The Day After Gettysburg

by Robert Conroy

  Lee did not comment. When he’d gotten word of Stuart’s death, he’d been shaken to the point of withdrawing to his tent for privacy. Jeb Stuart had been the South’s dashing cavalier. Even when he failed, as he had when he left Lee to go on a long ride around the Union lines at Gettysburg, he did so with flair. Lee had chastised him and that appeared to crush Stuart for a brief while, but he recovered and soon found himself back in Lee’s good graces.

  “Wade Hampton will do well as Stuart’s replacement,” Lee finally said. “But I do wonder just how many losses of key men can this army endure. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you and Hardee and the others must stay out of harm’s way to the extent that it is possible. I fear that the North is beginning to develop some first-rate generals.”

  Lee smiled wryly. “Fortunately for us, they seem to be avoiding the Army of the Potomac. Grant, Sherman, and Thomas are out west and I pray that they stay there.”

  Longstreet wiped his brow and sat down on a folding camp chair. He was exhausted. “Did you ever meet Grant?”

  “I’ve been told that I have, but I have no recollection of it. He performed well as a junior officer in the Mexican War and I may have congratulated him or mentioned him in reports, but I simply do not recall the man. If we do not bring this war to a favorable conclusion, I’m afraid that I will be meeting him on the field of battle.”

  Longstreet grinned. “Not a bad fellow. But sir, you are by far the better general.”

  “Quite right. I am the better general. But he has the resources and appears to understand how to use them. He seems to be that type of dog that bites and never lets go. The Confederacy cannot afford to fight battles of attrition against a tenacious and fearless hound. And unlike other Union generals, he appears to learn quickly from his mistakes.”

  Lee stood and Longstreet did as well. “When Grant does come east, I hope I can beat him decisively before he gains the experience of ccommand in this theater, that lack of which will be his only shortcoming. In the meantime, you have brought us enough supplies to last us for months and perhaps prod President Lincoln into doing something foolish. His election to a second term is no foregone conclusion. A single sharp defeat and someone more malleable, like McClellan, could be in the White House and perhaps an honorable peace could be negotiated.”

  Longstreet yawned and was too tired to hide it. “I do not understand why they just don’t leave us alone. We want peace as much as they do. I just cannot fathom that slavery is all that important to them. Given time, it will die a natural death. But they don’t want to give us time.”

  “In all fairness to the abolitionists, once you agree that slavery is a moral wrong, then extending it until it dies a natural death is like sending an innocent man to prison.”

  “I understand the point, General. I’ve read a great deal about the issue. If the North wins, I do fear for the South if all the slaves are turned loose.”

  “As do I, General Longstreet, but let us withdraw from this discussion and get some well-earned sleep.”

  “I hate beards,” said Cassandra as she wielded the straight razor over Steven’s cheek.

  “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” he croaked.

  “On a number of occasions I had to shave my father and he has survived quite nicely. The scars are barely noticeable. His losing his leg was not the result of my barbering skills.”

  They were in the kitchen and both Rachel and Mariah were watching. It was true enough many women shaved their men, though it was a new experience for Thorne.

  “All it takes,” she said, “is hot water, hot towels, and a steady hand. I will try hard not to sneeze. But if I do, Mariah has a number of cloths that can be used as bandages or even a tourniquet.”

  The decision to shave off his beard had not been taken lightly. Most men these days had beards and some of them were grown and styled in almost fantastic ways. It made sense in its own terms—shaving regularly on campaign was a peacetime procedure that troops could easily do without. Cassie, however, had let it be known that she didn’t care for them, and besides, Steve’s beard was neither full nor dramatically combed. It anything, it was scraggly and made him look younger than he wished to appear. Thus, and by popular demand, it would have to go.

  She lathered him up and began to shave him in smooth, gentle strokes. In a surprisingly short period of time, he was clean shaven with skin that was as smooth as a baby’s. He looked in the mirror and laughingly handed her a brand new thin dime. “I’ll be back in a couple of weeks for an encore.”

  Brandies were passed around. Mariah discreetly departed. Even though she was Cassie’s friend, she was still an employee and it would not be seemly for her to be drinking alcohol with them on anything but a special occasion, like Christmas.

  As happened frequently, Cassie’s father was out playing cards and smoking cigars with political friends. His latest new leg seemed to be working out well. Either that or he was ignoring the pain.

  Lee had withdrawn and any threat to the District of Columbia had abated. Soldiers from both sides had settled in to a routine that included scouting and probing. Shots were fired and supply wagons ambushed and burned, but no great battles appeared on the horizon.

  Cassie and Steve had left the kitchen and were seated on a couch in the parlor. “Lee made a great fool out of Abraham Lincoln and his generals, didn’t he?” Cassie asked.

  “Sometimes I wish you didn’t read so much and weren’t so knowledgeable, but yes. And a lot of people, some of them congressmen, are furious. They are rightfully wondering just when the war will be brought to a conclusion. The longer it drags on, the more likely it is that there will be a negotiated peace that anyone who wants to free the slaves won’t like.”

  “And that would be a terrible shame,” said Rachel as she entered with tea and cookies. Steve would drink the tea to be polite, but he loved the cookies Rachel made.

  He made a note to ask Cassie if she knew how to make them. If yes, then it was reason enough to ask her to marry him.

  “Will you be staying with us tonight?” Cassie asked sweetly. She clearly did not want him to leave.

  Steve sighed and took another cookie. “Sadly, duty calls. I must return to the regiment. I think they’re beginning to suspect that I would rather be here with you than camping out in the mud with them.”

  ★ CHAPTER 11 ★

  “. . . and that, gentlemen, is the state of this republic in this, the year of our Lord, eighteen-hundred and sixty-three.”

  Booth was working himself up to a fine fettle. Sid and Nate, two of his Washington crew, sat watching him wide-eyed, Sid with what seemed to be considerable puzzlement. For his part, Dean was stifling an impulse to reply. It was clear enough to him that Booth didn’t care to have people interrupting his soliloquies.

  Booth took another gulp of his drink. “The republic. A republic of Irishmen, Silesians, Bavarians, the gutter sweepings of Europe. And now they want to throw in the colored on top of it. What next? Sicilians? Jews? Perhaps a nice sprinkling of Chinamen? The Great Ape and his henchman are turning this country into the world’s sewer.”

  Dean took a surreptitious glance around the tavern. Several drinkers were staring directly at them, while others had that doing-their-best-to-ignore air.

  “And what is standing against that, gentlemen? I ask you. What force stands alone against abolitionism, servile war, and race-mixing?” He slammed a fist on the tabletop. “The South. It was the South that founded this country, and the South that will save it. Aristocratic, English, and white, the way God Almighty intended. Let the Celtic riffraff and the Sons of Ham start their own country. This is ours!”

  He raised his glass. “Gentlemen—to the South! May she long be—”

  “Treason!”

  An old man had stepped away from the bar and stood glaring at Booth. “You’ll not speak in favor of sedition before me, you insolent pup.”

  He glanced around him. “Will no man join me in defending our
Republic?” No one else in the bar leapt to their feet.

  The barman stepped out, a billy club dangling from one hand. “We want no trouble here,” he said to Booth. “If the bluebellies appear, you’ll be the one to answer for it.”

  “We were just leaving.” Gulping the rest of his drink, Booth got to his feet. “Drink up, boys.”

  As he walked past the old man, he cracked his elbow with his walking stick. Grabbing his arm, the old man shot a curse at him. He turned just in time for Dean to shove him against the bar. Nobody said another word as they walked out into the street.

  Outside, Booth straightened his cravat. “Well, Richard—would you say I got carried away?”

  Uncertain of how to answer, Dean simply laughed. The other two echoed him a moment later.

  Booth started down the street. “So, Richard,” he said, his tone still conversational. “Could you kill a man?”

  Booth’s question rattled Richard Dean. “I suppose that I could, in battle. I have it on good authority that many soldiers don’t even fire their rifles and, if they do, they don’t bother to aim . . .”

  “Yes, yes, That’s not quite what I mean. I want to know if you could sneak up on a man and . . .” He struck Richard lightly with his stick. Sid and Nate started laughing. “. . . stab him in the ribs or reach across and slice his throat . . . ‘Who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him?’ Would you be capable of that?”

  Dean paled. They were walking along Baltimore’s crowded waterfront. There were no riots planned for today. Richard had minimally disguised himself with a workman’s jacket and cap. No one seemed to care. Booth was dressed, as always, to the peak of fashion, if not beyond. He seemed to own fifty hats, and at least that many walking sticks. He didn’t care either.

  “I haven’t given it much thought, Mr. Booth, but I suppose I could if I had to and if it would help our cause.”

  “Good answer. Now, could you shoot someone in the back, or, for that matter, in the chest or the face at point-blank range?”

  Sid made a shooting noise. Dean gave it a moment’s consideration. “I believe it would be preferable to stabbing, and yes, I think I could do it.”

  “You think or you know?”

  Richard managed to laugh. “I don’t think we’ll really know until it actually happens. I saw a number of men proclaim their bravery before a battle and then run when the shooting started.”

  “Does that include your own actions?”

  “Indeed it does, although I didn’t desert out of cowardice. I left because of the futility of it all. I think I’m as brave as the next man, although I do wonder just how brave the next man is.” He found himself glancing involuntarily at the two boys. Nate made a face at him.

  Booth laughed. A passing fishwife gave him a glance.

  “Mr. Booth, may I assume that you have some thoughts in this regard and this discussion is not philosophical?”

  “You may indeed. However, there is nothing more to divulge at this time.” He paused at a shop window to straighten up his hat. “Come along, gents. Time for some soft-shelled crabs.”

  This particular section of the B&O Railroad line ran from Baltimore to Philadelphia, among other destinations, and the company liked to brag that it was the first railroad line in the United States, a contention open to considerable argument. What was certain, however, was that Union railroads were vastly superior to those found in the Confederacy. The reasons for this were strictly commercial. Southern lines were short-haul lines built to enable planters to bring cotton and other crops to markets where they could be sold. In the north, tracks went from large ports and commercial centers to other centers. In the south, there was nothing to compete with New York, Chicago, Baltimore, or any of a dozen other economic centers.

  Southern lines were often of a narrower gauge than those in the north and, at this point in the war, had been savaged by the fighting, whereas the northern lines had been largely insulated from the violence and devastation. Nor did the South have the resources to repair those lines that Union soldiers had gleefully torn up.

  All of this ran though Colonel Corey Wade’s mind as he and his men waited patiently for the train that ran with almost clockwork precision from Washington City to Baltimore. They were well behind Union lines and scouts were keeping a sharp eye out for anything that smacked of danger. Once again, they were comforted by the fact that even the large Union Army could not be everywhere. Wade’s scouts had carefully analyzed Union patrol patterns. They had determined that no bluebellies would be anywhere near their location or the site of their planned ambush.

  The train would be a small one. Unless some changes were made and an additional car or two was attached, the train would consist of a locomotive, tender, two freight cars, and a caboose. Their goal was to make off with the contents of the second freight car. Along with many bags of mail, this consisted of several million dollars in paper money, greenbacks, newly printed by the Treasury in Washington and needed for circulation in New York and elsewhere.

  While the Army of Northern Virginia had more than enough food and other supplies, thanks to the Harrisburg raid, it was short on the cash needed to buy weapons and ammunition. Even those merchants who believed in the Confederacy’s cause weren’t so foolish as to accept Confederate paper money. They wanted gold or Union paper money. It was ironic that the North had only recently introduced paper money as a means of paying for their mounting bills, which far outstripped the value of any specie they might get their hands on.

  A distant whistle interrupted his thoughts. Captain Mayfield cocked his head. “Do I hear a train coming, Colonel?”

  “Your command of the obvious is refreshing,” Wade said with a smile that hid his real emotions. They were about to go into action and, while they should be able to overwhelm any defenses the train might have, nothing in combat was guaranteed. You never knew when a lucky bullet or a stray shot had your name on it. Hadn’t the sudden and shocking death of Jeb Stuart proved that? One bullet out of the night. In Wade’s opinion—and he was far from alone in this—the killing of Stuart had been an act of murder, not war.

  A mile away, signal flags were waving. “Damn,” said Wade. Two additional cars had been added to the train. His signalers said they were passenger cars and he wondered if they were loaded with Union soldiers. If so, it would complicate matters, but a passenger car could only hold thirty or so soldiers. He would still hold an overwhelming numerical superiority.

  Another whistle and now it was much closer. As ordered, his men deployed to either side of the track. Charges had already been set and now the fuse was lit. The train just came into view when the gunpowder detonated, dislodging a rail.

  The engineer saw the explosion and hit the brakes, which squealed hideously, before the engine stopped a hundred yards short of the broken line.

  Wade yelled and waved his hat. His small force of volunteers closed in on the now-immobile engine, with several of them firing in the air. His orders had been simple: clean and quick, with no massacre or unnecessary killing. Anxious faces looked out from the passenger car windows and he was relieved to see that almost all were all civilians. There was one freight car and it was closed. He rode up to the door and pounded on it with the handle of his pistol.

  “Open up and you won’t be harmed.”

  “Damn you Rebels,” came the muffled reply.

  Wade had expected the bravado. “If you don’t open up, we’ll blow the car and you to pieces.”

  The engineer arrived and he pounded on the door as well. “Jesse, don’t be a fool. They blew the tracks, and they can blow you to kingdom come as well and for no good reason. Open the damn door.”

  A moment later, the door opened and a half a dozen uniformed and unarmed guards climbed down and put up their hands. In the meantime, the civilians had been taken from the passenger cars and were lined up along the tracks. Their emotions ranged from anger to fear. A few children stared at the Confederates in disbelief and excitement.
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  Wade was curious. Four unarmed Union soldiers stared at him. “Where are you boys going?”

  “We’re going home,” said one, a corporal. “We were wounded at Gettysburg and we’ve been released from duty. Now I suppose home will be a Confederate prison camp.”

  Wade pretended to think for a moment. He didn’t want the responsibility of prisoners, especially wounded ones. “And home is where you’re going to go. You’ve fought your war and I have no desire to interrupt your journey.” He turned to the civilians. “And as to the rest of you, you will not be assaulted, molested, or robbed. We are not like the monsters who killed General Stuart. We simply want the contents of those sacks that my men are hoisting on their horses. Another train will doubtless be along in a while and the line will be repaired by tomorrow.”

  And doubtless it would. The Union Army was damnably efficient at building and maintaining its railways. He feared that the South would never catch up. Union workers were just too damned efficient and there were just too damned many of them.

  The warehouse contained stores for the Union Army. As such it was one of scores of similar buildings along the crowded and dirty Baltimore waterfront. The building was guarded, but neither Richard Dean nor his two companions were impressed by the two old drunks who carried clubs and walked around the large building with the speed of arthritic turtles.

  If his watch was anywhere near accurate, it was about three in the morning. They slipped quietly up to the rear door and unlocked it with a key that had been provided by a disgruntled employee.

  Like in other warehouses they had seen, supplies were piled to the ceiling. “Where are the guards?” Dean asked. They had to be silenced before the warehouse could be destroyed. If either of them ran outside hallooing and shouting, they might have to call it all off, and Booth would not like that.