by Jeff Shaara
“Remember, hit them hard!”
12. HANCOCK
May 1861
THE ROUTE started west in Kansas, Fort Leavenworth, where the last of the telegraph wires stopped. The man rode hard and fast and as long as the horse would carry him, then, trading one horse for another, climbed toward the great mountains, following the trails through the high passes. The horse carried him quickly over the shrinking ice fields, slippery patches of melting snow that were just now warming under the springtime sun. There were stations along the way with fresh horses, small and crude outposts, and the man would hand over his heavy cloth sacks, the precious mail, newspapers, to a new man, who would take a fresh horse farther, higher, then down through the hard red rocks of the western flatlands, across the plains of Utah and Nevada, along the edges of small rivers that cut through the dry sands. He would climb again, into California, the breathtaking views across the Sierras, more snow now, and the horse slowed, could not move as quickly as the rider pushed him. Often it did not survive, brought the rider to the next station, only to collapse, dead from brutal exhaustion. Once across the mountains, the ride became easier, the green hills and valleys of northern California, a blessed relief to the man who had begun the trip hundreds of miles back, had survived the dangers of the mountains.
At last, there was the Sacramento River, the wide, calm waters that fed San Francisco Bay. Here, the rider knew, there would be time to rest, to play a bit, the wild and restless city, where the prospectors drank beside the rough men of the sea. But there was no play until the sacks were delivered, and the rider pushed his horse just a little harder as the town of Benicia, the walls of the old fort, appeared over the low hills. He dropped the sacks into the hands of a waiting officer, and both men saw relief in the eyes of the other, the rider because his duties were over, and the officer because they had some news.
Now, letters and papers went south, to Los Angeles, held by the leather pouches of the army, carried by soldiers this time, not the free and rugged civilians who brought the news across the great expanse of prairie and mountain and desert. Now they rode in numbers, protection from bandits who did not know what the pouches carried but knew there could be value, there could always be value. The soldiers were well armed, rode only during the day, and arrived at Los Angeles more rested, with horses that could take them back home.
Lewis Armistead saw them first, a cloud in the distance rising above the narrow road from the north. He was on his horse, had just left the Hancock home, stuffed with a truly marvelous dinner, and was now riding back toward the depot, the camp of his men.
The soldiers rode up fast, saw his uniform and slowed. He saw the faces, men who had ridden all day, hard dust on their burnt faces, the horses sagging, soaked in the lather of the hard ride.
The soldiers pulled up beside him, saluted, and he saw one officer, a captain, an unusually high rank for this duty.
“Major . . . Captain Billings, sir. Company D, Sixth Infantry. Oh . . . Major Armistead, sir.”
“That’s right, Captain. You’re a long way from home.”
“Major, these are handpicked men, a security detail. My orders came from General Johnston himself. We are to deliver these pouches to Captain Hancock, and in your presence, sir, if that is possible. The general was quite insistent in his instructions, sir.”
Armistead felt a twinge, deep in his gut, a small icy hole. “Gentlemen, I have just come . . . well, follow me. Captain Hancock’s house is just . . . there, up this road.”
He led the men up the narrow strip of hard dirt, halted his horse in front of the small house with stucco walls and low, flat windows. The men dismounted together, stood ready, looking out in all directions, away from the house, standing guard. Against what? Armistead wondered.
He led the captain to Hancock’s door, pulled back a rickety screen and knocked.
It was Mira who greeted them, smiled at Armistead and started to say something funny, a joke, to tease him about his appetite. Then she saw the captain, the brown leather bags, saw past them to the horses, soldiers with guns, and stepped back, pulling the door open wide. She nodded for the two officers to enter, then went to find her husband.
Armistead led the captain inside and waited with him. From the rear of the house, the room where his children had been put in bed, Hancock came out in civilian clothes, smiling at the words of his son. Armistead looked at his friend, but did not smile, said, “Captain, this man has ridden from up north, has some information.”
“Captain Billings, sir. Company D, Sixth Infantry. I have orders from General Johnston to give this to you personally, and in the presence of Major Armistead.”
Hancock took the bags, looked at Armistead, the smile gone. “Thank you, Captain. Is this . . . all?”
“Yes, sir. This concludes my mission. If you will excuse me, I will escort my men to a convenient campsite, and we will return to Benicia in the morning.”
“Captain,” Armistead said, “two companies of the Sixth Regiment are camped about a quarter mile from here, at the supply depot, just down the main road you were on. Please take your men there, they can have a decent meal and a tent. See Lieutenant Moore, tall, thin fellow, tell them I said to fix you up.”
Billings saluted, nodded. “That is most kind, Major. Thank you.” He backed toward the door, took a last glance at the bags hanging over Hancock’s arm, and left.
Hancock felt the weight of the bags, smelled the old leather, the gray dust rubbing off on the sleeve of his white shirt. “Well, Lewis, shall we have a look?”
Armistead had often come to dinner, had made it a habit years before, in Fort Myers, Florida, on the edge of the Everglades, when the Sixth Infantry had been sent to the worst place any of them had ever seen—suffocating heat, bugs and snakes, quiet diseases—to pursue and contain the Seminoles. Mira had been the only woman on the post, and the officers took turns for the wonderful opportunity to share the Hancocks’ dining table, but it was Armistead who always seemed to have his place set, and the friendship between the two men was understood. They had served together even before Florida, in Mexico, and Hancock had known Lewis Armistead as the jokester, the Virginia gentleman who could feign the embarrassed look of the proper aristocrat and then, with a sly grin, embarrass the unsuspecting victim with his own crude wit.
Armistead was older, had carried with him the shameful reputation of having been booted out of West Point, the jokes then having done more harm. The shame did not come from him, however, but from the others, the gentlemen. Those like Hancock, who knew him well, knew that West Point had wasted its heavy-handed discipline on a fine soldier.
After Mexico, the post around Leavenworth had been a happy time for all of them, but that was before the conflicts over slavery, and before the influenza. It was a word most of them had never heard, and it took away the joy, and many of the laughing faces, and one of them was Armistead’s wife. Hancock and his own family had been spared, and the bond between them had grown solid then, strengthened by the terrible loss of one and the knowledge that it could have been any of them.
Mira stood quietly behind Hancock as he opened one of the bags and pulled out a heavy brown envelope stuffed with papers, letters, the usual contents of the mail run. He set the contents down on a chair, opened the second bag, and saw a round bundle, newspapers wrapped with string and enclosed by a letter, with the seal of General Albert Sidney Johnston.
“What’s this?” he said, sliding the string off. A newspaper slipped out and fell on the floor, the front page with a headline bigger than any he had ever seen, one word, wide letters of black ink: WAR!
They stared at the paper, then Armistead bent down, picked it up and read.
“Oh, dear God . . . dear God . . .”
Mira came forward, put her hands around Hancock’s arm, and he unrolled the other paper, held the official letter aside, and saw another headline, not as large. FORT SUMTER FIRED UPON!
Mira said, “Fort Sumter?”
“Sou
th Carolina . . . Charleston harbor.” Hancock read further, scanning the words. The room began to fill with a thick silence, and after a long minute he put the paper down and said to Mira, “They’ve done it. The southern states have started a war. Major Anderson . . . held his ground, wouldn’t surrender the fort . . . so they shelled it.”
Armistead stopped reading. “It says no one was killed, no casualties.”
“Does it matter?”
“It might. There could still be a way to settle it—much harder once there is blood.”
Hancock looked now at the official letter, straightened it out, read it aloud.
“To, Captain Winfield S. Hancock, Chief Quartermaster, District of Southern California. From, General Albert S. Johnston, Commanding, Department of California.
You are hereby advised that a condition of war now exists between the United States of America and a confederation of states that have elected to withdraw their allegiance to that union. Those states are: South Carolina, Georgia, Texas, Alabama, Florida, Mississippi, and Louisiana. There is great sentiment in this army for men to adhere first to the loyalty they feel is appropriate to their homelands, as taking a greater priority, and being a greater cause than their oaths taken in service to this army. This office shares those sentiments, and I have advised the War Department of my resignation, to be effective only when the department may appoint a replacement for this office, and only when such a replacement is able to take official command of this office. By my example, I hope to inspire the officers and men under my command to delay hasty action, perform your duties as good soldiers, and pursue with care and dignity whatever action is dearest to your conscience. May God have mercy on us all.”
Hancock put the letter down, and Armistead said, “He’s resigned. Dear God. But, of course, he’s a Texan. But . . . he’s the commanding general.”
Mira picked up a newspaper, said, “It could be all over by now. This paper is dated April fifteenth, that’s over two weeks ago.”
“Damn the mails . . . damn the distance.” Hancock tossed Johnston’s letter into a chair and angrily began to pace, taking long steps in the small room. Mira backed away, gave him room.
Armistead read the paper again, said, “It doesn’t say anything about Virginia.”
Hancock stopped, looked at Armistead with a fierce glare. “Is that important? If Virginia was on that list, would you quit too?”
Armistead felt Hancock’s anger, moved away to an empty chair, sat. “I would have to, Win. I could not go to war against my home. How can anyone do that?”
“Your home? Your home is the United States of America! You took an oath to defend her from her enemies.”
“Virginia is not anyone’s enemy.”
“No, not yet. But Mira’s right. Two weeks . . . a lot can happen in two weeks. Seven states! Now what happens? Read the letter: ‘A condition of war’ exists. This is not an argument, this is not a matter of disagreement between points of view. They fired cannon at a government installation. All right, no one was killed, but this is just the beginning. Have you ever seen a war where no one is killed? There will be a response, there has to be: Lincoln . . . General Scott . . . they won’t just turn away and say, fine, you shot first, so you win this little war. Now go and form your own country. Damn the distance! We are so far away!”
Armistead leaned forward, rested his arms on his knees, stared down at the newspaper still in his hands. “I don’t think . . . I can’t believe Virginia would side with the rebels. No one wants this. The last letter I received, my friend Hastings, in Richmond? He said the legislature is solidly pro-Union. No one wants a war.”
Hancock began to move again, pacing back and forth like an angry cat.
“No one wants a war? I’m sorry, my friend, but you’re wrong. There’s two sides to this, two sides that have been pushing us toward a war for months. One side says, ‘It’s Lincoln! He’s the cause!’ And the other side says, ‘It’s slavery! That’s the cause!’ And the people out here want me to believe it’s simply a need for independence, keep the government from telling us what to do. And so, pointing fingers become pointing guns, because nobody listens to fingers.”
He looked at Mira, staring down at the other paper, and moved closer to her. “We can’t stay here,” he said. “Our country is falling apart, and I’m the custodian of a pile of blankets. I have to know . . . we are too damned far away!”
She looked up from the paper, and he saw tears. She nodded, but did not say anything. He looked at Armistead, who put down his paper, stood, slowly moved to the window and looked out to growing darkness.
“General Johnston is right,” Armistead said. “May God have mercy on us all.”
Within a week another group of riders came down with more official letters, and with them the news that Armistead had not wanted to hear. Virginia, along with Arkansas, Tennessee, and North Carolina, had joined the confederation of rebellious states. There was other news as well, Lincoln’s call for troops, the organization of a Confederate Army, and the inauguration of Jefferson Davis.
The rumors of threats to American control of California came more frequently now, and so the infantry stayed at Los Angeles, at Hancock’s discretion. Other supply posts in far-reaching districts, not easily protected, were dismantled, brought to Los Angeles, and added to Hancock’s command.
Armistead was with his men, slept in his tent, when he heard the commotion, the sounds of another fight.
“Yaah . . . that’s it! Get him! Yeeahhh!”
He rolled off his cot, grabbed his jacket, heard more yelling now, men gathering. Poking his head outside, he saw the crowd, men in uniform and out, surrounding a dusty struggle. He pulled on his pants, grabbed his pistol, and moved unsteadily into the early morning sunlight.
There were other officers approaching, from other directions, and they pulled the spectators back, away from the fight, tried to get closer to the action. Armistead could see the men now, rolling on the ground, torn clothes, one very bloody face, and he pushed past more men, raised his pistol and fired.
The onlookers backed away, and Armistead stood alone over the combatants, kicked lightly at one, rolled him over, looked at the faces. He didn’t know them, thought one face familiar, and then other officers were there, lifting the men up. They looked at Armistead through beaten eyes, swollen red faces, one man bleeding furiously from his nose.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Do we have a problem here?”
One of the men, wiping at a cut on his lip, replied, “Major, sir. We was . . . having a disagreement, sir.”
The other man, smaller, felt the blood on his face, held his sleeve up against his nose, then said, “He called me a shit-kicker. Said my whole family was shit-kickers. Ain’t gonna take that from any man. Sir.”
Armistead heard the man’s distinctive accent, the deep drawl. “Where you from, soldier?”
“Miss’ippi, sir.”
“And you, soldier, you consider that a good reason to insult the man’s family?”
“Sir, begging your pardon, but we all knows what’s happening. The Southerners are deserting the army, quitting. Heard talk that even you, Major . . .”
Armistead looked at the man’s face, saw the cold anger, looked back at the man from Mississippi, who said, “Major . . . I ain’t decided if I’m going back home or not. We got a farm . . . my folks . . . my wife is raisin’ the kids, the livestock. I don’t want to fight nobody. But the army’s breakin’ up. That’s all we been hearin’. I hear tell you headed back to Virginia too, Major.”
The other man grunted, and Armistead could tell he had the better of the fight. He was a bigger man, older, with heavy, broad shoulders.
“He’s just like the others,” the bigger man said, “begging the major’s pardon. This here unit’s going to pieces because of this war. I been in this outfit since Mexico, sir. I seen you join this outfit, seen you move up from a wet-eared cadet to command of the regiment—”
A lieutenant, holding the
man, snapped him up under the arms, said “Watch your mouth, soldier.”
Armistead raised a hand. “No, Lieutenant, let him talk. Talking is one thing maybe we all need to do. You may speak freely, soldier. What’s your name?”
“Corporal Garrett, sir. Thank you, Major. I just want to say . . . it makes me sick, sir, to see what’s happenin’ to this army. These farm boys got no understanding, no respect, it seems mighty easy for some to up and quit. I never been much in the South. I ain’t never spent no time around the darkies, I got no call to tell nobody what they oughta do. But this here’s the army. We got a duty . . . we all got the same duty, all of us, Major.”
Armistead looked up, spoke louder, to the broad circle of men. “I know many of you have been with this regiment for a long time . . . some of you, like Mr. Garrett, from the beginning. You are known in this army, you have a reputation, you have always conducted yourselves with honor. To those of you who do not understand why some are leaving, I can only say, it is honor as well. Since both of these men seem to have heard about my decision, I will tell you all. No more rumors. Yes, I have resigned my commission. I will be returning to Virginia as soon as my duties here can be concluded. You men may also be aware that General Johnston has also resigned, as have many of the officers of the Sixth Infantry. I will not defend this decision. It is a personal one, and is the most difficult decision I have made in my life. If you have served under my command as long as Mr. Garrett, then you will know this to be true.”
“You plannin’ to fight against this army, Major?”
“Mr. Garrett, I plan to go home, to Virginia, and if necessary, I will defend Virginia. Some of you might be going home looking for a fight. The point is, we must all do what we believe is right.”
“That ain’t a good answer, Major. No disrespect, sir, but it just ain’t. This here farm boy I had a go with, he’s just a dumb soldier like me. But you’re an officer. This army follows you, does what you tell it to do. No sir, I can’t accept your answer, Major. You can put me in the stockade, but I reckon I can’t salute you no more.”