James was so proud of his wife; he marveled at her courage. He had given much thought to finding a way to tell her he had joined the Union army. Now he was confident that she would accept the announcement and give him her complete support. Still, he thought, it could wait until tomorrow.
“It is getting late, Polly. Tomorrow I will tell you everything about my absence. For now, I am going to wash up, come to bed, and hold you until morning.”
“Nothing in this world would be more pleasing.”
Then James laughed and said, “Just one more thing, what is our son’s name?”
“Oh,” said Polly, laughing in turn, “I named him after his father.”
James was overjoyed. He would not have chosen to do otherwise. After a thorough washing, he put on a comfortable cotton nightshirt and lay down next to his wife. In a few weeks he might be face to face with hell once again; but at that moment, he was in heaven.
The days that followed took James through a very pleasant life changing experience. He was learning to be a father, which simultaneously forged an even stronger bond with Polly. They talked about plans for the future. They also talked about the past. He told her that he never made it back to Georgia. He told her everything that had happened. In spite of her strong constitution, she was visibly upset when she learned that he had been wounded in battle. To that point he had gone to great lengths to keep his scars covered; now he revealed them. He did his best to assure her that the wounds were the result of being forced into an unusually dangerous situation. She actually seemed relieved about his joining the army because she knew that he would no longer be alone; the same sentiment, he told her, as Colonel James Mulligan’s. Unlike the past, when he could not always be sure who his enemies were, now they would be more easily recognizable.
When the day came for James to leave, however, their courage was severely tested. Secretly, James cursed himself for his military commitment, and he could imagine Polly weeping uncontrollably the minute he was gone. He rode out of town with enough determination for an army; telling himself that if necessary, he would single handedly defeat the Rebels so that he could return to his beloved wife and son.
EIGHTEEN
The Bill of Goods
On December 30th, 1862, after a cold, lonely journey, James arrived in Washington D.C. He had heard a great deal about the Capital city but he had never been there before. Obtaining directions did not pose a problem because it seemed that half the men on the street were dressed in uniform. The first soldier he hailed was able to direct him to the location he sought, which was in President’s Park on Pennsylvania Avenue. As he rode up the avenue, heading for the War Department, his fascination with the city courted his attention. He passed by the Capitol building with its unfinished dome. Scaffolding surrounded the structure but there were no workmen present on that cold winter day. He seemed to be walled in by huge government buildings with tall granite columns and facades like architectural marvels. The War Department itself, imposing in size, spoke of trepidation to all those who posed a threat to the nation it guarded.
Dressed in his new uniform and overcoat, he climbed the steps, excited at the prospect of his first assignment. Perhaps he might even catch a glimpse of President Lincoln.
Inside, the scene resembled bees around a hive. Long hallways were brightly lit illuminating the doorways to many offices. Wooden benches like church pews lined the walls, seating men waiting their turn to dispose of their business. Some were military personnel, officers of all ranks, and others were gentlemen dressed in fine suits of clothing. Everywhere, clerks with rolled up sleeves and hands filled with paperwork darted in and out of office doors. As James was unsure of where to go, he stopped a bookish little man with wire rimmed glasses and a receding hair line to ask for help. “Excuse me sir, my name is Lieutenant James Langdon and I’m here on orders to receive my assignment. Could you direct me to the correct office?” The little man looked him up and down with a curious expression on his face. “What did you say your name was?”
“Lieutenant James Langdon.” Again the man hesitated and James said, “Is anything wrong?”
“No, I mean, no. I’m sorry, Lieutenant. You caught me slightly off guard is all. I mean, your accent doesn’t fit your uniform.”
“I’m from Georgia if that helps you,” James said.
“Again, I apologize, Lieutenant. It’s just that the war is between the North and the South. You understand.”
“Yes,” said James, trying to control his anger. “Now can you assist me or should I come back when I’ve lost my accent?”
“No, Lieutenant, I can help you. You will have report to Mr. Scott’s office. It’s the last one on the left down this hallway,” he said, pointing his finger. “Mr. Scott is the assistant secretary.”
“Thank you,” James replied.
“Good luck, Lieutenant.” James didn’t answer. Of course he understood how out of place his southern drawl must sound. Still, he hoped the conversation with the clerk was not an indication of how things were going to be. He was sure there were others whose loyalties demanded they chose against their homeland in the conflict. No doubt they, too, had some difficulty being accepted. He would have to give it some time. After he settled in with his unit, everything would be fine.
James walked down the hallway; Mr. Scott’s name was on the last door on the left. He went inside and found, to his surprise, that it was not as crowded as he had expected. There were several desks arranged in two rows from front to back and behind them was a door to another office marked, private. He stood for just a minute before the man at the first desk on the right waved him back. “Can I help you, Lieutenant?” James handed him his orders along with his identification and said, “Lieutenant James Langdon reporting.”
This time the man, younger, with a full head of red hair and a pleasant smile, did not seem to notice his southern accent. “Yes, Lieutenant Langdon,” he said after reading the orders. “You are to be assigned to a cavalry unit. I will have to take this to Mr. Scott. Unfortunately, he is in a meeting and will be for most of the day. Where are you staying?”
“I have no accommodations at the moment. I arrived in the city about an hour ago.”
“I see. I’m afraid that billeting for personnel in transit is very limited at present but I can suggest a place where you can find lodging.”
“Very well,” said James.
“Just a few blocks down the street you will find Willard’s Hotel. It is very popular with military men and it is convenient to the War Department. I will record the fact that you have reported and are accounted for. Secure a room at Willard’s and I will send a messenger when I have your assignment. In the meantime, enjoy the hospitality of our Capital city.”
“Thank you for your assistance.”
James walked out feeling disappointed by the delay, but the congeniality of the clerk in Mr. Scott’s office made up for the claptrap he encountered from the first man he had spoken to. He hurried outside to his horse and headed back down Pennsylvania Avenue to the hotel. It was just past noon and James was ready for something to eat.
Willard’s was a large seven story establishment on the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Fourteenth Street. As James would soon learn, Willard’s was so prominent a place as to be looked upon as the center of Washington. Everyone could be seen there.
He tied Tar to a hitching post, went into the crowded lobby, located the registration desk, and asked for a room. The desk clerk explained that he only had a few available rooms and they were on the top floor. James told him anything would be fine and signed the register. Before going up to his room, he walked Tar over to a stable run by James W. Pumphrey on C Street.
After washing up in his room which, as it turned out, appraised at less than acceptable, James went downstairs to the sprawling dining room. At that hour there were many patrons, still he had no trouble finding an empty table. It did, however, take a short while before he could hail a waiter. While he waited, he surveyed the r
oom and the other diners as well. This group, he thought, could have been chosen by eclecticism. There were well dressed gentlemen—some with ladies, some with other gentlemen—soldiers, and rough looking types both male and female. Some appeared to be involved in lively chatter; others had their heads close together as if their conversation was of a very serious and very private nature. The immediate area surrounding James was fairly quiet until two men dressed in patched, dirty work clothes sat down at an adjacent table. From the looks of their scruffy beards and long hair, neither had seen a bathtub or a barber in quite some time. And if their unkempt appearance was not proof of the serious lack of hygiene, their odor was. With all of that to their discredit, it was still their loud voices and vulgar language that James found most offensive. From the moment they sat down they were cursing everything from the weather, to the Rebels, to the dirty hussy from New York Avenue who had apparently given both a case of the crawling crotch. But mostly they cursed President Lincoln and the Emancipation Proclamation.
“I told ya a hundred times, Bill, if that hick son of a bitch got elected he’d pull a low down stunt like this. I can go along with savin the Union, any good man can. But why does he give a shit about the goddamn niggers? Did you ever take a good hard look at a nigger?” Without waiting for his chum to reply he continued. “They ain’t human. I tell you they just ain’t no way human beings.”
“Yeah, I looked real hard afore, Charlie.” Then he laughed in a repulsive sort of way, displaying half a set of decaying teeth. “Did I ever tell ya, Charlie, that I railed one of them black bitches one time?”
“Is that a fact?”
“Hell yeah. I used to drive a freight wagon some years back. I was haulin this piece a farm machinry down through Virginia and I stopped along old Bull Run to water the team. I saw this black bitch down there fetchin a pail o water. There weren’t no one else around so I chased her out to the middle a that crick and bent her over a tree trunk what fell into the water. I threw her long dress up over her head and gave her a hell of a reamin' while she yelled her head off.”
“Hell,” said his sympathetic partner. “When a man needs to relieve hisself that’s different. I reckon there ain’t nothing wrong with that. All they be good for is servicing white folks any way they can. I say why throw all that away by makin em free. No, sir. It’s that goddamn Lincoln’s fault all right. We maybe wouldn’t even be in this war if it weren’t for him. Shoulda elected Douglas or Bell or even Breckinridge. They woulda kept the Union together without startin a war. Now he’s got the North all stirred up.”
“He sure as hell has, Charlie. I was talkin to some soldiers from a Vermont regiment t’other day. They were tellin me that a lot of our boys ain’t happy at all to be fightin for the niggers. Why they said there was one outfit that claimed they’d lie in the woods til moss growed on their backs afore they’d die to free niggers.”
“Nothin can be done about it now, Bill, I reckon.”
James was doing a slow simmer as he listened to the talk between the two thugs. It was all he could do to keep from expressing a few audible thoughts of his own. But he knew where it would lead and he couldn’t afford to be arrested for assault. He would not put himself in a bad position for men of their ilk.
He was just about to get up and leave when a waiter appeared at his table. The anger he felt seemed to increase his desire for food. He ordered a meal but left quickly once he had finished.
It had been his intention to take a stroll around the city after eating but decided he was in no mood. Instead, he went up to his room and stretched out on the well worn bed. His mood did not improve as he looked around the room at the dingy, torn wallpaper and the stains on the ceiling indicating a leaky roof. The smell of stale cigar smoke had permeated everything. He had expected better from a place like Willard’s, as close to the White House as it was.
To take his mind off the boredom, he decided to write a letter to Polly. He rummaged through his things for paper and pencil, settled himself back on the bed, but fell asleep before he could finish. By the time he awoke, night had fallen and no word had come from the War Department. Perhaps it would take a couple of days. Considering the volume of work heaped on such a concern and during wartime as it was, one soldier’s assignment was probably not high priority. He had followed orders, they knew where he was, and all he could do was wait it out.
Feeling refreshed from his nap, he decided to put aside the letter to Polly and go out for a beer. He could have gotten his drink at Willard’s but chose to take the walk he had passed on earlier. In spite of the January temperature, there were quite a few people on the street. It was soon obvious that, for the most part, they were night people. James knew that darkness usually brought out the more unscrupulous of humanity; in the city there were just more of them. He knew as he walked along, that many he passed were not trustworthy, men who reminded him of the two in Willard’s dining room. Every block he covered yielded at least a half dozen drunks and the type of women referred to as soiled doves were plentiful as well.
Before he realized it, he had walked as far as the National Hotel. The warmth of the lobby was inviting as he walked inside, seated himself in the dining room, and ordered a beer. Over near the far wall, James noticed a group of people crowded around one of the tables. They seemed highly excited as if someone of great importance was seated there. Quietly sipping his beer, he heard a lady at the next table ask her waiter, “What is going on back there?”
“Why, Mr. J. Wilkes Booth is in town, ma’am. He always stays at the National when he’s in town and he never fails to draw a crowd.”
“How wonderful,” the lady replied. “I must try to get his autograph.”
James was impressed. He had learned a great deal about the flamboyant, charismatic actor from newspapers and dime novels. The entire Booth family starred on the stage. James had never seen Booth perform but had always wanted to. In a short while, the crowd moved away and James saw the man himself cross the dining room and disappear up the stairway. He certainly understood why it was said that all the women loved him.
James ordered a second beer and sat a little further back in his chair. He was beginning to relax a bit and without intention, he tuned in to another conversation coming from a nearby table. This time the talk was not coming from a pair of crude, loose mouth tramps, instead it was two refined looking gentlemen and two well dressed ladies. The topic of conversation was the concern for proper security in Washington.
“I understand,” said the first man, “that when civil war breaks out and a dividing line is drawn there will always be enemies inside your territory. Most will head for the side for which they sympathize. Others will remain and become a disruptive force. The government must rid this city of all the secesh. It must be the first and foremost priority.”
“But I believe that they are, Richard,” said the second man. “Didn’t they arrest that Greenhow woman and put a stop to her spy ring? That was a year ago, and last May they sent her to the Confederacy.”
“That is true, Randolph, but while she was in Old Capitol Prison, despite tightening security, she still managed to carry on with her activities. And what of Belle Boyd? She was also in Old Capitol but after a month she was exchanged. God only knows what she’s up to now. No my friend, by no means has the Secret Service a firm handle on the situation. This city is full of damn secessionists.”
“Well,” said Randolph, “I cannot say that the president takes the issue seriously. He can be seen everyday walking from the White House to the War Department and other buildings in President’s Park without so much as an escort. Apparently he is not concerned about security.”
“Well, what can you expect from a man who is more concerned about the slaves than he is about putting down the rebellion?”
From there the conversation went on and on, condemning the people of the South for everything from their way of life to disloyalty to the United States flag. James began to squirm a bit in his chair. The irritation h
e dealt with in Willard’s dining room that afternoon was climbing the back of his neck again. He was on his third beer now and it was beginning to have some effect since his experience with alcohol was extremely limited.
As the crowd in the dining room grew he became surrounded by people and the same words began to circulate through his head as if they were purposely taunting him. “Despicable Southerners . . . goddamn Rebels . . . nigger loving abolitionists . . .”
It was becoming impossible to listen without being provoked. James had thought he was doing the right thing. In so doing he had, in principal, turned against his family. He had joined an army of men who were the enemies of his family. His family members could end up being killed at their hands. Now he was in a place where everyone cursed his birthplace and all the Southern states. He was in a place where everyone cursed his parents, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, and for no reason other than the fact that they were from the South. What made these people of the North any better? James saw no respect or equality for the black race in the North. They could not vote. They could not hold positions in public office. They worked as servants and laborers. They were lashed just as hard with the tongue as the slaves were with the whip. James knew that not everyone supported President Lincoln and his proclamation, but he was hearing the same kind of garbage everywhere he went and not just from riff-raff and rabble rousers. He was beginning to feel like a fool. Had he made a huge mistake? Did he let Colonel Mulligan sell him a bill of goods?
A Deeper Sense of Loyalty Page 18