The Confederate

by Forrest A. Randolph

  “How would you, a mere man, know something like that?”

  “No, no, we’ll not fight about this. My mind is made up. You’re going back to Riversend. There’s everyone in the world there to care for you. When the child … when our son is born, I will be right there with you. I can’t wait. We … we have to let our friends know.”

  Bobbie Jean blushed. “For shame. I’d die of embarrassment. Letting people know I am in a family way is vulgar, darling. It should be kept a dark secret until the blessed event is close to occurring. That’s the way it has always been.”

  “No reason it should continue to be so. Are you ashamed?” When Bobbie Jean shook her head in the negative, he hurried on. “Neither am I. I’d like to shout it from the rooftops. So, it’s finally happened. Let’s be serious about it, shall we. You will pack tomorrow, get help from one of the enlisted wives so you won’t strain yourself; then the next day you take the train for Georgia. I’ll hear no argument.”

  “Yes, dear,” Bobbie Jean responded in a small voice, though a glint of mischief glittered in her dark eyes.

  An aura of tense expectation filled the office of John B. Floyd, Secretary of War. Earlier that morning, at the request of President Buchanan, the Virginia lawyer turned cabinet member had sent for Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee. The noted and respected tactical genius had been at his home, Arlington House, on a short leave that morning of October twentieth, 1859, to arrange the details of his son Rooney’s approaching marriage to a cousin, Charlotte Wickham.

  Upon receiving the news of the summons, and its cause—John Brown’s seizure of the army arsenal and gun works at Harper’s Ferry—he left at once for Washington City. The messenger sent to him, First Lieutenant James Ewell Brown Stuart, returned along with Lieutenant Colonel Lee. He had successfully prevailed upon Lee to serve as his aide in the counteroffensive against Brown and his marauders. When they reached the secretary’s office, the assembled authorities went into a high-power meeting.

  First, the president and secretary of war drew up a proclamation which enabled Lee to declare martial law at his discretion when he reached Harper’s Ferry. Then they discussed the best means of quelling the uprising, only to defer to Lieutenant Colonel Lee’s experience and commanding personality.

  “Gentlemen,” the venerable commander summed up. “I am to have command of several unrelated units of militia, as I understand it, an artillery battery from Old Point, along with ninety-three officers and men of the Marine Corps. It is obvious to me that there needs to be some means of coordination as regards so unwieldy a command. I would like to call on the services of this new company of intelligence analysts.”

  “The spies?” President Buchanan growled under his breath.

  Secretary Floyd consulted a list. “The nearest one available is in Pennsylvania. A young lieutenant named, Griffin Stark. By train he can reach Harper’s Ferry within the same time it takes you, Colonel Lee.”

  “Excellent. Is he any good?”

  “Second in his class. And, according to this report appended to his record, he has been evaluating the activities of the militant abolitionists for nearly a year now. He has even managed to infiltrate one of the New York State groups supported by Thomas Wentworth Higgenson.”

  “The very man,” Lee enthused. “Have orders cut and telegraph them to him at once.”

  Two missives reached Griffin Stark at the same time. One was his orders, dispatching him to Harper’s Ferry, and the other a letter from his wife. Since the latter had been in the mail for two weeks to reach him, he read it first. Bobbie Jean wrote:

  Dearest husband,

  The time draws nearer. Soon our son shall be here with us. Oh, yes, I know it will be a boy. Mammy Lu, the midwife, assured me that I am carrying high enough to make it certain. High enough, in fact, that she predicts twins! Wouldn’t that be something? I miss you as always and long to be reunited. Do you like Pennsylvania more than Washington City? It seems strange the Army would send you there.

  There are no forts or troops in that part of the state. But I suppose your superiors know best. In my present condition, I am missing a great opportunity. Miss Ada Menkin, the toast of the New York stage, is appearing in Augusta and will be in Atlanta on the twentieth of October. I love you ferociously and miss you with such passion. Write soon and say hello to your new son.

  All my love

  Griff smiled fondly and reread the short letter, written in a precise, spidery copperplate that he had grown to know by heart since their separation. He felt a momentary regret that she must remain uninformed as to the nature of his current assignment. Griff viewed that with even greater distaste than the initial concept of an intelligence service. Now, in civilian clothes, he had been ordered to act as a spy master and to set up agents within the abolitionist movement. There were, he believed, better things he could be doing.

  The Russians still persisted in making veiled threats regarding the czar’s dubious claim to California. And the English still militated against the American claim to the Northwest Territory. Either situation could result in war. Why weren’t he and his classmates being employed evaluating the potential of these very real enemies? Men like John Brown, who had so agitated in Kansas as to win that state the sobriquet, Bloody Kansas, and others in the abolitionist movement were, after all, Americans. They could not pose any real threat. With a reluctant sigh, he opened the other envelope.

  John Brown and an undisclosed number of his followers had attacked the army arsenal at Harper’s Ferry, Virginia! Several citizens, including a black man, had been ruthlessly shot down by the fanatical abolitionists. And he was ordered to the scene, to report to Lieutenant Colonel Robert E. Lee, the commander of all forces opposing Brown. The news and its import staggered Griffin.

  Such a confrontation, he considered carefully, could result in a fratricidal war that would rip the nation asunder and leave open wounds that might never heal. The United States could become easy pickings for any country with imperialistic notions. Quickly he left his quarters and went to the small office in Philadelphia’s financial district; it served as a front for his intelligence activities. He drew out all files connected to John Brown’s supporters in Boston, Worchester, and New York. The names; Franklin Sandborn, Garrit Smith, Dr. Samuel G. Howe, and Thomas Wentworth Higgenson paraded through his mind. Could men of such prominence actively finance, support, and condone open insurrection against the government of the United States? Regretfully, he conceded, the answer was yes. Their fanatical beliefs had long since led them beyond the realm of reason. Now they, and all the nation, would reap the whirlwind, Griffin lamented. He stuffed the dossiers into a leather valise and headed to the railroad station and the train for Harper’s Ferry.

  “Lieutenant Stark?”

  “Yes, sir,” Griff responded, rendering a precise salute to Lieutenant Colonel Lee.

  “You seem familiar. Do I recall you from the Academy?”

  A rueful grin creased Griffin’s face. “Yes, sir. I had the honor of attending during your two years. Also of receiving punishment tours from you personally, sir.”

  “Many young gentlemen did, Stark. An army needs discipline, fortitude, and a good commissary. With those elements any leader can move on to victory. Now, we have a serious situation here. What can you tell me about these murdering swine?”

  “They’re well financed, sir.” Rapidly, Griff briefed Colonel Lee on the background of Brown and his followers and those who supported him. He concluded with a suggestion that negotiations would probably be impossible.

  “Rumors have it that Brown is calling for a general slave uprising, that the darkies are to slay their masters and join in a vast liberation movement that will result in freeing all their brothers from oppression,” Lee informed Griff. “What chance do you give this of happening?”

  “Very little, sir. If conditions like the abolitionists have invented actually existed, it might come about. Fortunately, so little of that sort of thing goes on that loyal dark
ies will act in defense of their masters against any rabble that tries to raise the firebrand.” Lee smiled. “By your accent, I would judge you to be from Georgia.”

  “I am, sir. And proud of it.”

  “Your family owns slaves?”

  “Yes. I am master of Riversend. Although I must admit, sir, that I am opposed to slavery on moral grounds.”

  “So am I, young man, so am I.”

  “Yet, the practice of the past and economic expediency compel us to continue it … at least for a while.”

  “You are quite astute for your age, Lieutenant Stark. I commend you. Now, as to the tactical situation. I have ordered the marines to surround the firehouse at the arsenal. Brown and his fanatics are holed up there. They have hostages, and I wonder about what might happen. All the same, we are prepared to offer all possible consideration, provided Brown agrees to surrender. I’ve sent young Jeb Stuart in with terms of capitulation. All we can do now is wait.”

  “Perhaps, sir, if word were sent to the president regarding the men backing Brown and they were to be arrested ...” Griff paused a second, then resumed. “Were John Brown to learn of this, it might help persuade him to give up.”

  “On what charge could these men be arrested?”

  “Collusion in an insurrection? Something could be found.”

  “Time is not on our side. Brown has threatened to murder more citizens if he is not allowed to retire. Ah, here comes Mr. Stuart now.”

  A lean, dapper young man, with sparkling blue eyes and thick, wavy hair, looking smart in the uniform of a first lieutenant in the U.S. Army, approached. He saluted Colonel Lee and stood at ease.

  “What news?”

  “Brown refused our terms, Colonel.”

  Lee sighed, with a tone of heavy regret. “Very well. Send in the marines.”

  A spate of shots rattled the air a few minutes later. The acute bark of the Sharps rifles carried by Brown’s rabble sounded over the furious rush of the marines. Doors and windows were assaulted and quickly gave way.

  “There, in the bell tower,” one of Lee’s staff shouted.

  A head appeared and a moment later, a greasy white puff of powder smoke. A ball whipped over the head of the commander. Griff had obtained a rifle upon reporting in and quickly brought it into play.

  Smoke billowed from the muzzle of the long Springfield. In the tower the sniper cried out and lurched erect before toppling over to fall through the open hatch to the firehouse floor below.

  “Good shooting, Stark,” Colonel Lee complimented.

  In minutes the rebellion had been quelled. Quickly and quietly, as the president had wished.

  Several days later, while preparing information for the trial of John Brown and others in the conspiracy, Griffin Stark received an urgent telegram. Bobbie Jean was due for her delivery and in considerable pain. A doctor had been summoned and he declared the situation critical. Could Griffin Stark obtain permission to come to his wife’s side?

  “I don’t see why not,” Colonel Lee told him when Griff presented his problem. “Your work is completed here. By all means, go. Perhaps we shall have the honor of serving together again.”

  Griff took the first available train to Georgia and dismounted from the parlor car into a savage thunderstorm.

  Sheets of water lashed down out of the sky, obscuring the view of Valdosta. High winds buffeted any pedestrian foolhardy enough to venture out on the streets. Griff struggled against the maelstrom until he reached the livery.

  “I want to rent a horse. I’m Griffin Stark of Riversend, on the Stockton Road.”

  The gawking stable hand blinked his eyes. “You plumb crazy, Mr. Stark? You go out in that goose drowner an’ you’ll get yoursel’ killed.”

  Chapter Four

  LIKE THE BURST of an artillery shell, lightning blazed a twisted old sycamore close beside the road. Griff’s horse shied, panicked by the twin blasts of the ruptured tree and the calamitous roar of thunder. Nearly thrown, Griff clung to its mane and drove the round nubs of his military spurs into the skittish animal’s flanks. The roan gelding leaped forward and began to gallop wildly down the muddy road.

  Great clods of sticky Georgia red clay flew up from the horse’s hoofs and Griff let him have his head until his panic subsided. The fierce wind ripped large tendrils of Spanish moss from the limbs of cypress and oak and hurled them through the rain-saturated air like animated sponges. One struck Griff’s shoulder, discharging a spray of water. A distant rattling made itself heard above the tumult and Griff gritted his teeth. Hail. It could be large enough to batter him to death.

  When it arrived, jagged-edged spheres of ice that stung his exposed flesh, the hail resembled large marbles, varied in size from hominy to pumpkin ball proportions. Griff fought the urge to surrender to the might of the storm and rode on.

  When he reached Riversend, lights shone in nearly every window. He flung himself from the wall-eyed animal’s back, unmindful of a groom, and dashed to the front door. Cicero threw it open a moment before Griff’s fist pounded on the center panel.

  “Thank the Lord you’ve come, Mas’ Griffin. She done tried twice now and still the baby ain’t come. You got here in time, praise God.”

  Griffin Stark pounded up the curving flight of stairs to the second floor and to the room set aside for the birthing. Instinct drew him, more than directions from Cicero, who tagged along behind, age robbing him of Griff’s speed. Partway down the hall he heard a fearsome scream, as though from a soul tormented in Hell.

  “Oh, God!” he cried out.

  “Pray, Mas’ Griffin. Pray for your lady.”

  Another shriek pierced the storm-tossed night. Then another.

  “Is she … is she dying?” Griff panted out, fearful of the answer.

  “Only the Lord knows, Mas’ Griffin,” Cicero told him.

  Still another fierce screech came from behind the closed door. Then a long, ominous silence. Griff nearly shouted out his torment, then he heard the sound of a slap and a lusty wail.

  “Praise be, it’s a boy child!” Mammy Lu’s voice announced from behind the closed door. “You done a fine job, Doctor. I al’ays loses do’s breeched d’liveries.”

  “Mostly we doctors do, too,” a bass voice rumbled in reply.

  Unable to contain himself longer, Griff rushed to the door and turned the latch. He entered on a scene alien to his nature. The rotund Negress who delivered babies on Riversend and Doctor Malcom McDonald stood at the bedside. Mammy Lu held a wriggling red object that seemed entirely comprised of wrinkles. She dabbed at the strange creature with damp linen rags and her round, chubby face glowed with a beatific smile.

  “Here’s yo’ son, Mas’ Griffin. Come over and say hello.”

  Hesitantly, Griff advanced into the room. “My wife … Bobbie Jean … is she all right?”

  Mammy Lu chuckled. “Why co’us she is. She’s sleepin’ a bit. Truth is we did have a ha’d time with the d’livery. Let her rest a spell, den you can tell her how much you loves her and whut a purty baby she hed.” The old midwife turned toward the doorway. “Daphne! Get yo’ lazy bones in heah and he’p me swaddle dis chile. Y’hear me, Daphne?”

  Timidly, the girl Griff had spared from a flogging nearly two years before entered the room. She smiled nervously at the master and bobbed her head in greeting. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “I a’ready done mostes of it,” Mammy Lu complained. “Y’all wrap him up. Be careful ob dat gauze over his belly button. I done fixed it so’s it’ll heal real nice. You keep him warm and put him in the bed beside his mammy. Then get yo’ahsef to de kitchen and bring rum toddies foah de doctah, Mas’ Griffin an’ me. Scoot, y’heah?”

  While the proud father accepted toasts from physician and midwife, Bobbie Jean opened her eyes and muttered under her breath. She breathed deeply and managed to focus on the tall, handsome figure of her husband. A sweet smile of satisfaction spread her lips and, unnoticed, she slipped back into a restful sleep. Griff fumble
d at his coat pocket.

  “Uh … I brought along some cigars. They … they’re in my saddlebag. Cicero, would you go get them?” After the major-domo departed, Griff smiled nervously at the doctor. “I suppose I’ll have to take up smoking them myself. I got a bundle of good Havanas in Philadelphia before I left for here. A real bargain. A thousand for four dollars. The man in the shop at the station assured me that was the going price.”

  “Smoking is a filthy habit,” Doctor McDonald pronounced pontifically. “I should know. I’ve been pursuing it for thirty years. Congratulations again, Griffin. Have you thought of a name for the boy?”

  “Ah … yes we have. It will either be Jeremy or Duncan, after Bobbie Jean’s father or mine. After that, I think, Robert Lee Stark.”

  “Jeremy Robert Lee Stark. That’s a lot of name for a small boy to carry. How did you come by that?”

  “Colonel Lee gave me emergency leave to come here. I sort of … well, I wanted to honor him for it.”

  “That Robert E. Lee of the Second Cavalry? The judge advocate who heard all the courts-martial?”

  “The same. He’s commanding at Harper’s Ferry now. The John Brown affair.”

  “Yes. We heard about that. No details, of course. Only that the Kansas rabble-rouser had come out in armed rebellion against the United States.”

  “It’s over now. And Brown will be hanged.”

  “Then no doubt your Jeremy won’t be the last lad named for Lee.”

  “I doubt that, Dr. McDonald. Harper’s Ferry was more a tragedy than a great victory. Unless something … monumental happens, Colonel Lee will most likely live out his life privately at his plantation, Arlington House.”

  “Making some of your brilliant military predictions again, darling?” Bobbie Jean asked weakly from the bed.

  “Sweetheart, you’re awake. We have a son. Which will it be? Jeremy or Duncan?”