Day Nine

by Clayton Spann

Sunday, May 31

  Lamon stood in the parlor with Stein and the foppish captain. The captain smoked a cigar, Lamon sucked on chewing tobacco, and Stein abstained. Stein, who Lamon had come to respect and like, abstained from most everything. Lamon had never met a man with such self-control—excepting the President, of course.

  This pretty boy captain he didn’t respect. Did the yellow belly think puffing on that corona made him manly? Lamon would have already torn it from his mouth if the captain weren’t in Seward’s employ.

  Leave it to a smooth talking dandy like him to worm into a position that avoided the front. His spotless, perfectly tailored uniform with the shining buckle and buttons was an insult to the real men striving in the dust and mud. Lamon ached to turn the uniform into a spittoon.

  Lamon could hear the murmur of Abe and Seward talking behind the closed doors of Seward’s library. The President and Secretary of State had been in discussion two hours. Who knew how many more were to go.

  Abe walked the couple blocks to Seward’s house at least once a week. Often their consultations lasted past midnight. Lamon hoped this evening wouldn’t be a repeat.

  It was strange, how Abe and Seward had become friends. They had been bitter rivals for the nomination in 1860. Seward, Senator from New York, was the pre-convention favorite. Haughty Seward had not taken kindly to getting outmaneuvered by the man he and so many others considered a country bumpkin. Lamon partook in that maneuvering, when he helped pack the convention hall with Lincoln supporters.

  Lamon had not thought Seward would last long in the cabinet. Right away Seward tried to act as de facto president. Lamon thought Seward would be fired for sure when he tried to halt resupply of Fort Sumter. Abe kept him—but only after making dead clear who was boss.

  After that Seward became a loyal servant of the President. And a very effective one, as he managed to keep Britain and France from recognizing the Confederacy. Somewhere along the line the relationship changed from mutual respect to affection.

  Lamon was glad, for Abe had few real friends in Washington. And nobody more politically helpful. Abe told Lamon that Seward’s advice had kept him from several bad decisions.

  The pretty boy captain was lecturing Stein on how Hooker should have fought at Chancellorsville. To emphasize points he jabbed the air with his cigar.

  “Hooker could have cracked Lee like a walnut. He had the strength on both sides to do it. Even the lowliest private would have known enough to order the attacks.”

  “It was a great missed opportunity,” said Stein.

  Lamon suspected Stein too did not respect the captain. But one would never know it. This man held his cards very close to his chest. He also kept himself tightly coiled.

  That was a dangerous combination. One did not idly confront such men. Stein reminded Lamon of a cobra, waiting, observing, calculating. Stein would strike only when the situation warranted, and then with sudden lethal force.

  Lamon was glad Stein was on their side.

  “Hooker was mad to leave his right flank hanging in the air,” the captain told Stein.

  “A disastrous mistake,” Stein said.

  Conspiratorially the captain lowered his voice. “Of course, any but the Eleventh Corps would have fought Jackson. It is said those Dutchmen outran the hares trying to get away.”

  Stein didn’t say anything. Maybe he was getting tired of hearing about battle from a man who had never faced shot and shell.

  Lamon decided to have some fun. He faced the captain and glowered. “My mother is German.”

  His mother was Scotch-Irish but this fool had no idea.

  “Uh—sorry, Marshal. I meant no offense.”

  “I take offense.”

  “I do apologize. I was unaware.”

  “I demand satisfaction. Since I am issuing the challenge, you get to choose the weapons.”

  Lamon smiled with anticipation. Then he turned and spit heartily into the brass spittoon.

  The captain blanched. Lamon could almost smell the poop soon to soil those sky blue trousers with the gold piping and perfect creases.

  “Hill.” There was the tiniest smile on Stein’s lips. “I am sure the captain did not mean to insult your mother.”

  “I think he did, Ed.”

  The captain was now looking at Stein as if he were a lifeline.

  “We can all agree it was not the troops’ fault Jackson got the drop on them,” said Stein. “Hooker is entirely to blame.”

  “Yes, yes,” the captain croaked. “I believe even Reynolds’ corps would have had a difficult time.”

  Lamon was enjoying himself too much to stop. “You said my mother’s people ran like hares.”

  “That was just a figure of speech. I am sure under good leadership that the Dutchmen would have performed well.”

  “That’s always the key,” said Stein, as he looked sternly at Lamon. “Leadership.”

  Lamon took the hint. “Well, maybe you meant nothing by it. But you must be careful who you slur.”

  “I—I was just commenting on the flank attack. I wish our generals were that bold.”

  Lamon grunted. Now that was a valid point. To date only Grant had shown such guts.

  “At least we won’t have to deal with Stonewall anymore,” said Lamon.

  “He was a great general,” said Stein.

  “The papers say Lee didn’t come to Richmond when Jackson lay in state,” said the captain. “I find that surprising.”

  “Probably too painful,” said Stein. “Supposedly they were close.”

  “It still seems disrespectful.”

  Lamon thought so too. What was this, him agreeing twice with the fop?

  “The casket was closed,” said the captain. “He must have gotten wounded in the face too.”

  “Whatever was needed to stop him,” said Lamon.

  “Took his own men to do it,” said the captain.

  “Give them a medal,” said Lamon.

  Lamon heard stirring in the library. Then the double doors opened. Abe and Seward stepped out, still conversing. Beak nosed Seward had a half smoked cigar in hand. It didn’t smell any better than pretty boy’s.

  Give him chewing tobacco anytime. Lamon discretely spit.

  Bryant fanned herself as she sat talking with Stod and John Nicolay in Nicolay’s office. Flies swirled around the hissing gas lights on the wall. Every several seconds a fly would ignite and crackle in the low flame. She hoped the mosquitoes were getting their fair share of immolation.

  Tonight it was a bit cooler on the second floor. Or maybe she was adapting to Washington summer weather. She supposed people had to, or go nuts. Stod and John didn’t look uncomfortable, though they wore long sleeve shirts.

  Stod was still after her. She was flattered at his tasteful persistence. In different circumstances she may have let him court her.

  Stod and John had been good friends to her the past month. They made the days less tedious, and they blunted the hostility of Mary Lincoln. She would miss them. She didn’t like to think they would be long dead when she returned home.

  They heard voices in the corridor.

  “The Tycoon is back,” said John. Bryant had been amused at their nickname for the President.

  “Early tonight,” said Stod.

  The clock on the mantle said nine-thirty. This was an early end for a meeting between Lincoln and Seward. Maybe the “Tycoon” had finally run out of gas. Maybe they all could get to bed at a decent hour.

  The three trooped into the corridor. Lincoln strode toward them, smiling at something Lamon was saying. A step behind them Jack did not look amused at all.

  “John, Stod, Lily,” called the President. “Holding down the fort, I see.”

  “Yes, sir,” said John.

  As the President pulled up cigar odor poured from his rumpled frock coat. He always smelled like that after meeting with Seward. That had been another adaptation for B
ryant, dealing with the clouds of tobacco smoke present too often in this Washington. Thank God Jack never touched the stuff.

  Lincoln grinned at Bryant. “You haven’t been keeping these gentlemen from their work, have you?”

  She guessed she had. But these guys needed an occasional break. Lincoln worked them nearly hard as he did himself.

  Bryant swore Lincoln had aged during the four weeks she had been here. The circles under his eyes—a permanent feature now, she supposed—were darker. The lines in his face were deeper. His stoop was more pronounced, as if he longed to hurl himself onto a mattress.

  “Sir, I’m sorry—”

  The President chuckled. “Lily, a young lady’s interruptions are always welcome.”

  “I second that,” said Stod. He also smiled.

  That was rash of Stod, in Jack’s presence. She glanced to see if Jack would act irritated. It was too much to hope he would really be jealous.

  Jack stood paces back, not paying much attention. He continued to look grim. What was bothering him? Had he gotten word of Naylor? But Lamon did not appear concerned.

  “John, Stod, a moment with you.” Lincoln opened the door to his office.

  Bryant knew the secretaries wanted to groan. A “moment” meant many moments. John and Stod would not turn in anytime soon.

  Bryant, Jack and Lamon were left in the hot corridor.

  “Hill,” said Jack. “Can you stand watch for a half hour? I need to talk to Lily.”

  “Sure. I got no place else to go.”

  Stod had told her that Lamon, before she and Jack arrived, had enjoyed an active night life. Lamon frequented bars in the red light district known as “Hooker’s division”, where he both sang—he had a fine voice—and brawled. He gained enough notoriety that several congressmen wanted Lincoln to dismiss him. Stod said the President would never do that; Lamon was thoroughly loyal and devoted. Besides, the President got a kick out of the lively actions of his old friend.

  The devotion of Lamon had certainly shone since Jack’s telegram. Lamon spent every waking hour seeing to the security of the President. Though he did not command the unit, God help any slacking soldier in the Bucktails. God help Naylor and Price if Lamon ever got his huge arms on them.

  Jack led Bryant toward the service stairwell. “Let’s talk outside,” he said.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “Not here.”

  They emerged into the cooler but no less humid air of the South Lawn. Several soldiers, illuminated by a full moon, snapped to.

  “As you were,” said Jack.

  Well behind the soldiers ash cans spewed smoke. Within the cans burned some of the mountain of mail that did not make it to the President’s desk. The mail now served the Mansion by producing a choking cloud to drive away mosquitoes.

  Jack remained quiet until they had walked clear of the smoke pervading the South Lawn. They stood on the edge of the Ellipse. Her nose wrinkled at reminder of the nearby canal, but that was a minor irritation. What had Jack found out?

  “You were right, Chloe. Naylor is here.”

  Her heart began to thump. “In Washington?”

  “I mean in 1863. Not in 1901 or 1920, but here.”

  “How do you know? I mean, who saw them? And where?”

  “Goddamn her, Chloe. The treasonous bitch has come to destroy the Union. And she’s halfway there.”

  “Jack, what are you talking about? Where is she?”

  He laughed bitterly. “Well, that’s the problem. I don’t know where they are. Though I can guess.”

  She wondered if the lack of sleep was causing him to hallucinate. God, that’s all they needed.

  “Get ready for a punch to the gut. That’s what you’ll feel when I tell you.”

  “Jack—”

  “Allison Naylor has somehow saved Stonewall Jackson. And it doesn’t take much imagination to think she and he are now in the vicinity of Gettysburg. Getting ready to rewrite the battle.”

  “Jack—listen to yourself. You’re talking nonsense.”

  “I wish I was. We have been looking in the wrong direction. As she knew we would. She knew her damned college paper would mislead us. Jackson, not Lincoln or Grant, was her target all along. A target to keep alive rather than kill.”

  “He’s dead. The papers had all about the funeral. Why would you think different?”

  “Because of my dear dad.” Jack’s face twisted. “He worshipped Stonewall Jackson. He praised his devotion to duty, but what Dad really admired was that Jackson always went for the jugular.”

  Involuntarily she gripped his hand. “Jack, you have been going weeks without enough sleep. You know what that can do to the mind.”

  For a mad second all she wanted him to do was kiss her. Kiss her in this brilliant moonlight. Then pull her down to the grass and do whatever he wanted. Afterwards they would get all the sleep needed right here on the Ellipse.

  He eased his hand free. That hurt more than a slap across the mouth.

  “Chloe, my father told what happened when Jackson lay in state in Richmond. At the end. The officials were about to close the casket when a crippled soldier—who had just arrived—told them he wanted to see his commander one last time. They said it was too late, but he begged and begged, and they relented. The soldier got to say goodbye to Stonewall. Face to face.”

  “I don’t understand your point.”

  “It proves Jackson is alive. This time the casket was closed to viewing.”

  “So? This time he may have been wounded in the face.”

  “Some branches hit his face when his horse bolted. They were just scrapes.”

  “This time it may have been worse.”

  “Nothing should change unless if we or Naylor cause it to change. None of us were anywhere near Chancellorsville on the evening of May 1.”

  Bryant said nothing.

  “There may have been a body in that casket, but it wasn’t Stonewall’s. He’s alive. Courtesy of Allison Naylor.”

  She remained quiet as her stomach churned. And her head danced.

  “The lying in state, the funeral, it was all a ruse. She will keep him under wraps until Gettysburg. Where he will go for the jugular.”

  Jack had to be misinterpreting. But when, in her whole time knowing him, had Jack been wrong in evaluating the opposition? He always saw the deepest.

  “Jack, if you are right…”

  “It makes sense on so many levels. Aaron Price would never sign on for assassinating a president. He inherently couldn’t. And Naylor is not a killer, even if she was going to let me be killed. Saving Jackson is much more morally acceptable.”

  Jack began to pace. “Then there is Gettysburg. Even without Jackson, Lee almost won the first two days. With Jackson the Union army is doomed.”

  “We’ll warn Lincoln, then.”

  “I don’t think we can.”

  “What?”

  “Gettysburg is the decisive victory of the war for the North. But it was a close run thing. We meddle with any of Lincoln’s decisions going into it, we could give Lee the victory.”

  “It is already meddled with. By Naylor.”

  “Only if Jackson makes it to Gettysburg.”

  “Why wouldn’t Naylor just tell Lee about the battle? Get him to change strategy.”

  “Because she knows Lee had victory in his grasp that first evening. The general who replaced Jackson dithered and failed to launch a key attack. Jackson never dithered.”

  “Jack—”

  “And I don’t think Naylor will let Lee know that Jackson is alive. Everything has to happen exactly as it did until Jackson arrives that evening. She can’t chance Lee making any deviation. Just like we can’t with Lincoln.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “What do you think?”

  Bryant dropped her mouth.

  “We kill Jacks
on?”

  “If we can find him.”

  Now she was pacing.

  “This is all too much, Jack.”

  “Yeah.”