Talons of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “A sorry thing this war,” the man said, after lighting a cigar. “After the Union is successful in bringing those damned Southerners to their knees, we should put them all on reservations like we’re doing with the Injuns and let the damned worthless trash die out.”

  “There is right and wrong on both sides in any war, friend,” Jamie said.

  A dangerous glint leaped into the man’s eyes, and he moved his hand, hooking his right thumb inside his wide belt. “Not in this war, friend. No man has the right to hold another as slave.”

  “You’re right,” Jamie agreed, and the man seemed to relax somewhat. But his right hand stayed where it was. Hide-out gun or knife, Jamie thought. Or both. Jamie was carrying a gun and knife of his own. He carried a .36 caliber Colt Baby Dragoon in a shoulder holster, and a knife sheathed on his belt. “Slavery is wrong.”

  “Southerners are filthy trash,” the man said. “You agree with that?”

  The man is determined to force an argument, Jamie silently concluded. But why? And why with me? Jamie placed both hands on the iron railing and stared at the countryside as the train rolled on. Only a few minutes until dusk, Jamie noted, and the stranger’s stance was aggressive. He’s going to jump me! Jamie thought suddenly. But why? “No, mister. I don’t agree with that.”

  “Can’t straddle the fence in this conflict,” the man said, a wild look in his eyes. “And now I know who you are.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re a damned filthy secessionist! Our intelligence was right.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Jamie asked, irritation plain in his words.

  The man’s eyes were burning with a fanatical light. He moved his hand under his coat. “Long live the memory of John Brown!” he said, just as the train began moving through a shady glen. That, coupled with the fast-approaching dusk of evening, plunged the train into near darkness. The man whipped out a knife and lunged at Jamie.

  But Jamie had anticipated trouble. He clamped one huge hand on the man’s wrist and stopped the knife thrust. He hit the man a vicious blow to the jaw with his left fist, and the man’s eyes glazed over. Jamie twisted the man’s knife arm, and the pop of the bone breaking was loud even over the rumblings of the train. The assassin opened his mouth to scream in pain just as Jamie took a step backward for leverage and hurled the man from the platform of the coach. The man bounced and rolled beside the tracks and then lay still. Whether he was alive or dead, Jamie did not know, and did not care.

  “Idiot,” Jamie said. The train rolled on, and he quickly lost sight of the fanatical abolitionist.

  Jamie, of course, had read of the exploits of John Brown, and considered the man to be a fool.

  The car in which Jamie had been riding was the last one of the hookup, so it was doubtful that anyone else had seen the brief confrontation and the man being thrown from the platform—but there was always that chance. Jamie waited for some sort of outcry, but none came.

  Jamie stood for several minutes on the platform, wary now of his surroundings, but still deep in thought.

  Somebody has learned of my invitation to meet with the president and doesn’t want me to attend. But why? I have not committed to either side in this war, and as it stands now, I probably won’t. I have no interest in this war.

  But if there are any more attempts on my life, I will develop a very personal interest in the conflict.

  “And take appropriate action,” he concluded aloud, just as the sun sank over the horizon and night covered the land.

  2

  “I am E.J. Allen,” the short, stocky man said, with a definite Scottish burr to his words. “Welcome to Washington, D.C., Mister MacCallister.”

  The man’s real name was Allan Pinkerton, owner and founder of the soon-to-be-famous Pinkerton Detective Agency. And a man who many say founded the United States Secret Service. During the early days of the Civil War, or the War Between the States, as many called it, Pinkerton often worked under the name of Major E.J. Allen.

  “The carriage is this way, sir,” Allen said.

  Jamie picked up his bag and followed the man through the busy train station. Seated in the closed carriage, Allen asked, “Did you have a pleasant trip, sir?”

  “Very pleasant,” Jamie replied. He had made up his mind to say nothing about the attempt on his life. There were some things he wanted to sort out in his head.

  E.J. Allen said not another word from the train station to the White House. Jamie could sense that the man either did not like him, or did not trust him, or a combination of the two. He also, for some reason, did not believe E.J. Allen was the man’s real name.

  At the rear entrance, Allen finally spoke. “I’ll take your pistol and your knife, Mister MacCallister.”

  “If you get them, you’ll take them,” Jamie told him, then stepped from the carriage and walked up the steps.

  “Sir!” Allen called.

  A tall, almost emaciated appearing man stepped into the lamp-lit doorway. “Let him be,” the man said in a deep, resonant voice. “And leave us alone, please.”

  Inside, Jamie was shown to a private room on the ground floor of the huge, three-story mansion and was served a hot meal by a Negro servant. As he was eating, Lincoln appeared and sat down across the table from him. A cup of coffee was placed in front of the president, and the servant left without saying a word, closing the door behind him.

  Lincoln took a sip of coffee and smiled. “Your admirers said you were a large man, Mister MacCallister. But they did not do you justice. And you do not look your age, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mister President.” Jamie laid down his knife and fork.

  Lincoln waved a hand. “Eat, sir, eat. I know you must be ravenous after such a long and tiresome journey. You eat, I’ll talk. Is the meal to your liking?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s very good.”

  “You’re a very famous man, Mister MacCallister—”

  “Jamie, sir. Please.”

  “Very well. Jamie, it is. Hero of the Alamo. Pioneer. Trailblazer and scout. Indian fighter. I’ve heard the songs about you, read the books and articles, and I saw the play about your life when it played in Springfield. How do you feel about this war that has started?”

  “I don’t hold with slavery, sir.”

  “It isn’t about slavery . . . although that does play a very minor part in the conflict. I have friends in Alabama and Georgia, and several other Southern states, who were talking about freeing their slaves long before the war talk started. It’s about . . . well, whether this nation survives whole, or tears itself apart and crumbles.”

  “Looks like to me the tear has already started, sir.”

  Lincoln shook his head. “The South can’t win, Jamie. It is going to be a very long war, and a costly one in terms of human life, but the South cannot win. We have the factories, the man power, and the wherewithal to sustain for years. The South simply does not.”

  Jamie said nothing. He ate his beef and potatoes and green beans in silence.

  “You could help bring this terrible tragedy to a sooner end, Jamie,” the president spoke the words softly.

  Jamie met the man’s eyes, and in those eyes he could see what a burden the man carried. “You’re asking me to fight against my own son, Mister President?”

  Lincoln stood up, almost painfully, Jamie noted. Bad knees, probably. The president walked around the small meeting room. He sighed and faced Jamie. “I did not know you had a son fighting for the Confederacy.”

  “Falcon. My youngest. He’s twenty-one. And my oldest boy, Jamie Ian, is talking about taking up arms for the Blue. Matt might go with the Blue, too. I don’t know. But he’s leaning that way. I hope they both stay in Colorado. But all you can give a child is roots and wings. They got to make up their own minds. Andrew is in Europe, and his ma and I wrote him and told him to stay there; stay out of it. My grandfather came from Scotland; my mother’s people came from South Carolina, I think. Somewhere in the South. I’m just not sure
. I know I feel a great pull toward the Confederacy.”

  Lincoln smiled very sadly and drained his coffee cup. He said, “Then you must go where your heart dictates, Jamie. I personally despise slavery. But if I could save the Union without freeing a single slave, I would do so.”

  On August 22, 1862, in a reply to Horace Greeley, Lincoln wrote: “My paramount object in this struggle is to save the Union, and is not either to save or destroy slavery. If I could save the Union without freeing any slave I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone, I would also do that.”

  “I want you to think about becoming my chief of scouts, Jamie MacCallister,” Lincoln said. “It would be a great boon to the Union if you would accept the position. If you do not, I will understand.”

  “Yes, sir. I promise you I will think about it.”

  Lincoln extended a hand, and Jamie took it. “I have made arrangements for you to stay at a nearby hotel. My carriage driver will take you there. Good luck and God bless you, Jamie MacCallister.”

  “And good luck and God bless you, sir.”

  Lincoln left the room, and Jamie pushed the plate from him and refused the offer of more coffee from the servant. He walked outside to stand for a moment in the night air. Warm for this time of year, Jamie noted. He felt eyes on him and turned around, glancing up at the second floor. Lincoln was standing, looking out a window at him. Jamie lifted a hand in farewell and Lincoln did the same.

  “A great man, there,” E.J. Allen spoke from his position beside the carriage. “With a terrible burden on his shoulders.”

  “Yes,” was Jamie’s reply. “And it’s not going to get any lighter.” He stepped into the carriage without another word.

  * * *

  A full decade before the Southern states elected to secede from the Union, another revolution was taking place—in the North. By 1860, the Northern states held four-fifths of the nation’s factories, more than two-thirds of the railroads, and nearly all of the shipyards. The term “Yankee ingenuity” had become a commonplace word in all the civilized countries of the world.

  The South had slaves and pride and something else: the South knew that should the Federal government win the war and states’ rights become a thing of the past, in the years to come, the Federal government would have too much control over the lives of American citizens.

  Lincoln was right in maintaining that the South could not win this war. But everybody, the president included, was wrong about the duration. The war would last for four long, bloody years, and during that time, just under three-quarters of a million Americans would die. The war would cut deeply across the fabric of America, leaving wounds that would never heal, and would divide families forever.

  * * *

  Washington was an armed camp, filled to overflowing with soldiers ready to defend the nation’s capital. But it was an unnecessary move. At the time, Washington was in no danger from armed invaders.

  The morning after meeting with the president, Jamie carefully packed his suit and changed into buckskins. He roamed the city, inspecting several dozen horses before he finally chose one to buy. He bought supplies, a brace of pistols, and a rifle. Then he crossed the Potomac and headed south into Virginia.

  Just across the river, he stopped and sat for a time under the shade of a huge old tree and read the newspapers he’d bought in Washington.

  About a third of the experienced army officers had resigned to take up arms against the Union; among them were Johnston, Beauregard, and Lee. One-fourth of the experienced naval officers had joined the Confederacy.

  Baltimore was about to come under attack, the newspapers stated.

  It never happened. General Butler quickly moved troops into place and put down any still-vocal secessionists. Butler further added insult to injury by stating that he had “... never seen any Maryland secessionist force that could not be put down by a large yellow dog.”

  Lincoln had put out the call for volunteers on April 15, 1861. They poured in to join up, hundreds of thousands of them. In contrast, the Confederacy had just less than sixty thousand troops, active and in training. In 1861, the population of America was just over thirty-two million, with more than two-thirds of that number living in the North. The South had barely nine million citizens, with more than a third of them slaves, barred from serving in the Confederate army because of white fear of an armed insurrection.

  But it was the North’s industrial might that made the South’s pale in comparison. New York State had more factories than all of the South.

  The South, however, had one crystal clear advantage: they would be defending their homeland. And they were ready and very willing to defend it to the last drop of Southern blood.

  * * *

  Jamie looked up from his reading at the pounding of hooves. A troop of cavalrymen, dashing in appearance in their gray and gold uniforms, with the officers wearing plumed hats, came galloping up and reined in on the road beside which Jamie was sitting.

  “You there, woodsman!” the commanding officer said, his eyes taking in Jamie’s buckskins. “You’ve picked a peculiar place to rest.”

  Jamie smiled at the man. “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Well . . . there is a war on, my good fellow! This area could come under attack at any moment.”

  “Not by me,” Jamie said. “I’m a Western man just passing through.” He held up the newspapers. “The only thing I know about the war is what I read.”

  “Rest the men,” the captain said, dismounting and handing the reins to a sergeant. He walked over to Jamie and knelt down. “My friend, you are probably what you say you are, but these are tense times. You run the risk of being arrested as a spy.”

  Jamie laughed. “I’m no spy, Captain. Although President Lincoln would probably settle for that.”

  “Lincoln?”

  “Yes. I met with him last evening.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” the captain was quite taken aback by Jamie’s words.

  Jamie rose to his full height, and the captain quickly stood up. Jamie towered over him. “I was offered a position in the Union army. I refused . . . in a manner of speaking. I have a son who is fighting with a Texas cavalry unit.”

  “Good lad!” the captain said. “And your name, sir?”

  “Jamie MacCallister.”

  The entire troop of confederate cavalry fell silent. Everybody had heard of Jamie MacCallister. “The Jamie MacCallister?” the captain asked.

  “I guess. Far as I know, there’s only one of me. I do have a son named Jamie Ian, but he’s back in Colorado.”

  “Good God!” a young lieutenant breathed. “The man’s a living legend.”

  One quick look from the captain silenced the ranks. He swung his gaze back to Jamie.

  “And how was Mister Lincoln, sir?” the captain asked.

  “Saddened by the war.”

  “He has no need to be. He has only to give us independence and there will be no war.”

  “He won’t do that, sir.”

  “No. No, I’m sure he won’t. You have heard the Yankee side, sir. Would you be interested in hearing our side of the issue?”

  “I would.”

  “Excuse me for a moment.” The captain walked to the ranks, and a moment later, a rider galloped away, heading south. The captain returned to Jamie’s side and extended a hand. “I am Captain Cort Woodville, sir—of the Virginia Scouts. There is someone I would very much like for you to meet.”

  * * *

  Kate was sitting on the front porch with Ellen Kathleen, Megan, Joleen, and Jamie Ian’s wife, Caroline. The ladies were rocking and talking and sewing.

  “Jamie Ian is going off to war, Ma,” Caroline said.

  Kate did not pause in her rocking or her sewing. “Oh? He tell you that?”

  “No, Ma. But I can see it in him.”

  “Matthew is going to resign his commission as sheriff and join up with the Blue,
” Ellen Kathleen said. “And yes, he told me. He was scared to confront you himself, Ma.”

  Kate still did not cease her rocking. But she did lay her sewing in the basket beside the chair. “Then so far we’ll have two for the Blue, and two for the Gray.”

  “Who besides Falcon, Ma?” Joleen asked.

  “Your father, dear.”

  “Pa don’t hold with slavery, Ma!”

  “No. But he’ll almost always take up for the underdog. Did any of you know that Wells and Robert rode out yesterday? We’re going to be short on men-folks for a time.”

  “Wells and Robert?” Caroline said. “But—”

  “They’ve gone to join up with a Negro army somewhere back east. Certainly, no one can blame them. If Titus and Moses weren’t so old, they would have gone, too. But the boys talked them out of it.”

  “Pa ain’t no spring chicken,” Ellen Kathleen said.

  “Isn’t,” her mother corrected. “Oh, he’s still got some spry in him,” Kate said with a smile filled with recent nighttime memories.

  “I just can’t believe that Pa would take up with the Gray,” Megan said.

  “Your father will do what he thinks is right,” Kate said. “It may be wrong, but if he thinks it’s right, that’s the way he will go.” She sighed. “I think he suspected all along that this valley would be split between the Blue and the Gray. There will be others who answer the call. Hannah and Swede’s oldest boy might go. Juan has sons that were born in Texas, remember. Sam and Sarah’s oldest boy might go. Some will not return.”

  “I wonder what Pa is doing?” Megan said softly.

  Kate smiled. She knew what he better not be doing.

  3

  “General Robert E. Lee, Mister Jamie MacCallister,” Captain Woodville announced.

  The two men shook hands and Lee motioned Jamie to a chair. It was full dark outside, for Lee had been camped a half day’s ride from where Jamie had been found reading the papers. “You stay, Captain,” Lee said. “Close the door, Sergeant.”