unofficial blessing of the police. In January and February, Zach— dispatched to upstate New York for the Tribune—had wired reports of attacks on abolitionist gatherings in Buffalo, Rochester, Rome and Auburn. Only in Albany did an anti-slavery meeting proceed uninterrupted, protected by the police and the presence of the city’s mayor, seated on the platform with a revolver in plain view on his lap. David had read the account with a shiver of fear for Zach’s safety.
He’d missed Zach, he admitted to himself, however much he told himself a period of separation would cool their ardor. He sighed, redirected his attention to the drawing of the strutting Southern regiment.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
With the approach of April, Bill Waud’s dispatches from Charleston took on a grimmer tone. South Carolina pressed her claim to the Federal fort, Sumter, on an island commanding the entrance to Charleston harbor. Bill forwarded sketches of entrenched guns on Morris Island, the Charleston armory and the batteries ringing the Charleston harbor.
April sixth, a month after his inauguration, Lincoln informed the governor of South Carolina that he intended reprovisioning Fort Sumter, nearly out of supplies since an attack by South Carolina shore batteries had repulsed a Northern relief ship.
The new Confederate cabinet replied with a demand for the fort’s surrender. On April 12th the Confederates opened fire on the unyielding fort. Two days later, Sumter’s commander formally surrendered Fort Sumter to the superior Confederate forces. On Monday, April 15th, Lincoln proclaimed the South to be in a state of insurrection, and issued a call for 75,000 state militia.
The attack on Sumter wrought a “wonderful transformation,” Leslie’s reported. War fever took over the North; the Stars and Stripes waved from every building. David filled his sketchpad with scenes of mass rallies in Union Square, the fervent faces of cheering men and women mirroring those of the Confederate celebrants in Bill’s dispatches from South Carolina.
Northerners of every persuasion rallied behind the President. The prominent abolitionist Wendell Phillips abandoned twenty years of calls for disunion to welcome a war which, he now felt, would bring freedom in its wake.
Dick Potter, in accord with his abolitionist views, gave notice to the Tribune and enlisted in the newly mobilizing militia. David felt alone in viewing the conflict with misgivings. He sat silently at Dick’s farewell party in Pfaff’s, listening to other young reporters boast of their plans to join up. At least he was past the age where anyone would expect him to volunteer for military duty, not that he could imagine taking up arms against his home state, any more than he could see himself fighting in defense of slavery.
On April 17, a Virginia State Convention adopted an ordinance of secession, voting 88 to 55 to submit the question to popular referendum in May. The western counties, at least, seemed reluctant to leave the Union. It was possible the populace would override the action of the convention.
It was a slim hope at best.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
“If I were a few years younger, I warrant you I’d be in uniform myself,” Zach said in David’s ear as they watched the first squadrons of Colonel Ellsworth’s New York Fire Zouaves march smartly down Broadway. The onlookers were crushed so tightly together that David felt Zach’s beard rubbing his face, yet he had to strain to make out his words over the noise of the crowd.
“They’re damned impressive,” he answered, his eyes fixed on the flamboyant Zouaves—the 11th New York Infantry—in their colorful red and blue uniforms. At their head, drawing excited yells of admiration, stepped young Colonel Ellsworth, more dashing than any of his men.
“It’s amazing how he’s formed such a splendidly turned out regiment in so short a time,” David added. He’d sketched the Fire Zouaves as they drilled the day before, admiring the precision of their acrobatic maneuvers in the exotic, Arabic-inspired uniforms Ellsworth had adapted for them. Only twenty-four years old, Elmer Ellsworth— a one-time student in Lincoln’s law office—had outfitted and trained his men at his own expense. In just a few weeks, he’d turned the volunteers he’d recruited from New York City firemen into a military unit of dashing verve and precision.
David turned his attention back to the parade. The Fire Zouaves marched by in colorful unison, the rhythms of their regimental band nearly drowned out by the shouts of the watching throng. David’s enthusiasm swelled with that of the crowd, his reservations about the war momentarily set aside as the Zouaves trooped by in glorious pageantry.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The lead steamer moved silently across the Potomac under a moonlit sky, trailed closely by two sister ships bearing the men of the 11th New York. Ellsworth surveyed his troops with satisfaction, then turned to the accompanying newsmen. “The 1st Michigan will cross into Alexandria over the Long Bridge while we take the Secesh by surprise, landing at the foot of the town. We’re not expecting much resistance.”
David let himself be reassured by Ellsworth’s prediction that there’d be no bloodshed such as had greeted Federal troops passing through Baltimore five weeks before. In the days that had passed since Leslie assigned him to accompany the Fire Zouaves to Washington City, David had come to respect the quick thinking and daring of the handsome young officer.
His opinion was shared by the inhabitants of the Federal city. The Fire Zouaves became local heroes as the former firefighters swarmed up a human chain to douse flames threatening Willard’s Hotel.
David jotted a few notes now, to one side of the new sketchpad Leslie had supplied him, with the publisher’s copyright in the bottom left corner. A half-finished sketch of Ellsworth occupied the rest of the page. David returned to it as the young officer busied himself with preparations for landing, penciling in Ellsworth’s mobile, sensitive face in its frame of wavy brunette locks, his contemplative expression as he gazed across the water to Alexandria, one hand resting lightly on his sword.
David followed his gaze, suddenly touched with a sense of unreality. He’d hoped to squeeze in a visit home during the course of this assignment. Instead, he found himself aboard a troop ship, accompanying an invading army to his home town.
Less than twenty-four hours before, on May 23rd, Virginia voters had approved the ordinance of secession drafted by the state convention in April. Much as he wished Lincoln would let the Southern states go in peace, conflict seemed inevitable. It would be folly for Federal forces to ignore the presence of what was now enemy territory, so close to the capital city.
The steamer docked with a slight thud. The Fire Zouaves scrambled off the steamships as the sun rose, greeted by the news that Confedera
te soldiers had already begun a retreat from the city. David breathed a sigh of relief.
Ellsworth ordered his men to fall into companies, seemingly disappointed at the lack of a fight to test their mettle. The young officer drew himself up decisively. “There’s the railroad station and telegraph office to secure still.” He detailed the main body of his men to reinforce Michigan troops at the Orange and Alexandria depot, while he headed for the telegraph office with a smaller detachment. David fell into step with Ellsworth’s file.
They marched double-time up King Street toward the telegraph office, met by stares of sullen curiosity from onlookers in doorways and windows. David wondered a moment how many of his old friends and neighbors were accounting him a traitor as they watched him walk up King Street in company with the occupying soldiers. He forced the question from his mind. If the choice had to be made, the Union was still his country.
Many shops and houses were deserted, abandoned by townsfolk fleeing South in anticipation of a Federal attack. “We’ll be marching through Richmond by fall,” Ellsworth predicted, as he studied the scene. He stepped jauntily, his bearing commanding despite his short stature.
David’s spirits rose at the thought that the rebellion would surely be of short duration. He strode along a few feet behind Ellsworth, exchanging comments with Bobby Maguire, a redheaded Fire Zouave from Brooklyn, and Edward House, a Tribune correspondent with whom he had a nodding acquaintance.
The detachment reached the corner of King and Pitt streets. Ellsworth halted. “What’s that rag doing up there?” David followed his gaze to the Confederate flag flying from the roof of the shabby Marshall House hotel.
Ellsworth grinned. “I’ll soon have it down.” He bounded into the tavern, followed by a half dozen of his men.
David entered the dim lobby after him. Ellsworth’s footsteps were already pounding up the stairs to the roof. David waited a moment till his eyes adjusted to the dimness, then headed upstairs.
The trapdoor to the roof thudded shut above him as David neared the second landing. Ellsworth appeared again, his grin curving up into his mustache, the Confederate banner clutched triumphantly in his hands.
A man suddenly stepped from a doorway on the landing, leveling a double-barreled shotgun. David gasped. He opened his mouth to yell a warning, simultaneously with the shotgun’s blast.
There was a short, anguished cry as Ellsworth fell. A second burst of gunfire sounded and his attacker fell to the floor beside him.
David’s feet continued the climb to the landing without his volition. A shocked hush had fallen over the huddled soldiers, broken only by the sobbing of Ellsworth’s lieutenant as he cradled the youthful officer’s body in his arms. A young private, rifle shaking in his hand, stood over the body of the second dead man: Jim Jackson, the tavern’s proprietor, David saw numbly.
He looked back at Ellsworth. The dead man’s mouth gaped open, his sightless eyes stared upwards, blood spurted from the cavity in his chest, drenching his brass-buttoned uniform and the Confederate trophy still dangling from his fingers. The stench of loosened bowels hung over the stairwell.
David was overcome by nausea. He grabbed for the bannister behind him, clutching the hard wood railing as he retched. Long minutes went by. Finally he straightened up shakily and rubbed his mouth with his handkerchief. He stood trembling another moment, then slowly opened his sketchpad and set to work.
Chapter 11 — 1862
THE HORROR AND DISBELIEF THAT SHOOK THE NORTH at Ellsworth’s death had given way to grim expectation of mounting casualties. The abandonment of hope for a quick victory after Bull Run was followed by the bloodbath at Shiloh and mounting losses in the Virginia peninsula as the war entered a second summer.
David set his pencil down on his drawing table and rubbed his aching fingers, studying his copy of Henri Lovie’s sketch of a skirmish on the Western front. Shock and anguish mingled on the faces of soldiers drawn as they fell, mortally wounded.
“Hey, David, you’ll be all night getting those on the blocks if you just sit and stare at them.”
David started at Elliot’s voice. “I was thinking how much bloodshed there’s been. It’s hard to picture so many men dying in just a year.”
“Be glad you’re here copying those and not with the army getting shot at.”
David picked up his pencil again, glancing at Lovie’s scribbled instructions before adding a line of trees to the top of the drawing. “To tell the truth, I find it pretty tiresome. As many new artists as Leslie’s hired to cover the fighting, there’s precious little chance for us to do much else besides copying.”
“I thought Leslie offered you the chance to stay with the troops before he sent Art Lumley down.”
“He did.” David smiled ruefully. “After Ellsworth, I couldn’t face up to seeing anyone else get shot.”
Elliot snorted. “Or getting yourself shot either. Not that I blame you. It’s all the same to me what I draw, so long as my hide stays in one piece. You got much more to do on those? I’m tired of that damn boardinghouse food. Join me for beer and oysters at Pfaff’s after we knock off?”
“I’ve already told Zach I’d meet him there, to tell the truth.”
“So? I’ll join you, then. You two courting or something that you can’t stand a little company?”
David winced, then prayed Elliot hadn’t spotted his twinge of fear. Elliot was given to shooting his mouth off, he told himself. His remark meant nothing.
He managed a weak laugh. “Listening to Zach rehash McClellan’s mistakes for the hundredth time, more likely. I’ll be glad to have you turn the talk to cheerier subjects.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
The din of Pfaff’s bar and dining room assaulted David as he entered. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and peered through the haze of tobacco smoke. Zach was already seated, at a table close to the far wall. He waved at David and Elliot as they threaded their way through the crowded room, then turned back to talking with two of the Tribune’s writing editors.
Pfaff’s never changed, David thought, as he squeezed into a seat across from Zach. Most of the young reporters who’d been their regular drinking companions had scattered—a few enlisted like Dick, others as correspondents with the Army of the Potomac or on the western front. Elliot, lounging comfortably alongside him, was one of the few familiar faces. Yet the packed tables and echoing arguments were no different than the first day he’d walked in here.
True to David’s prediction, Zach was engrossed in discussion of McClellan’s generalship. “If the man had attacked instead of falling back after Malvern Hill, I daresay we’d be reporting now on the fall of Richmond!”
Elliot nudged David in the ribs. “If it’s cheerier conversation you want, you won’t find it in our present company.” He glanced toward the stairs. “Bessie told me she might be bringing someone for you to meet. Yeah, here they come now. Take a look over there.”
David looked across the room where the latest of Elliot’s lady friends was settling herself at a table, smoothing her skirts as she chatted animatedly with a second heavily-rouged young woman.
“That’s the sort of company you need to cheer you up. Take a look at those tits, will you!”
The young woman’s breasts bulged roundly above the tight bodice of her gown. As David watched, she produced a handkerchief and daintily patted her cheeks and forehead, then languorously passed the cloth over her expanse of bosom. Elliot’s lady friend leaned over and whispered in her ear. Both young women turned to smile in their direction, then leaned together again, bursting into subdued giggles. David flushed, lowering his eyes. He felt Elliot nudge him again. “Bessie’s cousin. Whaddya think?”
“She’s very— very good looking.”
“A beaut. And Bessie says she’s hoping to be shown a good time while she’s in New York. If you get my meaning.”
David smiled faintly.
“C’mon then. I’ll introduce you.”
“I— I don’t th
ink so.”
“Hey, you don’t need to worry about disease with her. She’s not a hooker, she’s just looking for a little fun.”
“Maybe some other time, Elliot.”
“Suit yourself.” Elliot smoothed the ends of his mustache and pushed back his chair. “But for chrissake, David, you oughta get yourself a woman before people get to thinking you’re as big a nancy as your friend Zach.”
David froze, unable to move as he watched Elliot saunter across the restaurant. Why the hell couldn’t he have brought himself to take Elliot up on his invitation?
He managed a glance at Zach, hoping he hadn’t heard.
Zach nodded goodnight to the two editors and turned to David. “I didn’t mean to leave you sitting alone.” He paused. “You all right, David? You look troubled. I keep forgetting the fighting’s been largely in your home state.”
He couldn’t have heard Elliot, David told himself. “I’m fine. I wouldn’t mind getting my thoughts off the war, though.”
Zach smiled and gestured toward the table behind them, adjacent to the one Pfaff saved for his fashionable crowd of literary Bohemians. The men at this table were young, dressed in the rough clothing of stage drivers and ferryboatmen. At one end sat Walt Whitman, garbed in sturdy blue flannel, his eyes riveted on a swarthy, muscular young man in workman’s coveralls.
“There’s an empty seat or two there,” Zach said, “and I daresay the talk will be livelier.” David sighed under his breath as he picked up his tankard and followed Zach.
Whitman greeted them with a nod, then turned his attention back to the young man, prompting his words with a question now and then, in a voice as unexpectedly soft as a caress.
You’d never take him for a poet, David mused, uncertain he’d ever understand the fascination Whitman held for his friend. Zach sat in unwonted silence, happily spearing Pfaff’s plump oysters with his fork. He resembles him a bit, David thought, that mane of a beard and gray head of hair, and their size. If Zach were to dress as unconventionally as Whitman—
Different Sin Page 10