She also wanted to help Mary B. with her wedding preparations. For Eddie, the consummate prankster, had finally fallen in love with his nurse.
Ashton blinked, shaken out of his musings by Mrs. Thaw's question. He frowned for a moment, then turned to her. "Have you happened to see my wife?"
Mrs. Thaw shook her head. "I will only answer that question, General, when you answer mine. I asked, sir, if you would like anything."
With a grin he stretched. "I would like to know where my wife is."
"She is once again making the rounds of charitable organizations to convince them to donate medical supplies and food to the Confederacy," Mrs. Thaw stated with approval. "She's managed to find some daredevils to try to run the blockade, and has wisely decided that medicine and food are what the Confederacy need most."
The smile faded from his face as he leaned forward. "How do you think she is feeling, Mrs. Thaw?" He recapped the inkwell and blotted the last page he had written. "Does she seem well to you?"
Her hands dropped from her hips, and she stepped closer to Ashton, her tone a little lower than before. "I can't tell, General. But she does seem more than a little tired these days."
Ashton nodded in agreement. "She refuses to make any concessions to her condition, always mentioning a promise she made to General Lee to help out. And she accuses me of placing too much value on the notion of honor." He smiled.
The front door opened and Margaret, a stack of papers in her hand, rushed through the door.
"Mrs. Thaw." Her voice was slightly breathless as she pulled off her bonnet with one gloved hand. "A letter for you—I met the post at the door."
Ashton stood and walked over to his wife as she handed Mrs. Thaw the letter. In spite of her slightly awkward form, she looked radiantly beautiful. He paused at a table and poured her a glass of water, which she gratefully accepted. In exchange, she handed him an eight-week-old newspaper from Richmond.
Mrs. Thaw's hand was trembling as she ran her calloused thumb under the rim of the envelope, loosening the seal. Her eyes scanned the letter, and then she gasped, tears springing to her eyes.
"It's my son," she choked. "He's alive in a Yankee prison in Illinois. .. ."
Margaret immediately passed her the water, accidentally sloshing it on the floor, and Ashton eased her into a chair. His eyes were fixed on the front page of the paper, and he glanced at Margaret, with an expression of astonishment on his face. Mrs. Thaw murmured, her eyes glazed as she again read the letter. "This letter is from a soldier who knows him in Blue Island Prison. Poor Osborn's been sick, and this friend wanted me to know that he's finally getting better. My son is alive."
"I'm so happy for you, Mrs. Thaw." Margaret was about to give the older woman a hug when a savage pain shot through her, gripping her middle like a tourniquet.
Ashton was still staring at the newspaper, only vaguely aware of Mrs. Thaw mentioning something faraway in Illinois, when he caught a glimpse of his wife.
"Mag?"
She shot him a tight smile and nodded. "I think it's time, Ash," she said, her knuckles growing white from clutching the back of a chair.
Immediately, Mrs. Thaw snapped to her feet. "I'll send for the doctor," she said briskly, folding the letter and slipping it back into the envelope. "General, you take Mrs. Johnson into the bedroom. Don't let her lie down, prop her up with those pillows I have stacked over in the corner chest."
Ashton mutely followed her commands, leading his wife into the bedroom, allowing the newspaper to slip from his hands, forgotten for the time being. On the front page of the old paper was news of a fierce battle near a place called Ezra Church and a slaughter of Confederates on an obscure country path near Atlanta with a strange name.
Lick Skillet Road.
The door to the Maiden's Arms tavern swung open on its ancient hinges, alerting the patrons to the entrance of another customer. Enthusiastic "Helios" and "Good days" greeted the newcomer as he threw a whip on the bar.
"Bertram Butler—how are you!" slurred a man with a bandage on his nose,
"I've had all I can take, mates," he grumbled. "I'm a free man."
"So you've finally left the wife?" The man with the bandage grinned.
"Lost the old ball and chain?" Another patron chuckled.
"No, no," growled Bertram Butler. "I quit the job."
"Again?" a disappointed voice spat. "You already did that months ago. ..."
"Last winter," agreed another. "I remember because the ale was particularly flat that month."
"No, it's another job I've quit." Bertram glared at the barkeep. "Give me a whiskey."
The patrons exchanged astonished looks. No one ordered whiskey unless they had a few extra bob or were truly in need of strong drink.
After tossing back a small glass of whiskey in a cloudy tumbler, he motioned for another. "Well," he began at last, addressing the assembled audience, "you all know old Tom got me a position driving a hack after my misfortune on the North Star." There was a general nodding motion. Yes, everyone there remembered well.
"So I think, this is the top, driving a hack around the city of London. Wonderful, I thinks to myself. And for a few months it has been grand."
"What happened?"
"T'was my last customer, that's who."
All inside the tavern were silent, respectfully awaiting the next words. "You will never in a million years guess who my last customer was."
"Queen Victoria?"
"Jenny Lind?"
"Nah." Bertram paused. "The stiff who drove me off the North Star, that's who."
"No!"
"You mean the dead Yank with the pretty wife?"
"He wasn't a Yank," added another. "He was a southerner. They are just like us."
"Bertram, is that the one?"
He nodded sadly. "The very one."
"That chap gets around for a stiff, eh?" commented the man with the bandage on his nose.
"Now, Bertram," said a burly character wearing a slouchy tweed cap. "How can you expect us to believe that? Are you sure it was the stiff?"
"Positive. He remembered me, he did, and slipped me a quid and a cigar when he got out."
"A quid and a cigar? Was he still in the box?"
"Nah. He was alone, standing as straight as you please, dressed like a real gent, and he said his wife just had a babe, and he thanked me for being so kind and all on the ship."
"Where was he going?"
"He had a stack of papers, and I let him off at the Times office. That's all I know."
"His wife had a little one," cooed the burly man. "Think the little one's a stiff, too?"
Bertram reached for his next glass. "I didn't ask. But the chap is right as rain now. I tell you, I can't take this any more. I quit."
Everyone nodded in sympathetic agreement. Finally, the man in the bandaged nose turned to Bertram.
"So, mate," he said. "How's the wife?"
CHAPTER 20
Lexington, Virginia January 1868
The distant, familiar sounds of early morning drill drifted through the closed windows of Robert E. Lee's sturdy office. A thick shawl was draped around his shoulders, warding off the winter chill. The green blotter on his desk was stacked high with correspondence, some personal, some pertaining to his job as president of Washington College.
He glanced outside, through the frosted panes, and saw the young men marching on the frozen grass. These were the first boys to emerge since the war, the ones mercifully too young to participate in the conflict. There was a satisfaction to this work, he thought, as he reached for an unopened letter. He was preparing men for life, not for death. With luck, the boys on the field would be facing nothing more treacherous than an oversupply of young women.
The sealing wax, red and splotchy, gave way easily under his careful thumb. The letter had been with him for four years, ever since Ashton Johnson's wife pulled him aside and pressed the sealed letter into his pocket.
Weeks later he had heard rumors of Ashton
being alive in England, and he clung to the tale, praying that it was true. When at last Ashton's articles began to trickle back to the Confederacy, Lee had savored every word, somehow not surprised when he read of Margaret Johnson's shocking plot, drugging her husband and playing the part of the sorrowing widow.
His lined face held a vague smile, and he wondered if his own wife would have gone to such lengths to save him. Perhaps, he thought, when they were young, and he was the gallant fresh officer.
He pulled the shawl tighter about his shoulders. Mary had made him the shawl with her own hands, in spite of her painful arthritis. Mary, his wife, a granddaughter of George Washington.
On second thought, Mary would do anything to save him, even now. They were old, and still she loved him. He considered himself a lucky man indeed.
The letter was now open to him, and he saw Margaret Johnson's handwriting, remarkably sloppy, as if she had never before held a pen. There were drips and smears scattered throughout the note, like a child's first letter.
Reaching for his gold-rimmed reading glasses, Lee paused, his eyes resting on a thick, handsomely bound leather volume. The lettering on the spine was gold, and the book had been selling, as one Richmond dealer so vividly put it, "like hotcakes."
The title of the book was simple—Reflections on a Civil War, by General Ashton P. Johnson, C.S.A.— and it had been published within a month of Appomattox.
Lee had read and reread the book, stunned by the author's clarity of thinking and his vivid appraisal of the war. Without a trace of bitterness or hostility, he had managed to explain the emotions of the Confederate leaders, examine dispassionately what they had been seeking, and why, ultimately, their quest had been doomed to fail. At first he had been unable to read the book, especially when it became apparent that the victors up North in Washington City were all babbling about the greatness of the work.
But it soon became apparent that Ashton's book was smoothing over the rough patches in the new Union. Fire-breathing Yankee politicians became more reasonable after reading the book, finally able to see what the Confederacy was trying to accomplish. And the more radical Yankees soon found themselves without their congressional or Senate seats, undone and outvoted by more compassionate constituents who had read Ashton's book.
Many disagreed with his opinions, and there were spirited arguments all over the newly united nation about what had torn the country apart. More often than not, the arguments were settled peacefully, without rancor. Ashton's book had paved the way for discussion in a country that was heartily sick of bloodshed.
Lee's thoughts returned to the letter in his hand. He began to read, and with a start, he shook his head and read again the first line. Was it possible? He rubbed his eyes, trying to make sense of the impossible.
Dear General Lee,
I do hope you are enjoying your tenure at Washington College, where you are now in your third year as its president.
At the moment I am getting ready to sail to England. It is late 1863, and I know you will not be reading these words until January of 1868.
I am trying to tell you, General, that my husband is absolutely innocent of the crime of treason. For reasons 1 do not fully understand myself, I know the future. It is a gift I fear I am losing, so I wrote down what I could remember. Ashton, trying to decipher the meaning of my strange words, merely copied them. If he is guilty of anything, it is of trusting me. No man has served the Confederate States of America more nobly or more completely.
To prove that I have foresight, perhaps I should mention a few other events that will be history by the time you read this: In 1864, Lincoln will be reelected to the presidency for a second term with Andrew Johnson as his vice president. In May you and Grant will fight the Battle of the Wilderness, and Sherman will move toward Atlanta. Johnston manages to delay Sherman, who will be defeated in the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain, but Sherman presses on to Atlanta. President Davis will replace Johnston with Hood.
By September, Hood will abandon Atlanta, and in spite of early Confederate success, the siege of Petersburg will begin. Sherman begins his destructive "March to the Sea."
In early 1865, Hood will resign, Beauregard takes over. Sherman will burn Columbia, S.C., and your friend A.P, Hill will be killed in Petersburg. And on April 9th, Palm Sunday, you will surrender to Grant at Appomattox Court House, in Wilmer McLean's front parlor. You may have noticed a young, blond-haired Union general, George Custer, sneak away with the table you and Grant used to sign the peace document. Five days later, President Lincoln will be assassinated at Ford's Theatre in Washington while watching a production of Our American Cousin, featuring the actress Laura Keene. The assassin, John Wilkes Booth, is the brother of actor Edwin Booth.
Strange details fill my mind although there are large blanks in my knowledge. Another event I recall, only indirectly linked to the war, is that a steamship called the Sultana, packed with recently released Union prisoners of war, will explode on the river in Arkansas on April 26th or 27th, killing close to two thousand men.
I cannot explain how I know this, General, I simply plead my case, and ask you to help Ashton. He was never guilty.
I hope this letter finds you in good health, and that you have recovered from your recent illness. Actually, I know you have.
Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Margaret Johnson
Robert E. Lee had no idea how long he had been sitting motionless in his office. The letter was in his hand, he had read it a dozen times. The facts were all accurate, and no parlor game could account for the letter. He had carried the letter with him since Margaret Johnson slipped it to him—the seal was unbroken.
Ashton Johnson's wife was a psychic. He had heard of such things, inexplicable events that could only be attributed to the mystic and unknown.
He stood slowly, wondering how Ashton's wife, four years earlier, had known he would be ill. Crumpling the letter, he tossed it into the fire grate, watching the red glow creep across the rim of the paper, leaving gray and brittle ash in its wake. No other eyes would see what he had just read. No one would know what he had just learned about Margaret Johnson.
Slowly he paced to the door, opening it a fraction of an inch. A young man, his secretary, jumped to his feet.
"Sir?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes, Mr. Pointer." The general opened the door a little further. "I would like you to take a letter," he began. Then he stopped. "No," he amended. "Just find an address, an old friend of mine. Ashton Johnson."
"The writer, sir?"
General Lee smiled. "Yes. The writer."
"I believe he lives in London, sir."
"Very well. I would like it as soon as possible. And I thank you."
The general returned to his office and pulled out a sheet of stationery, fine stuff, with his name and title embossed in elegant lettering.
What could he possibly say? His thoughts were too complex to commit to paper. It was grandly ironic. Margaret Johnson clearly felt her husband would return if only granted the forgiveness of Lee, forgiveness for the crime of treason against the Confederacy. Yet Lee himself had been called a traitor on countless occasions, a traitor against the United States. He had lost his citizenship, as had Jeff Davis.
The truth was startling. Had Ashton appealed directly to the President of the United States, he would instantly be welcomed with open arms. That is, if he had, indeed, been a traitor to the Confederacy. The very fact that he remained in England, still considering himself a Confederate, was proof that Ashton had never been a Yankee spy, had never harbored treasonous thoughts, other than the painful doubts they all suffered toward the end of the war. Ashton simply felt those doubts sooner than the rest.
Thank God for Margaret Johnson. There had been enough needless death in the conflict without adding Ashton's name to the sorry list. Had they executed Ashton., Lee would have had to carry the guilt for the rest of his life. As it was, he carried more than enough guilt for five lifetime
s.
He dipped the pen in the inkwell, tapping it lightly to remove the excess. He wanted this brief note to be neat, to show no hesitation. The words he wrote were simple.
Dear Ashton,
Come home as soon as possible. I will meet your ship.
Yours, R. E. Lee
With deliberate movements he blotted the ink and carefully folded the letter, allowing the shawl to slip from his shoulders. Somehow, the room wasn't nearly as chilly as it had been before.
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