The Better Angels of Our Nature (37 page)

Mrs. Sherman’s faith, however, was stronger than ever. Her last letter had castigated her husband for attending the city’s leading Episcopal church, which she took as a personal slight to her Papist faith, and for suffering her the ignominy of reading about it in the newspapers. “General Burnside has become a Catholic,” she wrote peevishly, “why can’t you?” All Memphis was still talking about how Sherman had jumped up during a service, and ordered the priest
not
to omit the prayer for the legally elected president, as he’d done on previous occasions. “In future you will speak a blessing for President Abe Lincoln or I will close the church. Is that perfectly clear, sir?” he had warned.

Jeff Davis had authorized a second conscription act, upping the age group. There was also the contentious matter of the substitute. Any wealthy Southern gentleman could pay another to fight in place of himself and his sons so that they might espouse “the cause” from the safety and comfort of their plantation, while looking with pride upon their human property. Jesse had already heard captured Southern soldiers calling it a “a rich man’s war, a poor man’s fight.”

The slavery issue was far more complex, at least for a man fighting not for abolition, but for his nation.

In August ’61 and July ’62, two Confiscation Acts had been passed freeing slaves used in employment against the United States or owned by anyone who supported the rebellion. The first act had come into being after Ben Butler had seized Negroes coming across his lines in Virginia and coined a new phrase, “contraband of war.” Butler had argued that they were captured enemy property, since they had been forced to help keep the Rebels’ military machine working smoothly. Now Congress had gone further, declaring any slaves captured or escaping from any person “in armed rebellion or abetting it” could be seized by military commanders, retained by the army, and were “forever free of their servitude and could not again be held as Slaves.”

“Are we to free
all
Negroes?” Sherman demanded to know, speaking as if to himself, though Jesse sat across the desk listening. “Men, women, and children? Whether there be work for them or not? We have no District Court in Memphis and none of the machinery to put in motion the Confiscation Act. No army could take care of the wants of niggers, women, and children that would hang about if freed without the condition attached of earning their food and clothing. Instead of helping us, it would be an encumbrance. I have appropriated the labor of Negroes as far as will benefit the army.” He drummed his fingers on the table and looked at the girl watching him with profound fascination. “Some system of labor must be devised in connection with these slaves, else the whole system fails. Congress may command ‘Slaves shall be free,’ but to make them free, and see that they are not converted into thieves, idlers, or worse is a difficult problem and will require much machinery to carry out.” He stood up, went through the untidy pile of maps on a side table as if searching for something, then apparently gave up and went to the window to stare out at the night sky, puffing loudly on his cigar. After a moment he said, “When my time comes I’ll be buried alongside the Mississippi. At Saint Louis, where I can watch the muddy old waters flow by.”

In the sudden melancholy silence Jesse allowed her gaze to wander over the loose pages scattered across the desk, pages covered with Sherman’s scrawling hand. The more he wrote the more illegible became his handwriting. This particular letter was addressed to his “Dear Little Minnie” and was a passionate outpouring from a tortured soul pleading that she know him, remember him as a man who did not want to make war on his own countrymen.

“Come look at this view and tell me your youthful heart isn’t stirred by its power and majesty.”

Jesse went to the window and stared out at the river lit up by the transports moored there in the darkness. Her eyes had grown tears, not for the river, but for the man. She had several times accompanied him on a ride down the river three miles but been unable to share his excitement, or his enthusiasm. To her the Mississippi always seemed dark, even in daylight, impenetrable and fathomless, and strangely uninspiring considering the mix of emotions this muddy expanse stirred up in Sherman. The loneliness of this “Father of Rivers” overwhelmed her, made her feel not exhilarated, but inexplicably sad. But because he loved it so, she said, “It’s beautiful.”

Here from the window of the Gayoso with the lights and the buildings and the river craft moored up along the banks it was perhaps easier to lie.

“They think I’m heartless, the do-gooders,” Sherman was saying. “That I treat the niggers worse than the planters ever did. But I know better than they do.”

Jesse looked up at him. He had regained none of the weight lost during his battle with malaria, he still looked thin and gaunt, but his incredible, inspiring energy had retained its full potency, as could be witnessed by the transformation his regime had brought about in Memphis. Now as he declaimed on the subject of the Negro, the compulsive movements of the bony hands and large head, the constant pacing, the apparent searching for papers that could not be found, would convince any Sherman watcher that three months in one place was enough for this restless man. He had risen to and more than met the challenge. It was time to move on.

“Dr. Cartwright employs some of the Negroes in his hospital, sir, he gives them clothing and shoes from dead soldiers and feeds them from the hospital commissary,” she told him. “He says they’ll never perform anything more than menial tasks, but some are very kind and gentle with the sick men.”

“You and Cartwright enjoy a mutual admiration.” Sherman went back to the desk and sat down. “It’s all right,” he added, misinterpreting her uncertainty, as she returned to sit and face him. “I understand the need for young people to form such bonds, even in war. Was the photograph for him? He’s very fortunate to have found someone of your intelligence and compassion. Though to be sure you’re no great beauty.” He lowered his gaze as he said this, as if uncomfortable with what he knew to be clearly untrue. Certainly with her youthful body and strong features she was boyish now, and uncommonly handsome, but one day she would blossom into a beautiful woman. “If Cartwright had any sense,” Sherman said, moving papers on the desk, “which he ain’t, he’d marry you right now and send you home to his mother. But I fear you’re too headstrong for him, like a young colt champing against the bit. What are you staring at? You forget I was young once and could be stirred by flowing ringlets. You too think me the heartless monster I’m painted in the Northern newspapers because I won’t embrace the nigger as a brother and won’t let the malingering soldiers go home.”

“No sir,” she said softly, “—I think you a man and a soldier struggling to do what is right for his country, his honor, and his conscience.”

Cartwright drained his glass and kicked Jesse’s leg under the table. They were together in their favorite dining place, and, as always, Jesse had paid for the supper and the pitcher of cool beer.

“Your
greatest
admirer,” Cartwright mimicked.

“It’s just a polite soldier phrase,” Jesse said. She’d just read him Thomas Ransom’s latest missive. “He always signs off that way. It means nothing.”

“A polite soldier phrase?” Cartwright laughed. “Either you’re as stupid as you look or I’m way out of touch with how lovesick men write to the object of their desires these days.”

“What do you mean?” She stared at him as he pushed his chair back.

“Let’s take a walk. It’s getting too crowded in here.”

They meandered silently along, each alone with their own thoughts, staring at the splintered sidewalk. The surgeon had been stunned by the casualty figures from Antietam. Before receiving a brief letter from Jack Coopersmith, assuring him of his well-being, he’d been a man beset by demons, but twenty-six thousand other Americans were not so lucky. The newspapers were calling this last clash between McClellan and Lee in Maryland in early September the bloodiest single day in U.S. history.

“Why didn’t you tell me Sir Ransom was a general now? I had to hear it from Jacob.”

Jesse looked surprised. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

In a previous letter, the Vermonter had written her:

Do not forget to search for my name among the commanders who have “proved their mettle,” for I have left the best news ’til last—I am to be made a Brigadier General!! At last, I shall have my first star. I have received a despatch from Lieutenant Howlett, Second Illinois Cavalry, now at Washington, stating that he saw in the lists that I was appointed on the tenth. I am not officially told but there is nothing to prevent you from sending a note of congratulations to your greatest admirer.

Cartwright leaned on the upright at the edge of the sidewalk. He was looking at her from under the broken visor of his squashed kepi.

“Besides it hasn’t yet been confirmed. Senator Washburn spoke on his behalf, urging his appointment as a brigadier general at a private interview in the House but the number of brigadiers for the state of Illinois was already too many.”

Cartwright feigned indignation. “That’s the last time
I
vote Republican.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so angry. You refused your promotion. Colonel Ransom has been commanding a brigade for two months, so has the responsibility without the rank or the salary. Do you think that’s fair, Doctor?”

“Where is he these days, Richmond?”

“Fort Donelson. He’s been all over—Paducah, Kentucky; Cairo, Illinois.”

Cartwright was staring at her with that funny stare, the aggrieved stare, the one that managed to combine reproach with scorn and defiance, and a pinch of melancholy longing.

“Good evening, Dr. Cartwright,” said a quiet voice.

It was the diminutive Miss Taylor.

“’Evening.” Cartwright forced himself to be polite. It wasn’t the sweet-natured Miss Taylor’s fault that he felt the way he did about that other maddening female.

“Oh, Doctor, is it not wonderful, news of the Emancipation Proclamation?”

On September 22 Mr. Lincoln had issued the first or “preliminary” Proclamation of Emancipation. The papers said he had been waiting for a victory to tell the country and had taken the Antietam “success” as the right time to issue it. “Have you read those stirring words? ‘That on the 1st day of January,
A.D. 1863
, all persons held as slaves within any State or designated part of a State the people whereof shall then be in rebellion against the United States shall be then, thenceforward and forever free—’” An attractive pink flush had risen high in Miss Taylor’s smooth cheeks, owing as much to Seth Cartwright’s nearness as Mr. Lincoln’s proclamation.

“Why, Miss Taylor, you’ve already memorized the words,” the surgeon said, with gentle but mocking admiration.

“I could recount the entire proclamation, sir, for it is truly a noble and blessed document. ‘
I
do order and declare that all persons held as slaves are, and henceforward shall be free—free—free—’” Sarah Taylor intoned in ecstasy. “Now the entire world will see that our blessed Union is fighting a civil war not for states’ rights but to end the oppression of Negroes.”

Jesse felt compelled to speak up. “President Lincoln and General Sherman have both said this war is being fought to preserve the Union, not to free the slaves. Though the slaves must be freed, General Sherman says this proclamation is a purely military expediency.”

The paragon ignored the corporal and took from her purse a card-bound volume entitled
Uncle Tom’s Cabin,
which she gave to the surgeon. “I was hoping to see you, sir, I have here the book I promised to loan you. If you read the introduction, by Mrs. Stowe herself, you will see that she believes she has an apostolic mission to put an end to slavery once and for all time.” Miss Taylor’s eyes were shining as though with an interior light.

“Thank you, Miss Taylor, I’ll be sure and take good care of the book.”

“Oh, I know you will, sir, and perhaps when you have finished reading, when your sacred duties do not have first claim on your time, we can discuss the contents over tea and cherry cake. I am no slouch at baking, sir, if I say so myself.” Her cheeks went from pink to a rosy shade and her smile, though shy, was meaningful.

“Nice girl,” the surgeon said on her departure, “but sadly deluded. That proclamation isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. Does Lincoln really believe the states in rebellion are going to take any damn notice of his ‘proclamation.’ It proclaims freedom for slaves in precisely those areas where the United States
can’t
make its authority effective and conveniently omits to free them precisely where he has the most authority. Your President Lincoln is either very clever or very stupid.”

“You ought to accept Miss Taylor’s invitation for tea and cherry cake.”

Cartwright gave her that stare. “If I decide to accept Miss Taylor’s invitation I won’t need your approval.”

“All I meant was that Miss Taylor would make a nice companion for you.”

“A nice companion for me? You just don’t get it, do you? You haven’t got a goddamn clue. Those letters from…
your greatest admirer…
they’re not letters from a friend, and that photograph you sent him, he wanted one of you, Jesse, something to gaze at and dream about on a cold, lonely night, not one of me and Jacob. He’s in love with you, it’s written all over his face when he looks at you. What’s the matter?” he demanded because her expression was one of horror, as she grabbed hold of the upright for support.

“You’re…wrong…,” she stammered.

“No, I’m not, I’m not wrong—and you wanna know how I can be so damn certain? Because when I gaze at you I have that same helpless longing in my eyes, that same confused, bemused hangdog look.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until tears started down her cheeks. “And do you know what makes it so much worse—so much more difficult to bear?” He swung her around until she was forced to see her distorted reflection in the store window. “Look at yourself, Jesse, look at your face, you don’t look like a young woman who has just found out that two good men would give their lives to make you happy, you look goddamn terrified.”