by Marian Wells
“I’m surprised. That angry article in the Charleston paper last month berated Beauregard for not pushing into Washington. It seemed unfair to the man.” She sighed. “But then, I can’t quite reconcile the enthusiasm of men for fighting.”
“What do you mean?”
“The troops on this last train. They were as excited as boys over a ball game.”
“Part of that is the Southern male,” he murmured. “At times I think we’ve lost sight of what it means to be a gentleman. I’ve become very much aware of this since we’ve returned to the South.”
He gave her a rueful grin. “You are right about being an asset to me. This winter, while you stayed at home with Mother, I’ve had countless occasions when I barely escaped with my skin intact. Right now it’s dangerous to hold an opinion differing from the flow of popular thought—namely, the right to be free from all restraints of the Federal government, and the right to have slaves.”
Olivia finished hanging her dresses and turned to study Alex. “But there’s the other side. Can you honestly hold to the opinion of President Lincoln?”
“Do you mean the opinion that the seceding states are in a state of rebellion, that they have no Constitutional right to take this action, and secession is therefore treason? Olivia, I’ve read everything I can get my hands on about the Constitution. I’ve spent hours pondering the problem—perhaps even trying to justify the situation the South is in. But I can’t quarrel with Lincoln’s opinion.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that; it makes me feel better. There’s been so much argument, I was beginning to think the whole world was right and we are wrong.”
“I suppose that’s bound to happen. But, Olivia,” he said, his voice brooding, “we must carefully study out a problem and then make up our minds that no matter what, we will uphold the right and reject the wrong.”
“Alex,” she whispered, “sometimes it is so lonely—like last Sunday in church. That parson was completely confident that the Southern cause is God’s.”
“Even in things of the church,” Alex murmured, touching her cheek, “we must live close enough to God to understand and take our direction from Him.”
“And that’s what you’re doing,” she whispered. “Oh, Alex, I wish I had all the answers, and that I were as sure as you.”
A faraway expression filled his eyes. “Olivia, I’m not sure. I still agonize over this situation. There’s not a day but what I find myself struggling over the right and wrong of this war.”
****
On Sunday, Olivia woke to the pealing of church bells. With her eyes closed she tried to think her way back to Pennsylvania, listening to the chorus of bells ringing out across the hills. Only the Quaker meeting house, stoic and sparse, didn’t rend the air with the music of bells.
She felt Alex stir and opened her eyes. “I’m thinking of Pennsylvania and the church bells,” she said as he slid his arm under her head.
“Strange, we humans,” he murmured. “Some of us think holiness is found in plainness and simplicity—”
“With whispers instead of joyful shouts, silence instead of music and bells. Presbyterian and Quakers,” Olivia added.
“But in conflict, we work together. The Presbyterians send their men to battle, and the Quakers feed, clothe, and nurse them. Perhaps it’s just as well. The touch of God on our lives resounds with diversity as attractive as the multitude of bells. Listen, my dear, and rejoice as you see fit.” He chuckled and kissed her.
****
Prim and proper, their Quaker hearts covered with Presbyterian clothing, Alex and Olivia joined the throng going into the building under the belfry.
Shielded behind their hymnal, Alex said, “Thy Quaker heart responds well to these Presbyterian hymns.”
“Thou art wrong, dear husband,” she whispered back. “This hymn was written by Charles Wesley.”
And after the sermon, they were greeted with a hearty, “Good morning; how happy I am to see newcomers! I’m Matilda Armstrong.” Olivia looked down at the white-gloved hand stretched toward her, and then upward to the round figure in black taffeta. She smiled at the halo of white curls and sparkling blue eyes.
Someone grabbed Olivia’s hand and eased her out of line. Matilda Armstrong tipped her head toward Alex. “Do you live in Richmond, or are you visitors? No matter,” she said hastily. “I’ve come to invite you to my home. Every Sunday after church I gather up all the interesting people I can find and stuff them with sandwiches and pastry so that they are obligated to entertain me with conversation. Do you have a carriage? I’ll direct you there.” They shook their heads, baffled.
“Oh, then join me in my carriage and we’ll all ride together. Come, we’ll have to lead the way.”
She skillfully maneuvered them around the crowd at the door and down the steps to the carriage.
Through the early hours of the afternoon, Olivia listened to the music of laughter accompanied by the ring of crystal, and decided Matilda Armstrong hadn’t a serious thought in her head. But by mid-afternoon, she began to think differently.
Matilda’s eyes gave her away. In an unguarded moment Olivia knew she had been measured and assessed.
As the last guest carriage pulled away from the front steps, Matilda led Alex and Olivia back to the parlor. “Now, my dears, let’s get acquainted. Would you care for more tea?” She began pouring.
Handing the cup to Alex, she said, “You impress me as a very shrewd businessman. Am I right?”
“Ma’am, why do you think so?”
She chuckled, “Because every stranger in town who doesn’t look frightened nearly to death is a shrewd businessman looking for a way to sell Jefferson Davis everything he doesn’t need to carry on a war.”
Alex laughed. “In reality I think we fit the first category. We are sojourners, looking to stir up trouble before we leave town.”
Her eyes sparkled as she leaned forward. “My, how interesting! What type of trouble are you looking to stir?”
Alex placed his elbows on his knees, dropped his voice, and said, “We’re Union sympathizers. I’m trying to talk sense into everyone I can. Mrs. Armstrong, why did you guide us around the parson and his greeting committee this morning?”
“Because I watched you during church and I thought to myself that you were both very disturbed by the sermon. So you two don’t believe that the Bible, God’s Word, supports slavery as something pleasing to God. I’m very anxious to hear your opinion. But just to set the record straight—” She paused, peered at Alex, and said, “I don’t tell all of my guests this, but my Negroes are freedmen. I pay them a good wage just to stay here and take care of me. Furthermore, your frown during the sermon made me very curious. What can I do for you?”
Alex looked startled. He paused before asking, “Shouldn’t I be saying this to you? I suppose I should be pointed in the right direction. You see, Union sympathizers need to be encouraged to stand up for their beliefs. After being in South Carolina, I came to the conclusion there’s more Union people in the South than we two have realized. We need to be heard. Mrs. Armstrong, I’ve the feeling you’ve never been in a position of allowing others to do your thinking for you. Unfortunately this isn’t so for many people, namely those either too timid to express themselves or those who find it easier to bend with the flow around them.”
“You are correct. But that’s human nature.”
“It hadn’t ought to be. Christianity makes me very aware of how important our opinions and values are to those around us.”
Matilda Armstrong reached for her calling cards and began to write notes on them. She looked at Alex. “Then you realize the seriousness of the situation we’re in?”
He studied her with narrowed eyes. “You can’t be speaking about the possibility of losing forever our Southern values of states’ rights and the right to own slaves?”
“Of course not. I’m talking about freedom. My dear Mr. Duncan, our Constitution supports freedom for all. If one segment of our so
ciety isn’t free, then not one of us is free.”
She got to her feet and handed Alex the cards. “I’ve written a name and address on each card, also your name. It would be wise to make certain these cards do not get into the wrong hands.”
Alex stood looking down at her, and Olivia said softly, “Mrs. Armstrong, your interest in us tells me that you must be in an uncomfortable position in the capital city of the Confederacy. Would you consider traveling North with us?”
Matilda turned to smile at Olivia. “Thank you, my dear, however strange my ideas are here, I enjoy the comfortable position of an old and perhaps slightly strange citizen. Also, I’ve work to do here. The Lord will keep me intact until He’s through with me on this earth. God bless you both now. I’ll have Roger take you back to your hotel.”
Chapter 15
It had been a month since Mike had last seen Cairo, Illinois. As he took his barges into dock, he surveyed the new look of the city. The presence of the military had grown from a trickle to a stream. He studied the large number of uniforms on the street, both army and navy. With a grin he murmured, “No doubt about it; Cairo is going to play a big role here on the edge of the Mississippi.”
Later he carried his gear into the crude barracks that would be home for him. Eyeing the fellows who stood around, hands in pockets, he dropped his bag on an empty bunk and said, “I’m Mike Clancy. It’s easy to see we’re going to be in this together.”
The group moved around him. He surveyed the raw, uncertain faces of the men. “You fellas bring me up to date.”
A lanky fellow with cornstalk hair and a scarecrow grin spoke up, “Always glad to have a new navy man on board; there’s plenty of room. Where you from? Had boat experience? I started out army but they needed more men for boats.”
Mike looked around the room crowded with bedrolls and clothing. “Seems things are getting together fast. What’ll we be doing?”
“I’m maintenance. Painting, oiling, and anything else a steamboat takes to get it in order. Upstream they’re making Pook’s turtles. Man, those things will withstand anything—if only they’ll float. Ironclads, they call ’em.”
With a chuckle, Mike nodded, “I’ve seen them; can’t wait to get one on the water.”
“Aren’t you scared?” Mike felt the grin fade from his face as the youth added, “This war business is worse than I thought. Old Deaver and I came out here after the Battle of Bull Run.” He paused, shook his head, and said softly, “Navy work is bound to be less bloody.”
Another fellow joined them, leaning against the wall. “Name’s Cecil Dade, come up from Kentucky. Reckon I was taken on because I know the area.”
Mike looked around the group. “Know what’s planned?”
“Nothin’ except we’re here to help out the Union in Kentucky,” Dade said. “Don’t know what that means yet. But it’s going to have something to do with boats and soldiers. Meanwhile, we’re busy and life in town’s just fine for us fellers.” Dade paused. “Got a girl back home?”
Mike hesitated. “Well—”
“Oh, one of those kind. Guess she’s better’n nothing. Seems they all have to go through that stage, trying to decide which fella they want. I suppose the other man’s in the army.”
“An officer,” Mike admitted.
****
By November Mike had repaired, polished, and piloted an unwieldy gunboat around the mouth of the Ohio River. The warm autumn weather was holding, and the Ohio promised to remain free of ice for weeks to come. Thinking of past trips, Mike recalled ice jams and freezing weather, and wondered how long it would be before the weather could force them out of Cairo.
At the beginning of the following week, he and two other pilots were called into conference with Commodore Foote and General Grant.
As Foote sketched out their route, he breathed a sigh of relief. “At least we won’t need to worry about ice in the rivers,” he muttered to Deaver. “Not that our job won’t be tricky enough even in good weather.”
Foote put down his pencil. “Fellows, we’re support for another offensive. You might say our job is to distract the opposition. The major battle will be taking place farther down the Mississippi.
“You men will be taking transports with troops down the Mississippi. Our job will be to get General Grant and his men to this point.” His finger wandered down a map, following the Mississippi until he touched a spot in Missouri a dozen miles below Cairo. “Here they will be diverting the attention of personnel at Fort Belmont with an attack. It shouldn’t prove to be an unusual risk, but we’ll need to be prepared for the eventuality of Fort Columbus, situated across the Mississippi in Kentucky, getting into the picture.”
He paused, held up the map, and pointed. “Belmont is just below the bend of the Mississippi, on the west bank. Columbus lies directly across the Mississippi. We will discharge Grant’s troops at this point, under cover of darkness. Here we’ll lie to wait for them.” He got to his feet. “There’s one item I need to mention, although it won’t affect you. Fort Columbus is Confederate held, and they’ve tried to impede traffic down the Mississippi by stretching a heavy chain across the river between these two forts. Since our men will disembark two miles above the forts, that needn’t concern us. I warn you about the chain because, if there are problems, you shouldn’t try to be a hero by taking your transport into this area in an attempt to rescue our men. You’ll create more problems than you would solve. Men, set your watches, and be on hand to begin loading at six this evening.”
****
In the early hours of the morning the ships moved away from shore. The sky was overcast and the air heavy with the promise of rain. Later, before dawn, Mike stood at the rail as the dark forms of troops slipped over the side. Only an occasional grunt and the clank of metal indicated the business of the three transports. When the last boot rustled through the dry marsh grasses and the night sounds returned, Mike settled at the rail and strained to follow the sound of advancing troops.
Dawn had begun to light the landscape when he heard gunfire. First Mate Jones joined Mike at the railing. Silent, lined side by side, they listened to the guns, the shouts of battle. Finally Jones moved uneasily and pointed. “Mike, what’s going on over there?”
Mike turned as the first cannon fired. Peering through the mist, he said, “Fort Columbus is getting in on it.” Now there was a thunder of sound as cannons fired one after the other. From their side of the river, they heard cheering from the men at Belmont.
“Mike, this is like a rat trap,” Jones groaned. “Our men don’t stand a chance. Why don’t they head for the boats?”
“Retreat?” Mike shook his head. “Let me have those glasses for a minute, Jones,” Mike muttered. “I can’t believe my eyes. Our men are completely surrounded.”
He lifted the field glasses again and let out a groan. Jones took the binoculars and whistled softly. “Those guns! There are three tiers of batteries, at least fifty guns pointing over the river.”
“Look up that hill. There are guns for miles along the summit. I hope Commodore Foote knows about them!”
Late in the afternoon, they began to see the men in gray retreating into Fort Belmont.
When Mike was able to pick up the line of blue uniforms straggling toward the boats, he turned to Jones. “There are bound to be men injured. I’ll move in closer while you prepare to receive them.”
“Not much closer,” Jones warned. “Remember what Foote said, and remember those guns.”
Mike eased close to the shore where the troops huddled. He saw the crew go over the side and turned away from the sight of the wounded being carried aboard. But try as he might, even while he held the glasses and watched the fort across the river, the presence of the wounded stabbed him. When the boats finally moved into the river current, the moon was overhead.
They were within sight of Cairo when General Grant came up to the pilot house. Mike saw the man’s lined face. “There’s fresh coffee, help yourself.” Grant nodded
, took a cup of coffee, and slumped in the corner of the room.
When they docked, Grant turned to Mike and clapped him on the shoulder. “It doesn’t get any easier. War is hell. Thanks, Mike; you’ll make a good gunboat man.”
Mike didn’t answer; he was conscious of the hard knot in the pit of his stomach. Grant was nearly out the door when he looked at Mike again. “There’ll be more of the same in a couple of months.” The slight smile on his face didn’t touch his eyes. “Might as well take off a couple of weeks, through Christmas. Go see that girl of yours—I suppose you have a girl back home? Most fellows seem to,” he mused as he closed the door behind himself.
****
Mike was accustomed to the river, so it seemed strange to be taking the train through the countryside. As he neared home, he noticed that the tattered autumn foliage was rimmed with frost. People hurried through village streets bundled in winter wraps, while the long afternoon shadows seemed to have arrived too soon.
A drayman gave him a ride into town. Mike was grateful for the man’s heavy silence and curt nod as he dropped him on the street corner in the evening stillness. Still numb from the journey and the weight of his own thoughts, he stood there, pondering spending money for a ride out to the Coopers’ farm.
The lights were being extinguished at the hardware store when he saw Beth come out into the street. While she wound the shawl tightly around herself he called, “Beth!”
She turned, looking astonished and then pleased. “Mike, you’re home! Didn’t the navy like you?” She came to lean on his arm and laugh into his face.
“They seemed to; in fact they’ve let me have leave until after Christmas.” He took a deep breath. “I’m without a way home. Do you suppose I could ride with you?”
She looked startled, then smiled coyly. “Well, it’s dark enough; I don’t think my name will be ruined forever. Come along to the stable with me.”
“Beth, maybe ladies don’t do things like this in the South. I wouldn’t want to offend you.” She laughed, wrinkled her nose at him, and took his hand.