The Day After Gettysburg Page 8

  Wade realized he’d made no impression on them. Their feelings were too deeply entrenched. Well, so too were his.

  “No, my friends, we are not Yankees. We do not act as locusts to our fellow men. I have never damaged civilian property without good reason, though I’m almost ready to do it in your case. Now get the hell out of my sight. Let Honest Abe Lincoln feed and shelter you. Maybe you’ll wind up in a tent city with all of those contrabands as your next-door neighbors. How’ll you like them apples?”

  He angrily wheeled his horse away from the farmers, only slightly aware that those men of his who’d been close by were applauding him. Damn, he realized, I finally did something right.

  Robert E. Lee lay on his cot and tried to rest. His staff had urged him to simply take over one of the rich houses in the area north of York, but he was uncomfortable doing that. When operating in the South, folks had been honored to offer their homes to him, but in the north he was an invader. He would not steal from them even though his back cried out for a comfortable mattress for a night or two. One of the causes of the American Revolution was the quartering of British soldiers in American homes. He would not force himself on the people of the north and he wouldn’t permit his officers and men to do so. In an irony, some of the houses dated from the Revolution—his father’s war.

  Of course, this meant that his staff had to sleep in tents as well. That made him smile. Almost all of them were much younger than he and in their physical primes while he, although only fifty-six, felt much older. He’d mused on the fact that he was only a couple of years older than Abraham Lincoln and wondered if the Union president was as exhausted as he. Probably, he decided.

  Coffee was brought to him, along with bread and butter. He ate heartily, unlike other mornings when he had little or no appetite for food, just as he had no appetite for war. He was beginning to think that his decision to stay in Pennsylvania had been one enormous mistake. The Union Army was showing no inclination of moving against him.

  The Army of Northern Virginia was growing stronger. He now had a division commanded by William Hardee, one of the better generals in the Confederacy. He, along with General Leonidas Polk, had requested permission to be transferred from the command of Braxton Bragg to anyplace else. He had ordered Hardee north, but decided that the bishop would do just as well where he was.

  These men, along with the replacements trickling up from the south, were putting an enormous strain on the abilities of his quartermasters to feed the army. He would have to do something to alleviate that problem even if it meant sending large raiding parties far afield, even if it meant crossing the Susquehanna at Harrisburg and requisitioning supplies from the people in that part of Pennsylvania. He did not wish to cause harm to those people, but when he compared it to the devastation that had taken place in his beloved Virginia, he thought it just. War is a hellish venture, he thought.

  General Lee finished his bread and put aside his now cold coffee. He called to an aide. “Please give my compliments to General Longstreet and tell him I wish to see him this afternoon. Tell him I would enjoy his presence at a quiet dinner.”

  The next several days spent teaching the contrabands went much better. Cassie was showing more confidence as an instructor and the Negroes’ respect for her grew as it became obvious that she wasn’t going to cut and run just because the task was difficult. She had also begun wearing dresses that were colored and not black and some of them wondered at the sudden change from mourning but were too discreet to ask.

  When it came time for lunch, Cassie and Mariah would usually eat with the students. Today, Mariah had chosen to eat elsewhere. Hadrian was nowhere to be seen either, which made Cassie smile. Not that she much cared whatever Mariah did, except for not wanting her to be hurt. Her servant was a free woman and could do as she pleased.

  Many of the students were showing real progress. It would be a long road for most of them, but she was confident that they would make it. Security in Hadrian’s camp had improved as well. The massive Negro had gotten his hands on a number of rifles that looked suspiciously like what the Union Army used. She thought she saw the hand of her sometimes devious father in this. For once, she had no problem with his meddling in her affairs.

  Mariah was only a couple of minutes late from her lunch. Cassie sweetly told her that her blouse wasn’t buttoned correctly and that her hair was mussed. The women in the class had noticed as well and there were quiet giggles. Mariah straightened herself, apparently unconcerned. “Are you going to tell them about tomorrow?”

  “Ah yes, tomorrow,” Cassie said and turned to the group. “There will be no school tomorrow. I have some family obligations to attend to.”

  One of the women smiled gently. “We envy you. Not everyone here has a family. Our white owners saw to that. I had three husbands and two children and they were all sold away from me.”

  How could anyone not have a family, Cassie wondered? How could anyone separate those families that did exist? “You’ll have your own family someday,” she said hopefully.

  She had often wondered just how any human being could sell or own another human being. She understood that the courts said that a Negro was property, which meant that anyone of color could be bought just like the fabric she’d bought to make new dresses from. The law would have to change. Maybe Mr. Lincoln could bring that about. First, he would have to defeat the Confederates, thousands of whom were gathering not all that far from where she was trying to teach former slaves how to read.

  And as to tomorrow, her father had accepted an invitation from Major Thorne to visit the regiment and have an early dinner. She was looking forward to it. Since finding out that Richard Dean had betrayed her, she had stifled her anger and was determined to live her life.

  Perhaps, she thought impishly, she would even flirt. Perhaps she wasn’t quite ready to be an old maid.

  The dinner went well. The regiment’s former colonel was delighted almost to tears to see his old companions. He offered a toast to all of those who weren’t there and they all mourned the fact that there were so many empty places.

  The dinner was not normal military fare. Thorne had hired a man from another regiment who had been a chef in his previous life and he roasted a goose along with half a cow. Wines were served and a kind of ice cream made by nearby Quakers was the dessert.

  Thorne was pleasantly surprised to see that Cassandra was no longer in mourning. He considered asking the reason and decided in favor of discretion. He had to admit that she looked far more attractive and there was color in her cheeks that hinted at the use of some form of cosmetics. He was no expert on the topic, but he’d seen his sister apply colors and recalled mocking her. Cassandra was an engaging conversationalist and Thorne quickly realized that her mother was pushing them in the same direction. He wasn’t particularly thrilled at the thought of being romantically connected with his former colonel’s daughter, but decided there were worse fates. He could at least be polite.

  On the other hand, Cassandra was fairly attractive now that she was taking care of herself. The fact that she was teaching a school for Negroes showed she was both intelligent and determined. He gathered that neither her father nor her mother liked the idea of her working in a camp surrounded by hundreds of colored people and decided he didn’t either. He made a point to find out where the camp was and see what he could do to provide additional protection. It couldn’t be too far away.

  After dinner, entertainment was provided by a group of the regiment’s soldiers who’d formed a chorus. They sang a number of patriotic songs and sang them quite loudly and enthusiastically. Captain Archie Willis also sang and Thorne was surprised that his companion had a really pleasant voice. Mariah and Cassie then sang duets, primarily spirituals from Mariah’s youth and what they’d heard in the contraband camp. A few Stephen Foster songs completed their repertoire. Thorne was certain that Mariah’s was the stronger voice.

  The day ended as pleasantly as it had begun. The colonel again got emo
tional on taking leave of his regiment. He was invited back, of course, but who knew when the war would start up again and cause a further and tragic reduction in their ranks? Thorne did get Cassie aside and suggest that they have dinner or lunch—with an appropriate chaperone, of course.

  Cassie had responded by laughing at him. “Major, I am twenty-three and I no longer have any need for a chaperone or a nanny. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve had an epiphany and am going to live my life to the fullest. And, if you’re curious, I just found out that I was mourning someone who wasn’t dead—and who didn’t deserve an instant of my life in any case. On the other hand, I am not foolish and we will be discreet.”

  Thorne thought it was a wonderful idea and they made tentative arrangements for a picnic the Sunday after next. That is, if the war didn’t intervene.

  ★ ★ ★

  The town of Bensonville, Pennsylvania, looked too small to have a bank, but there it was. An ugly red brick block that tried to exude security, telling customers that their money was secure within. Several score buildings and dwellings surrounded it.

  Of course it was largely abandoned, thought Jonah Blandon. Bensonville was in the area between the two armies and many of the homes around the bank and the stores had been left empty. Their occupants and owners had prudently opted for the safety of Washington or Baltimore, or had crossed the Susquehanna and gone deeper into Pennsylvania.

  Blandon and his men had found very slim pickings of late. Farmers’ crops had either been harvested or burned, and the farmers moved away. Blandon decided that what his band needed wasn’t some farmer’s damn crops, it was money.

  By giving out the word that they were going to attack the bank, a score of new recruits had joined him.

  Just before dawn was the best time. It was when people were either asleep or so groggy they might as well be. Taking a page from other raiders like Quantrill, his men stormed through the town, hollering and shooting in the air, herding the civilians ahead of them like so many geese. Within a few minutes, they’d rounded up more than thirty men, women, and children to use as hostages. Happily for him, one of the women angrily identified herself as the wife of the bank manager. She then pointed out a short, plump, and balding man as her husband, Marvin Hill, who looked as if he wanted to strangle her.

  “Mr. Hill,” Blandon said with a smile, “you will now please open the vault. We have a need to make a very rather withdrawal for the good of the Confederate States of America.”

  “I will not,” Hill huffed. “In a very few minutes, the army will be here and you will wind up hanging if you are still here.”

  “And which army might that be, Mr. Hill? You are closest to Confederate lines and we are southerners, and God bless Robert E. Lee. On the other hand, if you’re waiting for Lincoln’s boys, you’ll have one long wait ahead of you. At any rate, we will be out of here in a very few minutes and, one way or the other, we will have the contents of that vault. Now open up and don’t make us do something that would bring your wife misery.”

  Hill stuck his chin out proudly. “I will not.”

  Blandon punched him hard in the stomach and, when he bent over, hit him in the kidney. Hill fell, clawing the ground in agony. “Open the goddamn vault, Yankee,” Blandon snarled.

  “No,” Hill gasped and Blandon felt a degree of admiration.

  Blandon gestured and an old man was dragged from the crowd of hostages. Blandon put his revolver against the man’s skull and cocked it. “Open it.”

  “You wouldn’t,” said Hill, his face going pale.

  Blandon fired once. The bullet blew the hostage’s head apart. Blood and brains splattered the ground. The remaining hostages groaned or shrieked.

  Blandon laughed. “His death is on you, Mr. Hill. Now open the fucking vault or God help me, I’ll shoot every last one. And when I’ve killed them all, including your bigmouth wife, I’ll shoot you in the gut just so you take a right long time to die.”

  Hill’s face collapsed. He began sobbing. He staggered into the bank with Blandon at his heels and worked the combination to the vault door that was almost six feet tall. There were several small canvas bags of cash. It was nowhere near what Blandon had hoped, but it would have to do.

  Blandon mounted and pointed his pistol at the manager. “Let the word go forth, Mr. Hill. When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed instantly.” He aimed and fired once into Hill’s knee. He shrieked and doubled over while his wife wailed. Blandon signaled and he and his men rode off.

  Richard Dean was spirited away to Baltimore, a city where southern sympathies ran deep. Booth saw to it that his hair was dyed and he was fitted with a pair of glasses that featured just plain glass. He was given a cot in a room in a small warehouse near the waterfront and told to stay there until he was informed otherwise. He was given enough bread and water to last a while.

  Two days later, he was bored to tears and debating going out on his own. He studied the surrounding area through a window and saw nothing blatantly dangerous. There were some men lounging around and he wondered if they were to guard him or if they were just locals.

  He had checked the door and found to his dismay that it was locked. He was a prisoner. He had escaped one form of captivity for another.

  The next day, just when he was beginning to wonder about his food, the door opened and Booth walked in. “You tried to leave, didn’t you?”

  Richard bristled. “I wasn’t aware that I couldn’t. I didn’t know that I was your prisoner. Besides, the bread you left me is getting stale and the bucket I have to use stinks to high heaven.”

  “If you’re going to be ungrateful, I’ll send you back to those Pinkerton men, or maybe I’ll just drop you off at Fortress Monroe with a note pinned to your shirt. My men and I put ourselves in great danger to rescue you. I think we deserve more than you acting like a spoiled brat. I was hoping we could use you for a very important task.”

  Richard was both chastened and intrigued. He apologized profusely and swore that he would be a good boy. Booth laughed. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have turned you over to the Yankee scum, and I don’t blame you for being upset at what’s been happening. Now, would you like to hear about our plans?”

  “Of course.”

  “What’s the worst thing that could befall the Union other than Washington sliding into the ocean?

  “Why, something bad happening to Lincoln, of course.”

  “‘Of course’ is right, and we, my friends and I, are having intense discussions as to what that might be. There are those who wish to kill him and that is very possible since he is not very well guarded. If necessary, I would do it myself.”

  “I would be honored to assist you, sir.”

  Booth laughed, “As would a lot of people, which is why we are safe here in Baltimore. This is a southern city. Maryland is a border state and many, perhaps most of her people would like to see Maryland as part of the Confederacy. Lincoln’s troops have so far prevented that, but that may change when Lee defeats the next fool Lincoln sends to command his army.”

  “So why hasn’t Lincoln been killed?”

  “Because there is at least one other idea very much worth pursuing, and that is the kidnapping of the abolitionist bastard. That has considerably more appeal than simply killing him. Lincoln dead becomes a martyr, a rallying point for the north, while an Abe Lincoln in Libby Prison in Richmond becomes an object of scorn. There is also the fact that a dead Lincoln would be succeeded by his Vice President, Hannibal Hamlin, who is as staunch an abolitionist as they come. No, the idea of kidnapping him is becoming more and more attractive. If he is alive but incapacitated, then who will be President? Why, who knows? Might it be Hamlin, or Stanton, or God knows who. At any rate confusion would have been sown at a critical time.”

  Richard smiled. “Would you be the one to take him?”

  “I would certainly hope so.”

  “As would I, Mr. Booth. And I would like to assist you in any way possible. And you further ha
ve my assurances that I won’t do anything stupid like writing to my mother.”

  ★ CHAPTER 7 ★

  Early on, Edwin Stanton and Abraham Lincoln had been bitter rivals. Stanton had thought himself superior to any other candidate for the presidency, and it had been only with great difficulty that he had swallowed his pride and accepted the office of secretary of war. Thus, it came as a surprise to him that he had gradually but genuinely come to respect the tall, gangly frontiersman who had been elected President. Stanton now believed that Lincoln had the will, the resolve, and the intellect to carry the war to its ultimate conclusion—victory over the South.

  Like so many others, he had bemoaned the fact that there seemed to be no one with enough military talent to successfully confront Robert E. Lee. Stanton had no particular fear of other Rebel generals, especially now that Stonewall Jackson was dead, accidentally killed by his own men at Chancellorsville. Yes, the South had Longstreet, a very good general, and Hardee, a man who had written books on infantry tactics that were being used by both sides, but there was no one of stature who would intimidate Union generals like Lee did. Why had Lee’s almost mystical presence on the battlefield turned so many Union generals into soft clay? The closest to have tasted victory was Meade, but even his success had been flawed. There were those who said that Meade had been in a nervous frenzy throughout the battle at Gettysburg and that the true victor had been Major General Winfield Scott Hancock, who held the line during the fateful second day of fighting.