‘Gentlemen,’ he began slowly. ‘My America is a free country. It gives me, by right, freedom of speech, freedom of belief. In my America a man may decline to accept dogma as fact. I do not believe, because I am told that I must, that the Federal cause is the only just one. Nor do I believe, by the same token and for the same reasons, that the Confederacy is utterly wrong. I do not believe that this war, or any war, is a just war simply because I am told to do so. I hate war. That is why I have not taken sides, and that is why I will not! That is all. Thank you, gentlemen.’
General Moore coughed and looked at the two majors sitting alongside him. David looked at their eyes. What were they thinking?
‘This court is much impressed by your remarks, Mr. Strong,’ General Moore said. ‘No one here would contest your hatred of war nor your perfect right to believe whatever you wish to believe. But hating the war does not end it, sir. And those of us who wage it must perforce protect ourselves against anyone who might wish to vitiate our efforts.’ He paused and fiddled with his spectacle case. It was a gaudy little thing made of pink felt, with orange and yellow flowers on it. Probably a present from one of his grandchildren, David thought. ‘There is no time for us to consider philosophical arguments,’ Moore continued, ‘even if this court were qualified to do so. So we must apply simpler tests. It does not seem unreasonable to this court that the oath of allegiance be used to establish a man’s sympathies, Mr. Strong. Not his beliefs, sir, for those are, and remain, his own. However, this court must insist: take the oath, or take the consequences!’
‘With the greatest respect, General,’ David said. ‘I say be damned to your court!’
Anger flooded across General Moore’s face. David glanced at Edward Maxwell and saw his eyes blaze with triumph. Major Darby looked dismayed, like a man who was expecting the worst and has had it happen to him.
‘The court notes your remarks, Mr. Strong,’ General Moore said coldly. ‘It will now retire to consider its verdict.’
David looked at the clock on the wall as the three officers went out. A quarter of twelve. The room was silent except for the clock’s sonorous tick, the occasional shuffle of a sentry’s foot, Darby’s discreet cough. The lawyer looked as though he wanted to say something to David but could not find the words to say it with.
David felt cold, lost, separated from reality. Where was Sam? Where was Andrew? Why hadn’t they come? He wasn’t being fair, he knew. They probably hadn’t even received his letters yet. Everything had happened so fast, so fast.
He closed his mind. There was no use hoping, thinking, wishing. He had said what he wanted to say. The thing was out of his hands now.
‘How long is this likely to take?’ he whispered to Darby.
‘I don’t know, Mr. Strong,’ Darby replied. ‘Not long, usually.’
‘Good.’
‘Did you … have to speak so bluntly?’
‘Yes,’ David said. ‘I believe I did.’
As he said the words, the door into the courtroom opened and the orderly sergeant shouted ‘Attention!’ Everyone stood as the three officers took their places at the bench.
‘The prisoner will remain standing,’ Major Carlson announced and sat down. David looked at the faces of the three men. Their expressions revealed nothing. He waited. He felt perspiration soaking his shirt, the throb of dread rising in his belly.
Twenty – The Story of Andrew Strong
August 1862
Wearing, for the first time, the uniform of a full colonel of artillery, Andrew Strong walked out of Chicago’s Illinois Central terminal and headed for Lake Street. He was relieved to have put behind him the horrors of the state prison at Joliet. It was a vile place. The dank stone and clanging metal seemed to give off an ugly miasma and while he appreciated that it was necessary for some men to be confined to safeguard the rest of humanity, the conditions he had witnessed at Joliet had appalled him. Any place in which men were confined like animals could only be degrading, brutal and cruel.
A great many Southerners had been arrested and sent to Northern prisons after the capture of Memphis on June 6. The citizens of Tennessee and Mississippi made no secret of their antipathy towards the Federal Army and clashes were frequent. Grant had been ordered by Halleck – promoted by Lincoln on July 11 to command of all the Federal armies – to live off the land and especially upon the resources of citizens hostile to the government. ‘Handle rebels within our lines without gloves’, he was instructed. ‘Imprison them or expel them from their homes, and from the Federal lines’. Grant decided to turn a blind eye to these orders, but many of his subordinates did not. As a result, perhaps sixty or seventy men had been arrested and sent north in chains. As soon as he learned of the arrests, Grant sent Andrew Strong to Chicago with his personal authority to arrange for the release of the men so imprisoned.
It was going to be a quiet summer, he told Andrew. ‘Old Brains’ would have his hands full, wondering how to cope with arming and outfitting the hundred thousand volunteers Mr. Lincoln had called for, and at the same time how to come up with the major victory Lincoln and the country were demanding. ‘I want those men in Joliet freed,’ he told Andrew, the ever-present cigar in his mouth. ‘I’d wager they’re no more guilty of treasonable actions than we are. There’s plenty sitting in their homes down here much likelier to harm our cause, but that class ain’t the type to get itself arrested. And anyways, I’d as soon have a few guilty men set free as have a lot of innocent ones in prison.’
As for Chicago, it was a pleasant change from the sweltering heat of the South. A brisk breeze snapped the banners flying atop the mercantile buildings, putting a coolness into the air. But the sun was bright and warm when you had buildings between you and the blustering wind.
Andrew walked up Lake Street. The shop windows were all shaded with awnings, some with red and white stripes, others colored green, yellow, or blue. There were signs everywhere. Andrew had a technique for finding excellent restaurants in strange cities. Bookshops invariably kept guidebooks; by comparing them it was usually easy to come up with the name of a good place. He could always stay at the Tremont House of course, but he figured you didn’t get the feel of a place at all if you just checked into a hotel and ate and slept there the whole time. The streets were abustle with people and carriages: some of the horses, he noticed, were particularly fine.
The thought led naturally to his father. The last letter he had sent to Washington Farm had not been answered. It was infuriating to be unable to contact David, but Culpeper had been occupied by the Confederate Army early in August. The last news he had received from home had been in April, when David wrote him that Jed had managed to get to the farm for a brief visit while delivering dispatches. Jed was in good shape, Pa had written, and serving on the staff of ‘Stonewall’ Jackson. Things were very quiet on the farm, he said. There was no point in trying to raise a crop. If you did the damned soldiers only came along and either commandeered it or trampled it flat. They didn’t even let the corn ripen: roasted it green and to hell with the squitters that followed. He wrote that if Andrew got a chance he should drop a note to Sam in New York, just to let Sam know that he was all right. Don’t want him worrying any more than he’s got to, David wrote. I imagine he has enough on his plate trying to sell his guns to the government.
I’ll send Sam a postcard, Andrew decided. He saw a sign: Giddy & Joy, Booksellers. Felicitous name indeed, he thought, pushing open the door. A bell tinkled as he went inside, and a young man in a dark suit directed him to the guidebooks. He was immersed in his ‘research’ when a remembered voice made him turn around in delighted surprise.
‘Well, well! Colonel Strong, no less!’
It was Jessica McCabe. She was wearing a lemon-colored dress with white bows down one side of its flared skirt. A wide-brimmed straw hat shaded her face. She was carrying a lemon and white parasol which exactly matched the colors of her dress. She looked absolutely stunning and Andrew told her so.
‘My, my, s
ir!’ she said, making a little mock curtsy. ‘You’ll quite turn my head! Now tell me, what brings you to the metropolis of the Midwest?’
He told her about his assignment. ‘It’s a sort of promotion furlough as well,’ he said. ‘I return to Corinth in three days. We’ve got a war on down there, you know.’
‘When were you promoted?’
‘After Shiloh,’ he said, without elaborating. ‘Now tell me what you are doing here.’
‘We have a house here.’
‘We?’
‘No, no, Andrew,’ she replied, and he saw the hint of dimples. ‘Not that kind of “we”. I mean my father and I.’
‘You’re not married, or anything?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not married. Or anything.’
‘That’s good,’ he said.
‘Now,’ she said briskly, after a little silence, ‘where are you staying in Chicago?’
‘I thought the Tremont House—’
‘Oh, that dump!’ she said scornfully. ‘Come and stay with us. I’m sure my father would be delighted to see you.’
‘He’s where?’
‘Daddy made his fortune in Chicago, Andrew,’ she replied. ‘I thought everybody in the world knew that.’
‘Why should everyone in the world know it?’
‘Oh, he’s been written about in so many newspapers, the self-made millionaire, you know the kind of thing.’
‘Never read that kind of stuff,’ he said. ‘Rots the brain.’
‘You’ll have to work harder than that to tease me, Colonel.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Have you had luncheon?’ Jessica asked abruptly. ‘No. I was going to—’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘You can take me. I know a very nice place.’
‘I’d forgotten how little you stand on ceremony,’ he said.
‘Don’t be stuffy, Andrew,’ she said, taking his arm. ‘Come along.’
There was a carriage waiting outside. The driver, whose name was Henry, saluted and helped Jessica into the carriage. As they bowled along, Jessica told Andrew a little about her father. His story was a real rags-to-riches one. The oldest son of a Maryland miller, McCabe was apprenticed at fifteen to a lawyer named Philip Ziegler. After five years, young Angus won a two-hundred-dollar appointment with the Baltimore law firm of Wadsworth, Banham & Locke. He saved half his salary by volunteering to act as night watchman, sleeping on the premises instead of renting lodgings. They called him Gus; he was a quiet, serious, reliable young man. He had no social life; all he thought of was work and money. By degrees Henry Wadsworth raised his salary to fifteen hundred dollars a year, a lot of money in 1833. With it Gus speculated in land in Chicago, a thriving new town burgeoning on the shores of Lake Superior. Town lots were selling then for one hundred dollars each. Gus bought a hundred, scratching together every cent he had to do it. Three years later, when the same lots were selling for one hundred and fifty times as much, he sold his holdings and all at once he was a rich man. He became a partner in the firm on the death of old James Banham and in the same year married Jane Wadsworth, his partner’s daughter.
Angus, as he was now respectfully addressed, continued to speculate in railroad stocks and land out West, notably in Washington Territory. He was a firm believer in the policy of westward expansion and manifest destiny. In 1846 he entered politics, and in 1854 was involved in the founding of the new Republican party at Ripon, Wisconsin. Later that year he became a Congressman and in 1859, when Oregon was separated from Washington Territory and achieved statehood, Angus McCabe was elected its first senator.
‘Daddy’s a man who likes to be on the move all the time,’ Jessica said. ‘So we keep the house in Washington, this one in Chicago, another in Portland. Daddy’s here for a board meeting of the Illinois Central.’
The carriage pulled to a stop outside a white frame house with a trellised fence. Inside music was being played; it sounded like a string quartet.
‘Thank you, Henry,’ Jessica said to the driver. ‘You may pick us up at three. Please tell my father that we shall have an overnight guest, Colonel Andrew Strong.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ the driver said, touching his cap.
‘What is this place?’ Andrew asked.
‘It’s a restaurant, silly! The most expensive one in Chicago. They even have a French chef. And you’re buying, don’t forget!’
‘I hope it’s not too expensive,’ Andrew said. ‘We haven’t all got millionaire fathers.’
‘Oh, I’ve heard about you Strongs,’ said Jessica with an airy wave of the hand. ‘Absolutely rolling in it, they say.’
The entrance to the restaurant was a discreet door with a brass knocker and a small brass plate upon which was engraved one word: Lucullus. It was light and airy inside. They were conducted to a table near an open French window looking out upon a lawn, where four musicians were playing a bacarolle. A waiter handed them menus and withdrew. Andrew looked around: there were perhaps twenty tables, no more. The conversation was muted, discreet.
‘Quite a rendezvous,’ he observed.
‘I like it.’
‘You come here often, then?’
‘Oh, drat!’ she said with a mock gesture of annoyance. ‘You’ve caught me out!’ Then she grinned like an urchin. ‘Don’t expect the prim Victorian miss from me, Andrew. I go where I please and I do what I want. You’ll just have to get used to it!’
‘I’m sorry,’ he smiled. ‘I’d forgotten just how … determined you can be.’
She was silent for a long while. He wondered if she was remembering telling him that she was going to forget him, no matter what. Or perhaps the time he had taken her in his arms and kissed her. He looked into her fine eyes. She did not pretend pretty confusion but looked back at him boldly.
‘ Jess,’ Andrew said softly. ‘It hasn’t changed, has it?’
‘It … seems not,’ she said very quietly.
Andrew reached across the table and touched the back of her hand with his fingers. She turned her hand around and took his and kissed it. Andrew felt a sudden rush of desire for her that took him completely by surprise. His ears closed, his throat constricted. He could see nothing except her face, her eyes, her lips.
Jessica’s smile turned suddenly conspiratorial and wicked.
‘I’m flattered that you feel the way you do, Andrew,’ she whispered. ‘But do try not to leap across the table, won’t you?’
He burst out laughing. No other response was possible. His laughter infected her and she started to laugh as well. Heads turned to stare at them but they could not stop. The head waiter came across to their table, his expression one of delicate pain.
‘Madam, sir, if you please,’ he murmured. Andrew managed to nod, and slowly mastered the urge to burst out laughing all over again. He felt drunk with the sheer headiness of the moment.
‘Jessica McCabe,’ he said. ‘You are a woman in a million, and you are about to eat the best damned lunch you have ever had in your life!’ He turned and waved to the waiter, who hurried over to their table again, as if he feared that by delaying he might precipitate another outburst of laughter.
‘We would like some champagne,’ Andrew told him. ‘The Bollinger, I think.’
‘No, the Krug,’ Jessica said. Andrew turned to look at her. She regarded him sweetly, almost challengingly. He felt a little fizz of annoyance.
‘Why?’ She saw the flicker of anger in his eyes and a feline smile of satisfaction touched her perfect lips.
‘Because it’s better,’ she answered, as if the veriest fool in the world knew that. Andrew looked at the waiter. The waiter looked at Andrew expectantly.
‘Well, man,’ Andrew said. ‘Don’t just stand there. Bring us the Krug!’
‘Yes, sir,’ the waiter said, vastly relieved. ‘Would you like the ’54 or the ’58?’
‘The ’54,’ Jessica replied. The waiter looked at Andrew and made one of those ‘what-can-a-man-do?’ faces, then hurried away.
> ‘He’s telling them in the kitchen that there’s a poor ox of a soldier out here who’s caught a tiger by the tail,’ Andrew said.
‘He’s entirely correct,’ she said.
They had a wonderful lunch. They ate sliver-thin slices of smoked salmon, lobster and fresh strawberries. And they talked. Andrew was not surprised; neither was Jessica. There was something almost preordained about it. They agreed on nearly everything, and could argue without anger over those things on which they did not. He knew instinctively that there would be no subject that Jessica McCabe would declare taboo and consequently he was bolder than he had ever expected to be with a woman. She did nothing at all to discourage him. It was as if each of them knew: it would always be like this.
‘What will you do when the war is over?’ she asked him.
‘I haven’t given it a lot of thought,’ he said. ‘Somehow just getting through it seems as far as the mind will go.’
‘You were an engineer.’
‘Yes, but I don’t want to do that anymore.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘Something … for other people,’ he said. ‘To try to make the world a better place. Does that sound pompous?’
‘A little,’ she replied with a gentle smile. ‘But honest.’
‘There is so much death, so much misery,’ Andrew went on. ‘It will be worse when the war is over. All those kids who’ve lost arms, legs. Men who will be sick for the rest of their lives because of what happened to them on the battlefields. Someone will have to do something for them.’
‘And you want to be that someone?’
‘I don’t honestly know,’ he said. ‘This is the first time I’ve ever even put my thoughts into words.’
‘There is only one way you could do what you want to do,’ Jessica said. ‘Politics.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not me. I’d never make a politician.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’re all liars,’ he said. ‘Or frauds.’
‘I’ll tell Daddy,’ she said, with a touch of malice in her voice. ‘He will be flattered!’
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