by Jeff Shaara
An officer dismounted, came through the gate and saluted Hancock, a gesture of greeting, not rank.
“Captain William Lorman, at your service, sir. Second squadron of cavalry, Fort Tejon. Understand you have a bit of a problem here, Captain?” Lorman glanced at the civilians, saw the weapons, and looked back at Hancock, puzzled.
“Captain Lorman, these men are good citizens of Los Angeles, and have provided volunteer service to their country in time of crisis. They are to be commended.”
Lorman looked over the men again, shrugged. “Whatever you say, Captain. They may be excused now. We have been ordered to encamp here, to act as security for your command until the infantry arrives.” He looked again at the line of men, saw the ancient Tennessee rifle held by the rancher, Ben Wilson, said to Hancock in a low voice, “They didn’t have to shoot anybody, did they?”
“No, Captain, all is peaceful here for now. Their presence was a deterrent, I am certain of that. Please have your men set up their camp around the depot, as you see fit. Did you say infantry?”
“Yes, Captain, I am to tell you that a regiment of infantry under the command of a Major Armistead is being sent down from San Francisco.”
“Major Armistead?”
“That’s the message I was given. You know him?”
“I know him as Captain Armistead.” Hancock smiled, shook his head. Chasing bandits around Benicia must have its rewards, he thought. He turned back to his friends, who had eased their stance, were watching the horse soldiers dismount.
“Well, Captain,” Banning said. “Looks like you don’t require our services anymore. My word, it is a good feeling, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“The army . . . the troops. Calms things down a bit, I’d say. Gives me a bit of credibility too. Now, our friend Hamilton will really pay attention when I bring him some news. Could be very useful indeed.” Banning laughed, gave Hancock a crude salute, and the others, smiling now, yawns and more stretches, began to move away in a weary stagger back to their homes.
He watched them leave, then turned to find Lorman again, to offer assistance, when he heard her voice, then saw a bright wave. Mira came to the gate, the soldiers parting with an admiring stare, letting her pass. She didn’t rush to him, knew about decorum, the dignity of officers. Hancock glanced at Lorman, who had moved up to ask for something, and Lorman caught the look and backed discreetly away, then barked something to his men Hancock did not hear. Mira held out her arm, which Hancock hooked into his, and she led him out, through the gate, back toward their home and their waking children.
7. LEE
September 1860
HIS OLDEST son, Custis, had arrived home the night before. Lee had secured a post for the young man in Washington so he could live at Arlington, and continue the good work Lee had started managing his grandfather’s estate.
Lee sat at the breakfast table, a hand on his round stomach, groaned, thought, I should not have eaten that last biscuit. Custis sat at the other end of the table, still eating, reached again toward the plate of biscuits.
Lee looked at the young man, tried to see his own face, but saw so much of Mary. Mary sat at the table as well; the arrival of her son had been an effective tonic, and she had come to breakfast for the first time in weeks.
Custis finally sat back, stretched. “Oh my, how I’ve missed Aunt Becky’s biscuits!”
Rebecca was the old black servant and cook who had been at Arlington since Mary had been a child. Now frail and half blind, she was devoted to Mary, a valuable help to her, as much as Mary would allow.
Custis yawned, stood, raised long arms over his tall frame. “So, Father, when do you report to Texas?”
“I will leave this week, probably on Friday. They want me there as soon as possible, though I can’t . . . well, they need a commander, somebody to fill the office. General Twiggs will be back down there before much longer. The command is his and he won’t stay around Washington for long. I will make the best of it, temporary as it may be.”
Custis smiled. “Well, you have no worries here. Your reinforcements have arrived.”
Lee rose from the table, made way for Rebecca as she cleared the table. He went to Mary’s chair, but Custis intervened.
“Excuse me, Father, but Mother and I have made plans for this morning.”
The young man slid Mary’s chair back, and he helped her stand. Lee saw a faint smile cross her worn face. “Yes, my son and I are going for a ride.”
Lee thought it was not a good idea, she was so frail, but he saw his son’s firm grip, the two of them standing close, and he felt Mary’s enthusiasm, so rare now.
“Well, you be careful. Custis, you drive—”
“Robert, enough!” Mary said. “I have managed around here without your help for too long. I believe I can take care of myself, and my son too!”
She was teasing him, but the words stung. Lee nodded, backed away, and walked down a wide hallway to the study. He stood at the large desk and looked at the ledgers and the paperwork. He thought, I will sit with Custis later, go over the records. He sat down heavily in the soft leather chair, rocked back, felt great relief that his son was home, then thought again of his post, of San Antonio and Fort Mason.
He knew it would be more of the same, uneventful and frustrating, and his career still had little chance of advancement. While in Washington, he had learned that more than twenty colonels were ahead of him in seniority, and the news struck him like a hammer, made him think of retirement. But he could not sit still at Arlington and grow corn. And so, his long leave was finally expiring, and he was assigned to fill the temporary vacancy left by General Twiggs’s prolonged visit to the capital, appointed mainly because he was the only colonel currently assigned to a post in Texas.
He had gone there for one reason, volunteered for the cavalry because it was the only chance he might ever have to be a soldier again; the satisfaction that came from the praise, the respect from General Scott, the good work in Mexico. He had spent three years as Commandant of West Point, appointed over many others, a job politicked for by men who sought the prestige, the opportunity to grow old in the quiet surroundings of their own authority, absolute control over a corps of cadets. But Lee had tired quickly of the mundane responsibilities, the annoying administrative duties, conflicts over ridiculous infractions of outdated rules. It had been no better than his long career as an engineer, and to the surprise of all who knew him, he jumped at the opportunity to command the newly formed Second Regiment of Cavalry, an honest command of real troops, and so he’d gone to Texas.
But Texas was not like Mexico, and he was under the authority of General David Twiggs, a thoroughly disagreeable and bitter old man, who had a complete dislike for Winfield Scott. The Department of Texas was Twiggs’s private domain, and Lee learned quickly that Twiggs had little regard for his abilities and a great suspicion of his warm relationship with General Scott.
The Second Regiment was stationed far from the comforts of San Antonio, far into the miserable heat and incredible hostility of the wilderness. And if Lee was to receive no support from Twiggs, he would receive less help from the elusive Comanches he was sent to control. But contemplating the coming winter, the changing seasons, the fresh chill of the Virginia winter, he thought, I do miss Texas . . . and I am not a farmer.
“Colonel Lee?”
It was Rebecca.
“Yes, what is it?” It came out gruffly, and he was instantly sorry. “Is there something I can do for you, Rebecca?”
The old woman padded slowly into the study, pointed out toward the front door. “Colonel, there’s a visitor, sir. It’s Nate, ol’ Nate.”
Lee did not know who she meant. He stood and walked past her and to the front door, opened it and faced a huge black man, with broad shoulders and thick neck, one of Custis’s former slaves. As Lee looked up at the massive frame, the name came back to him.
“Nate! Yes, yes, Nate, why, come in. It’s been a while since y
ou left.”
The man leaned slightly, stepped through the front door, seemed shy, hesitant, and Lee realized he had probably never come through the front door before.
“Thank you, Colonel. I comes to ask you somethin’ if you have the time.” He spoke slowly, with a deep cavernous voice, did not look Lee in the face. Lee motioned for him to follow, went into the study, saw Rebecca looking at the familiar black face, squinting, trying to see him clearly. Nate leaned over, gave the old woman a gentle hug, said only, “You ol’ woman.”
Lee could see that Rebecca was moved, teary-eyed, and she quickly turned away, moved down the hall, scolded, “Now you don’ take up the colonel’s time, you heah?” and she was gone, back toward the kitchen.
Lee had often wondered how old the woman was. She didn’t know herself. He turned to the big man, said, “It appears she misses you.”
“Sweet ol’ woman, that she is, Colonel. Hope she lives forever. Reckon she will as long as she has Miss Mary to tend to.”
“You may be right. What can I do for you . . . Nate?” Lee realized that was the only name he could recall, did not know his last name, felt foolish.
“Colonel, you did me a great thing, sir, when you gives me my papers. I wanted you to know, I done real good. The man you sent me to, Mr. Van Dyke, they is good Pennsylvania folk, they right happy to have ol’ Nate on their farm. I been blacksmithin’.”
It all came back to Lee now. He had heard there were opportunities in the Pennsylvania Dutch country for freedmen to find work, vast new farms in a rugged land, and he had inquired, learned of several farmers who would hire good help. Nate had been one of the first, one of the most able men the old man had, and Lee had watched him leave with mixed feelings. But Arlington could not afford to hire the freedmen.
“Colonel, the reason I come back here . . . I raised some money. They payin’ me good. Never been . . . not good at spendin’ much money . . . it just gatherin’ up. So’s I come back here to ask you about my brother, Bo. I wonder, sir, if you would allow me to buy him.”
Lee had been listening to the man’s deep voice, and noticing his clothes, a nice homespun suit, well made. Now, he looked up at the dark, rugged face, let the words sink in, began to feel awkward.
“You want to . . . buy your brother?”
“Yes, sir, he’s not fit for much. He been crippled up most of his life, not much good to you here.”
Lee realized now who Bo was, the man with a missing foot, bad farm accident long ago. He hobbled about with a cane, did odd work for the other field hands, work that didn’t require much mobility.
“Nate, the people who are still here are not for sale. I am pleased, greatly pleased, to allow any of them to leave, who want to. The problem has always been that most of them have nowhere to go. It was . . . easier finding work for you, you are . . . well, quite fit. Men like Bo, and the women like Rebecca, they don’t have much hope of finding any work.”
“But sir, Bo don’ have to work. I can take care of him now. I done talked it over with Mr. Van Dyke, he say it all right.”
Lee sat down at the desk, reached for a blank piece of paper, pulled out his pen and began to write, then stopped, stared down for a moment, said, “Nate, forgive me. I don’t recall your last name.”
The man smiled, a wide toothy grin. “They give me a name. Mr. Van Dyke says when he first seen me, he thought I was black as coal, so they calls me Nate Cole. I even hear some people call me Mistuh Cole.”
“Well, Mr. Cole, I suppose your brother should have the same last name, so . . . here.” Lee wrote out the document, signed it with a broad stroke. “Here are his papers. He’s a freedman.”
Nate kept smiling, shook his head, wanted to say something, still felt reserved in front of Lee, took the paper and held it up to his face.
“I reckon I cain’t read this, Colonel, but I knows your name, your signin’. I looked at the papers you give me . . . still looks at ’em, carries ’em here.” He tapped at his wide pants pocket. He folded the new paper carefully, the tender freedom of his brother, put it into the same pocket, started to go, then stopped. “Colonel, how many you gots left here?”
“You mean, how many still work the land? How many . . . hands?” Lee felt a sudden cold shock. He could not say the word slave to this man, had almost never used the word at all. “Thirty . . . or so, I believe.”
“When they gonna be freed, if you don’ mind me askin’, Colonel?”
The question sank deep into Lee. It was the same question he had asked himself when he first read the old man’s will. The will called for release of all Custis’s slaves within five years of his death, and Lee had seen the mandate as a relief, the added incentive to take care of an unpleasant burden. But there had always been a problem. Many of the slaves simply did not want to leave, had no thoughts of any other home, but once freed, they would have to be kept on as paid labor, and Arlington had enough financial struggles as it was.
“I’m working . . . hard at it, Nate. You know those people. Most of them have no idea what lies beyond these hills. I cannot just . . . send them away. Where would they go?”
“I didn’ know about much of nothin’ either, Colonel. Now I’m doin’ good. I knows some of ’em . . . they been hearin’ about Africa . . . this Liberia. I knows some of ’em wants to go there.”
“I’m happy to hear that—Liberia is a good solution. But it’s expensive. I cannot . . . Mr. Custis’s estate does not have the money to pay for that. Not now.”
Nate looked down, rubbed his chin with a hard hand. “Colonel, you think there ever come a time when everybody . . . do like you?”
“You mean, give all the . . . slaves their papers?”
“Yes, sir. Everywhere.”
Lee thought, ran a hand through his hair, said, “I believe . . . the Negroes are where God wants them to be, and when God wants the Negroes to be free, then He will free them. God has set you free, through my hand. He has set your brother free through your hand. There will come a time—”
“Colonel, you is a good man, a decent man, and I thanks you for what you done for me, and for Bo. But forgive me, Colonel, not meanin’ no disrespec’, this here is your name on this paper, not God’s. If’n we waits for God to set all of us free, we be waitin’ for a long time.”
Lee stared now into the man’s eyes, the deep lines in the black face. “You may be right about that. It may be a long time. But I must do what I believe God wants me to do. I can’t do anything else.”
“It ain’t you, Colonel, that I’m talkin’ about. You done good, you is doin’ good.” Lee began to see a small light, a flash of anger in the dark eyes. “But they is plenty of white folks who don’t depend on God for much of nothin’. They ain’t about to change the way things is.”
“Nate, all I can say . . . well, I promise you that God will decide one day it is time, and it will happen.”
Nate nodded, but Lee saw he did not agree, did not have the faith that Lee so cherished.
“Colonel, I be goin’ now. I gots to find my brother, then I be on my way. Thank you, Colonel, I hope God blesses you.”
The man turned and was quickly gone, soft respectful steps. He went out the front door, closed it quietly behind him.
Lee sat back against the soft leather, stared toward the hallway, felt something strange, a new sensation. He had never had such a conversation with one of . . . them. He thought, God has had a hand here, in this. He thought of John Brown, the reckless calls for abolition made by people who did not live with slaves, who took no responsibility for what happened to them. But the speeches went on, and there was great anger in the South, especially down in the cotton states, where there were many more slaves than here, around Arlington. Nate is right, he thought. These people are not letting God decide. There had been blood in Kansas, blood at Harper’s Ferry.
Lee stood, walked toward the small window that looked toward Washington. God, please let them see reason. . . .
SAN ANTONIO had not ch
anged, and Lee spent his brief time of command once again swallowed up by the same monotony and aggravations that he had left. As he’d expected, Twiggs came quickly back from Washington and assumed command of the Department of Texas once more, his ego too tender to spend much time that close to his commanders in Washington. So Lee found himself back in command of the Second Regiment, and Twiggs had sent him north, to Fort Mason, back to the routine Lee thought he’d missed.
As Lee’s coach rolled into the dusty walls of Fort Mason, he did not wait for the escort to open the door or even the coach to stop before he was out, moving across the hard dirt of the compound. He needed no greetings, no introductions. It was all too familiar. He reached the door to the headquarters offices, paused, looked around. He was surprised there were not more troops around. Only a few groups of men were scattered about, and no formations of drilling squadrons. The fort was a good deal quieter than he had left it more than a year ago.
He pushed open the door and walked into a thick cloud of cigar smoke. Behind the small desk sat a corporal reading a newspaper, feet up on the desk. The man had a huge cigar stuffed in one side of his mouth, did not look at Lee.
Lee waited, felt an unusual lack of patience, drained away by the heat and dust of his trip.
“On your feet, soldier.”
“What . . . ?” The man looked up, annoyed at the interruption, did not recognize Lee’s face, finally absorbed his rank, and placed the paper gently across the desk. He stood noisily then, pushing back the chair.
Lee stared at the cigar, still poking through the man’s mouth, and the man caught Lee’s look, removed the cigar, raised his hand in a sloppy salute, and dropped it down prematurely, not waiting for Lee’s response.
“Excuse me, Colonel. We don’t get many visitors around here.”
Lee felt a hot rush, a sudden impatient anger, wanted to tell the man who he was, how long he had served this army, all the good things he had done, only to be treated with such lazy lack of respect. Seconds passed, and the man looked down at the cigar, then reached for it, and Lee suddenly felt great despair. He continued to watch as the man grew impatient, painfully wanting to return to the chair and his newspaper.