Antebellum BK 1

by Jeffry S. Hepple

Robert reached into his pocket, took out a cigar, clipped it and lit it, then sauntered over to a bench and sat down.

  Grant came out of the headquarters building ten minutes later and without saying a word handed Robert an official envelope.

  Robert blew in it and looked inside, then grinned. “Well, congratulations, Colonel.” He took a cigar from his pocket and handed it to Grant. “This calls for a celebration.”

  Grant sat down beside him and clipped the cigar with his pocket knife. “I’m to take command of the Twenty-first Illinois volunteer regiment. They’re said to be a bunch of malcontents and troublemakers.”

  “Do you need an X-O?”

  Grant looked at him. “You’d have to take a demotion to major.”

  “What do I care? I’m just a brevet colonel anyway and I don’t care about the pay.”

  “Really?”

  “Why not? If we can arrange it.”

  “What will General Frémont have to say about it?”

  “He won’t care. He gave me the job as a favor to my sister.”

  Grant blew a plume of smoke at the sky. “You okay with taking orders from me?”

  “As long as you’re right.”

  Grant chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll let me know if I’m not.”

  Robert examined the ash on his cigar. “You’re a better leader than I am, Sam. I know you don’t believe that yet, but you’ll see.”

  Grant didn’t reply for a long time. “So, how’s your family, Professor?”

  “My brother Thomas is supposedly forming a Texas regiment,” Robert said. “His youngest son Johnny is in the Army of Virginia’s cavalry.”

  “What about Jack, Quincy and Paul?”

  “Jack’s still with my mother in New Mexico. Quincy was with Anderson in the Army of Kentucky, but Anderson assigned him to help Cump Sherman pull the 13th Infantry together. Pea’s in the First Cavalry. I don’t know who’s in command. Pea thinks it’ll be John Buford since Robert Lee resigned.”

  “I heard Buford went south.”

  Robert shook his head. “The Confederacy offered him carte blanche, but he turned them down. His brother probably convinced him.”

  “Too bad Lee went south. He’ll be missed.”

  “Yeah. He was offered the whole army by Lincoln, but he declined.”

  “Is he that good?”

  “The only man I ever knew that could see a battlefield more clearly than Robert E. Lee is you.”

  “Well, with Lee in the east and us in the west, I guess we’ll never face each other anyway.”

  “Time will tell, Sam. Time will tell.”

  “Can you send a wire to Frémont to see if he’d object to transferring you?”

  “Sure. Do you have a telegrapher handy?”

  “Absolutely.”

  ~

  Grant watched Robert’s face as he read the telegram. “Guess you were wrong about Frémont.”

  Robert nodded. “Guess so. His answer is pretty curt. He says I’m to consult with General Nathaniel Lyon in Springfield, soonest.”

  “There no general named Lyon in Springfield,” Grant said with a puzzled look.

  “He probably means Springfield, Missouri.”

  “You better check before you make a long trip for nothing.”

  “Missouri must be right.”

  “Isn’t Missouri neutral?”

  “They say they’re an armed neutral, whatever that means. There’s been some kind of conflict there since April. I haven’t been following it very closely. I remember the name Lyon, but I would almost swear that he was a captain.”

  “Captains can become generals overnight during wartime,” Grant said with a grin. “Does it say that you’re to report to this General Lyon?”

  “No. It says ‘consult with’.”

  “Sounds like they may have promoted a captain and now have a loose cannon.”

  “God, I hope not. Trying to manage someone that outranks you is the worst duty in the Army.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  “Well, one of the worst.” He gave Grant his hand. “I’ll be seeing you as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll work on it from my end. Maybe I’ll win some big battle and get promoted to general.”

  “Do that, please.”

  “Be careful.’

  “You too.”

  June 19, 1861

  Martinsburg, Virginia

  Johnny Van Buskirk trotted his horse forward, then halted facing the mounted officer and saluted. “Lieutenant John Van Buskirk reporting for duty, sir.”

  The officer, sporting the gold shoulder-boards of a lieutenant colonel, a red-lined gray cape, a bright yellow sash and an ostrich plume in his hat, returned the salute. “You’re on the ‘Absent without leave’ report. What’s your excuse?”

  Johnny was a bit surprised by the reply. “I didn’t know where you were, Beauty.”

  “I did the best that I could to protect you,” Stuart replied, “but we have a new colonel now. He says he’s been sent here by General Johnson to take command. I had no choice but to report you. You had better have a wonderful excuse.”

  Johnny shrugged. “What’s this new colonel’s name?”

  “Thomas Jackson.”

  Johnny shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s been an instructor at the Virginia Military Institute and he’s very ‘by the book’, drilling the infantry from sunup to sundown.” Stuart looked around to be sure they couldn’t be heard and stepped closer to Johnny. “He’s even more devout than Marse Lee and has taken an instant dislike to me.”

  Johnny made a face. “Are you wearing cologne, Beauty?”

  “You have a bigger problem than how I smell,” Stuart growled.

  Johnny chuckled. “So where do I find the Reverend Colonel Jackson?”

  Stuart pointed at a tent. “Be careful with him, Johnny. He’s very well connected politically and sure to be wearing a star before long.”

  Johnny gave Stuart a smart salute, then turned his horse toward the tent. He was having serious doubts about his decision to join the Confederacy and wondered if he could still resign. He was equally unsure of his decision to marry Urilla. The first week of the honeymoon had been spent mostly in bed, but the last week had been spent mostly in argument. Urilla had been spoiled beyond reason since the day she was born and she believed that whatever she wished for should magically happen. She saw the war and Johnny’s duty as impediments to her happiness and she wished them gone.

  Johnny dismounted, tied his horse to the hitching post, brushed at his uniform and then scratched on the tent flap.

  “Come,” a voice from inside replied.

  Johnny ducked through the opening, came to attention and saluted. “Lieutenant John Van Buskirk reporting for duty, sir.”

  Thomas Jackson was seated behind a camp desk writing furiously. “One moment, please.”

  Uncertain of the proper response, Johnny lowered his salute.

  “Were you not due to report on the 14th, sir?” Jackson asked, without looking up.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Today is the 19th, unless I am mistaken.”

  “You’re not mistaken, sir. I’ve been absent without leave for five days.”

  Jackson put his pen aside and looked up. “What excuse have you to offer?”

  “None, sir.”

  Jackson pushed his campstool back and crossed his legs. “Then perhaps you might tell me what you have been doing for the last five days, while you were supposed to be on duty.”

  “Traveling most of them, sir. I returned my wife to her father’s plantation at Orchard Hill after our honeymoon, then I rode to Harpers Ferry where I was told that the unit had moved to the Valley. I finally learned the location of Colonel Stuart’s cavalry last evening and rode all night to join him.”

  “That sounds like an excuse.”

  “It wasn’t intended to be, sir. It was my responsibility to know where my unit was located and I failed to
do so. The fault is mine.”

  “Colonel Stuart says that he sent a message to you in care of your father-in-law informing you of his location.”

  “I never received it, sir.”

  “Odd, don’t you think?”

  “My father-in-law would be happy if you hanged me for desertion, sir.”

  A hint of a smile appeared around Jackson’s eyes. “Why is that?”

  “I eloped with his daughter, sir. He calls it kidnapping. If his wife hadn’t stayed his hand he would have shot me.”

  “Are you a Christian, Lieutenant Van Buskirk?”

  “A poor one, sir.”

  “I’m disappointed, but not surprised.”

  Johnny decided not to comment.

  “I knew your grandfather, your father and your uncles in the Mexican War. They too practiced a peculiar form of Christianity. I think they called it Episcopalianism, but it is in fact Lutheran Catholicism at its core.”

  Johnny continued his silence.

  “Your grandmother is Roman Catholic, I think.”

  “Yes, sir. She was educated by Roman Catholic nuns at a convent school in New Orleans. Although I don’t believe she ever attended Mass regularly as an adult.”

  “I plan to make religious instruction part of our regular training. It would of course be strictly voluntary to officers. Are you interested?”

  “No, sir,” Johnny said emphatically. “I most certainly am not.”

  Jackson raised an eyebrow. “You disapprove?”

  “I do, sir. The separation of church and state is a pillar of the United States of America. If the Confederate States of America are not going to follow that example, I will resign my commission and go north to defend the Union and those principles.”

  Jackson looked at him for a long time before answering. “I think your point is well taken and I shall request permission from the Confederacy before amending the training agenda. I will, however, encourage all to pray in their own way and to attend services when practical.”

  Johnny stayed silent.

  “You are dismissed, sir. Your absence is excused. There will be no punishment.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Johnny saluted.

  Jackson nodded and picked up his pen. “If the Confederacy does not maintain separation of church and state your resignation will be put forth post haste.”

  Johnny left the tent, untied his horse and led him toward the waiting Jeb Stuart.

  “Well?” Stuart asked.

  “He excused me.”

  “Good. What do you think of him?”

  “All I care about is how well he leads troops,” Johnny replied.

  “We’re about to find out,” Stuart said. “The Yankees are preparing to attack Richmond.”

  “What are our orders?”

  “To proceed at best speed to Manassas Junction to reconnoiter.”

  “Just us?”

  “As far as I know, we are the only cavalry in the entire Confederacy.”

  “My horse is done in and I don’t have a remount here.”

  “You can ride one of mine.”

  “Do I have time to get something to eat?”

  “Yes. The mess tent is there.” He pointed. “Give me your horse and I’ll have your remount waiting when you finish. You might wash your face too and make yourself a bit more presentable. We have an image to create.”

  June 30, 1861

  Washington, D.C.

  Quincy Van Buskirk was standing in front of the office of Lieutenant General Winfield Scott, holding the reins of two dusty horses and watching the comings and goings at the War Department across the street. He hardly noticed a carriage that turned from Pennsylvania Avenue onto Seventeenth Street until it stopped and the Isinglass side curtain rolled up.

  “You look like a lost boy,” Anna called from the carriage.

  Quincy led the horses closer. “Hello, Mother. I hoped that I might see you here.”

  “What is it that you’re doing?”

  “Waiting for Colonel Sherman.” He gestured toward the building behind him. “General Scott ordered us here for some as yet unknown purpose.”

  “Rumor has it that this war will be over soon.”

  Quincy chuckled. “It hasn’t even begun.”

  Anna leaned out the window and gestured at all the martial activity. “When the Southern leadership sees what we have in store for them they’ll quickly sue for peace.”

  “If you could see the army that’s forming on the other side of the river you might not be so confident, Mother.”

  “Posh. A ragtag army of shoeless boys and old men.”

  “You shouldn’t believe your own propaganda, Mother.”

  “You’ve been talking to Johnny,” she said in an accusatory tone.

  “I haven’t seen him since Virginia seceded.”

  “I’m late right now, but I’d love to talk to you some more. How long will you be here?”

  “I have no idea. How can I reach you?”

  “I have an office at the White House. I’ll tell the guards to expect you.”

  “If I can’t attend, I’ll send a note.”

  “Very well. Driver, drive on.”

  Quincy stepped back away from the wheels and watched as his mother’s bejeweled hand reached out the window to wave farewell.

  “You seem to have an important friend,” Colonel William T. Sherman said. He took the reins of his horse from Quincy.

  “My mother,” Quincy replied dismissively. “What’s the news, sir?”

  Sherman shrugged. “General Scott has informed the Congress and the President that the army is not ready. Congress, however, wants this over so they can get back to business and has demanded that he attack immediately. They even have issued an official battle cry: On to Richmond.”

  “And our role, sir?”

  “To take command of a brigade.” Sherman slapped him on the back. “You will be my Adjutant General.”

  July 2, 1861

  Manassas Junction, Virginia

  Colonel Jeb Stuart skipped down the steps of General Beauregard’s headquarters, put his hat on at a jaunty angle and adjusted the ostrich plume. “Do you know a General John Patterson?”

  “Did he serve in Mexico?” Johnny asked. He handed the reins of Stuart’s horse to him.

  “I don’t know.”

  “There was a Major General John Patterson from Pennsylvania in Mexico,” Johnny said.

  “Any good?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “He’s taken Martinsburg,” Stuart replied, stepping into the stirrup and mounting.

  “How bad was it?”

  “Not bad.” Stuart urged his horse forward. “Jackson’s orders were to delay Patterson, not to try to stop him. The question now is which way will Patterson turn?”

  “Does that cut Jackson off from us?”

  Stuart shook his head. “Beauregard says no.”

  “What are our orders?”

  “To continue to assess Yankee troop strength.”

  “What about Fitz?” Johnny asked. “Did you ask him about Fitz?”

  “Fitz Lee’s troop will remain with Rooney Lee’s regiment in the Shenandoah Valley while we patrol here and assess troop strength as ordered.”

  “We can’t provide an accurate troop assessment until General Scott commits some units to the field,” Johnny said. “Counting flags in Washington is a useless endeavor.”

  “It’s said that General Scott isn’t in favor of an attack until the army’s better trained,” Stuart said. “Do you know him?”

  “General Scott?” Johnny nodded. “Yes. Very well. He’s a close friend of our family.”

  “What’s your unvarnished opinion of him?”

  Johnny considered his words before replying. “He is a fine old man who has served his country well – but now he’s too old and too fat to command an army. Lincoln will replace him as soon as he’s become familiar with the current officer corps.”

  Stuart pointed over his sh
oulder. “That’s exactly what Beauregard just told me.”

  “I’d be surprised if he disagreed. He knows everyone’s strengths and weaknesses.”

  “Jackson did well in his organized retreat. He’ll get a star soon, I wager.”

  “Does that worry you?”

  “Frankly, I don’t trust the man. He has some very strange habits and beliefs.”

  “You mean his religious habits?” Johnny asked.

  “No. I mean personal habits. For example, he holds one hand in the air and sits straight up all the time. He says it promotes blood flow and keeps the internal organs properly aligned.” Stuart chuckled. “Oh, and he never puts pepper on anything. He says it makes his left leg weak.”

  “I’ve only seen the man for a matter of minutes, Beauty, and he didn’t hold his hand in the air or refuse pepper during that time.”

  “Well.” Stuart untied his horse. “Let’s go see if the Yankees are going to do something interesting.”

  July 15, 1861

  Centreville, Virginia

  Captain Quincy Van Buskirk rode his horse into the blackberry patch and slapped at a soldier with the flat of his sword. “You men get back on the road and into formation. This isn’t a bloody picnic.”

  Grumbling, the soldiers climbed the bank and fell back into the ragged column.

  Quincy turned his horse and proceeded along the embankment, chivying men who were resting or drinking, until he reached the color guard of Sherman’s brigade.

  Sherman saw him and waved at him to come back.

  Quincy urged his horse up the incline and fell in beside Sherman. “This isn’t an army,” Quincy complained, “it’s a collection of unwashed, untrained, and undisciplined rabble.”

  “They’ll learn the hard way,” Sherman replied.

  “They’ll run like rabbits when the first shot’s fired. I’d like to meet the brilliant bastard that decided on these thirty-day enlistments.”

  “He’s back there in the White House. Maybe your mother can arrange an introduction.”

  Quincy looked at Sherman. “Do you really think so, sir? Is it possible that the President actually believes that we can put down the rebellion in a month?”