The Thackery Journal

by John Holt

  Miles had been right all the time. He said there would be a war, and he said that the South would lose. Thackery looked up and across to the other side of the valley. Where was Miles he wondered? Was he other there, on the opposite side? He held up his field glasses and scanned the area. He saw no one.

  He suddenly felt his arm being pulled. Then he heard the voice of Sergeant Trelor gently coaxing him.

  “Sir, sir, you have to come away.” Jacob looked around and rubbed his eyes. “Any survivors have retreated to the south,” the Sergeant said. “The General has ordered a retreat. We have to re-group and get as far away from here as we can.”

  Jacob nodded. He knew that the Sergeant was right.

  “The men are waiting for you, sir,” the Sergeant continued. “They are just below the ridge.”

  Thackery looked out across the fields littered with the dead and dying. Tears started to fall. He turned his face away. He wanted to go home so much.

  At that moment Jacob knew that it would be many more long years before the war would be over. He also knew that the South had all but lost the war. How many more would die needlessly defending their dream. The dream was over, the hopes shattered …

  * * *

  “April 7th 1862 – Today many good men died, on both sides. Young Dan Taylor, and Frank Marsh, both shot down. Their bodies left where they fell, with no time for a Christian burial. Today the South has suffered another major defeat, and we have been ordered to retreat. I do not think the South will ever recover. All is lost …”

  he

  PART TWO

  _______________________

  SHATTERED HOPES

  Chapter Thirteen

  June 1864 - Fort Stevens, Washington

  The days passed into weeks, the weeks into months. The months became years. That first Christmas had come and gone long ago. Two more Christmases had come, and gone since. The war had waged on with no end in sight, and it was now entering its fourth year. With the recent re-election of Lincoln it was unlikely that there would be an end to the conflict any time soon. It had not gone well for the south. In fact it had gone very badly. Thousands of young lives had been lost. Thousands of others had been maimed, either physically or mentally. They would carry their scars for the rest of their lives.

  In all of those years Thackery had neither heard of, nor seen, his friend Miles. He had been home two or three times, but there had never been any news of him. Even Miles’ father had received no word from him since the day that he had left.

  “I have no son called Miles,” he replied when questioned.

  Each visit home had been worse than the last, becoming more and more difficult. His mother became more and more upset whenever it was time for him to leave. He could not stand the stress any more. It was more and more obvious that her health was suffering, and the partings did not help. He had talked it over with his father, and had vowed that he would not go home again until the war was over. It was considered to be for the best. His father had reluctantly agreed. The war couldn’t last much longer anyway. Another few months maybe and it would all be over.

  * * *

  Captain Miles Drew read the message for a third time. It was unbelievable. What were they thinking of? Didn’t they know there was a war going on? He looked at it once again. It was a mistake, it had to be. He threw the paper down on to his desk hoping that it would somehow just disappear, or at least the contents would be different when he picked it up again.

  There was a knock on his door. He looked up and reached for the paper. “Come in,” he called out.

  The door opened, and Sergeant O’Reilly entered. He moved to the centre of the room, and smartly saluted. “You sent for me, sir?” he said.

  “I did indeed, Sergeant,” replied Miles. “Take a seat.”

  The Sergeant removed his hat and sat down. Miles started to tap the desk, as he looked at the note once again. Then he passed it to the Sergeant. “Take a look at that.”

  The Sergeant read the note, and looked up. “He’s coming here, sir,” he said, a frown on his face. “The President is coming here. That can’t be right, sir.”

  “No it can’t be right, Sergeant,” replied Miles. “But it is, I’ve already checked. President Lincoln is due here tomorrow afternoon. But first he will be going to the Navy Yards.”

  “Why would he be going there, sir?” asked the Sergeant.

  “Well apparently some troopers are due to arrive by boat sometime tomorrow,” Miles started to explain. “And the President is insisting on going to greet them personally.”

  “That’s madness, sir,” said the Sergeant. “What are they thinking of?”

  “I’m not sure that they are thinking at all,” replied Miles. He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a folder. He placed it on the desk and started to tap on it. “Do you know what this is Sergeant?” he asked.

  “I do, sir,” replied the Sergeant. “They are details of threats on the President’s life.”

  “Correct, Sergeant,” replied Miles. “There are about fifty in there.” He pointed to the folder. “But I’m sure that there have been a whole lot more that we know nothing of.”

  He opened the folder and took out the top sheet. He slid it across the desk. “That came in today.”

  The sergeant looked puzzled, as he started to read the document. “Our country owes all her troubles to him, and God has simply made me the instrument of his punishment.” The Sergeant paused for a moment and shook his head. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Clearly whoever wrote that blames Lincoln for all of the troubles,” replied Miles.

  “If you ask my opinion, sir, it is nothing more than the ranting of a madman, sir.” He passed the paper back to Miles.

  Miles looked at the paper, and shook his head. “I’m not so sure Sergeant,” he said. “The thing is we can’t just ignore it, madman or not.”

  “I doubt that there’s anything to worry about, sir,” said the Sergeant. “Another crank I’d say.”

  “Maybe, but we shall need to be vigilant for the next few days,” said Miles.

  “Do we have any other details?” asked the Sergeant.

  Miles read through the document, and shook his head. “Nothing definite,” he replied. “A name, but it’s all very vague.”

  “What name, sir?”

  “Booth,” replied Miles. “A John Wilkes Booth, he’s an actor apparently.”

  “Anything else, sir?”

  “There are a few other names, probably associates, or maybe other actors, I’m not sure, and that’s it.” He returned the document to the folder, slowly closed it and placed it back into his desk.

  “Sergeant, I want Corporal Thompson and Trooper Crawford here in an hour,” instructed Miles. “And I want ten more good men. I leave the choice up to you. We have some plans to make.”

  * * *

  It was a quarter to one when Miles left the General’s office. His worst fears had been confirmed. It was true the President had decided to visit the Fort the next day. He was expected to leave the White House a little after ten. He was due at the Navy Yards at about ten thirty. He would then travel on to the Fort, and was expected by about one o’clock. He would be accompanied by his friend Mr. Ward Hill Lamon and members of the local police force.

  As if that wasn’t enough, reports were coming in concerning a build-up of Confederate forces just a few miles from the fort. Indications were that an attack was imminent, and certainly within the next few days.

  Miles wondered if the Confederates knew of Lincoln’s planned visit. They must know, Miles concluded. They had their spies. They knew, that was certain. It seemed too much of a co-incidence otherwise. Why oh why had the visit been allowed? Why had it been so widely announced? Why hadn’t the General just told the President, “No, now is not a good time, I’m sorry.”

  Miles smiled. He had to admit that it probably wasn’t the kind of thing you would say to a President. Especially to one who was as determined as Linco
ln was. No there was nothing to be done, Lincoln was coming and that was that. All Miles could do was to make plans for his security. Those plans were to commence at the White House, and not finish until the visit was over.

  * * *

  There was a loud knock on his door, and then it opened. “It’s one o’clock, sir,” said Sergeant O’Reilly. “Everyone is here.”

  The door opened fully, and a number of soldiers marched in, saluted and then stood to attention. “All as you instructed, sir.”

  Miles looked up and nodded an acknowledgement. “At ease men,” he said. “Find a chair and sit down.” He looked at the Sergeant. “We have a lot to do, and not much time to do it in.”

  He waited for the men to settle down, and then outlined the situation.

  “So there you have it gentlemen,” he said as he finished his summation. “The President will be here tomorrow, and it’s up to us to keep him safe.”

  One of the troopers held up their hand. “I understand that the President already had body guards?” he asked. “So why are we needed?”

  Miles had to admit that was a good question, and there wasn’t a simple answer. Certainly the President did have a small security team, but they weren’t a regular team. In fact the only person who was always there was the President life-long friend Ward Hill Lamon.

  “It’s because we are professionals,” suggested the Sergeant.

  “The Sergeant is absolutely correct, we are professionals,” said Miles. “But it’s more than that. At present the Presidents uses members of the local police force. One day they will be with the President, the next day on some other duty. We are going to develop into a dedicated team, whose only task will be the President’s safety.”

  Another trooper put his hand up. “I thought the President disliked military escorts,” he said.

  Another good point thought Miles. The President did at one time hate military escorts. He couldn’t stand the fuss and bother of them. “That’s right,” said Miles. “He has always said that, since he was first elected. I’m glad to say that things have changed a little, and that he will have a small escort with him.”

  “Well then,” the trooper continued. “Why are we needed?”

  “That’s simple,” replied Miles. “The escort will be riding with the President. They won’t be able to watch the crowds like we can. We will be there with the crowd, in the background, but constantly on the alert.”

  “Alert for what?” asked Corporal Thompson.

  “That’s a bit more difficult to answer,” Miles replied. “But we need to keep a watch for anything unusual, any sudden movements, anything strange.” He knew that his answer had been unsatisfactory, but sadly he had to admit that it was the only answer he had at that time. “We’ll learn as we go along,” he added.

  It was clear that the men weren’t quite so convinced.

  “Right, now to tomorrow,” Miles continued. “The President will be leaving the White House at ten o’clock in the morning. I want six men there to follow a short distance behind until he arrives here at the fort.”

  He reached for a street plan of Washington. “I want people here,” he pointed to a location on the map. “And here. And here, and Sergeant I want you at the Navy Yard.”

  * * *

  Willards Hotel, Washington – 1864

  The following morning Miles was located just outside the Willards Hotel, with a clear view of the exit from the White House. The hotel, situated at the corner of 14th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, was where Lincoln had stayed just before his inauguration in 1861. It was an ugly looking building rising some six storeys high, and had one hundred and fifty guest rooms.

  A small crowd had gathered in front of the gates to the White House, and stretched down Pennsylvania Avenue, past the hotel. Miles looked closely at the crowd, not completely sure of what he was looking for. It all seemed perfectly normal. He slowly looked around at the hotel. He looked up at the row upon row of windows. Could someone be lying in wait behind one of the curtains, ready to open fire as soon as Lincoln appeared? He saw nothing suspicious. He turned his attention back towards the gate.

  At exactly ten o’clock the gates opened and a small detachment of cavalry officers came out, followed by a single carriage. A loud cheer resounded from the crowd, the sound mingling with the noise of the horse’s hooves, and the jangling of the harnesses.

  Miles could see the distinctive stovepipe hat that the President always wore. Sitting opposite were two men. Miles recognized Mr. Ward Hill Lamon. He did not know the second man, but guessed that it was one of the Pinkerton detectives that Lincoln seemed to favor these days.

  The carriage drove past and turned towards the south, heading for the Potomac River. Miles watched for a few moments to see if anyone followed. He then mounted his horse and followed at a discreet distance.

  A short time later the carriage arrived at the Navy Yards. Out on the Potomac were a number of small boats, on board were Union troopers from the Sixth Corps, making their way to Fort Stevens ready to bolster defences and confront the Confederate troops led by General Jubal A Early, that were amassing to the north of the city, near Silver Springs. Slowly the boats made their way to the shore where Lincoln waited to greet the soldiers as they disembarked.

  Thirty minutes later all troops had landed, and were lined up at attention ready for departure to Fort Stevens. By which time Lincoln was already on his way to the Fort.

  Ahead of him, his cavalry escort, shouting loudly to soldiers and civilians alike. “Give the road for the President!” People scattered in all directions to avoid the speeding column of horses and the Presidential carriage as it headed out of the city along a wooded road, accompanied by the roar of cannon fire from a battle that was already underway.

  Fort Stevens – Washington (Courtesy “National Park Service”)

  On arriving at the Fort, the President left his carriage and made a tour of the fortifications. He then took his position behind the earthworks of the Fort, and watched the action. At six feet four inches tall, and wearing his stovepipe it was not difficult to pick Lincoln out from a crowd. He made a perfect target for any Reb sharpshooter who was awake.

  “Get down you damn fool,” a voice called out loudly. Instantly Captain Oliver Wendell Holmes knew he had made a mistake. He should never have said that, it was no way to speak to a President. Certainly the warning itself had been fine, but it could have been said in a far better manner. He shook his head. It was too late now and it could not be taken back.

  Abraham Lincoln looked around at the sound and immediately ducked down. As he did so a shot rang out and the Doctor who had been standing next to him was hit. He fell to the ground, and died instantly.

  * * *

  Early’s troops failed to make any headway, and were repulsed by the veteran Union troops. Later in the afternoon, the Union soldiers drove the Confederate skirmishers back from their advanced positions. Early abandoned any thought of taking the city. He withdrew during the night, marching toward White’s Ford on the Potomac, ending his invasion of Maryland.

  “We didn’t take Washington,” Early told his staff officers, “but we scared Abe Lincoln like Hell.”

  * * *

  Captain Miles Drew heaved a sigh of relief as he watched the carriage containing Lincoln, mount the top of the hill, turn and then disappear on its way back to the White House. It had been a long hard day. He closed his office door, and stepped on to the parade ground on his way to his quarters.

  “Good night, sir,” a voice called out.

  Miles looked up at the sound. It was Sergeant O’Reilly. “Good night Sergeant,” he replied.

  “It’s been quite a day,” the Sergeant said as he walked away.

  It certainly has, thought Miles. Quite a day.

  * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  November 1864 - Captain Reynauld

  The small town of Hatfield Junction was nothing more than a row of timber framed buildings, including a trading
post, livery stable, blacksmith, and a small cantina. At the opposite end of the town there was a small meeting house, and a school room. In the surrounding countryside there were a number of small homesteads, and the remains of an old worked out silver mine.

  A few years ago the mine had shown some promise and the town had started to grow. Prospectors came from all other with ideas of riches to be made. And then there came the traders, ready and willing to supply your every need. The railroad followed soon after; the local newspaper The Hatfield Gazette started; and there was talk of a hotel being built. The mine, however, never kept its promise, and was soon shown to be worthless. Plans for the hotel were scrapped. The prospectors left town, many of the traders shut up shop and moved on. For a short while the newspaper continued to struggle on, but then, in time, that too closed down.

  Hatfield Junction was now no more than an insignificant dot on the map. Insignificant that is until this day.

  * * *

  The stagecoach stood outside the small trading post. It had been there for just under two hours. The driver and his shotgun guard were sitting over at the cantina, some thirty or forty yards away. The two passengers, General George Franklin and his aide Captain Jonathan Moore, of the Confederate Army, were inside the back room of the trading post.

  Suddenly there was the loud shrill of the whistle of an arriving train. The train was not normally expected on this day. In fact there were no trains due for three more days. But this was a special train, and this was a special occasion. Although the train showed no form of identification, it had brought two extremely important passengers to this isolated section of track, one hundred miles from the nearest major town, and thirty miles north of the Mexican border.

  * * *

  There was a loud screeching sound as the brakes were applied, and the train shuddered to a stop. Clouds of steam hissed from the pistons, and there was a loud clanking noise as the boiler began to cool down. The engineer and his boiler man descended from the engine cab and made their way over to the far side of the platform, and took shelter from the sun. Two heavily armed guards stepped down from the front car, and took up position a short distance away. No one else left the train, and no one entered it.