The Confederate

by Forrest A. Randolph

  Alone, Griff’s mind searched over the vast void of the past six months. Could it truly be that long, and he not know a thing? An ache spread in his chest. Bobbie Jean … alone on the plantation. How were the Yankees treating civilians in Georgia? The war had gone on, battles had been fought to be won or lost, men had fallen in the struggle, and vast armies had marched and countermarched across the fields of the South while he lay here unmindful of it all. It had happened without him. He began to understand what it would be like being dead. Jenny returned then and turned back his covers.

  “Here we go. Only this time, I can get a little help from you, I hope.” She started to knead the shrunken flesh of his left thigh, rolling and stretching the unused muscles, then working down to the knee. Gently she began to bend the limb. “Come on, try with me. Tell it you want it to move.”

  “I … am. But it’s only you moving it.”

  “Keep trying. You’re out of practice, that’s all. The doctor says that everything has grown back normally in this leg.” A startled expression betrayed her slip.

  “In this leg. What about the other? I remember being shot in the knee.”

  “It’s healing … only rather slowly. You have to be patient.”

  “I gather that’s all I’ve been doing for six months.” Beads of perspiration had broken out on Griff’s brow and his eyes held a faraway cast that indicated the effort he put behind trying to will his left leg to bend.

  “Only now you can take an active part. I’m positive the fever has broken. The redness is gone from your incisions and the swelling is reduced.” Jenny went to his ankle and started to manipulate it. “Dr. Sutherland said it would be a long time before you walked. I want to prove him wrong.”

  “If I ever walk, you mean.” Griff grew more serious, his brow wrinkled as he tried to find the words. “Jenny, what you are doing … well, it hurts a little. Other than that, though, I don’t feel anything. I mean, there’s no sensation of my legs being there at all. It’s as though they had been cut off.”

  Jenny blanched. The doctor had informed her that a large nerve trunk had been severely damaged and that it might not properly function. The result would be that, even with legs, Griff possibly would never walk again. Before she could make some reply, Griff went on, changing the subject to the other constant question he asked in his fevered state.

  “Why are you doing this? You are taking so much time with me. Why?”

  Her words came in a rush, as though rehearsed. “Because I am a nurse … you are my brother’s friend … I … We couldn’t let you die in the hands of those meat cutters, or live your life as a cripple.”

  “There’s another reason, deeper than all those, isn’t there, Jenny?”

  “Yes, damnit, yes there is,” Jenny blurted, though she forced herself not to say the words that burned like fire in her brain: I love you, Griffin Stark. I shall love you to the end of my days.

  Church bells all over Sunderland, Maryland, began to ring loudly early on the morning of the tenth of April. They reached only faintly through the deep, restful sleep of Griffin Stark. He had heard such alarms before, then in the role of tocsins warning of the approach of enemy troops. More clamor arose and, with it, the sound of gunshots. By God, the Yankees were coming. Instantly awake, nearly four years of combat conditioning his response, Griff threw back his covers and tried to swing his legs off the bed.

  They wouldn’t obey. Frustrated, worried about possible capture, Griff made another effort. He wrenched violently with his torso and his disobedient limbs came along. When his feet touched the floor, he tried to stand.

  He wavered only a second, then fell full length on the whitened, stone-scrubbed plank floor. His cry was one of anger, rather than pain.

  Jenny ran into the room, her eyes wide, shocked at the scene. “Are you trying to set back all my efforts?” she scolded. “You are nowhere near ready to try to walk. What is it?” She squatted and helped him to his feet.

  “Those bells. The shots. It must be a battle.” Bright tears of joy filled Jenny’s eyes. “Oh, no, my darling. It means there will never be any more battles. The war is over. Word just came that Grant met Lee at a place called Appomattox Court House. They have agreed to the terms of an armistice. The formal peace will be concluded in a few days.”

  “It … it sounds too good to be true. When was this?”

  “Yesterday. There will be a special edition of the newspaper out this afternoon. We can read the whole story.” Impulsively Jenny reached out and hugged Griff to her breast. “That … that means Damien will be coming home.”

  Excited, Griff returned her embrace with what strength he had. “And I will be able to go home, too.” Suddenly he wept, tears of relief and happiness. It was over. The unconscionable agony of four years ended in a meeting between two great military men. Now he would learn what had happened in Georgia. What he had to come home to.

  The morning passed in a delirium of joy. Neighbors came in, wishing him well and asking about his plans to return to Michigan. Griff handled such inquiries well, only twice receiving puzzled glances at the sound of his accent. Then Mrs. Dockerty and her brood of red-headed youngsters came over.

  After the polite chatter about the war’s end, the shrewd woman got to her point. “I imagine you will be glad to be pointing your face to the South again, Mr. Bradford?”

  ‘‘The … ah, South?” Griff evaded.

  ‘‘You forget, I spent many an hour at your bedside while this poor slip of a girl went off to the hospital to tend the sick. It was not any Michigan volunteers that were led by Jeb Stuart. But your secret’s safe with me. My man didn’t go back to Ireland, like the folks hereabout think. He was with Longstreet’s Division. He’ll be comin’ home now. More’s the pity. He so believes in State’s Rights that this outcome will all but shatter him, no doubt. Where is it you are really from, if I may ask?”

  “Georgia. I have a place there, Riversend.”

  “A plantation is it? Then you’ll be finding it a strange new world I’ve a mind. You married? Any wee ones?”

  “Yes, my wife and son are at Riversend. I haven’t heard from them in months. Not that I would be aware of anything if they had written. You’re a wonderful woman, Mrs. Dockerty. Now that I am able, I want to thank you for all the help you gave Jenny.”

  “Jennifer’s a strong woman, with a mind of her own. It was she who set up a schedule by which you could be nursed around the clock. The important thing now is for you to get well and on your feet. I’ll be going now. God bless you and the Confederacy, Mr. Bradford.”

  “It’s Stark. Griffin Stark.”

  “So be it, then. Until all’s safe, you’ll remain Stewart Bradford. Good day now.”

  “That’s … interesting,” Jenny observed from the open doorway to his room after Mrs. Dockerty departed. “I believed, like all the others around here, that her husband had returned on family business to Dublin. I wonder how many closets in Maryland have Confederate gray hanging in them?”

  “A great many, I would say,” Griff suggested. “After all, the state nearly joined in the secession.”

  “I came in to check on your dressings. Do you feel better sitting up or lying down while I do that?”

  “I think flat is better.”

  Deftly Jenny went to work. The packing, she found, had come loose as the swelling continued to reduce in Griff’s wounds. She adjusted this, noting the healthy coloration of the flesh, something the doctor had instructed her on. The incisions were also free of putrefaction, her nose told her. Suddenly her heart sang. Griff was truly getting well.

  The promised special edition did not come out on the tenth. News of the war’s end broke so fast that one story canceled out another until the twelfth. Then, with all the information available at hand, the presses rolled. Huge, bold-faced headlines declared the final hours.

  REBELLION ENDED!

  GRANT RISES ABOVE ASHES

  OF THE CONFEDERACY!

  SURRENDER AT APPOMATTO
X!

  Griff read the stories silently, seeing in them the destruction of his way of life. The Confederacy was dead. Federal troops occupied all major cities. The will of Lincoln and the men around him was now to be impressed on the once proud and free people of the South. Yet, only a ghost of bitterness haunted him. It also meant that the killing was over. That neither brothers, nor father and son face each other in the heat of a battlefield. Peace, any peace, he believed in his shattered condition, was preferable to continued conflict. Then, on a back page, sandwiched in among advertisements for shoes and ladies’ hats, he came upon a small article that brought home to him the true cost of the war.

  LEE’S FAREWELL

  Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia April 10, 1865

  After four years of arduous service marked by unsurpassed courage and fortitude, the Army of Northern Virginia has been compelled to yield to overwhelming numbers and resources. I need not tell the survivors of so many hard-fought battles, who have remained steadfast to the last, that I have consented to this result from no distrust of them; but, feeling that valor and devotion could accomplish nothing that could compensate for the loss that would have attended the continuation of the contest, I have determined to avoid the useless sacrifice of those whose past services have endeared them to their countrymen. By the terms of this agreement, officers and men can return to their homes and remain there until exchanged. You will take with you the satisfaction that proceeds from the consciousness of duty faithfully performed, and a grateful remembrance of your kind and generous consideration of myself, I bid you an affectionate farewell.

  R. E. Lee, General

  As Griffin Stark concluded the words, a deep-seated sorrow caused a painful lump in his throat. With watery eyes he perused the small piece once again and then wept unashamedly.

  Chapter Twelve

  A TRAIN, LOADED mostly with boxcars of Union soldiers, made ready to pull out of the Philadelphia depot. One of the last passengers to hurry—dressed in civilian clothes—to the parlor car was former Confederate colonel, Chester Braithwaite. His portly figure wobbled in his unaccustomed clothing and he perspired freely. A colored porter came along behind with two large portmanteaus. The colonel held in one large hand his long ribbon of ticket. With the other he clutched the tall beaver hat atop his head. A moment before he surrendered the first perforated segment of the slip to the conductor, a voice hailed him from behind.

  “Hello there, I didn’t expect to see you here.” Braithwaite turned to see Albert Treadwell. “It was … er, arranged. I see you are headed this way, too. Can’t this wait until we can talk on board?” “Oh, of course. Certainly.”

  The two men surrendered the first stubs and climbed onto the vestibule platform. They turned, by unspoken, mutual agreement to the rearmost car and found seats in a part where no one else sat near enough to overhear. Colonel Braithwaite felt ill at ease in the presence of the crippled young man. Albert’s maimed left hand, twisted and puckered in the palm, resembled a claw more than a human appendage. He had only partial use of it and made no effort to disguise its ugliness. The colonel had seen far worse disfigurements in the war; it became a matter of attitude. Albert wore his malady like a badge of honor. Unaware of the cause, other than that the deceased Griffin Stark had been responsible, Braithwaite felt a basic revulsion.

  “Headed West, are you?” Albert inquired probingly.

  “Yes. It was … suggested that I do. Matter of fact, I am rather disappointed in this consortium your cousin belongs to. After all their grand promises, I am getting short shrift. No desire, I am told, to have tainted Southerners a part of their grand plan.”

  Albert gave him a blank stare. “What a pity,” he retorted in a bored tone.

  “Damned elitists, is what they are.” Braithwaite warmed to his topic. “It is that sort of Northerner who is responsible for the outbreak of the war in the first place. Enrich himself and to hell with everyone else. Think they’re better than most and masters of all.”

  “A word of caution, Colonel.” Albert’s words came out icy and dipped in venom. “My cousin and I are a part of that consortium. You might find it … ah, unhealthy, Colonel, to hold such a disrespectful attitude toward us. We are a large organization, with tentacles that extend nearly everywhere. I’m not on this train by accident. There are certain instructions for you, some matters the consortium would like you to take care of. You were generously compensated for your past cooperation, were you not?”

  Braithwaite looked discomfited. “That is true. I have no complaint on that score. But I was offered—”

  “I know. A large portion of any state you chose, as your personal fiefdom. Unfortunate that you happened to be from the wrong geographical portion of the country to enjoy such a reward. After all, the South belongs to the North now. It’s honest, hardworking Northern men who should receive the ripest plums to pick. Don’t you think?”

  The ex-colonel grunted in reply, unable to trust his voice. After a pregnant moment of silence, he controlled his emotions. “You mentioned some details I might attend to?”

  “Yes. The West … at least beyond Chicago, where this train stops, is a vast area. There are resources as yet undreamed of. Gold, silver, copper, iron, lumber, and other raw materials. Cattle in Texas, farmland in Kansas, Nebraska, and elsewhere. There will be railroads building. Millions of dollars change hands in those transactions. The consortium wants control of it all. Wants to possess it all. Unfortunately, those who made the westward migration ahead of us are uniformly a rugged independent type who doesn’t conquer easily, or they don’t last long out there. The only alternative is force.

  “That’s something they understand. Superior force. From time to time, certain individuals or business concerns or communities may be in need of persuading. That’s where you come in. You are a competent organizer, a leader of men, and experienced in the applied use of violence. All factors much admired by my fellow members of the organization. We have a proposition to make to you, Colonel Braithwaite.” Albert paused, letting the pressure build on the portly former Rebel.

  “Happy birthday to you!” the sung words ended off key, but sincere.

  April fourteenth, Jennifer Carmichael’s eighteenth birthday. The occasion had been made even more special by the unexpected arrival of her brother. And, with his help, the presence of Griffin Stark, carried down earlier in the evening, at the table. Also at the festive occasion was Dr. Sutherland, the physician who had saved Griff’s life with his unorthodox scraping procedure. Soft lamplight illuminated the Carmichael town house living room. Candles glowed on the white frosting of the cake and a large bowl of preserved peaches from Oaklawn sat beside it on a low, rosewood table. The heavy, brocaded drapes had been pulled aside and the cool, pleasant air of an early spring came in through the damask curtains. The dark red-flocked wallpaper flickered as people moved in the room, making dramatic shadow plays of their activities.

  “Thank you all. This is the happiest birthday I have had in four years,” Jenny bubbled. She lifted her dark ruby glass of claret and toasted the three men. “And, it’s because the three of you are here.”

  “Hurrumph! Had we all known a year ago that you had not reached this exalted age, my dear, I am sorely afraid you would not have been admitted to the hospital staff. Your remarkable record this past year, however, indicates the foolishness of such a possibility.” Dr. Sutherland lifted his slender tulip of port. “To the, ah, birthday girl. Many more.”

  Jennifer executed a graceful pirouette, her crinoline petticoats rustling, and sat beside Griff. “You’re smiling. I’m glad for that.”

  “I’m happy because you are. And the war is over.”

  “And you are healing nicely, young man. If there isn’t a Mrs. Stark somewhere, I might call to notice what a marvelous catch is our Miss Carmichael.” The sudden, stricken look on Jennifer’s face unsettled the doctor. He strongly suspected he had tread in tender territory. “Ah … that is … at least as the Bard put it, ‘A
ll’s well that ends well.’”

  “Thank you, Dr. Sutherland,” Griff replied tactfully.

  Damien poured more wine for all of them. “It’s going to be difficult, getting the South back on its feet again. Can I count on your help, Griff?”

  “I’m tired of uniforms, Damien. And I doubt that the Union officer corps will be ready to welcome former Confederate officers with open arms for some while yet.”

  “That aspect aside, would you work on whatever staff I am assigned to as a civilian consultant? You know a great deal more about the South than all the men I’ve been fighting with combined. It would … help heal the scars of war.”

  “If every Yankee officer felt the same urge toward compassion as you, Damien, then perhaps this war would never have been fought. Any such plan is contingent on whether or not I regain the use of my legs, isn’t it?”

  “That is a foregone conclusion as far as I am concerned. Of course you are going to walk again. You will even if I have to resign my commission and come back there to help you do so. Consider what I’m asking, Griff., It would be a chance to insure … justice for the South.”

  “You think the terms of the peace harbor a chance that there won’t be justice?”

  The group near the table looked embarrassed. Damien picked up the challenge. “Mr. Lincoln has himself called for a plan of reconstruction without recrimination. Some of the radical Republicans from Ohio and, unfortunately, Henry Davis from here in Maryland are beating the drum for repressive measures, permanent denial of franchise, all sorts of things. Lincoln stopped them in sixty-three with a pocket veto. He won’t let them get away with it now.”

  Prophetically for all in the room, the discussion ended with the thud of hurried hoofbeats followed by a rush of boot heels on the porch. A knock resounded through the town house. Jennifer went to answer.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” a strange voice spoke from the open door. “Is Lieutenant Colonel Carmichael here, ma’am?”