When This Cruel War Is Over (22 page)

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Authors: Thomas Fleming

BOOK: When This Cruel War Is Over
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Upstairs they found Lucy lying facedown in the big four-poster bed like a corpse on a battlefield. She was staring at the pillow, tears trickling down her face.
“Lucy,” Gentry said. “Dorothy came to me and said she felt so sorry for you, she wants to visit you and help you get over your whipping. She wants to be your friend.”
Lucy's eyes roved to Dorothy's blank startled face. Did she see the evidence of Colonel Gentry's fat lie there? “I sure could use a friend,” Lucy said.
“She'll be as much of a friend as Miss Janet was, I promise you,” Gentry said. “But you won't have to wait on her. You're a free woman now, Lucy. You can be friends without being a servant.”
Lucy's disbelief was almost visible. “Is this because you knows I'm goin' to die, Colonel?”
“You're not going to die!” Gentry said.
“There's someone I'd like to see. Sergeant Moses Washington.”
Gentry saw no point in telling her that Washington was no longer a sergeant and would be in jail for another ten days, dining on bread and water. “He's—he isn't here, Lucy. He's on detached duty.”
“Then I'd like to send him a letter. Maybe Miz Dorothy could write it for me,” Lucy said.
“She'll be delighted.”
Gentry left Dorothy sitting beside the bed, taking down the letter, and rushed to his room to pack for his trip to Louisville. When he came downstairs a half hour later, Dorothy was at the piano again, weeping violently.
“Now what's wrong?”
“Oh, it's so sad, Colonel Gentry,” she said. “That poor little thing's in love. I never knew a nigger could fall in love. She loves Sergeant Washington and told him she was going to heaven, where she'd pray for him and protect him from Confederate bullets. It's the saddest story I've ever heard. It beats anything in
Uncle Tom's Cabin.
”
Gentry asked her for the letter. “Tell her I'll personally deliver it to Sergeant Washington,” he said, slipping it into his pocket.
Gentry led Dorothy to a chair by the window and wiped her eyes with his handkerchief. “I hope you'll keep visiting Lucy. This is your chance to grow up, Dorothy, to become a woman instead of a girl. You don't know how much kindness can do for a human being. When I lost my arm, I thought about dying too. I thought about killing myself. But I didn't do it, because Abe Lincoln proved he was still my friend. With the whole war and the presidency on his back he found time to write me a long letter telling me how bad he felt when he heard what had happened to me. He told me he wanted me to keep working for him. He made me realize he still cared.”
Dorothy looked as if she thought this tear-choked one
-armed man sitting opposite her was about to go berserk. She nodded violently and said, “I'll try, Colonel Gentry. I'll try to help her.”
Outside, Gentry asked one of the black troopers to drive him into Keyport in his buggy. At the courthouse he hurried into the wing that included the jail. Sheriff Monroe Cantwell greeted him with a cordial nod. Monroe may have lost his enthusiasm for the war but they were still friends.
“How's our bread-and-water prisoner doing?” Gentry asked.
“He ain't complainin' if that's what you're hopin' to hear. He just takes what we give him and puts it down his gullet. He's one tough nigger.”
“I'd like to see him.”
Cantwell led Gentry to a cell in the rear of the jail. It was so small, Moses Washington seemed to fill two-thirds of it. Gentry handed him Lucy's letter and told him what had happened to her.
Washington ripped open the letter and read it in a single swift glance. “She says she's dyin'. Is that right?”
“She might be, Moses. I'm hoping you'll answer her.”
“Ain't I got enough trouble, Major? You want me to start playin' nurse to some poor little pickaninny who 'magines I love her?”
“Think it over, Moses. It may turn out she's done more to help us win this war than a whole brigade of infantry. She's got guts—and she really loves you. I don't know why. That's your business.”
“I'll think about it,” Washington said.
“While you're at it, think about this. I'm suspending your sentence and restoring your rank. I want you to get back to your men and make sure they're ready to march on an hour's notice. We're going to war, Sergeant—against real soldiers.”
In a half hour, Moses Washington was out of jail and on his way back to The Grange in Gentry's sulky. A half hour later, Gentry was on a steamboat heading down the Ohio to Louisville to explain to General Stephen Burbridge the importance of attacking Adam Jameson and seizing the initiative from the Sons of Liberty. He saw Lucy as the centerpiece of his argument:
Let's make sure they've lashed their last slave.
If Gentry stopped to think about it, he might have heard Lincoln saying,
Whoa there, Henry. You have a tendency to get carried away.
But Colonel Gentry was not in the mood to listen to that shrewd cautious voice.
SOOT AND THE ACRID ODOR of burning coal blew in relentless gusts through the open windows of the Baltimore and Ohio main line train as it rumbled through western Maryland at twenty-five miles an hour. The summer heat made it impossible to close the windows. Beside Janet Todd in the clanking metal box on wheels, a dozing Paul Stapleton had a patina of the ubiquitous grime on his angular face. Through his rumpled blond hair she could see the full dimensions of his head wound—a reddish ridge of scar tissue that ran down the center of his skull from his hairline to the back of his head. It made Janet think of her reaction to his chest wound the night she saw it for the first time.
For a moment she was swept by a terrible sadness. Was she risking the love she had confessed to this damaged man in odoriferous Cincinnati by insisting he join her in this conspiracy? She was forcing him to sacrifice his honor, the only god he worshiped. But it was in the name of another kind of honor, the violated trust that her father and her brothers and the other Democrats of Kentucky had offered the great betrayer, Abraham Lincoln.
Janet saw all too clearly what Paul was trying to do: make their love more important than the success or failure of the western confederacy. During the long uncomfortable night hours on the train, while Paul slept beside her, Janet had decided not to let that happen. She was going to insist on an absolute equality of purpose. One could not succeed without the other.
That meant she would have to diminish, if not eliminate
the ecstatic impulse to surrender that she felt in Paul's arms. It threatened her control of the situation. She told herself she would regain the ability to experience it later. If she could will it out of existence, she could will it back to life when she chose.
In panels on the ceiling of the railroad car were paintings of great moments in American history: Thomas Jefferson, John Adams and Benjamin Franklin presenting John Hancock with their draft of the Declaration of Independence; George Washington arriving in New York to take the oath of office as first president; Andrew Jackson defeating the British at New Orleans. She had noticed Paul staring up at these memorials to the Union. Was he thinking they would soon become as meaningless as the heroic statuary in the Roman Pantheon, the Greek Acropolis?
Paul had told her that his great-grandfather Hugh Stapleton had stood beside Washington on the balcony at Federal Hall when he took the oath as the first president. Paul's father had been proud to call Andrew Jackson his friend. Janet replied that the Todds had fought in half the battles of the Revolution and beside Jackson at New Orleans. She insisted that if their mission succeeded and the western confederacy was born, they would still value the history of the original country and use it to inspire their children. Paul agreed halfheartedly, at best semiconvinced.
Paul awoke and brushed mechanically at the layer of soot on his blue suit. He peered out the window at the well-tilled farms and consulted his watch, first wiping off the soot; the stuff even penetrated pockets, not to mention eyes, mouths, lungs. “Nine twenty-five,” he said. “We should be in Baltimore before noon.”
“And Washington by three o'clock if the B and O stays on schedule.”
“The Stapletons are stockholders. If they fail us, I'll complain to the chairman of the board.”
Janet studied him for a moment. “I don't think you're comfortable as a secret agent.”
“I'm a little uneasy about meeting one of my West Point classmates or friends in Washington. Or worse, my brother or one of his staff officers.”
“We shouldn't be there more than twenty-four hours.”
Janet had made the trip to Richmond several times. She assured Paul that Washington, D.C., was honeycombed with southern sympathizers. There was a well-worked-out system for escorting travelers to the Confederate capital. Her contact was a Maryland woman named Mary Surratt, who ran a boardinghouse on H Street that served as a kind of headquarters for secret communications with Richmond. Mary's son, John Surratt, was one of the coolest, most dependable couriers.
They rumbled into Baltimore at noon and found the train for Washington, D.C., waiting for them across the platform. By three o'clock they were in the capital's busy station. The heat was almost unbearable and it was accompanied by a suffocating humidity that made Indiana's muggy drought seem almost benign.
Janet decided it would be best if they traveled to the boardinghouse on H Street separately. That way, Paul would have no need to explain her presence if he met someone who recognized him. He would simply say he was in Washington to talk to the adjutant general about returning to active duty with one of the Union armies.
In a half hour they were both in Mrs. Surratt's genteel parlor, sipping iced tea served by the small plain dark-haired owner of the house. She listened eagerly to Janet's assurance that the Democrats of Kentucky and Indiana were united in their detestation of Mr. Lincoln. “Will they dare to vote?” Mrs. Surratt asked. “In Maryland they feel the same way but most don't have the courage to go to the polls. It's a dictatorship, pure and simple.”
“The Democrats of the Midwest are going to express
themselves in a more direct way. They've given up on the ballot box,” Janet said.
“The sooner the better,” Mrs. Surratt said. “We badly need a sign of hope.”
John Surratt, a tall fair-haired young man with a short goatee, joined them and greeted Janet warmly. Mrs. Surratt introduced Paul as Robert Nash and said they were bringing good news from the West. Surratt clapped his hands with enthusiasm when Janet reiterated the plan for an uprising. The young man said they could begin the trip to Richmond that night, if they were ready. The journey now took an extra twelve hours because General Grant kept extending his siege lines around the city.
“Why not?” Janet said, although she had slept very little on their two-day trip from Cincinnati. Paul wanted to get out of Washington as soon as possible. Mrs. Surratt suggested they take a nap and she would serve supper at seven o'clock. They could be on their way by nine. She led them upstairs and gave Janet her own bedroom and Paul her son's room. Janet decided she needed a bath more than she needed sleep and spent most of her naptime soaking in the hall tub and dressing in a clean outfit. At supper she felt light-headed but refreshed and confident. She wore a smart deep blue traveling dress with a pleated skirt that added to her self-assurance. Paul had washed off his grime in a bedroom washbowl and was looking more like his calm steady self.
John Surratt wanted to know if they thought Atlanta could hold out against General Sherman's army. “I'd say yes, if Jefferson Davis could make a copy of Robert E. Lee and send him out there to take charge,” Paul said.
Mrs. Surratt and her son looked dismayed. “Everything we hear in Kentucky suggests General Sherman's army may end up trapped and starving before the end of summer,” Janet said. It was a total lie but she did not think these people should be discouraged.
As they finished dinner they were joined by a handsome black-mustached man with a theatrical air. John Surratt introduced John Wilkes Booth and said he was on his way to Richmond. Janet was suitably impressed and Paul too seemed pleased to meet the famous actor. Young Surratt told Booth they were Confederate agents traveling as actors and would appreciate Mr. Booth vouching for them if sentries or federal officials on the road to Richmond raised questions.
“Of course,” Booth said. “Anything I can do to assist our sacred cause will be done be done with pleasure, including, if necessary, this!”
He whipped a small pistol from beneath his coat. “I would love to remove a Yankee abolitionist from the face of the earth,” he said. “But I'd probably shoot some poor kid who's been drafted into the ranks by our Murderer in Chief.”
“I hope that isn't loaded,” Paul said, eyeing the pistol, which Booth waved excitedly at them as he talked.
“Fear not, my friend,” Booth replied, putting the gun back in the holster under his coat.
“Have you brought more quinine?” John Surratt asked.
“A hundred pounds,” Booth said. “It's in my luggage.”
“I'll put it in the safe place in the carriage,” Surratt said and hurried out of the room.
“This wonderful man has spent thousands of his own dollars to smuggle quinine into Richmond,” Mrs. Surratt said, beaming at Booth. “Heaven knows how many fever-stricken women and children he's saved. It's unobtainable in the South, thanks to Mr. Lincoln's cruel blockade.”
“The swine makes war on infants in the cradle,” Booth said. “Has there ever been a war as vicious as this one? Not even the Mongols under Genghis Khan could match it.”
In an hour they were in John Surratt's comfortable carriage, their luggage lashed on the roof. Booth's quinine and some dispatches for the Confederate secret service were in a concealed compartment under their feet. At the Potomac River bridge, they met their first test. Sentries and a junior lieutenant asked to see Surratt's permit to operate a carriage and demanded proof of the identities of his passengers.
Booth stuck his handsome head out the window and smiled genially. “I trust you don't have to ask who I am,” he said. “These other two, Bob Nash and Janey Carew, are brother and sister from New York and old colleagues of mine. We're on our way to Richmond to perform
Macbeth
and
Julius Caesar.
Nash will play Caesar. I look forward to assassinating him in thirty-six hours or so.”
“I'm honored to meet you, Mr. Booth,” the awed lieutenant said. “I'm honored to meet you too, Mrs. Carew and Mr. Nash.”
As they rumbled into Virginia, Booth muttered, “There's only one tyrant I'd like to assassinate. It wouldn't be as difficult as some people think. Lincoln is incredibly careless. He rides around Washington without a military escort. He goes to the theater without a bodyguard.”
Booth swigged from a bottle of brandy and offered it to them. When they declined, he laughed and said to Paul, “You'd better take at least a swallow. An actor without liquor on his breath is like a Yankee without a Boston accent—unconvincing.”
Paul obliged him and said it was very good brandy. “I always buy the best,” Booth said.
As a reward for his protection, Booth demanded to know why they were going to Richmond. Janet told him about the western confederacy. The actor was enormously excited. He said it was the first hopeful news he had heard since Gettysburg.
At several points along the route they were challenged by federal sentries. Booth vouched for Janet and Paul with ever more extravagant claims for their theatrical talents. Soon they were his dearest friends and famous from Pittsburgh to Chicago to San Francisco. As he downed the brandy he grew more inquisitive about their identities.
“You're not brother and sister.”
“No,” Janet said.
“Let me guess where you come from. You, Mrs. Carew, are from Kentucky. Mr. Nash is from New Jersey.”
“How can you tell?” Janet asked, amazed.
“Accents are an actor's stock-in-trade. Almost every state has its own voice.” He advised them to have a plausible story ready if they encountered a federal sentry or secret agent with an ear for accents.
For an hour he entertained them with imitations of New York, Boston, Charleston and Chicago speech patterns. He added Jewish, Irish and English accents. He even threw in some Chinese pidgin and American Indian patois. Finally the brandy took effect and Booth slept. Janet and Paul tried to imitate his example, but it was not easy in the lurching jouncing coach. The roads of Virginia were in atrocious condition after three years of war.
The rising sun struck the carriage with an almost supernatural intensity. Everyone awoke. Booth procured another bottle of brandy from one of his suitcases and began discoursing on what a sad place Richmond had become. “Once the happiest city I've ever visited,” he said. “Others may surpass it in architecture but not in the gentility, the gaiety of its people. Now desperation is stamped on every face.”
“What plays are you planning to perform, Mr. Booth?” Janet asked, deliberately changing the subject. The last thing she wanted Paul to hear was Richmond's desperation.
“
Hamlet,
” Booth said. “My insufferable older brother, Edwin, is performing it in New York at this very moment, to immense applause. I'm not one of the applauders. It's a
Hamlet
of the brain, without belly or bowels or—”
He swigged more brandy. “If Mr. Nash and I were alone, I'd add another anatomical detail that would amuse him, I think.”
A tremendous explosion ended Booth's jollity. The ground trembled beneath the carriage's wheels. An invisible force struck the vehicle, sending it lurching to the left. The horses screamed with terror and bolted. “Mr. Nash, Mr. Booth—help me!” John Surratt shouted. Paul climbed out the door onto the box and helped him get the animals under control. The carriage jolted to a stop and Janet leaped out, followed by John Wilkes Booth. They stared in the direction of Richmond as an immense mushroom cloud rose a thousand feet into the air, the stem seemingly composed of fire and the head of black smoke.

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