Hoodwink

by Rhonda Roberts

  ‘It’s true, my dear,’ he replied, pointing across the Back Forty at the antebellum sets laid out before us. ‘See that train depot and the town beyond? That’s supposed to be Atlanta … The fall of that fair city is a pivotal part of Mr Selznick’s film because it was the turning point of the war. If Atlanta hadn’t fallen, the War Between the States would’ve ended very differently.’

  ‘Forgive my ignorance, Captain Montgomery, but how could holding only one city allow the South to win?’ I asked gently.

  ‘It wasn’t us,’ replied Captain Montgomery. ‘It was the Yankees.’

  He slid Bourke a look of deep reproach, as though the North’s stupidity meant they didn’t deserve their final victory.

  ‘I’m afraid, Miss Dupree, the captain is right,’ agreed Bourke. ‘In 1864 there was a huge backlash against Abraham Lincoln in the run-up to the presidential election. The South was desperate but the North had also suffered a staggering rate of casualities. Though we won the Battle of Gettysburg we actually lost even more men than the smaller Confederate army.’

  ‘Yup. We was down but we weren’t out,’ stated Private Gouge with satisfaction.

  ‘The main reason was your sophisticated spy network,’ said Bourke to Gouge. ‘It meant even though your army was smaller they could fight very strategically.’

  ‘It was more than just spies, Mr Bourke,’ corrected Captain Montgomery curtly. ‘You Yankees just couldn’t beat us. General Lee …’ He glanced at me, saying, ‘He was our military leader, my dear … General Lee held General Grant, the head of the Yankee forces, at a standstill outside Petersburg. And we held Atlanta against General Sherman for four whole months.’

  ‘So the war was at a standstill,’ I concluded.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bourke. ‘In the run-up to the 1864 presidential election it seemed as though the war would never end.’

  ‘Despite what them history books say now,’ said Private Gouge, with a knowing gleam, ‘you Yankees hated your own president!’

  Bourke nodded. ‘Abraham Lincoln was one of the most hated presidents in US history. After three years of war, everyone blamed the Abolitionists, and him in particular, for starting the conflict and then not finishing it.’

  ‘So, Miss Dupree, we held onto Atlanta … every man, woman and child of us. We knew we were close …’ said Captain Montgomery. ‘So close to a just peace.’ You could see the old anguish in his faded grey eyes.

  ‘Are you saying that Lincoln would not have been re-elected if the Siege of Atlanta had held?’ It was hard to believe.

  ‘My dear Miss Dupree, the candidate that opposed Lincoln in the election was one of his own Union generals, George B. McClellan. He was hugely popular because he promised to call a truce and end the war.’

  ‘A truce?’ I muttered. ‘I’d never heard of that being an option.’ It seemed impossible to believe.

  ‘It was,’ corrected Bourke. ‘Even Lincoln was convinced he couldn’t win. The South was sending money to support McClellan’s campaign … Both sides wanted a Union president who would make peace.’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked. Obviously not a truce.

  ‘General William Tecumseh Sherman,’ stated Daniel with perfect certainty.

  The other men shot him curious glances but didn’t correct him.

  Why did a Frenchman know so much about the Civil War?

  ‘So Sherman found a way to take Atlanta,’ I said, ‘and gave Lincoln a victory to sway the election.’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Bourke. ‘But it didn’t come easy … In 1861 the USA only had a population of thirty-one million, and by the end of that four-month siege more than twelve thousand men had died and another forty thousand were wounded.’

  ‘There were dead everywhere,’ said Sergeant Routledge. ‘The smell, the sound of the dying —’ He stopped. ‘You couldn’t get away from it.’ He seemed to age before our eyes.

  ‘You can’t forget something like that, my dear.’ The captain shook his head. ‘Atlanta had no medical supplies, only a couple of doctors. See the train depot over there?’ He pointed to the next set down. ‘Our brave ladies nursed their boys there, covered in their blood.’

  ‘But when it ended,’ said Gouge, ‘it was worse …’

  ‘We knew the fall of Atlanta was the beginning of the end for the South,’ said Captain Montgomery.

  The three old men sat in silence. Even now, seventy-five years later, their grief was palpable.

  23

  THE SPY MASTER

  Bourke sat forward in his chair, his eyes keen. ‘Captain Montgomery, I read your account of Sherman’s March to the Sea. It’s the best eyewitness account of the Civil War I’ve ever found. It seemed as though you actually knew General Sherman … personally.’ The stocky journalist radiated a serious mix of impatience and intense curiosity — as though he was finally getting down to why he was really here. ‘Did you?’

  That one question had the three vets stiffen uncomfortably in their chairs — this interview had turned into an interrogation.

  The captain shot Bourke a narrow look; he didn’t take kindly to being grilled. ‘I did know him, sir. My eldest brother went through West Point with him.’

  ‘They all knew each other from before the war,’ said Daniel softly, as if to himself. ‘Nearly all the commanding officers went through West Point. Sherman, Stonewall Jackson, Braxton Bragg, George McClellan … The leaders of the two armies, Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant … Even the Confederate president, Jefferson Davis.’

  The four men stared at the Frenchman — the vets with eyes like open wounds, Bourke with a journalist’s inquisitiveness.

  ‘Their connections were so close,’ said Daniel, ‘that at the start of the war President Lincoln asked Lee to take command of the Union army. Lee only refused when his home state of Virginia followed the rest and seceded.’ He gave a hopeless shrug. ‘Mary Lincoln, Abe’s own wife, had loving family who were Confederate officers …’

  Daniel returned the four men’s gazes, willing them to react. ‘How did this nation come to such carnage?’

  His stern but sincere question confronted them.

  Private Gouge bit his lip, as though he had asked himself that question too many times yet it still remained unanswered. ‘Every evening for a month during the siege, one of our sharpshooters would play his cornet. Both sides would stop to listen to his sweet music.’ He shook his head. ‘What kinda craziness is that? We can stop for music but not for —’ He fell silent.

  Captain Montgomery glanced around the porch. ‘From what my granddaughter tells me, the great love of Miss Scarlett O’Hara’s life was really this — Tara. Her family home. I suppose in the end that’s why we fought … to defend our homeland. That’s what kept us marching upright.’

  Silence.

  ‘And does the South now see the United States as their homeland again?’ asked Daniel.

  Silence.

  What a question to ask! Here … in 1939.

  What was Daniel Devereaux really doing here?

  ‘Mr Devereaux,’ said Captain Montgomery in a carefully neutral voice. ‘Why does a Frenchman, friend though he may be to this country, care so deeply about the War Between the States?’

  Daniel was silent for a moment.

  Then he said, very carefully, ‘I have a relative … on my father’s side, who fought in the conflict. I’ve read his letters home … I am merely voicing his own questions. They have always troubled me and I was hoping you might have the answers.’

  Silence.

  ‘Would you care to tell us a little about your relative, son?’ asked the captain gently.

  ‘My ancestor wasn’t born in Louisiana,’ said Daniel. ‘In fact we’re not sure where he came from … but his adopted family called that state home. For that reason he fought under the Confederate flag.’

  ‘May I ask his name?’ said the captain respectfully.

  ‘Zebediah Honeycutt. He was in the cavalry.’

  The three vets starte
d forward.

  ‘Son,’ said the captain, ‘are you saying you’re related to Major General Zebediah Elijah Daniel Honeycutt?’

  Gouge exploded, ‘Streak of Lightning Zeb?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Captain Montgomery slapped his thigh. ‘My dear boy, no wonder.’ He chuckled. ‘It does my heart a power of good to know that brave man is remembered so dearly even by the French. We all wept when he died at Gettysburg. It was such a great loss to the Confederacy.’

  The captain paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘Then I must answer your questions … though in reverse order. Do I see this United States as my home … now, in the twentieth century? You must understand, son, that to your generation the war seems so long ago, but to us it is just yesterday.’ He sighed. ‘The answer is no, though it grieves me to say it. General Honeycutt was right. I’m afraid I lost my country the day we took up swords against each other.’

  He sighed again, more deeply. ‘And how did this country come to civil war? In the final hour, not for honour, nor for right, but because we were stupid. If we’d known what we were starting, there wasn’t a man on either side who wouldn’t have found another way ahead. We just didn’t know.’

  ‘Most of them Yankees … Well I could understand why they did what they did,’ Gouge spat, ‘but that Sherman … that Twig was a monster!’

  ‘Why did you call General Sherman “Twig”?’ I asked.

  Gouge looked to Captain Montgomery as though in mute apology.

  ‘Miss Dupree,’ said the captain smoothly. ‘Ruben used a very rude name. Please, let us ignore him.’

  ‘But what does Twig mean?’ Bourke insisted. ‘I’ve never heard that nickname for Sherman before.’

  ‘Because he broke like one,’ said Gouge, eyes flinty with hatred. ‘Sherman broke like a dried ole stick.’ He dodged the captain’s steely gaze to add, ‘I don’t care! That man was a cold-blooded murderer!’

  Daniel and Bourke exchanged glances.

  Daniel said, ‘Are you talking about what happened in 1861?’

  ‘Yep.’ Gouge was defiant. ‘That’s exactly what I meant.’

  Bourke caught my questioning gaze. ‘Kay, in 1861 Sherman was taken out of active service.’ He coughed uncomfortably. ‘Some say he had a nervous breakdown.’

  ‘Don’t be coy about it, Bourke,’ demanded Daniel. ‘The Union’s three greatest leaders — Lincoln, Grant and Sherman — all had mental problems. Lincoln had depressive episodes to the point that he had to have cabinet meetings in his bedroom … He was haunted by recurring nightmares of lying in his own coffin in the front room of the White House. And Ulysses S. Grant, Sherman’s best friend, was an alcoholic.’

  ‘What about Sherman?’ I asked. ‘Why did he … break?’

  ‘Because he couldn’t stop the war,’ stated Daniel. ‘Before the war Sherman had been head of the Louisiana Military Academy and knew first-hand that the South would fight to the death. But when Sherman warned the North no one would listen. The press even savaged him, calling him a crazy coward. It broke his heart.’

  ‘But he made it back,’ I said.

  ‘’Twould have been far better for us all if he had not, my dear,’ said the captain quietly.

  ‘The new Sherman was stone cold,’ said Daniel. ‘He blamed the South for starting the conflict, so he felt no compunction in grinding them into the ground. Sherman used Total War tactics. He destroyed anyone and anything that could delay a Northern victory.’

  ‘Total War?’ mused the captain, unfamiliar with the term. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what Sherman waged after Atlanta.’

  ‘Twig said he’d make the South so sick of war we’d never want to take up arms again … That he’d make Georgia howl,’ added Gouge bitterly.

  ‘After Sherman destroyed Atlanta he marched through the heart of Georgia to the sea at Savannah,’ said Captain Montgomery. ‘He had sixty-two thousand men in two columns — bigger than most cities in that time. What livestock and supplies they didn’t take they killed or burnt. My starving people could watch their progress by the smoke from the fires they lit as they went.’

  ‘Whatever way you want to tell it,’ spat Gouge, ‘Sherman gutted Georgia and then looked around for the next victim.’

  Bourke eyed the captain, intent on resuming his interrogation. ‘When Sherman reached Savannah, General Grant ordered him to return and help him defeat Lee. Sherman refused, point blank. Instead he marched his massive army to South Carolina … to its capital, Columbia.’ He leant closer to the captain. ‘Do you know why Sherman did that?’

  Silence. All three veterans were rattled by the question.

  ‘We never guessed that Sherman would go there,’ replied the captain, striving to appear at ease. ‘We all thought he’d return to support Grant and then Richmond would fall. The South had even sent all its treasures to Columbia for safekeeping.’

  ‘But Sherman had a very good reason for defying his commanding officer and marching to Columbia,’ said Bourke, staring straight at the captain. ‘Didn’t he?’

  Captain Montgomery blanched. ‘What are you implying, sir?’

  ‘Sherman was on the hunt for one of those treasures that’d been sent to Columbia for safekeeping,’ replied Bourke. ‘Wasn’t he, Captain Montgomery?’

  Captain Montgomery didn’t answer.

  Daniel eyed the two men and intervened. ‘Bourke, are you talking about the burning of Redbud Hill?’

  Redbud … that was the name of Earl’s damned desk!

  ‘What’s Redbud Hill?’ I demanded.

  The men waited to see who would answer.

  I repeated the question, even more insistently, ‘What is Redbud Hill?’

  Daniel answered. ‘It was the family plantation of the Montforts, an old South Carolina family —’

  ‘But more importantly it was the pride and joy of General George Montfort,’ snapped Bourke.

  Montfort? Earl said he had Montfort’s desk …

  ‘And I have reason to believe that war criminal’s doings have never been completely revealed,’ said Bourke accusingly.

  ‘Why is Montfort a war criminal?’ I asked.

  ‘He was personally responsible for atrocities committed against black Union troops,’ spat Bourke. ‘Because of him three hundred Negro soldiers were slaughtered after they surrendered at Fort Case!’

  The three old veterans were now cowering back from Bourke.

  ‘Last year,’ said Bourke, with more carefully banked anger, ‘I was shown two letters from 1864, each written by Allan Pinkerton, the head of the Union intelligence service. One letter was sent to Abraham Lincoln and in it he named General George Montfort as the secret Confederate spy master.’

  Bourke looked to Captain Montgomery. ‘Is that true, sir? Was he?’

  The captain didn’t answer.

  Bourke eyed him coolly then continued, ‘In this letter Allan Pinkerton warned Abraham Lincoln that George Montfort had placed a spy in the White House — one with orders to arrange the president’s assassination.’

  Captain Montgomery held very still. The other two veterans gazed at him in open alarm.

  ‘When Lincoln refused to believe him,’ said Bourke, ‘Pinkerton secretly wrote the second letter to General Sherman. He told Sherman that their suspicions about Montfort had been justified and implored Sherman to find Montfort’s Key before it was too late … Pinkerton said it was their only hope of identifying the spy and preventing the assassination. That letter arrived in Savannah the same day that Sherman refused to return and help General Grant … The same day that Sherman took his great army to Columbia.’

  Bourke eyed our enthralled faces. ‘Redbud Hill is just outside Columbia.’

  ‘And Sherman burnt it to the ground,’ said Daniel.

  ‘No, and that’s the very interesting part,’ replied Bourke, a predatory gleam in his eyes. ‘When Sherman arrived at Redbud it was already on fire … Now why would General Montfort leave orders that his men were to set fire to his beloved family ho
me?’

  ‘Unless Montfort kept something there he didn’t want to fall into enemy hands,’ I mused.

  ‘That’s right, Kay,’ said Bourke. ‘But what was it? What was Sherman searching for? At the end of the war Lincoln was assassinated as planned and George Montfort disappeared … So tell me, Captain Montgomery, what is Montfort’s Key?’

  Bourke glared at the captain, willing him to answer.

  ‘I don’t see why you could wish to dredge this sad old history up now,’ replied Captain Montgomery defensively.

  ‘Yes, Bourke, why did you come back from Europe just to do this interview?’ asked Daniel. The mystery had him in its grip.

  ‘While I was in Germany I had the dubious pleasure of interviewing an SS colonel called Rudolph Heidler … who has a very interesting hobby. He collects Confederate weapons. He showed me George Montfort’s pistol and when I asked him where he got it, Heidler told me that in 1865 Montfort escaped to South America and the gun was stolen there. The colonel then told me, very proudly, that he’d actually met the pistol’s owner, George Montfort, in Buenos Aires in 1920 and again in Berlin in 1924.’

  The real owner of Earl’s desk could be still alive?

  ‘So here I am,’ said Bourke. ‘And I want to know where that war criminal George Montfort is. Because I’m going to find proof of his part in murdering Lincoln … and make sure that Montfort rots in hell for what he’s done!’

  ‘Mr Bourke,’ said the captain with quiet dignity. ‘I was a young man, merely surviving in a time of chaos and suffering. I cannot shed light on your mystery.’ He stood, determined to put an end to the interrogation. ‘If you will excuse three old soldiers, we would like to take a stroll around the other Atlanta sets … Mr Selznick wanted our opinion on whether they were authentic.’

  The captain bowed to me and offered his arm. ‘Miss Dupree, would you be kind enough to take a stroll with an old man?’ He teetered as he stood there waiting.

  Daniel rose to take his other side.

  Together we all left Bourke to his bitter ruminations — there on the porch of Tara.

  I felt compelled to say, ‘It must be hard to talk about the war.’