FROM THE FOURTEENTH AMENDMENT TO THE
CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES
ON THE TENTH OF JANUARY, THE OLD GENTLEMAN HAD RETURNED when the clerk unlocked the office. “Morning, sir. It is almighty raw.”
The clerk hung up his wool overcoat wondering how the old gentleman bore the cold without one. Excepting that lack, the gentleman was an exemplar of fashionable attire, albeit from an earlier decade: the high collar beneath which the elaborately rumpled cravat presented its solemn flourish; the narrow-shouldered, broad-lapeled frock coat that ended below the knees, on his silk waistcoat—my goodness, were those faded yellow butterflies? The gentleman’s ruffle-fronted shirt (the same shirt the gentleman had worn the day before) had been the height of fashion during the Mexican War—as had the gentleman’s silver-headed ebony stick and the black silk gloves whose limp fingers splayed against the yellowed silk lining of the stovepipe hat clamped under the gentleman’s arm. His high boots were shone to a fare-thee-well but broken behind the toe caps and the insteps.
The gentleman’s calloused hands bore faint hints of bootblacking.
Leading the way into William Mahone’s offices on the second floor of the A.M.&O.’s Petersburg depot, the clerk repeated yesterday’s caveat. “Sir, I cannot promise you the General will come in today.”
“Surely he must—one day.” The gentleman reclaimed the high-backed wooden chair he had occupied from yesterday noon until the clerk had snuffed the lamps and gone home.
The clerk’s office was lined with blueprint cabinets. Tall windows overlooked the railroad yard. The clerk knelt to fill the potbellied stove and said, “As I explained yesterday, the General is supervising repairs. I tele-graphed him you were here.”
The gentleman smiled wearily. “Since you say my invoice needs General Mahone’s signature before I can be paid, I shall wait for his signature. Tell me, sir: do Mahone’s creditors often collect here? I fancy a gathering of creditors relating tales of destitution. Some testifying how their children are adapting to the county poorhouse, others how their homes stink of lye soap—now their wives are taking in laundry from families who are not General Mahone’s creditors.”
Water was seeping from the gentleman’s boots and puddling under his seat. Mahone’s clerk coughed. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir.”
The fire crackled and chuckled in a self-satisfied manner, but its warmth did not travel far from its ornate casting and the old gentleman’s lips were blue.
ANNOUNCED BY HIS FOOTFALLS, a plump young man clattered up the stairs and strode directly to the stove, hands extended to its glow. “Whew! Cold? I’ll say it’s cold! Even we yankees call this winter! Paul, where’s Little Billy?”
“High Bridge, Mr. Barnwell,” Paul said. “You know the General—he doesn’t give a hang about paperwork. He goes where the engineering needs done.”
“Billy’s a ‘live man,’ all right. Samuel Gatewood, damned if I saw you there, quiet as a church mouse. How are you, good sir! How are you! How is Pauline?”
“Good day, sir. Have you business with General Mahone?”
Eben waved his hand. “T’ain’t important. Say, Paul, fire off a telegram to the General. We must have a meeting—tonight, if possible. Sir, what brings you to Petersburg?”
“My inability to satisfy my creditors.”
“Ah.”
The clerk threw the brass switch so electricity could pass from his batteries to his instrument. Hunched over his device, he produced the clicks and clacks that serve telegraphers for introductions.
“Is Pauline in good health?” Eben inquired.
“Sir, since postal service has resumed, Pauline can write you whenever she wishes.”
With hands set firmly on his hips and his open, cheerful countenance, Eben Barnwell resembled a jolly Toby jug. “Dear me, sir. I’m afraid I have offended Miss Pauline. I intended no offense, I assure you.”
The clerk’s machine emitted a spate of clacks, which he translated for Eben Barnwell.
“Satisfactory. Mahone will sup with me tonight. Have you tried the Ballard’s oysters, sir? I heartily recommend them.”
Unwittingly, Samuel Gatewood licked his lips. “I am fond of oysters. Before the War, I often repasted on oysters.”
“Well, then,” Eben cried. “That’s the thing. You must beard the lion. Mahone won’t set foot in Richmond while the legislature is in session. But having refused to ratify the Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution, our farsighted legislators have decamped to their districts.”
“Do I understand you disapprove?”
“Sir, the Southern states seceded from the Union and Thad Stevens and his congressional Republicans believe Virginia was the lead state in that rebellion. Mr. Stevens has authored an amendment to the United States Constitution to disenfranchise those who recently attempted to break up the Union—and haughty Virginia has refused to endorse it. I am no politician, sir, I am a businessman. But business suffers when political vision falters. Sir, what will Mr. Thaddeus Stevens do now that Virginia has rejected his amendment?”
“It is vile legislation, sir. Under its provisions, those who defended their state would lose their franchise. Under this legislation, Duncan—my son Duncan—could never vote again. Why, under its provisions, General Mahone would be deprived of his franchise.”
Eben laughed. “That is funny! The president of the Atlantic, Mississippi & Ohio unable to vote? Dear, dear me.”
“Sir, I find your humor distasteful.”
“Have I got in wrong with you? Pray accept my apologies. If we can’t make jokes, we would be awfully gloomy. Please forgive a simple fellow who wishes no man harm. You know, sir, I would be your friend. I can’t think of when I met a gentleman I so admired. Won’t you forgive me, please?”
“Sir, I do not know what to make of you.”
“Me? I am a simple fellow, certainly no saint. My vices so outweigh my virtues that if set in the balance, vice’s pan would thud to earth while virtue’s would soar into the heavens. I am a foolish lump of a man, but I can provide oysters!
“Please accompany me, sir. Little Billy will come to the Ballard Hotel and straight into your ambuscade.”
THE TRAIN BOASTED a blue car, a red, and a third which may once have been green or gray. The locomotive was wrinkled, as if it had been bashed by a gargantuan baby and indifferently mended by indulgent parents. Iron patches covered bullet holes in its boiler.
That locomotive’s stack spewed cinders and smoke. Stoves in the car contributed to the fug. Wet wool and unwashed flesh persuaded Samuel Gatewood to sit beside the window, which he forced open a crack.
At four cents per mile, the eighteen miles from Petersburg to Richmond, Samuel’s ticket had exhausted his cash. Samuel Gatewood could not—would not—ask his son Duncan for help. He’d no return ticket to Stratford and should he fail with General Mahone, Samuel faced a one-hundred-seventy-mile walk home.
“Mr. Gatewood, since Miss Pauline has not replied to my entreaties, I must inquire of you. How is the dear child?”
“My niece is in good health. Ought else she must tell you herself.”
Samuel was biding at Cousin Molly’s Richmond house, which would have been warmer with coal for the fireplaces and brighter if the illuminating gas were connected. Last night, swaddled in quilts, by candlelight Samuel Gatewood had read Ecclesiastes. “Barnwell, this is not a smoking car.”
Eben promptly pushed his cigar out the window. “Is Pauline affianced to someone else? I have confessed my error. I have repented and, sir, my offense was less than you think!”
Stratford’s mill wasn’t turning. Stratford’s people lived on stored potatoes, turnips, winter squash, and the squirrels or rabbits Jack the Driver trapped.
Samuel hadn’t met a payroll since September and owed three hundred dollars to his workers. His workers or their wives often came to Stratford to beg Samuel for their due.
The First National Bank of Warm Springs had refused Samuel more credit and
demanded the money he owed.
Samuel Gatewood understood that he had been wealthy once, but he could not actually recall that happy state. His confidence in the future, in his ability to restore his family competency; that confidence belonged to a younger man. Someone like this Barnwell fellow.
That young man noted that the Central Pacific Railroad had passed entirely through Wyoming. “The railroad will change everything, sir. It will civilize the indians and everyone will be happy.”
“ ‘In all points as he came so shall he go: and what profit hath he that hath labored for the wind.’ ” Samuel Gatewood cleared his throat. “A Bible verse. Do you believe God is punishing us?”
“Sir, why would He?”
When they reached Richmond, Samuel would walk the half mile or so to Cousin Molly’s house, where he would remove his boots and stuff them with dry rags. He would eat an apple.
“Pauline has uncommonly strong moral sentiments,” Eben ventured. “That day, after the Hevener trial (you’ll remember, sir, we did ask you to accompany us), after Hevener’s charges were dismissed, I approached Aunt Opal and, thinking to console and turn her thoughts to happier matters, I asked if she’d give me driving lessons. That’s the offense for which Pauline punishes me. My, she was angry! Eben Barnwell was ‘heartless,’ he was ‘unfeeling.’ I tried to make amends, but Pauline would have none of it. Sir, those driving lessons were Pauline’s own idea!”
The air was so brisk at the Richmond depot it took Samuel’s breath away. From the platform, men and women dispersed to homes or places of business. Samuel envied them their destinations.
“Mr. Gatewood, would you join me, please? After we sup I’ll send you home by carriage and this evening fetch you back. I don’t know if you can extract your full due from Little Billy, but I’d bet you can get payment on account.”
Samuel pictured a rich broth of fresh Chesapeake oysters. There was something corrupt about an oyster stew—so many creatures’ lives, each precious in God’s sight, given for one man’s supper. Samuel said, “Pauline has been unhappy but would not say why, and Miss Semple does not betray her confidences. Pauline’s mother, Leona, was delicate. Semples are more sensitive than Gatewoods. Abigail’s favorite aunt, Elizabeth Semple, passed on at nineteen. She wrote poetry. Reams and reams of poetry. Strong morals and delicate sensibilities are a difficult combination. Have you ever stopped to think, Mr. Barnwell, how insignificant we are?”
Eben said, “Be assured, sir, we’ll feel more significant after we dine!”
New owners had restored the Ballard Hotel to its antebellum splendor and the servants were familiar. The claret made Samuel Gatewood’s head hum and the oyster stew was as good as he remembered.
Thus it happened that Eben Barnwell would lend Samuel Gatewood two thousand dollars until General Mahone was able to pay, and as surety, Barnwell would accept Stratford’s mortgage. It was such a familiar, pleasant meal, Samuel could not think why he had ever disliked the young man.
CHAPTER 21
MILITARY DISTRICT #1
By proclamation of the United States Congress, March 2, 1867:
Whereas no legal state governments or adequate protection exists in the Rebel states of Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Mississippi, Alabama, Louisiana, Florida, Texas and Arkansas; and whereas it is necessary that peace and good order should be enforced in said states until loyal and republican state governments can be legally established; therefore,
Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled, that said Rebel states shall be divided into military districts and made subject to the military authority of the United States as hereinafter proscribed, and that for that purpose Virginia shall constitute the first district . . .
CHAPTER 22
INCIDENT ON THE RICHMOND & DANVILLE RAILROAD
On the fifth day of April last year as the easternbound passenger train was passing the switch of the branch track leading to the coal pits, about 12 1/2 miles from Richmond, a pin which secured the lever by which the switch rails are moved gave way just as the engine and all the cars of the train, and the first truck of the last or “ladies’ ” car, had passed the point; as the pin broke, the switch lever fell downward, causing the switch rails to be moved from their proper place, by which the wheels of the hindermost truck of the ladies’ car were thrown off the track; no chance being afforded to give notice to the engineer, nor for him to stop if notified, the train continued to move forward for a distance of about three hundred feet, when the car broke loose from the car next in front and was precipitated down the bank, which at this point is about fifty feet high, making in its fall about one and a half revolutions, by which the following named persons were injured:
Killed—Mrs. Trotter of Pittsylvania County.
Injured—Mrs. Green T. Pace, daughter of Mrs. Trotter, seriously.
Mrs. S. E. Hayward of Richmond, arm broken.
Mr. & Mrs. J. C. Harkness of Washington, DC, both slightly.
Mrs. J. C. Hobson of Richmond, slightly.
Mrs. M. B. Anderson of Richmond, slightly.
Mrs. L. H. Dance of Richmond, slightly.
Mrs. R. A. Denier of Richmond, slightly.
Mrs. C. E. Melcher of Germany, slightly.
Mr. Robert Green of Richmond, slightly.
Mr. J. Heineker of New York, slightly.
Bishop John Early, seriously.
Mr. Isaac Overby of Charlotte County, seriously.
Mrs. Samuel Gatewood of Highland County, seriously.
All the injured parties have recovered except Mrs. Gatewood, whose injury was a fracture of the spine, which caused her death one week after the occurrence of the accident, notwithstanding the most skilled medical aid procured. No blame could be attached to any of those employed upon the train, which was, in accordance with orders, moving at a moderate rate of speed in passing that point. The construction of the switch fastening was of the general and uniform pattern which had been in use upon the road from its opening.
From the Richmond & Danville Railroad’s annual Report to the Virginia Railroad Commission
“HE RIGHT, YOU KNOW,” AUNT OPAL MUTTERED. “PREACHER BUY a first-class ticket. Why he got to sit in that smoking car with the riffraffs?”
Abigail felt her headache returning. Every mile of this interminable journey had been lengthened by Aunt Opal’s opinions. “Reverend Cook has justice on his side,” Abigail said tightly. “But must he insist on it?”
April 5, 1867, the two women waited on the Petersburg Depot platform to board the Richmond train. Abigail hadn’t traveled for years and this trip to visit her new grandchild might have been happier if Abigail hadn’t given way to Christian impulse and invited Aunt Opal to accompany her.
Now Opal smiled her emancipated smile—a smile rich in irony; a smile that saw the world as bleak as it was and anticipated no improvement. “We ain’t ’sisted on justice since we was drug to these shores,” she observed. “Would have got whipped if’n we ’sisted.”
Negroes who had been polite before the War had become so disagreeable. Sometimes Abigail believed negroes had been freed principally to try the nerves of polite white ladies like herself!
The car directly behind the cinder-belching locomotive, the smoking car, was assigned to sports and negroes. Whites traveling with a body servant were often dismayed when respectable servants were ordered into the malodorous car with the drunken whites who actually preferred such accommodation. The third car of the train was reserved for ladies and whites.
“I am a minister of the Gospel of Jesus Christ,” Reverend Fields Cook repeated, “serving Richmond’s First African Baptist Church.” He coughed. “I will be a delegate to the Republican convention, twelve days hence.”
White passengers were impatient and the engineer was leaning from his cab to assess the delay.
The harried conductor ran fingers through his thinning hair. “Don’t matter who you are,” the con
ductor said. “Like I said: ladies’ car is for whites, which you ain’t.”
A portly white man offered mediation: “Sir, I am Bishop Early of Farmville. Although I am Episcopal, Reverend Cook is my brother in Christ. We do not object to his presence among us.”
A middle-aged planter demurred. “I object, sir. A negro male among our wives and daughters?”
The bishop said, “In 1861, my own dear daughter was escorted to Southern Seminary by our negro coachman, Jim. Jim discharged his responsibilities to my entire satisfaction.
“That was then and this is now,” the planter retorted. “Niggers ain’t what they was.”
“I remind you, sir, that we are equal in the sight of God.”
“Maybe so,” the conductor said, “but not in the sight of the Richmond & Danville. My orders are, ‘No niggers in the ladies’ car.’ If you don’t like it, take it up with the superintendent.”
Bishop Early spread his hands. “I’m sorry, Reverend,” he said. “We cannot expect Christ’s justice in this sinful world.”
Unsmiling, Reverend Cook said, “Sir, your conscience is clear.”
“Same like that Hevener boy,” Aunt Opal muttered. “Pompey kilt, and that boy don’t spend one day in jail for killin’ him.”
This particular observation had sauced every discomfort, large and small, during this tedious journey. The noonday sun made Abigail’s headache throb.
Reverend Cook said, “I will inform your employers of this outrage.”
“Tell whoever you damn well want to,” the conductor muttered so everyone could pretend they hadn’t heard.
Aunt Opal and the Reverend Cook went to the smoking car while the white passengers boarded the ladies’ car, where the planter expanded his discourse on negro morals pre- and postwar with ladies too courteous to avoid him. Bishop Early fluttered his newspaper disapprovingly.
With a squeal, lurch, and Vesuvian blast of cinders, the locomotive shouldered its load. Abigail took her knitting from her reticule. Her grandchild’s socks would be identical to those she had knitted, goodness—was it so many years ago?—for her infant children Duncan and Leona. Baby Catesby Gatewood—what a touching tribute to Pauline’s father. Duncan and Catesby had been more like brothers than brothers-in-law.
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