"Let me guess," Cruickshank asked, "you're a Union man, aren't you?"
"And if I admit to that, do I get arrested?"
"No. We're not like Lincoln, who's arrested thousands."
"Well, before you and your men came and took over Baltimore, we had business here. Good pay. I've let go of nearly all my crews. Men of mine are starving, thanks to you."
"I don't see any colored around here," Cruickshank said.
The yard boss laughed.
"With you graybacks coming? Every last one took off,
most likely working the yards up in Wilmington or Philadelphia now. I lost some good men, thanks to you."
"I could say the same thing," Cruickshank replied. "Look, you and I are stuck in the middle of all this. I drove wagons before the war; you put together trains. I've got orders, and I'm told you'll get orders, too. Our civilian boss, Mr. Benjamin, is supposed to be meeting with your boss right now to set up the contracts, but I was told to get over here right now and start things moving. So either we work together, or I'll shoot you here and now, say you attacked me, then get my men to take over."
"You do that, you'll have a riot on your hands," McDougal replied with a smile. "Besides, what kind of gentleman are you to give a man a drink, then shoot him?"
"I'm no gentleman."
"I thought all you Southern officers were gentlemen. And besides, you sound a bit like a damn Englishman."
"Listen, McDougal. Someday I'll tell you my hard-luck story. I'm not Irish, but the slums of Liverpool are just as tough for a working-class English boy. I'm an officer because I was a civilian teamster before the war running supplies to army posts out in Texas. You name the place and I'll run a hundred wagons to it, and be damned to whoever gets in my way. I've killed more than my share of Comanche and a few drunken Irish, too, when they tried their hand at thieving from my wagon train."
McDougal looked at him and burst out laughing, taking the bottle back, and after a long drink, handed it back.
Outside the boxcar the laughter was a signal for everyone to relax, and more bottles came out. Cruickshank watched them for a second. It was fine that they mingled, but get them too drunk and maybe a brawl would start just for the hell of it, unraveling all the concessions he had been forced to make so far.
"Four trains it is that you want?" McDougal asked. "That's what I figure. Actually would prefer six, but figure I'd start with four." "What the hell for?"
There was no sense in lying about it. Once they started loading up, the whole yard would see it. "Ever seen a pontoon bridge?" "You mean a bridge on boats?"
"Yes, damn them. Boats that you lay planking across. I hate the damn things." "That's your job?"
"My curse. Each boat is nearly thirty feet long. It takes a dozen mules to move but one on a road, and if the road is too narrow or twisting ... well, it makes you want to shoot yourself or get drunk. I got forty of 'em, plus the bridging lumber, and I need to get them to Frederick."
"Frederick?" McDougal laughed. "Between you and the Union boys, that line is a mess. Water tanks toppled, temporary bridges ready to fall apart, a helluva mess. The bridge over the Monocacy was blown last year during the fighting around Antietam, and she was a beauty. I helped put it up before the war, and then some dumb rebel blows it apart. The one we got up now is just temporary. You got a helluva job, Major. I wouldn't want it."
Cruickshank pushed the bottle back.
"I'll have a barrel for you tonight if you can at least get things moving."
McDougal picked up the bottle and looked at it.
"Your boys cleaned out every bottle of whiskey in town this last month."
"Like I said, I got barrels of 'em stashed in one of my boats."
"A deal then it is," McDougal announced loud enough that all could hear. "A barrel to get started, a barrel when you get loaded up."
Cruickshank nodded and stood up. Between one drinking man and another a deal could always be reached—when one had liquor and the other didn't.
The two shook hands. McDougal's grip was tight, rock-solid, and for a few seconds they played the game, the two looking straight at each other, neither relenting.
Finally, McDougal relaxed his grip and smiled.
"Guess you're not a gentleman after all," he said. "You're damn right," Cruickshank replied without a smile.
He jumped down from the boxcar, McDougal by his side.
"I'll be back in an hour," Cruickshank announced and walked off. His second in command, Captain Sigel, fell in by his side.
"So you made the deal," Sigel asked. "Two barrels. Supposedly the good stuff." "Sir?"
"You know what to do. Empty the good stuff out and refill it with some of the white lightning you boys brewed up. Get some strong tea into it to color it right. That old Irishman will never know the difference. I'll be damned if he'll guzzle down my ten-year-old whiskey."
Cruickshank walked on, stepping around a pile of barrels leaking molasses, cursing as the sticky fluid clung to his boots.
"Damn job," he sighed. It was better than getting shot at, but moving those damn boats, what a rotten way to fight the war.
Baltimore
1.30
Mr. Secretary, you realize the difficult position you are placing the Baltimore and Ohio in with this request?"
Judah Benjamin, secretary of state for the Confederate government, smiled at James Garrett, superintendent of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, but the smile hid an evergrowing frustration. "Sir, we are simply talking business," Judah replied warmly, putting on his best negotiating smile, "a business deal for which the B and O will be fully compensated."
"I could take a strictly business approach to this, Mr. Secretary, and ask how my company will be compensated. Are you prepared to pay up front for our services? Contracts with the federal government are paid for in cash, and on time. I am in no position to accept payment in Confederate money, which both you and I know has no real value."
"I understand your concern, sir. My salary is paid with that same money."
Garrett did not smile at the joke.
"Sir, I'll personally sign a promissory note, payable in gold upon the ending of hostilities."
"And suppose you lose?"
"Given our current position, the successes of the previous months, I think that unlikely," Judah replied.
Garrett was silent and Judah could almost read his thoughts. If Garrett agreed to contract with the Confederate army for troop and supply movements and the North then wins, he could very well find himself out of a job at the very least, perhaps even in jail if Lincoln was feeling vindictive. If the South should win, cooperation now would bring advantages after the war, but even then payment might take years, and the North could very well turn around and seize Baltimore and Ohio property outside of the Confederacy.
"I know you are in a difficult position, Mr. Garrett," Judah said smoothly. "I don't envy you at this moment."
"And if I don't cooperate?" Garrett asked coolly.
"Sir, I am afraid we will have to seize your line. There will be no payment, and after our victory the Confederate government might not be in a position to look favorably upon your property and the ownership by stockholders outside of the Confederacy."
"That does sound like a threat," Garrett replied sharply.
"It is not intended to be," Judah lied. "It is just a simple reality."
"If you do seize the line, realize that many of my workers will not cooperate. You'll have to man the lines with your own personnel."
"I know that, and we can do it."
Judah did not add that at this very moment one of Longstreet's officers was already down in the railyard negotiating with the workers there. He had suggested to Lee that the two meetings take place at the same time. Garrett was a known Union man, and it was best to be ready to move quickly if he refused to cooperate.
It was now Garrett's turn to smile.
"You don't have the logistical know-how," he replied, voice even and soft. "You
don't have an organization like the United States Military Railroad, nor a man like Haupt or Dodge to run it for you. Is there a single man with your army now who can organize and run scores of trains, perhaps a hundred or more, as you've requested? I don't think so."
"That is why I am appealing to you," Judah said, still forcing his diplomatic smile.
"I think I will have to convene a meeting of the board of directors for this," Garrett announced.
Judah sighed. Garrett was taking the standard dodge. He will not make a decision either way and therefore will come out clean. If the South wins, he can claim his hands were tied by his board, fire a few of them, and come out of it position intact. If the North wins, he can claim to have made a heroic stand.
"And how long will convening this board meeting take?" Judah asked.
'To get a quorum? A week or two, and it will mean obtaining passes of transit through your lines for our members who are now in Northern territory."
"We don't have weeks," Judah said, an edge of anger to his voice now. "We need the line starting today."
"Then, sir, I am afraid I cannot help you at this moment," Garrett said, folding his hands across his waist.
"Then, sir, I must inform you that by the authority I hold in the government of the Confederate States of America, I am seizing control of your line for the duration, and compensation will not be offered."
"Be my guest," Garrett said calmly. "And I wish you luck with it."
Ten Miles South of Carlisle, Pennsylvania, on the Cumberland Pike
August 23, 1863 6:30 P.M.
It was impossible to conceal who he was. The word had raced down the column hours ahead of his approach, and cheer upon cheer greeted him as he rode along the side of the road. His escort, a troop of cavalry, guided him around side paths, through cuts in the fence, and across fields to try to disrupt, as little as possible, the flow of the march moving at flood tide down the Cumberland Pike.
Passing an Illinois regiment, he got a resounding cheer. All semblance of marching discipline broke down as the men swarmed off the road to the fence flanking the pike, calling out his name.
He did not want to slow their advance, but at the sight of the Illinois state flag the emotion he felt was too much to ignore, especially when he recognized a captain in the ranks. He had once been a boy hanging around the law offices, running errands for a few pennies, then grown, gone off to school, and now to war.
Lincoln trotted over, reined in, leaned over the fence, and extended his hand.
"Robert Boers, isn't it?" "Yes, sir!"
"How are your folks?" "Just fine, sir." "And you?"
"Delighted to see you, Mr. President," the captain cried excitedly, the men of his company pressing in close, extending hands as well.
Lincoln couldn't resist. He dismounted and climbed onto the top rail of the fence and sat down, grateful when one of the men offered up his canteen. "Hot day, isn't it, boys?"
"Sure is sir," a sergeant cried, "but we'll make it a dang sight hotter for Bobbie Lee before long."
A resounding cheer went up with that, and Lincoln couldn't help but grin.
As he gazed out at their upturned faces, a smile creased his lined features. For the moment he would not think of all that was still to come, what these boys would have to face in the days ahead.
They were a tough-looking group. These were not the baby-faced recruits that he used to see on the drill fields back in the winter of 1861. These men had endured two hard years of campaigning in some of the worst climes in America. They reminded him of the line from Shakespeare in their appearance, having a "lean and hungry look," and in those hardened eyes and bronzed features he saw men of war and yet, down deep, neighbors, friends, still quintessentially American. They were professionals at what they did now, but given their druthers, all of them, to a man, would rather be back home tending their fields, working in their shops, perhaps getting some more schooling, perhaps trekking farther west to find new land to break to the plow and grow crops on, to raise a family on.
Several shouted out names of their kin he might know, one said he was born in New Salem and remembered him as postmaster, another proclaimed Lincoln had won a suit for his daddy and then, laughing, said his daddy had yet to pay the bill.
"Well, son, tell your dad the debt is canceled and you did the canceling for him." More laughter.
He looked back toward the road. A brigade commander was watching, indulgent but also obviously impatient at the delay that had stopped the column.
"Boys, you gotta get back on the march now. That general back there, usually he's got to salute me, but on this day I think I better salute him and follow what he wants."
Lincoln offered a friendly salute and the general, grinning, returned it. Officers herded the men back onto the pike, shouting for double time, for them to pick up and fall back in with the next regiment in line, which was now several hundred yards down the road.
" 'Bye, Abe, God bless ya, Abe!"
The years had fallen away from them for a moment: They were boys off on an adventure, acting as if they had just met a favorite schoolmaster, who now had to shoo them along back to their work, the work of killing.
The brigade commander nodded his thanks, then, a bit shyly, rode up to Lincoln and formally saluted and extended his hand.
"Sir, it's a mighty big surprise to see you up here in Pennsylvania. Rumors have been coming down the line for hours that you were on the road behind us."
"Just thought I'd come up for a little look around," Lincoln said, again smiling.
"How did you get here, sir?"
"Well, General, let's just call that our military secret for now. But between us I rode over on one of Thaddeus Lowe's balloons."
The general looked at him for a few seconds, almost believing him, and then, shaking his head, broke into laughter.
"I'll remember that one, sir, you had me going for a second."
"Glad I can still do it at times."
"God bless you, sir. I better get moving. I think you'll find General Grant coming back shortly. Word came down the line from headquarters that if you were seen to have you escorted in. I think he's right in front of us."
"Then I think I'll wait right here," Lincoln said. "It's been a long day of travel. I'd like to sit for a spell."
The general saluted again and rode off.
Lincoln passed the word to the commander of his escort regiment for the boys to take a break and dismount. The colonel detailed men off to line the road to keep the men back and moving.
To Abe's delight, a sergeant came up grinning and shyly offered him an apple. It was still a bit green, but he didn't care. Taking out his paring knife he opened it up and studiously began to peel the fruit, doing it with skill, one continual loop of reddish-green skin coiling down from the apple as he turned it in his hand.
Another regiment came by, boys from Ohio whom he had passed at a near gallop minutes before. They broke into "Three cheers for Old Abe!" as they marched by. He looked up and nodded, smiling, enjoying the moment.
Something inside him whispered that what he was doing now was exactly what he was supposed to be doing. He was president of the United States, and far too many took that office far too seriously. Not serious on the points that mattered, but rather in all the folderol, all the ceremonies, all the scraping and bowing, all the maneuvering and backslapping and backroom dealing.
These boys constituted the army created by his words, his dreams, his hopes. They were a part of him and he was a part of them. Being president for them at this moment meant he was to sit on a rail, peel an apple, cut it into slices, and munch them slowly to savor the tart flavor—and be seen as president doing it.
It was not so long ago I used to do just this. Sit atop a fence or lean on it, chatting with a constituent, or when riding the circuit, to stop at a farm for a drink of water, ask for directions, talk of weather and wind, summer heats and winter storms, find out who was dying and who was being born.
&n
bsp; He ran his free hand along the fence rail and smiled inwardly. Just such a rail had helped him win the presidency, at the moment when loyalists carried it onto the convention floor in Chicago, claiming it was a rail Old Abe had split with his very own hands as a youth.
How I used to hate that work, he thought. Backbreaking labor for a few bits a day. A friend had once said if you were a failure at everything else, or too lazy for anything else, there was always schoolteaching or law. Schoolteaching was out, what with the few months of education he had ever received, so law it had been.
And yet, at times, he longed for moments like this, to sit on a fence, smell the honeysuckle and late summer flowers, the scent of ripening corn, and feel the warm, gentle breeze.
He was lost in such thoughts for a few moments until another regiment approached, more Ohio boys, who shouted with joy at the sight of him, taking off their caps and waving as they passed.
Someone had told him that, at Fredericksburg, Lee had said, "It is well that war is so terrible, or we should grow too fond of it."
At this moment he found he was fond of it, in fact, inwardly thrilled by the sight of it, if but for a moment he could suppress all that was implied behind this ceaseless parade marching by.
Where he had stopped was atop a low rise, just a gentle elevation of a few dozen feet that the pike came up and over, straight as an arrow. Looking either way he could see for miles, the road choked with men, artillery, wagons, all flowing ever southwestward. The steady tramp of the men echoed, almost timed to the beating of his heart.
They looked like tough campaigners. He always felt that the boys of the Army of the Potomac were too burdened down. Those darn foolish French caps, the kepis which did a man little good; a broad-brimmed felt hat was far better and to his mind looked far more American in spirit. These western troops carried blanket rolls slung over shoulders, rifles slung as well, though as the regiments passed him, officers called for the men to come to port arms in salute. The sound of marching, the rattle of canteens and tin cups, the shouts, the clatter of hooves on the macadam pavement, all blended together into what could almost be music for his soul.
"Sir, I think the general is coming," a lieutenant from his escort cried, pointing south.
Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 Page 9