But Longstreet, almost as if in response to Jackson 's thought, went on, "And I shall not allow Hampton and his fellows any opportunity to do us mischief, either. I shall steal their thunder. Easter has come and gone; the end of April approaches. Still Blaine delays and delays and delays. He shall delay no more. Is the army gathered by the Potomac in readiness?"
"You know it is, Your Excellency," Jackson replied, as if he had been insulted.
"Of course I do," the president said soothingly. "Still, the question had to be asked. At today's session with the Yankees, you and Minister Benjamin are to tell them the war will resume in forty-eight hours unless we, the British Empire, and France have the full acquiescence of the United States to all demands made against them before that time shall have expired."
"Yes, sir!" Jackson 's voice bubbled with enthusiasm. "We shall punish them as they deserve." He thought for a moment. "And, in so doing, we make Hampton and his complaints into smaller matters than they would be otherwise."
"Just so," James Longstreet said. "I have told you before, I believe, that you are, or you can be, more astute in matters political than one might suppose."
"You natter me beyond my deserts, sir," Jackson said. "Like you, my son had no trouble ciphering out the reason on account of which Senator Hampton paid me a call, though I did not realize what it was until he made himself unmistakably plain."
"Jonathan's a clever lad," Longstreet said, smiling. "Remember, the United States are to have forty-eight hours from the moment you deliver the ultimatum. Make careful note of the time, that we may not unduly delay their punishment should its infliction prove necessary."
"I shall carry out your orders in every particular, Mr. President," Jackson said. "You may rest assured on that score."
"I do, General, believe me." Longstreet got to his feet. "And now Lieutenant Latham will take you to Mr. Benjamin. I leave to the two of you the manner in which you present the ultimatum to the United States. I am confident that, between your ingenuity and his, you will devise a plan more likely to meet our needs than any my poor wits might conceive."
" I am confident I know a man hiding his light under a bushel when I see one," Jackson said. Ignoring Longstreet's modest little wave, he went on, "I also have great faith in Mr. Benjamin's ingenuity." He rose and followed the young officer to the room where the Confederate minister to the USA waited.
"Ah, General Jackson!" Judah P. Benjamin exclaimed in delight, or an artful counterfeit thereof. "The president has told you of his intention?"
"He has." Jackson knew how abrupt his nod was. Benjamin's round, smiling, Semitic face, framed by hair and beard dyed a black that defied and denied his years, never failed to make the Confederate general-in-chief nervous. The statesman was too openly successful, too openly clever a Jew to suit Jackson 's stern Christianity.
"My view, General, is that you should be the one to deliver the ultimatum," Benjamin said now. "Coming from your lips, it will possess an aura of authority I could never give it. Were I to present it to Hay and Rosecrans, they would the more readily assume it to be negotiable."
"So they would," Jackson agreed. Benjamin's smile never wavered. Jackson did not think to wonder if he had insulted the Jew by assuming him to be flexible in all circumstances. Drawing out his pocket watch, he said, "The Yankees should be here in a few minutes."
Another young Confederate lieutenant escorted the U.S. representatives into the room. After polite greetings, John Hay said, "I should like to bring to your attention a new proposal President Blaine has authorized me to-"
"No," Jackson interrupted.
"I beg your pardon?" the U.S. minister to the Confederate States said.
"No," Jackson repeated. "The time for proposals from President Blaine has passed. He is in no position to offer them. He has, in fact, but one choice left: peace on our terms or war." He delivered Longstreet's ultimatum in tones as fierce as he could muster. Having done so, he noted down the time on a scrap of paper: twenty-seven minutes past ten in the morning.
Hay and Rosecrans both stared at him, the one with something like horror on his handsome face, the other in a sort of weary resignation. Rosecrans found his tongue first: "And what happens if President Blaine makes no reply, saying neither yes nor no?"
"That is a well he has drunk dry: it will be construed as rejecting the ultimatum," Jackson replied. "If we do not hear that he has accepted our terms within the space of forty-eight hours, now less"-he looked at the watch again-"two minutes, the war shall begin again, and where it shall end is known but to God."
"General, this is a brutal and most unreasonable way of forcing your will upon us," John Hay said.
"Yes, it is, isn't it?" Jackson agreed placidly. He said no more than that, leaving the U.S. minister to the Confederate States nothing on which he could hang a further protest.
Judah P. Benjamin spoke for the first time: "Gentlemen, I would suggest that, in view of the present circumstances, you might be well advised to communicate this ultimatum to President Blaine as soon as is practicable, to give him the greatest possible amount of time in which he can decide."
Under his breath, General Rosecrans muttered, " Blaine 's had months to decide. What the devil difference will two more days make?"
Jackson and Benjamin both started to speak at the same time. The Confederate minister to the USA caught Jackson 's eye. Benjamin's own eyes, dark and all but fathomless, glinted. Jackson inclined his head, allowing his clever companion to say whatever he intended. Turning another of his woundingly bland smiles on the U.S. representatives, Benjamin remarked, "I believe it was Samuel Johnson, gentlemen, who observed, 'When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.' "
Hay winced. Rosecrans muttered again, this time unintelligibly. Gathering himself, Hay said, "I hope you will permit us an adjournment, then, to wire your demands to our president."
Now Judah Benjamin nodded to Jackson. "I not only permit it," the Confederate general-in-chief said, "1 require it."
Rosecrans' comments to himself sounded sulfurous, even if Jackson could not make them out in detail. With a sigh, Hay asked, "May we have a written copy of the ultimatum, to be sure it is communicated accurately to President Blaine?"
Jackson shook his head. "No, for I have not got one. The terms are of the simplest, however: either your government shall yield within forty-eight hours less… thirteen minutes now, or there will be renewed war."
"War a I'outrance" Benjamin added. Rosecrans, who plainly did not understand the French phrase, glared at him. Hay, who plainly did, also glared, in a different, more nearly desperate way. The two U.S. representatives rose, shook hands again with their Confederate counterparts, and took their leave.
"From now on, sir, these talks will be in your hands alone, I expect," Jackson said to Benjamin. "I shall shortly travel north to the Potomac, to take charge of operations against the United States in that region."
"In my opinion, General, you need not be overhasty," the minister to the United States replied.
"I dare not take the chance of your being mistaken," Jackson said.
"However you like." Benjamin habitually looked amused. At the moment, he looked more amused than usual. "Whether we do go to war or not, though, the president has effectively spiked Senator Hampton's guns, would you not agree?"
"You know about Senator Hampton?" Jackson blurted, and then felt extraordinarily foolish: whatever went on in the Confederate States without Judah P. Benjamin's knowledge could not be worth knowing.
Benjamin's laugh made his big belly shake. "Oh, yes, General, I know about Senator Hampton. A great many people know about Senator Hampton. That you did not until last night speaks well of your devotion to duty."
The Jew was indeed a statesman, Jackson thought; he had never been called blind more politely. In musing tones, he asked, "Could he have raised a revolution with my help?"
"With your help, General, anything would be possible," Judah Benjamin
answered. "Without it, he is bound to fail." Benjamin hesitated, then went on, "Had President Longstreet reckoned your help likely to be forthcoming, the distinguished senator from South Carolina would have found himself unfortunately unable to call on you yesterday."
"Would he?" Jackson murmured. Benjamin gave him a solemn nod. He nodded back, unsurprised. After a moment's consideration, he nodded again, this time in firm decision. "Good."
Samuel Clemens woke with the bed shaking. He sat bolt upright, ready to run if it was an earthquake. By the way Alexandra smiled at him, it wasn't. He could barely see her smile; the sun hadn't risen yet. "What time is it?" he asked around a yawn.
"A little before five," his wife answered. "You wanted me to get you up early, though-remember? Philadelphia sun time is more than three hours ahead of us here."
Clemens grimaced and nodded. "Which means that, whatever Blaine aims to do, he'll do it too early in the morning." He got out of bed with a martyred sigh. "Light the lamp, will you, my dear?" Gas hissed. Alexandra struck a match. Yellow light filled the bedroom. Sam sighed again as he walked to the closet. "We're finally back in a home of our own-in a bed of our own, by God-and Blaine routs me out of it on a Saturday morning. There is no justice in the world-and no clean trousers, either, by the look of things."
"There are so," Alexandra declared. By then, Sam was getting into a pair of them. She gave him a dirty look.
He affected to ignore it, but from then on aimed his barbs at the administration rather than his wardrobe: "He shouldn't have started the war in the first place. Once he'd botched it, he should have quit when Longstreet gave him the chance. That would have saved San Francisco, and saved us the torture of living with your brother."
"You can't blame the president for that," Alexandra said.
"Who says I can't? I just did." Clemens warmed to his theme: "He dithered till he lost half of Maine, too. And now that the ultimatum's landed on him, he still can't make up his blasted mind. If he doesn't give in before half past seven or so, we're going to take another licking, and for what? For what, I ask you?"
His wife said, "Why don't you finish dressing? I'll go downstairs and make some coffee for you." It was not a responsive answer, but Sam doubted James G. Blaine could have given him a better one. And heaven only knows what sort of coffee Blaine makes, he thought, rummaging in a drawer for a cravat.
Fortified with coffee, bread and butter, and a slab of ham left over from supper the night before, he headed east along Turk Street toward the Morning Call. Not all the houses in the neighborhood had yet been rebuilt; empty lots gave the street the aspect of a barroom brawler who led with his teeth instead of his left.
Every few paces, Clemens looked back over his shoulder. Hills hid the Pacific from his eyes. Whether he could see it or not, though, he knew it was there. Somewhere on it, probably somewhere not far from San Francisco, sailed a Royal Navy flotilla. He was sure of that. The Pacific Squadron of the U.S. Navy, or what was left of it, was out there, too, but he had no faith in its ability to halt the British warships, or even to slow them much. When a fast steamer from the Sandwich Islands gave them the word to move…
Since the British attack on San Francisco, Colonel Sherman had brought in many more guns to defend the coast. Clemens didn't think they would do much good, either: they were small-caliber field pieces, which had the twin advantages of being common and mobile but were hardly a match for the huge cannon the ironclads of the Royal Navy mounted. Still, Sherman was making an effort, which put him ahead of most of the U.S. government.
Market Street was quiet as Sam turned onto it. Not only was Saturday a half day for most people, he was earlier than usual getting to the office. He walked in just before a quarter to seven. He wasn't the first man there, either, not by a long chalk. Reporters clustered round the telegraph clicker like relatives round the bed of a sick man who was not expected to live.
"No news yet, eh?" Clemens asked.
"Not a word," Clay Herndon answered, before anyone else could speak. "The only question left is whether the wire comes from Philadelphia or the Potomac. Will Blaine see sense, or will he throw away Washington City and Maryland to go along with Maine?"
" Blaine will let the war go on." Edgar Leary spoke with great assurances. His whole manner had changed since his stories on corruption in the rebuilding of San Francisco ran in the Morning Call. Now he seemed to reckon himself a man among men, a pup no longer. He had reason for that new-found confidence, too; thanks to those stories, several prominent men were presently occupying small rooms with poor accommodations and unpleasant views. He went on, "He's dragged his heels all the way through this mess. Why would he change now?"
No one argued with him. Clocks in the office and outside struck seven. "Less than half an hour to go," Herndon muttered. "Big story coming, one way or the other."
"Bastards," somebody said softly. Clemens wondered whether the fellow meant the enemies of the United States or the Blaine administration. After a moment, he realized the curse could be inclusive.
At nineteen minutes past seven, the telegraph receiver began to click. "It's early," Edgar Leary noted. "Have the Rebs jumped the gun, or has Blaine thrown in the sponge? My bet's on the Rebs."
But the telegram came out of Philadelphia. Clay Herndon, who happened to be closest to the machine, read the Morse characters emerging word by word on the tape as readily as if they were set in fourteen-point Garamond. "President Blaine accedes to Confederate ultimatum," he said, and then, through a burst of startled exclamations and cheers, "President Blaine's complete statement follows."
"Read it out, Clay," Sam said. "Read it on out. Let's see how he puts it in the best light he can."
He promptly regretted that, for Blaine went on at greater length than he'd expected. But neither he nor anyone else in the offices of the Morning Call interrupted the reporter as he gave voice to the words flowing from the clicking receiver:
"Finding no hope for the successful employment of our arms against the enemies who ring us round and who have unjustly combined against us, I am compelled at this hour to yield to the demands imposed upon the United States by the Confederate States, Great Britain, and France. I do this with the heaviest of hearts, and only in the certain knowledge that all other courses are worse.
"This surrender offers a fitting occasion to present ourselves in humiliation and prayer before that God Who has ordained that it be so. We had hoped that the year just past would close upon a scene of victory for our righteous cause, but it has pleased the Supreme Disposer of events to order it otherwise. We are not permitted to furnish an exception to the rule of Divine government, which has prescribed affliction as the rule of nations as well as of individuals. Our faith and perseverance must be tested, and the chastening which seems grievous will, if rightly received, bring forth its appropriate fruit.
"It is meet, therefore, that we should repair to the only Giver of all victory, and, humbling ourselves before Him, should pray that He may strengthen our confidence in His mighty power and righteous judgment. Then we may surely trust in Him that He will perform His promise and encompass us as with a shield.
"In this trust and to this end, I, James G. Blaine, president of the United States, do hereby set apart today, Saturday, the twenty-second day of April, as a day of fasting, humiliation, prayer, and remembrance, and I do hereby invite the reverend clergy and people of the United States to repair to their respective places of worship and to humble themselves before almighty God, and pray for His protection and favor to our beloved country, and that we may be saved from our enemies, and from the hand of all that hate us.
"And I do further urge and direct the citizens of the United States to observe the twenty-second day of April in each succeeding year as a day of humiliation and remembrance, so that the infamous defeat we have suffered on this date shall never be lost from the minds of the said citizens until such time as it may, by the grace of God, be avenged a hundredfold."
The clicker fell silen
t. Several men sighed. Sam realized he wasn't the only one who'd been holding his breath toward the end. Clay Herndon said, "Well, well, who would have thought it? Even James G. Blaine can read the writing on the wall, provided only that you make the letters big enough."
"The writing on the wall, eh?" Sam said. "That must be why he blamed God for our losing, or one reason for it, anyhow. The other two that spring to mind are that God doesn't vote, and He hardly ever stands up on His hind legs and calls someone a damned liar."
Outside, church bells began to ring out. Noise on the street swiftly swelled: shouts and cheers and snatches of song. Here and there, gunshots rang out. One of them sounded as if it came from right outside the offices. Somebody yelled, "That's the boy, Reuben! Shoot 'em all off-we ain't gonna need 'em no more." Another shot shattered the morning, presumably from Reuben's gun.
"We aren't the only ones with the news," Herndon observed. "That one would have gone to a whole raft of telegraph instruments."
"Everybody who has it likes it, too," Edgar Leary said.
Samuel Clemens made himself stop thinking like an American delighted the war had indeed ended-regardless of the terms on which it had ended-and start thinking like a newspaperman again. "Half the people who've got the word print papers of their own," he growled. "Out of that bunch, we're going to be the ones who put the news on the street first, or I'll know the reason why."
That blunt announcement sent people flying away from the telegraph clicker as if it had suddenly become red-hot. One of the typesetters yelled, "We'll need a transcript of what Blaine had to say. If somebody writes it out, it'll be a hell of a lot faster to set than if we've got to do it from the Morse."
"Clay, you take care of that," Sam said. "You've already read it through once, so you've got a head start on everybody else. Headline above it will be 'War Ends'-screamer type, of course."
"You want seventy-two point?" the typesetter asked.
How Few Remain (great war) Page 70
