The Day After Gettysburg

by Robert Conroy

  “Yes. I went amongst them. Both armies, in fact. I found it much as you say.”

  Getting to his feet, Wallingford stepped toward the window. A few childish cries could be heard from outside. He contemplated the scene beyond the window in silence for a moment. “There is a moral aspect to war that is often overlooked. Buonaparte once put it that in war the moral to the physical is as three to one. So it is no uncommon fact found throughout history for the weaker, least capable force to prevail over a much larger enemy, as David did over Goliath. ‘The race does not always go to the swift.’ This appears to be the case with the Confederacy.

  “I found the army of General Lee to be confident, vigorous, and expectant of victory, an unusual case for an army that placed itself at the table of its enemies.

  “The army of Mr. Lincoln, on the other hand, is ill-led, at loose ends, and suspended between indifference and despair.”

  “As is the Union as a whole,” Davis added. “Evidenced by the New York riots.”

  “Excellent point. It would require a remarkable leader to reverse this situation, and as Mr. Benjamin alluded, no such leader is apparent.”

  Davis got to his feet. He hesitated to speak, fearing a trembling in his voice. This was a climactic moment. It was what they had hoped for, planned for, since this horrid struggle had begun. With Britain backing the Confederacy, this war would be over. The new nation would be independent, the peace guaranteed by a Royal Navy flotilla in the southern reaches of Chesapeake Bay. “I am pleased to hear these words, Mr. Wallingford.”

  Wallingford shrugged. “Any objective observer would draw the same conclusion. When I have returned to London, I will present my findings as we have discussed them here.”

  As he reached the window, Davis fought an impulse to grip the man’s hand in thanks. “I can ask for no more than that.”

  Wallingford smiled and glanced once again out the window. In the distance a group of children were playing under the eyes of an older woman.

  “My son Joseph and his little friends,” Davis said.

  “Do I note an African child among them?”

  “Yes—that is James, my son’s companion. ‘Limber Jim’ they call him.”

  “Companion?” Wallingford turned toward Davis, his face expressionless. “And yet a slave.”

  It was not a question. Davis drew himself to his full height. “No sir. We do not think of him as such.”

  “You do not.” This close, Davis could see that Wallingford was older than he had first taken him to be. “And what, sir, does James think?”

  Davis felt his face flush with anger. He cast a glance at Benjamin, who looked on with a fixed smile. “Perhaps, Mr. Wallingford, you are unfamiliar with our Peculiar Institution . . .”

  “Oh, but I am, sir. Quite familiar. I have encountered it previously elsewhere, among the Tatars of the steppes and the sheiks of Arabia.”

  He gazed at Davis for a long moment and at last smiled. “But as I say, I am but an instrument. I will report objectively, as a loyal subject of the crown.” He stepped away from the window. “And the mill-owners of the Midlands miss their southern cotton.”

  Benjamin spoke first. “Uhh . . . how will you proceed, Mr. Wallingford?

  The Englishman had retrieved his cane and was donning his gloves. “I will recross the lines into Washington, take a train to New York, by sea to Halifax and on to London. You should have your answer by the time the snows return.”

  Davis found his voice. “I wish you a pleasant voyage, Mr. Wallingford.”

  “Good day to you, gentlemen.” He gave them each a short bow. “I will see myself out.”

  Davis gazed after him before turning to Secretary Benjamin. “Is that is how it will be for us, Judah? A pariah among the nations?”

  Benjamin smiled sadly, and Davis belatedly thought of the suffering of his own people across the ages. “We can live with it.”

  ★ CHAPTER 9 ★

  Charles Rutherford introduced himself as being from the Provost Marshal’s Office in Washington and showed credentials to prove it. His visit had been expected. A very thin man in his forties, he looked as if he’d once been deathly ill and had barely recovered. He was courteous and gracious enough but was also very reserved.

  Josiah Baird shifted his weight and tried to make himself more comfortable. This latest artificial leg was brand new and, so far, appeared to be working nicely. “Mr. Rutherford, you say you represent the army but you show no indication of rank. May I ask why?”

  “My military rank is somewhere between corporal and major general. It is sometimes quite useful to keep it hidden. If I told you, a colonel, that I was a captain, you might just try to bully me. If it was the other way around, you might be intimidated and be disinclined to talk openly. Sometimes a little dramatic license is a good idea.”

  “I see,” said the colonel, who clearly remained dubious. They were in the ornate parlor of his rented house. Along with Colonel Baird and Rutherford, Rachel and Cassandra sat demurely and frankly puzzled.

  Colonel Baird smiled without warmth. Like most soldiers he didn’t like the provost marshal’s office. They were police and they were snoops. There was the feeling that the provost men were always trying to trip up good people. “Well then, if you will not divulge your rank, will you kindly tell us why you wanted to speak with us?”

  “Of course. The reason is a young man named Richard Dean.”

  Cassie gasped and Rachel said, “Oh my God. What has that foolish, stupid little boy gone and done now?”

  “He’s not a little boy, Mother,” Cassie snapped. “He’s a traitor and maybe a murderer.”

  “No, he’s not. His childhood ended some time ago,” said the colonel. “At the very least he’s a lying snake who finagled his way into our home and embarrassed us dreadfully.”

  This time Rutherford did smile genuinely. “Well, well, I see we are all of one opinion regarding the dear lad. But tell me, Miss Cassandra, why do you call him a murderer?”

  “Because he hired somebody to take his place in the army and that young man was killed. Don’t you consider that murder?”

  “You and I might, but the law wouldn’t. But don’t worry. Desertion alone is a hanging offense. But that isn’t why we want him.”

  Colonel Baird frowned. “Then what is the reason?”

  “Until a very short while ago, we didn’t even know Richard Dean existed. Then you had him kidnapped and brought here as a deserter. That got our attention somewhat, but not too much, because there have been a number of desertions. What really pricked up our ears was his rescue by persons unknown, which told us that Richard Dean might be in one of the many plots percolating and circulating around Washington and Baltimore, just to name a couple of places where unrest is common. Now we want Richard Dean so he can tell us who rescued him and who any of his coconspirators might be.”

  “You must have your suspicions,” said Rachel.

  “Indeed, Madam, and therein lies the problem. The President and the Congress have suspended certain constitutional rights for the duration of the war so that we might make arrests to save the nation from those who would destroy it. Some are obvious, like former Congressman Clement Vallandigham, who is making a nuisance of himself in Canada. He and the other Copperheads are of great concern to us and are being watched. But we are equally concerned about the new players, and Dean is one of them. We must find him and get him to tell us who rescued him and why.”

  “And how will you do that?” Cassie asked softly.

  “We will interrogate him.”

  She pressed him. “Does that mean you will torture him?”

  “I suppose that depends on your definition of torture, Miss Baird. He will be kept in isolation at Fortress Monroe where he will be cold, lonely, and hungry. Will he be flogged? No. Will someone get carried away and beat him? Possibly. The men in the provost marshal’s office hate the Rebels.”

  Rachel was puzzled. “And besides, Cassie, I thought you hated him.” />
  Now it was Cassie’s turn to look puzzled. “I do. I hate him with every fiber of my being. That said, I feel sorry for the pathetic, lost creature he has become and now I wonder what, if anything, I had to do with it.”

  “Damn it, Cassie,” her father said. “You had nothing at all to do with it. He came in here with the intention of gaining a foothold in hopes of looting our family. It’s not your fault things didn’t work out for him. He was and is a crook and now he’s a traitor. Whatever he did, he did of his own free will. You are blameless.”

  “For what it’s worth, I agree,” Rutherford said.

  Cassie took a couple of deep breaths. “Thank you.”

  Rachel smiled at the group. “Would anyone like some tea?” She glanced between the two men. “Or would a shot of whisky be more appropriate?”

  Steven Thorne had promoted himself from bedridden to semi-active duty and was not present when Rutherford made his visit to the Bairds’ home. He walked with a limp and rode in a carriage instead of on horseback. He’d been told of the meeting with the provost marshal’s office and decided he didn’t want to be present. Like most soldiers, the provost made him very nervous even though he had nothing to hide.

  The private serving as his driver was trying to avoid bumps, which was impossible, as none of the roads in the area were paved. If Thorne’s wound continued to heal, he’d give serious thought to finding the gentlest, slowest horse in the world and riding it. Being driven about in a carriage was almost embarrassing.

  He found the regiment coming back from patrol. They were dusty and tired, but still greeted him with grins and waved hats. “Captain Willis, have you found Robert Lee? President Lincoln stopped by and wants to know.”

  Willis saluted for the benefit of the soldiers riding by. “When I find the old fox, Abe will be the next to know. Seriously, all we ran into were distant cavalry screens. Since our orders were not to bring on a battle, we just stared at them and let them be. What lay behind them, I do not know. Who knows, there may be absolutely nothing out there when you consider what is happening around Harrisburg.”

  “I believe we may be experiencing what some German or other referred to as the ‘Fog of War.’ Bobby Lee does not want us to know what he is up to, so he blocks us from seeing him with a cavalry screen that is effectively impenetrable. Even our observation balloons can see only so much farther. In the meantime, the old fox sends troops up to Harrisburg and across the Susquehanna. Once on the other side, they cause chaos and confusion and apparently you and I know about as much as Abraham Lincoln does.”

  Willis took out a small cigar and lit it. “None of which speaks well of our army. Lee could be dining in the White House while we chase our tails around the Pennsylvania countryside. From what you’ve heard, it’s true that the Rebels have taken Harrisburg, is it not?”

  “It is. The only question is why and I haven’t heard from Lincoln either. It may be as simple as his needing food or as complex as doing something to get France and England in the war on the side of the South.”

  “Maybe Lee is just toying with us,” Willis wondered.

  “I don’t like being anybody’s toy,” said Thorne. Except Cassandra’s, he thought with a smile. He would return to their home this evening and find out what the provost marshal’s man was after. He would sleep over in the guest room he now thought of as his, and hope that Cassie would come to him during the night. She hadn’t yet, but one could always hope. He shook his head in wonderment. How could he not have seen how lovely she was when he first met her? Of course, she had still been in mourning for that cretin she thought she’d driven to his death. Damn, that had been silliness.

  As the last of his small regiment passed by, the long line of refugees began anew. It was sickening to see so many hundreds, perhaps thousands of American citizens being driven away from their homes in fear of an enemy army. Apparently only one civilian had been killed at Gettysburg, but that number could rise to the hundreds as a result of the next battle.

  Colonel Corey Wade had never been a cattle driver, had never even seen a herd of cattle driven anywhere. He’d owned a farm that had cows and he knew they gave milk and were delicious to eat when cut into steaks and roasted rare over an open fire. To actually drive a herd of the creatures someplace had never crossed his mind.

  But now the men of his Tennessee Volunteers were responsible for getting several hundred of them across the Susquehanna and safely behind Confederate lines. Along with his herd, there were numerous others like it crossing the solid bridge at Harrisburg. It had been damaged, but not seriously, and repairs had been quickly made. The cattle, being smart, did not like the unstable swaying motion of the pontoon bridges the army had thrown up.

  The pontoon bridges were for the literally thousands of wagons loaded with supplies that General Longstreet had gotten hold of one way or another. Everyone in Longstreet’s part of the Army of Northern Virginia understood the basic agreement. After a few sharp skirmishes that had resulted in the withdrawal of Union General Crouch’s Department of the Susquehanna Army, Pennsylvania’s governor Andrew Gregg Curtin had agreed to the basic contract. In return for all the food and cattle that could be gathered, Longstreet would not set fire to Pennsylvania. The civilians were paid with Confederate IOUs which everyone acknowledged were worthless. This meant that the Confederate Army was stealing and the resentment was fierce.

  However, there would be no looting or plundering of personal property. The people of Pennsylvania would endure this setback and rise again. Longstreet’s men would endure hatred that would last for generations.

  Captain Alex Mayfield rode up and saluted casually. “That’s about it, Colonel. The bridge is nearly ankle deep in cow shit and it’s really slippery. You fall and you could drown in cow crap.”

  “Then God help the ones who will follow us.” Another herd was approaching and there was doubtless another and another behind it.

  Other drovers were taking charge of the herd as it crossed. They would drive it down to the rest of Lee’s army, where the cattle would either be slaughtered immediately or kept grazing for future needs. The resupply of the Army of Northern Virginia was running like a well-oiled machine. Corey could only guess, but it looked like the army was well set for several months at least and it only cost a couple of dozen killed or wounded and a few million royally pissed-off Pennsylvanians. And the Pennsylvanians could all go to hell and stay there as far as he was concerned. They had voted for war by electing Abraham Lincoln and his abolitionist brethren. There was a price for such folly.

  For Sergeant Blandon, the foray across the river had brought mixed results. Since becoming part of the military again, he’d been kept on a fairly tight leash. His crimes had been forgiven but the good Colonel Wade had not forgotten.

  Thus, it was with a good deal of surprise that he found himself and five others out on patrol and well away from prying eyes. Better, the men with him were all of like mind. They saw no problem enriching themselves by taking the wealth of the Yankee civilians in the area. And, lord, was there wealth! Down south, only rich folk had houses like the one they were in, but here they were all over the place. Well, maybe they weren’t quite as large or ornate as the plantation houses he recalled, but they were close enough.

  Along with identifying cattle and other foodstuffs that had not been turned in, they felt it was their obligation to relieve the Yankees of small items such as jewelry and cash that they thought they’d hidden so well.

  It was almost laughably easy to find spots in the yards that had recently been dug up or parts of walls where the plaster was fresh or a picture hanging where no orderly minded woman would ever hang a picture. Finding trap doors under rugs was just as easy.

  They were in the process of prying open a strongbox they’d found in the floor of a large house, when Blandon heard a scream. A middle-aged woman was standing in the doorway and staring at them. Behind her were a couple of older men.

  “You thieving, lying bastards,” one of
the men said. “You people agreed you wouldn’t take personal property.”

  Blandon laughed. “First of all, I didn’t sign any agreement and second, it looks to me like all this shit was abandoned and we got first choice on anything that’s abandoned.”

  “I’m going to have you arrested,” the second man said and turned to leave.

  “The hell you are,” said one of Blandon’s men. A shot was fired, almost deafening them in the crowded kitchen. The man crumpled and fell, his chest bloody. The second man reached under his jacket and was shot by Blandon. The woman looked at the carnage and began to scream as she pulled a Derringer from her purse. Blandon fired again and hit her in the forehead, killing her instantly.

  “Now what?” asked Skinner.

  Blandon was as shocked as anyone by the sudden turn of events. This was supposed to have been a simple burglary of an empty house. At least nobody seemed to have heard the shots. The house was in an isolated area, which was why they had chosen it. “We got three dead people to hide.”

  Blandon shrugged. “We’ll drag them down to the basement and leave them. And we don’t burn the place. That’ll attract too much attention. Just hide the bodies in the basement and then we up and go on our way. It’ll be a long, long time before anybody misses them.”

  It was time to get back to the main body and pretend he was interested in the war. He’d managed to gather more than five hundred dollars in greenbacks and gold along with some small pieces of jewelry that, sadly, would bring him only a fraction of their worth when they were fenced to some unscrupulous Jew. He idly wondered if it would be better to melt the things down.

  ★ CHAPTER 10 ★

  The nightmare was pretty much always the same. Sometimes the cast of characters was subtly different, but the results were always terrifyingly similar.

  On the first day of Gettysburg, the regiment had fought alongside Brigadier General John Buford’s regular cavalry. Fighting dismounted, they had held off vastly larger Confederate forces until reinforcements from Major General John Reynolds’ I Corps arrived to stabilize the position and permit them to withdraw. Thorne knew nothing of the grand strategy. He was merely the second in command of a small, almost amateur, regiment of mounted infantry. His vision of the battle was that of hundreds of armed and angry men howling, shooting, and trying to kill him. Some of them he recognized as faces from his youth, which, even in his dream state, made no sense whatsoever. And why were they so tall and fearsome? Thorne had never considered himself a coward, so why did he have an overwhelming urge to flee that was only held back by the fact that his feet were leaden and wouldn’t move as the monsters closed in on him?