by Bob Mayer
“Mister Poe is in the Parlor. He is not departed. I have told him to stay.”
“Good,” Jefferson said.
He closed his eyes. A very deep breath and his eyes opened. “Then the burden is on me then.” He looked to Sally Hemings. “But how can I?”
“There is a note, sir,” the courier said. “Mister Adams said I am to read it to you.”
A slight smile curved Jefferson’s lips. “He had to have the last word, of course. Read it, sir.”
The courier retrieved a piece of parchment, closed with a wax seal. He used his finger to break the seal. He unrolled the scroll then read out loud: “’Thomas. It is indeed on you. You are younger and have more time. My time on this mortal coil, I know, is winding down. I pray to make it until the Fourth. That is all I can pray for in this difficult time. I look forward to seeing Abigail once more. I know for certain I will not last past the Fourth, so I am dispatching this courier to arrive at that most fortuitous date’.”
Jefferson sighed. “Then he is indeed gone today. He would not make such a statement lightly.” Jefferson took a few breaths. “If the natural world did not take him, he made it happen. Always wanting to be in control of all aspects of things.” Jefferson shook his head ever so slightly. “Even his ending. And laying this burden that was foretold upon me.”
Moms was surprised, but the download confirmed there was a small segment of historians who speculated about the amazing coincidence of both great men dying on the same day, fifty years exactly after their greatest moment? Some suggested euthanasia, other’s suicide. Those theories were generally debunked, but who really knew?
The courier continued reading. “’Perhaps you have read of the short note I sent to the papers. If not, here is the text: For you and for my country, my best wishes, in the joys, and festivities, and the solemn services of that day on which will be completed the fiftieth year from its birth, of the independence of the United States: a memorable epoch in the annals of the human race, destined in future history to form the brightest or the blackest page, according to the use or the abuse of those political institutions by which they shall, in time to come, be shaped by the human mind’.”
The courier was done.
Hemings wiped Jefferson’s forehead and then gave him a small sip of water.
“Fearful to the end of what we have wrought,” Jefferson said. He seemed to be speaking to himself now. “We knew of the flaws, the deep flaws in what we did. The lies inherent in what we wrote. But we also planned for that.”
He was silent, and no one dared interrupt. Finally, he shook his head. “Too late. Too late.” He turned to Sally Hemings and crooked his finger. He held out his hands. She placed both leather pouches in his hands. He held them up for a moment, then his hands fell to his lap. And he gave the ghost of a smile: “The burden is too heavy.”
He looked at Hemings, then the courier and finally settled his gaze on Moms. He blinked, then focused. “It cannot be,” he murmured. He closed his eyes tight, then opened them. “Who are you?”
“A friend,” Moms said.
“You are—” he began, but stopped. Jefferson didn’t say anything for several moments. “Sally, take the gentlemen and . . .” he paused to catch his breath . . . “give him some nourishment. I need to speak with the guest.”
Hemings gave Moms a harsh look and departed with the courier.
Jefferson gestured for Moms to come closer.
She walked to the side of his bed. His face was flushed with broken capillaries. His famous red hair was now white and scraggly. His eyes were washed out.
“I never quite believed it, but now I must.” He nodded. “You are the one that was foretold.”
Vicksburg, Mississippi. 4 July 1863
“How’d you get the knife from the General?”
“He gave it to me,” Joey said defensively. “He stays with us at times. Helps my mama out. Brings her some food, but it’s never enough. So the rest is up to me and Buster.”
“Then you best do what you set out to do,” Ivar said. “I’ll help.”
“You will?”
“Sure. I’ve got to report to the General in a bit, anyway. Might as well go with you.”
“Thanks.” It was obvious Finster’s scattergun worried Joey more than he’d let on.
The kid led the way between abandoned houses along the outskirts of the town. Finally, Joey halted and pointed to a small patch of dirt between two fences. That was it. The garden a man was willing to defend with his life. But no one here had any idea how long the siege might go on, and that garden might indeed turn out to be the difference between life and death.
Old Man Finster sat on a crate on one side of the garden, a shotgun across his knees. Joey held on to Buster, and the dog was well used to this, making no sound. Ivar wondered how long this would last, but then Finster got up and teetered to the right, disappearing behind the fence.
Joey let go of Buster, who tore off into the garden. Dirt started to fly as Buster dug. Joey followed, digging with his bare hands next to the dog, stuffing whatever he found inside his shirt.
There wasn’t much.
Ivar moved forward, next to the fence, keeping an eye out.
“I knews it was you!” Finster was at the edge of the fence, leveling the shotgun.
Ivar snatched it out of the old man’s hands before Finster realized he was there. “Sit down, old man,” Ivar said.
Finster had a sour face, and he glared at Ivar, but did as ordered, settling his bony butt on the crate.
No longer afraid, Joey and Buster took their time to gather more potatoes.
“Blast it, you thieving, stealing devil dog. And you, boy. I know you. Didn’ your mama teach you better? Course, she a whore lying up with a married man. An’ him a traitor to boot.”
“Quiet,” Ivar said. “You should be kinder to your fellows.”
Finster made to spit, a habit, since chewing tobacco had been long gone around here. “Easy for you, you fat do-gooder, in your fancy uniform. Telling other people what to do with their food. And you an officer. Allowing thieving.”
Ivar had never been called fat before, but he’d also never been in a besieged city.
“There weren’t much garden to start with,” Finster complained. “And there’d be nothing now for that boy and his devil-dog to steal if I didn’t watch it every dang second. And I do share with my neighbors, but those blasted soldiers, they’d be taking everything if’n I let them. They’d rip the plants out, and then there’d be nothing.”
“Those soldiers are starving to keep you alive,” Ivar said, making an effort to act the part.
“Fat lot of good that’s done,” Finster said. “Old Unconditional been sitting out there on his riverboat hooting and hollering waiting for us to give up. Ain’t look like Unconditional Grant got nowhere else to be. We shoulda folded from the start. That no-good, yellow-bellied Yankee Pemberton done this on purpose. He likes seeing us suffer.”
Joey and Buster were still digging.
Finster was on a roll. “They oughta string the no-good traitor up when this-here battle is over. If it ever gonna be over ‘fore we all starve to death.”
Today, Ivar wanted to say, but didn’t. First Rule and he’d already been reamed out for breaking it in the face of Meyer Lansky’s interrogation back on Black Tuesday, but he’d challenge just about anyone not to break a rule or two in the face of that. Even with letting the cat out of bag, or rather letting Lansky know he would have a long and never—get-whacked life, Ivar had ended up wearing concrete shoes and plummeting into Long Island Sound.
It was today, Ivar knew because Pemberton hoped that surrendering on the Fourth of July would bring some leniency from U.S. ‘Unconditional Surrender’ Grant. And it would. The download confirmed that Grant would bend the rigid stance he’d first adopted at Fort Donelson. The commander of Donelson, Confederate General Simon Bolivar Buckner, West Point class of ’44, expected Grant to be lenient, not only because the ‘rul
es’ of war dictated gentlemanly behavior between officers, but also because they’d been together at West Point for three years. Even more so, because it was Buckner back in 1854 who’d lent Grant the money to get home from his post in California after he’d been cashiered out the army, supposedly for being drunk on duty. Surely, such an act would bring some mercy?
Nope.
While he’d shown none then, Grant had agreed here and now to parole all the starving Confederates on their written warrant promising never to fight again.
Almost all of them broke it, and Grant would face many of them again in battles like Chattanooga. The technicalities of the parole were circumvented in many ways, such as re-organizing the units that the paroled men were in. Bottom line was men could just choose to ignore the paper they had signed. What was the Union going to do? Go to war?
Grant could besiege a city with civilians in it, but he couldn’t execute prisoners, because that was against the rules of war.
But, once more, actions had a consequence. Facing many of these same men next year at Chattanooga, Grant would finally lose his composure and swear not to parole any more prisoners. They would be sent to POW camps. That wasn’t the only reason, as the Confederates wouldn’t take Negro troops prisoners, instead either executing them on the spot (that seemed to be within the ‘rules’) or selling them into slavery.
As a result, prisoner of war camps eventually bulged north and south, something neither side anticipated. Places like Andersonville would eventually be the result; a true hell on Earth.
Old man Pinster had run out of ranting for the moment and interrupted Ivar’s musing on the insanity of war and rules with a question. “You got any tobacca, young fella?”
Ivar checked his pockets and wasn’t surprised to find some, since Edith was not only in charge of the download, but also of the gearing up for the missions and tended to think of almost all possibilities. Ivar pulled out a leather pouch then tossed it to Pinster. “Payment for the potatoes.”
“You damn soldiers got everything,” Pinster groused, proving his sour mood wouldn’t change even after the siege was lifted. Ivar realized the old man was actually happier with the siege providing him purpose and a reason to hate.
Ivar shook his head. Putting ‘rules’ on something as insane as war allowed it to stay in existence. Grant couldn’t kill everyone who surrendered, like Genghis Khan would have done without a second thought. But Grant could lay siege to Vicksburg and starve people to death as needed. He could shell them every night, neither him or anyone on those gunboats aware how many civilians their shells were or weren’t killing.
Maybe there shouldn’t be rules, Ivar thought. Maybe there needed to be massacres and no quarter given. All or nothing. Because down the road, there were going to be things like World Wars and nuclear bombs being dropped and what kind of rules controlled that?
“Come on, mister,” Joey said. His shirt was bulging with potatoes, but underneath it, Ivar could see his sunken chest, and he felt a pang of guilt.
“Tell you what,” Pinster said, spitting real tobacco. He moved faster than Ivar expected, grabbing Buster’s collar. The dog began barking. “We’ll call this even if you give me the dog. I’m sick of taters and cabbage.”
Ivar leveled the double-barreled shotgun at the old man then pulled back both hammers. “Not very nice.”
Pinster laughed. “Ain’t got no shells for it no-way.”
Ivar aimed away from the old man then pulled the trigger. Nothing. He tossed the shotgun aside. He drew the Colt and cocked it. “I got shells in this.”
Pinster’s face grew even more sour. “No need to be getting ornery. It’s just a dog.”
Ivar gestured with the barrel, and Pinster let go of the collar.
“Let’s get out of here, sir,” Joey said and he began to walk away, with Buster at his feet. Ivar turned, holstering the revolver, but not closing the flap.
“He’s a mean old man,” Joey said. “Hope I don’ end up like him.”
Ivar heard the sharp snap of the shotgun closing. He wheeled, his hand closing on the butt of the Colt. He drew just as Roland had instructed, cocking the hammer as it cleared the holster. He had the revolver level as he aimed at Pinster, when he realized the old man didn’t have the shotgun.
The dual hammers on the shotgun clicked back and Ivar adjusted to the sound, seeing a figure to the left of Pinster. Adrenaline surged through Ivar’s veins, but he knew he was going to be too late before—
Buster was a blur, flying through the air, hitting the figure on the side as both barrels blazed.
The buckshot buzzed by, just inches away as Ivar fired his first shot, hoping he wouldn’t hit the dog.
The figure threw Buster off as Ivar fired again, this time certain of his aim. The figure took a step back as the .36 caliber ball hit him in the chest. Ivar was full-Nada now, cocking and firing as fast as he could, putting the next three rounds into the man with the shotgun. He fired the last of that burst as the man fell backward.
Ivar stood still, smoking gun in hand, surprised as much by his own reaction, as the fact that there had been someone else here.
He glanced over. Joey was frozen, mouth wide open in surprise. Old man Pinster had dove for cover and was just now lifting his head to see what had happened.
Ivar tried to remember how many times he’d fired and whether he had a bullet left.
He didn’t know. He cocked the gun and walked over to the man with the smoking muzzle of the weapon pointed at him. Ivar noted that the tip of the barrel was shaking ever so slightly. He looked down. A man dressed in Rebel gray, with no insignia, stared up at him, the shotgun across his chest. There was a hole in the center of the chest, then two more in the stomach.
Ivar pointed the gun at the man’s head.
Still alive, the man smiled, a trace of blood on his lips. “Thank you.”
“Who are you?” Ivar asked.
“You have released me from service.” The man took a breath, then coughed frothy blood. “May Sparta persevere.” The man’s eyes went blank and his head rolled to the side.
“He told me not to say nothing!” Pinster claimed. “He was hiding back there the whole time.”
Buster backed off the body as Ivar carefully un-cocked his gun.
“That was some shooting!” Joey marveled. “What was that he said?” The marvel turned to shock as the body crumbled inward to dust.
Mantinea, Greece, 4 July 362 B.C.
“How many Legion?” Scout asked.
“You can’t tell?” Pandora asked.
“I wouldn’t ask if I could get a head count,” Scout said.
“Two,” Pandora said.
“Why are they here?” Scout asked.
The army below was deployed, the men standing in the tight formations in their armor, sun glinting off spear tips. Officers were walking to and fro. On a slight rise to the rear was a cluster of men: the nobles who commanded, including the Spartan king. The fear in this army was also palpable, along with the pressing need not to let their comrades down.
Pyrrha was watching the horizon. “I surmise they are here to protect Epaminondas and keep him alive. Look.”
A wave of glittering dots was appearing from behind a ridgeline. The dots became the points of spears.
“Epaminondas leading his Thebans and their allies approach,” Pandora said.
“Someone else does,” Pyrrha said, indicating the slope in front of them. A Spartan rider was spurring his horse up the hill; red cloaked, plumed helmet, sword in hand.
He reined in ten feet in front of them, the horse skittish. “Who are you?”
Pandora nodded at Pyrrha. ‘Kill him’, she projected.
Pyrrha walked forward, using the Naga as if she needed its assistance to walk. “We are weary travelers.”
The rider gestured with his sword, controlling his horse with the other hand. “Go.”
“You should go back,” Scout said to him, edging her voice between a command and
a plea. “Your fellow soldiers need you.”
The horse was suddenly calm. The rider slowly nodded. “Yes. I should. Yes. You need to leave here. There will be a great battle today.”
Pyrrha halted four feet from him, but was looking over her should at Pandora.
‘Hold’.
The rider turned the horse’s head and galloped off.
“Pyrrha would have dealt with him,” Pandora said.
“By killing,” Scout said. ‘I can hear you too.’
“Only when I allow it,” Pandora said.
“And you allowed it, so you wanted me to do something,” Scout said.
Pandora gave a slight nod. “Astute.”
“He will most likely be dead soon anyway,” Pyrrha said, coming back to them.
“Are you fate?” Scout asked her. “Do you get to decide whether he lives or dies?”
“The Fates rarely intervene,” Pyrrha said.
“Why do they at all?” Scout asked.
“We don’t know,” Pandora said.
“What are they?”
“We don’t know,” Pandora said. “They come before all others. What they dictate is at it is.”
“Vague much,” Scout muttered.
Pyrrha pointed with the Naga. “There is Epaminondas.”
The Theban general came over the rise at the head of his army. He wore a white cloak and was mounted on a large steed. This was an era when generals and kings led from the front and often the fate of the army rested on their fate.
“If he lives,” Scout said, “he will change history.”
“Indeed,” Pandora said. “So he mustn’t live. Sad, because he is a remarkable man.”
The download confirmed that. The famous Roman Cicero would write of Epaminondas as the ‘first man of Greece’. He was the general who’d already broken Spartan military power, so that it was just a shadow of its former greatness, which Scout had witnessed at Thermopylae as the Three Hundred under King Leonidas held the Gates of Fire against the Persian invasion. Plutarch would match Epaminondas with Scipio Africanus in his epic work Parallel Lives.
