The Mountain

by David L. Golemon

  “Excuse me for not introducing you to the colonel, but I quickly assessed that your mission to my encampment may be more covert than I was led to believe. After all, it’s not every secretary of state for the Union who would brave the wilds and enter the camp of his mortal enemy.”

  “Then how about accepting it at face value as one American speaking with another; that way you may be able to maneuver around it.”

  Lee smiled. It was a sad and lonely-looking effort but he finally held his right hand out. At that moment his aide returned holding a clear bottle filled with clearer liquid.

  “Colonel Freemantle didn’t look at all happy,” the major said as he removed his rain slicker and watched his commander with his very unusual guest.

  William H. Seward, the United States secretary of state, took Lee’s hand and lightly shook it.

  “Yes, Colonel Freemantle was against me taking an envoy from Mr. Lincoln into my camp. He seems overly worried about something and I suspect it has to do with the flurry of message activity between the colonel and his queen.” Lee released the hand of Seward and then gestured for his aide to assist his guest to a chair in front of the fire. “And I must admit to finally having something in common with our friend from the Empire, as I am just as curious to know why Mr. Lincoln is reaching out to me at this particular time.”

  “General, after the savagery of the past three weeks, the president believes it is time we start talking.”

  Lee sat in the old and rickety rocking chair and gestured to Taylor that he should tend to his guest’s request for a drink. As Taylor brought Seward a teacup with apologies for it not being a glass, Lee fixed the secretary of state with his intense eyes.

  “Any communication pertaining to the continuance of the war should properly be directed south toward Richmond, sir, not here. The civilian leadership has control of this insanity, not I.”

  Seward accepted the small teacup with a nod of thanks. The long gray hair of the radical Republican shook with nerves as his head bobbed to drink from the small cup. He took a sharp intake of breath before placing the cup back into the saucer as he managed to swallow the burning liquid.

  “Many apologies, sir, but since the Confederacy is being starved by your blockade our normal supply of whiskey has vanished, we are thus left with what the boys can make on the run.”

  “That is quite enough, Major Taylor. I’m sure Mr. Seward does not need to be educated on the supply and logistics problems of our new nation, especially since he probably knows our troubles even better than ourselves.”

  The major bowed and then with an apologetic nod to Seward, left the room.

  “Tempers are rather short these days and nights, Mr. Seward.”

  Secretary Seward placed the cup and saucer on the small table to his right and fixed Lee with his own look that had frightened many a senator before this insanity had begun two years before.

  “Yes, the president is also not in a jovial mood. Not only for the Union boys lost, but southern youth also. He’s sick of this war. The man has not slept a full night since Fort Sumter.”

  “As much as I would like to please Mr. Lincoln, his sleepless nights are somewhat out of my area of expertise or control, sir.”

  “General, I must say that the mission the president has seen fit to send me on goes against everything I stand for. I believe this war should be brought to its inevitable conclusion and what comes after that war should be hardship for your people to make up for the countless deaths in this war. I am not of the same mind as the president. I and many others believe the South needs to be punished.” He deflated somewhat. “But as I said, the president has chosen another path.”

  Lee stopped the slow movement of the rocker as the true feelings of the secretary of state were made crystal clear. He sat motionless waiting for the small secretary of state to get to his point.

  “However, I was not sent to conduct an investigation as to the cause and effect of the war and what will come after for your people.”

  “If the outcome of the war will be as you say, Mr. Seward, won’t they be Mr. Lincoln’s people, not mine, nor Mr. Davis’s, but his?”

  “Just semantics, General Lee—nothing but semantics. It’s obvious through the sheer force of President Lincoln’s will your people will see far more leniency than either American political parties would ever be willing to accede to on a natural basis. Too many have died.”

  “Then thank the Lord for Mr. Lincoln’s clear vision of what’s right and what’s wrong.”

  Instead of continuing the debate, Seward reached into his greatcoat and brought out a sealed envelope. As he held the letter out to Lee, the general saw the simple scrawled words on its front. It was addressed to General Lee in a flowing handwritten style that spoke of education. He accepted the letter as Seward leaned back and retrieved the teacup filled with the harsh moonshine, which in his opinion proved the southern soldier far superior in at least that area of war—drinking. Seward watched Lee turn the envelope over and examine the red wax seal securing it. The image of the American bald eagle was embedded in the wax with the nation’s motto—“E Pluribus Unum,” Latin for “Out of many, One.”

  The general looked at Seward as the old man sipped the harsh brew and continued to watch and gauge Lee’s reaction.

  “The battle we have just endured does not spell the end of this army, Mr. Seward. Before I open this letter from your president, I want that made perfectly clear. Until the leadership decides otherwise, I will continue to fight and the Army of Northern Virginia will do the same.”

  Seward placed the cup in the saucer and then fixed Lee with his dark eyes.

  “That is the president’s belief also, General, so perhaps you should read the letter first before you declare war all over again.”

  Lee’s eyes held those of the secretary of state for the longest time. He had always heard about Seward’s sharp tongue and now he realized just why Lincoln had chosen him as the secretary of state—the man was not made to end this war, he was appointed to see it through, and his harsh rhetoric would make that happen sooner than would have been possible with a more soft-spoken man. Seward was, Lee realized, here to ask something the secretary of state personally didn’t agree with, which intrigued Lee to no end. He knew Mr. Lincoln had ideas that were well in advance of the rest of the nation, so the message made him as curious as a schoolchild waiting for his marks. Lee broke the seal and slowly rocked as he read.

  The secretary of state noticed with raised brows when Lee’s chair suddenly stopped moving.

  William Seward accepted a refill of the burning liquid from Lee’s aide as the general read and then reread the letter. He examined the signature at the bottom and then gestured for the major to join him as he stood slowly and tiredly from the rocking chair and moved toward the back of the room. He folded the message so only the bottom portion showed and held it for Major Taylor’s perusal of the document.

  “Major, you more than anyone on my staff has seen captured communiqués from Washington, and you know the signatures of most who give orders in that mosquito-plagued city.”

  “Yes, sir, I believe I am comfortable with your assessment.”

  Lee gave him the note, being sure that only the signature was visible. The major examined the name—A. Lincoln. The flowing tilt lent credence to Lee’s assessment of an educated hand. Taylor looked up at his commander-in-chief and slowly nodded his head.

  “You are sure this is Mr. Lincoln’s signature? There is no doubt?”

  “General, either the president signed that or they have a forger in their government that could falsify my own signature in my presence.”

  “Thank you, Major. Would you excuse us, please?”

  Major Taylor bowed and left the room. The rain was still falling and Seward could hear it drumming off the roof of the farmhouse. General Lee slowly sank into his rocker, folded the letter, and started to place it in his tunic, but Seward quickly placed the cup and saucer down and held out his hand, which
had finally stopped shaking since the warm homemade whiskey was flowing steadily through his old and tired system.

  “Yes, I would presuppose the president would not like the contents of that letter getting out to the press, as it would surely mean the end of his political career and more than likely the beginnings of a long stay in a sanitarium.”

  Seward took the letter and without a word tossed it into the large fireplace. He watched the last of the note go up in flames and the red wax seal melt into the flaming wood. In just a few seconds the message was nothing but ashes. Seward then took the poker and smashed the ashes until there was nothing left. He leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath as he reached for the fortifying home-brewed whiskey once more. He held the cup in the air in a mock toast.

  “To the president of the United States, for as insane as he is, he has managed to surprise even myself.” Seward finished the cup as Lee watched him in silence.

  The general finally ceased rocking and looked toward the fire. In the flames he could see the burning of southern cities. He could smell the lives of many a family going up in smoke just like the firewood he was watching. After reading the letter he knew that the world had finally gone insane.

  “General Lee, would you please put pen to paper telling the president that his wild plan is not acceptable to you at any cost or in any form? That you, Robert E. Lee, agree with the many of us in his own cabinet that this … this … proposition is pure folly.” Seward closed his eyes momentarily and then they opened once again as he tried to control his passion. “Getting more boys killed for something as foolish as this makes both sides in this loathsome conflict seem desperate and insane to the rest of the world and would generate a contempt among civilized nations as to our childish ways. All to bind wounds at the end of this conflict. Believe me, General Lee, there is no salve in the world that we as a nation can apply to our wounds that will ever allow either side to forget this madness. Far too many an American boy has died to just forget.”

  Lee stood and walked to a large table where the battle maps of his campaign had been covered with a bedsheet in anticipation of Seward’s arrival. He took up a pen, dipped the tip into an ornate inkwell, and started writing. He finished by placing his own seal on the envelope and then paced back to Seward, who was now standing and donning his coat, holding his hat in his hand. General Lee handed the American secretary of state the sealed envelope with his own crest on the seal.

  “Then the world will believe both Mr. Lincoln and myself insane, Mr. Seward. Tell the president I have given him reluctant permission to use volunteers only”—he lowered his eyes—“as I figure my boys would rather go to their deaths that way than dying off in a northern prison camp.”

  Seward looked at Lee with astonishment written across his lined and tired face. “You are acquiescing to the president’s request?”

  Lee turned away from the stricken secretary of state. “I have explained my actions in my response to Mr. Lincoln.” He turned back to face Seward. “The president is right, Mr. Secretary. The nation will be devastated after this conflict has played out to its final passion play, and something will desperately be needed as a balm to every American’s soul.”

  “The president is a fool, and I expected you to tell him so in not so many written words, to deny him permission to use your men in this folly that will only see embarrassment and death to those boys.”

  Lee smiled, a sad and forlorn gesture that did not sit well with Seward, and then the general walked twenty feet and opened the door for his guest.

  “Tell me what your interpretation of insanity is, Mr. Seward. Mine is killing each other by the thousands just because we’re Americans and slaves to our outdated causes—on both sides. No, Mr. Secretary, I believe the president’s insanity and my own walk hand in hand down this mad trail to our own individual hells that await us.” He held the door for the northern secretary of state.

  Seward placed the return answer for his president in his coat and then angrily put his top hat on his head. He reached out and took the clear bottle of whiskey from the table and then turned to leave. After this meeting he wanted nothing more than to get drunk on his long ride back to Washington.

  “I beg your pardon for one moment, Mr. Secretary,” Lee said as Seward stopped at the bottom step and turned.

  Both men failed to notice Colonel Freemantle of Her Majesty’s Cold Stream Guards, there in the capacity of an observer to the American Civil War, as he watched and listened beneath the shelter of the front porch. He was beyond curious as to the politician’s business in the headquarters of the Confederacy.

  “I believe you gave me all I needed to know, General, that both sides are so maddened by bloodlust that they will send American boys off to die in a foreign land that they only read about in Sunday school.”

  Lee ignored Seward’s anger. “I am obviously curious, Mr. Secretary—what Union officer has the president chosen to lead this impossible sortie into the unknown?”

  Seward looked up at the dwindling rain and then back at Lee. “I believe he is an officer you may know very well, General.”

  Lee stepped out onto the porch and waited. Colonel Freemantle pretended as though he were wool-gathering by looking away.

  “He’s an officer that fell out of favor with General McClellan after the Peninsula campaign when this officer accused the general of cowardice. The president ordered Secretary of War Stanton to hide this man away from McClellan by sending him out west to count red savages or something to that effect.”

  “His name and rank, sir?” Lee persisted.

  “Lieutenant Colonel John Henry Thomas.” Seward turned and made his way back to the carriage.

  At that same moment Colonel Freemantle, the British observer, slipped away off the porch and into the rainy night. The colonel had his own communiqués to write to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria regarding the most unusual meeting in the annals of modern warfare. He was sure to remember the name that he overheard on this rainy night in Virginia. That would be the starting point where Her Majesty’s government would start to unravel this strange development in the American destiny.

  General Lee turned and entered the house. He walked to the rocker and then eased himself down. His aide came in and placed a blanket over his legs and then waited for the general to speak. Lee only sat and stared at the fire.

  “I wish I were going with them,” Lee mumbled under his breath.

  “Sir?” Taylor asked.

  “It is nothing, Major, just gathering wool.” Lee seemed to come awake as he forced the strange meeting from his thoughts and quickly returned them to where they desperately needed to be—the conduct of what remained of the war and how he could make the Army of Northern Virginia hang on long enough to get peace negotiations started.

  The aide was about to ask the general his meaning, but Lee stopped him with his quiet voice.

  “Send for General Longstreet. We move the army south before midnight.”

  * * *

  With the most unusual meeting of the Civil War concluded, the United States of America was about to embark on the most dangerous international excursion in its short history—the invasion of the Ottoman Empire.

  BUCKINGHAM PALACE, LONDON, ENGLAND

  JULY 30, 1863

  The dawn skies broke open with bright sunshine only a few hours after the heavy rains had washed the British capitol clean with their fury. The palace was all bustle this morning in preparation for the queen to meet with the French ambassador. All who worked within the confines of the palace knew only too well that if Victoria was anything she was a stern hater of French politics. Today she would harangue the French representative about their massive ship-building program that had begun to worry the queen’s admirals.

  The prime minister of the United Kingdom sat patiently in the long and richly appointed hallway awaiting the call that would see him into the queen’s drawing room, where she sat eating a hastily prepared breakfast. As servants hustled from one end of t
he hallway to the other he watched the faces of those who worked closely with the queen and he could tell they were all on edge. Hushed whispers that would represent shouts in other parts of the country were heard coming from the head butler to all of his minions.

  The telegram from Portsmouth had arrived at his offices at three thirty that morning and the prime minister had informed the palace that he needed an immediate audience with the queen as soon as humanly possible. He had been granted the time and now he sat waiting on Her Majesty to finish her toast and tea.

  Prime Minister Henry John Temple, the third Viscount Palmerston, or as the queen herself liked to call him, Pam, was a humorless man who found the shortcomings of others far more irritating than a man in his position was allowed to feel, or, voice.

  “Excuse me, sir, but Her Majesty will see you now,” the queen’s attendant said, clearing his throat as an interruption of the thoughts of the sour man.

  Lord Palmerston nodded once and then reached for the leather satchel at his side, which contained the information he had received from Portsmouth that morning. He stood, fussed with his coat, and then followed the assistant into the queen’s private quarters.

  The news would soon be delivered to Her Majesty that the Americans were once more raising their ugly heads.

  The queen of Great Britain and her colonies turned her head and faced the prime minister as he began the established procedure for greeting the queen. She wore an intricate woven bathrobe and her thinning hair was hidden under a white nightcap. She said nothing but swished her hand through the air toward the small table at which she sat. Palmerston finished his bow anyway and then came forward.

  Victoria an the aura about her that she was destined to be the leader of the most powerful nation on earth, and she knew it—current state of dress notwithstanding.