by Jeff Shaara
“Yes, yes, we’ll get to that in a moment. Please, sit down. We have some coffee, if you would like. Cigar?”
“No, that’s all right, thank you.”
Hancock looked around the newspaperman’s cluttered office, saw clippings tacked to the wall, some framed, some loose, large headlines, small columns. There were pages from cities back East, from papers Hancock had read in St. Louis and Philadelphia.
“Surprised we haven’t actually met before now.”
Hancock looked at the man, saw a small bald head on a short round body, and he studied the face, looked for something, some sign. Hamilton was not what he had expected.
“Fine uniform you have there, Captain. I’ve heard you’ve been a captain for quite a while. Any chance of a promotion soon? Certainly you deserve one. You’re in charge of a wide area, a good deal of responsibility, and a good reputation too. A man who knows his duty.”
“Staff officers aren’t promoted as quickly as the line, the men in the field. If there’s a vacancy above me, there’s always a chance I will be considered.”
A brief look on Hamilton’s face betrayed him, and Hancock now saw he wanted more, wanted him to say something about the army, make some complaint. He stiffened in his chair, felt foolish for having given the man even a small piece of information. He was cautious now, felt that behind the charm, the polite banter, this man could not be trusted.
“Well, Captain, I hope your fortunes change. That is, in fact, why I asked you to stop by. Have you heard the news from back East? The election?”
Hancock said nothing, knew the word would be received soon, it had only been three weeks.
“No? I thought not. I seem to get the news before most here. My job, you know. A newspaperman learns to talk to a great many people, make a great many friends, people who love to pass along information. Fact is, Captain, there’s a steamer anchored this morning on the coast, just arrived from the Isthmus. The captain brings me the newspapers, and in return he goes home with a little gold. A fine arrangement, works with most of those fellows, certainly works for me. Let’s see. . . .” Hamilton bent down, reached under his desk, lifted up a newspaper and pretended to read. Hancock knew there was some game being played, some little piece of strategy that Hamilton was enjoying.
“Mr. Hamilton, I should return to my post. You said you had a message for me?”
“Oh, certainly, Captain, forgive me. It’s just, well, when events happen around us that are certain to change our lives, well, it’s momentous. Today is such a day!”
“How? What has happened?” Hancock began to lose patience, leaned forward with his hands on the desk. Hamilton did not flinch, and Hancock thought to himself, Careful, this man does not intimidate, too much arrogance. Find out what he knows.
“Captain, the election, as you know, was held just a few weeks ago. What we greatly feared has happened. All of us who value the sanctity of our freedoms, those of us who treasure the sacred right of the American people to determine our own futures, are sickened, sir, mortified at the outcome. Mr. Abraham Lincoln has been elected President of the United States. The Democrats beat themselves, split their vote between Breckenridge and Bell, a foolish, fatal mistake.”
Hancock absorbed the news, had not believed it would happen, had thought Breckenridge would carry the vote.
“I take it by your silence, Captain, you do not approve of Mr. Lincoln?”
Hancock stood up. “Is there anything else, Mr. Hamilton? I really must be leaving.”
“Please, Captain, a moment more. Please, sit.”
“If you have a point, sir, please make it.”
“Really, Captain, there is no need for that tone. I have no ill feeling toward the army, and certainly not toward you. I have an instinct for these things, Captain. I sense you have your own strong feelings about Mr. Lincoln, and I know that you are in fact a Democrat.”
Hancock felt a curiosity, wanted to leave, but more, wanted to know what Hamilton was up to. “Go on.”
“Captain, I’m sure you have heard, from your own sources, that the army is going to face a severe crisis because of this election. I know that in San Francisco this news is going to be received, is being received, with a great deal of anger, and I also know that many good men, officers of high rank, will resign from the army and return to their homes in the southern states. Many men, men you know well, I’m sure, anticipate hostilities to break out. Mr. Lincoln is a misguided fool, a puppet for the radical elements in the North who want nothing less than total domination and control over the South.” Hancock said nothing.
“Forgive me, Captain. I didn’t mean . . . I didn’t ask you here to preach to you. The point is, where do you stand, Captain?”
“I’m an officer in the United States Army. I took an oath to defend my country—”
“Please, Captain, set aside the standard doctrine for a moment. We are a long way from West Point. Your army is about to dissolve, fall to pieces. The commanders, generals, colonels, men to whom you place your admirable loyalty, are about to resign. The reality is that the southern states will secede, forming their own independent nation. What do you think will happen to California, Captain? Let me tell you. The good people of California have no more loyalty to Mr. Lincoln’s government than do the people of South Carolina, or Alabama, or Texas. California will become an independent nation, Captain. A rich nation, welcoming all those who recognize the great bounty we have here. A man like yourself, a man of strength, duty, a man who understands order . . . we will need order, Captain. There is a place for you here, a command, a position of great prestige. California will need her own good soldiers.”
“Mr. Hamilton, California is governed by the laws of the United States government, as are you, sir. If I believed you had the authority to offer me any such position, I would arrest you for treason.”
“Captain Hancock, when you leave here, look around you. Count the flags you see, the illegal flags of the Bear Republic. The only American flag you will see is on your own building, and when the army leaves, that flag will come down. That is the reality, Captain.”
“Please excuse me, Mr. Hamilton. I have duties to attend to.” He began to back away, reached behind him for the door, still watched the round little man.
“The offer stands, Captain. Don’t place your loyalties foolishly. You have a family to think of—their future . . . their safety. . . .”
Hancock felt something break inside him, lunged forward, put one knee up on the desk, reached across and grabbed Hamilton’s shirt, pulled him forward heavily onto his desk. He stared a long second into the man’s eyes, expected fear but did not see it.
“If you . . . if anyone comes near my children . . . my family, I will kill them. I will shoot them dead, Mr. Hamilton. Do you understand?”
He released the man’s shirt, and Hamilton slid back down into his chair, smiled slightly.
“No one is threatening your family, Captain. I’m just a newspaperman. This was a friendly conversation, that’s all. I thought a man in your position should hear the latest news, the election. I’m always here, Captain, my door is always open.”
Hancock backed away, stared at the man’s face, the cold smile, the maddening smugness, and he wanted to grab him again, suddenly felt very weak, powerless, and left the office. He rushed outside through a narrow doorway, felt the coolness, the December breeze, and a motion caught his eye. He looked up, across the street, saw up on a building the short pole and, snapping crisply in the wind, the flag of the Bear Republic.
CAPTAIN LORMAN’S cavalry had been camped around the supply depot now for several weeks, longer than expected. Hancock knew that the longer the infantry was delayed, the greater chance the cavalry would be needed somewhere else and called away. He had sent inquiries to Benicia, asking when the infantry would arrive. Messages were moving back and forth to Fort Tejon, and from there communications were being received from Benicia. It was the only communication line the army had, but there was no definite wor
d about the infantry. It was a five-hundred-mile march down a coastline used by many bandit groups, and no one expected the army to pass through without some problems. All Hancock knew was that they were on the march.
It had been only three days since his meeting with Hamilton, but by now everyone knew of Lincoln’s election, and the men had begun to react here, just as everywhere else.
Hancock knelt on the hard dirt floor, his head close to the ground, reading faded labels on wooden boxes, making notes on a thick inventory pad.
“Captain? Oh, there . . . do we have the tents?” Lorman stepped up beside him, leaned over.
“No problem, Captain,” Hancock replied. “Some of them are here, underneath. It would be helpful if your men could lend a hand, moving this stack, maybe . . . over there, that empty corner.”
“Sure thing, Captain.” Lorman turned, moved back outside, called to his men, and instantly soldiers were around Hancock, waiting for instructions. He stood up, pointed to the tents, and the men began to work, lifting boxes, shifting piles. He could feel the energy, a new eagerness. The men knew they would not be here much longer, had begun to itch for a change, the return home to Tejon, or a new assignment.
Hancock watched the labor, saw it was handled, began to leaf through the inventory sheets, and Lorman said, “Captain, a minute, if you don’t mind?”
“Certainly.” They walked outside, Hancock following Lorman’s lead. Lorman was a younger man, clean-shaven, smaller than Hancock, with a sturdy build and the compact stance of a good horseman. They walked out to the picket fence, and Hancock saw the men moving about, tending their horses, cleaning rifles, the daily chores of camp.
“We received new orders, Captain,” Lorman said. “This morning. Colonel Blakely is sending us to the coast, south of here a ways. The navy has been losing some property to bandits around the San Diego Mission. They don’t have the manpower, or the inclination, to chase them around the countryside. The colonel has told me specifically to defer to your judgment. If you feel it is too dangerous for us to leave just yet, we can delay a few days.”
“That’s very good of the colonel. But . . . it seems a little unusual to send your men out without returning to Tejon first. Other units could—”
“Captain,” Lorman said, “I don’t question the colonel’s orders.”
“No, certainly, I didn’t mean that. I just—” He stopped, could see the look on Lorman’s face, knew there was more, something the young man was not saying. Hancock glanced around the depot, waited.
Lorman said, quietly, barely above a whisper, “Captain, we don’t need to go back to Tejon, not now. The colonel feels we need to keep the men moving, keep them out in the field. Until . . . the tempers calm down.”
“Do you think they will calm down?”
“As long as my men stay busy, they don’t talk. As long as they have a mission, they all point in the same direction.”
Hancock listened to the man’s words, tried to hear an accent. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Lorman, where are you from?”
“Illinois. My family’s up near Lake Michigan.”
“Pennsylvania, myself. Please, forgive my personal question. I was just . . . well . . .”
“You were wondering if I was one of the Southerners. It’s all right, Captain. We’re all asking the same questions. I have men I’ve served with for five years, men I thought I could always depend on, who were always where you put them, doing their job. I have a lieutenant, there, that tall fellow with the red beard, Calloway, been with me from the beginning. He says he’s going home, quitting, says he has to defend Alabama. I ask him, defend them from what? He says, Lincoln. Do you understand this, Captain? What are they defending?”
Hancock looked at the ground, thought of Hamilton, the fierce oratory, pulling people along by their fears.
Lorman put a hand out, rested it on the fence rail. “You know, I thought it would be best if I supported Mr. Lincoln, nice to see someone from Illinois that made good like that. I never gave much thought to being a Republican or a Democrat or anything else, I figured it was the right thing to do, and now I hear men talking like he’s the devil. I don’t see what it is he’s done that people hate him so.”
Hancock saw the innocence, saw himself, a soldier who learns late the dangerous power of politics, said, “There’s been too much talk, I think. Too many loud voices. If someone disagrees with you, you shout back a little louder, and so he does the same. The words get nastier, the threats grow . . . and that’s how wars start.”
Lorman looked at him, and Hancock said the word again, to himself: war.
“But . . . we’re all on the same side,” Lorman said. “One country—”
“Mr. Lorman, you and I are from one country. Maybe your lieutenant from Alabama doesn’t see it that way. These people here, these Californians, don’t seem to see it that way. I don’t know how you change that.”
Lorman turned, and Hancock saw a man running over, calling out.
“Captain, a rider . . . a courier.”
They turned toward the sound of hoofbeats, saw a blue uniform riding up, but from a different direction, not the road to Tejon.
The two officers moved toward the gate, and Lorman said, “He’s not cavalry—the uniform, infantry.”
The man dismounted, looked around, saw the officers approaching, saluted and said, “Lieutenant Phillips, sirs, Sixth Regiment of Infantry. Begging your pardon, I have a message for Captain Hancock.”
Lorman gestured in Hancock’s direction. “Right here, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, Major Armistead sends his compliments, wishes me to inform you that units of the Sixth Regiment will be camping just north of town this evening. He also requests . . .” The man felt in his pocket, pulled out a rumpled piece of yellow paper. “Major Armistead respectfully requests an invitation to dinner with the captain and his commanding officer, Mrs. Hancock.”
Hancock laughed, startling the dusty lieutenant, who said, “Excuse me, sir, but may I assume that the captain understands the major’s message?”
“Quite well, Lieutenant. Please pay my respects to your major. Tell him . . . the commander will expect his presence at seven o’clock. It’s all right, I’m authorized to speak for my . . . commanding officer.”
The man saluted, climbed back on his horse, and with a quick graceful spin, a self-conscious move in the face of a crowd of cavalrymen, spurred the horse down the road, into a dusty cloud.
Lorman waved his hat at the dust. “I assume, Captain, we may begin to break camp. Sounds like you are in capable hands. And, forgive the personal observation,” he said, smiling, “it sounds like this Major Armistead is a good friend of yours.”
Hancock watched the dust rising on the road, turned, looked at the young man from Illinois.
“That he is, Captain.”
9. LEE
February 1861
AT FORT Mason the officers had given up on maintaining good order and discipline in the troops. The tensions were high, fights were common, and it seemed that no one gave much thought to Indians, or any other aspect of their duty.
Lee sat alone in the commander’s office. He still allowed Major Thomas to share the small space, felt it relieved the boredom by having a companion, especially someone from Virginia. But Thomas was away now, and Lee passed the days in painful ignorance. Occasional newspapers would make it to the fort, passed through San Antonio, and always now the news was bad.
He turned his chair toward the small window, looked out beyond the wall and saw the Lone Star, the flag of an independent Texas flying from a high pole, placed purposely, defiantly, where the soldiers would see it.
What will happen? he wondered. Will we become prisoners, or will they simply tell us to leave? He reached out, ran his finger along the windowsill, pushed up a small line of gray dirt, the dust of the frontier. He felt a part of some great disaster, some great piece of history, and yet, he was not part of it, was not connected. He turned back to his desk, wiped his
hand on his pants, said aloud, “I have always been too far away.”
He suddenly felt very lonely, thought of Mary, his family, wondered what they knew, what news they heard, what wild rumors were cascading through Virginia. Of course, there would be rumors. There were always rumors. But no rumor could be any worse than what already was, nothing could make less sense. The country was falling apart, and he was helpless, could do nothing, was stuck in Indian country.
“Sir?”
It was the voice of Sergeant Morgan, a small, cheerful man who did not seem affected by all this, which Lee found curious and a bit entertaining. He simply loved being a soldier.
“Yes, Sergeant, come in.” Lee leaned back in the chair, stretched, did not feel like a commander.
“Forgive the interruption, sir, but a message has come for you.”
“Read it to me, Sergeant, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s sealed, sir. From General Twiggs’s office, sir.”
“Read it, Sergeant. Not much in the way of military secrets passing through there these days.”
Morgan broke the seal with a flourish, sent a piece of wax flying past Lee, hitting the window.
“Oh, sorry, sir. I’m not used to opening these things.”
Lee tried to smile, felt very tired, didn’t have it in him. “Go on, read it, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir, ‘To Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee, dated February fourth, 1861, by direct order of the War Department, you are hereby relieved of duty with the Second Regiment of Cavalry and are hereby ordered to report in person to General in Chief Winfield Scott in Washington, prior to April first.’ Good God.”
Abruptly, Lee was awake. He reached out, and Morgan stared at the order, reluctantly handed it to him.
“I assume, Sergeant, that last comment is from you, not from the War Department?”
“Oh my God! Oh . . . yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I never read one of these before. You have been . . . relieved of command, sir? I’m terribly sorry. What did you do?”