Ashton's Bride

by Judith O'Brien

  As Margaret flew in Ashton's arms, wide circles following his skillful lead, she finally understood why such dancing would withstand over a hundred years of incompetent, bifocaled instructors and endless vats of lukewarm punch. With the right partner, the experience was absolutely sublime, the feeling of his hands on her skin, even through layers of filmy fabric, was intoxicating.

  Others in the room watched the couple; the women, many of whom had been Ashton's partners in the past, heaved discreet sighs at the expression on his face. He stared at his bride with undiluted ardor, smiling his lightning-fast smile at something she said, bending his head close to utter words into her ear. He had always been a figure of dash and excitement, even his tenure as a college professor had not dimmed the electric aura he projected as a young West Point cadet.

  But now, with his fame growing with every audacious exploit, his stature had been inflated to almost legendary proportions. The South needed Ashton Johnson almost as much as it needed Robert E. Lee, for after the death of Stonewall Jackson, a universal despondency seemed to settle over the Confederacy like an unwelcome mist. Lee was revered, but as a distant marble figure. They craved a flesh-and-blood hero, with daring and humor and even a touch of sexual charm. Ashton was the man, and stories of him were told and retold as eagerly as outrageous tales of Confederate victories.

  The one disconcerting aspect of General Johnson's character that had truly alarmed most southern men, and even most women, was his inability to resolve his courtship with Mag. She seemed to dominate him, played him the fool on countless occasions, a situation that would be considered amusing with almost any other man, but a glaring weak spot in a mighty general.

  Everyone on the dance floor was startled at the change in Mag, delighted that Ashton Johnson may have tamed the wild-eyed beauty.

  "I still think she's a spy," muttered a black-swathed dowager from behind a pair of silver-framed spectacles.

  "Mother," said her daughter, a spinster of thirty-five who had once danced with Ashton at a bail in Washington City, "I refuse to believe that the general would ever marry someone who could be so dangerous to the cause."

  "Well, I understand she all but admitted to being a spy right in front of the Spotswood this very afternoon. The general punched her in the nose, and that was the end of that. But mark my words, she will be found a spy, and I hope she'll hang for it."

  "Mother!"

  "Oh, Lavinia," sighed the mother. "Why couldn't you have married him?"

  Jefferson Davis also watched the couple swirl on the polished floor. His wife returned from their private quarters upstairs and tucked her arm in his.

  "The children are finally asleep," she murmured, and then she, too, focused on the stunning couple, "My, but they are graceful together, the general and his bride."

  Her husband said nothing but continued to watch the pair as Ashton laughed, whispered something to Mrs. Johnson, and she, too, laughed.

  "I understand she has become something of a marvel in the hospital," continued Varina Davis, accustomed to her husband's more disagreeable habit of silence. "Why, Mary B, Cox herself vouches for her skill and devotion in the wards. Jeff, will General Johnson be staying here all winter?"

  "That's the plan," he said distractedly.

  "Perhaps I'll have Mrs. Johnson over to tea along with Mrs. Chesnut."

  He gave no indication of hearing his wife. "Varina, do you believe she's a spy?"

  The First Lady of the Confederacy considered the question for a moment, watching as Margaret reached up and brushed an invisible speck from her husband's expansive shoulder. A slight smile played on her lips as Ashton gazed at her, a wordless understanding passing between the two.

  "No, Jeff. I do not believe any woman who looks at her husband with such an expression of love could be capable of causing him harm."

  Her husband said nothing, and staring straight ahead, he missed the expression of infinite love that crossed over his own wife's generous features.

  He had just made a decision. For the sake of the Confederacy, as well as for the sake of his favorite general besides Lee, he would post a discreet guard to make sure Mrs. Johnson didn't pass any information to any suspicious characters. With that decision complete, he turned to his wife.

  "Dear, would you like to . . ."

  Before he could finish his question, Varina gave a slight incline of her head, smiled, and began gliding to the dance floor. "Why, Mr. President, I thought you would never ask."

  Margaret awoke in the middle of the night, gasping for air, her heart slamming against her ribs. After delightfully langorous lovemaking, she had fallen asleep in the heavy comfort of Ashton's arms, unable to determine what it was in the back of her mind that kept on bothering her.

  The ball had been a tremendous thrill, the heady feeling of dancing with her husband, of actually meeting Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee and General Longstreet. It was like having a Confederate wax museum come to life.

  She had been surprised at Jefferson Davis. At first he had been exactly what she expected, taciturn and blandly rigid. But when they were finally introduced, he was friendly, even displaying flashes of wit and a smile that transformed his stiffly composed visage into a delightfully accessible and pleasant face. Ash-ton had explained the transformation when they again approached the dance floor.

  "He is distant, even threatened by those he considers his equal, namely wealthy white males." Ashton held his wife closer than the other dancers. "But he's always magnanimous with women and dogs and children and slaves."

  Margaret was shocked. "Is he? How very kind of him." She was unable to keep the acid from her voice. "So I am an underling?"

  Ashton simply admired the sudden spark in her eyes.

  "Then why is he so standoffish with his wife?" she asked.

  "Ah, Varina." Ashton grinned. "She is in a different class, you see. He's scared to death of his wife, even though she is a woman. He actually left her once, but he came trotting back as soon as he could. She acts the part of the dutiful wife in public, but in private I believe he is the dutiful husband."

  Margaret was thoughtful for a moment, then arched her eyebrows. "Remind me to ask Varina Davis how she does it."

  The entire room paused when Ashton's explosive laugh rose above the music, and everyone smiled at his obvious happiness.

  But even then, Margaret had felt slightly off" balance, a little out of kilter.

  Calming herself, she looked down at Ashton, his face gently illuminated by the moonlight streaming in the window. His chest rose and fell slowly in deep slumber, and she wondered if he was able to sleep this soundly during campaigns. Gently, careful not to wake him, she removed his arm from around her waist and slid out of bed.

  The Battle of Lookout Mountain in Chattanooga would soon begin. Then it hit her: She could not remember the exact dates.

  "My God," she whispered, her mind tumbling from shock. This would be the real beginning of Grant's ascent, plant the foundation for Sherman's march through Georgia and, ultimately, the end of the war. But it all seemed hazy to her, the dates uncertain, the events cloudy, as if she had imagined the whole conclusion of the war.

  Yet the past was as vivid as it had always been. Even without Ashton as a reminder, she knew that Gettysburg had taken place on the first three days of July, several months earlier, and Lincoln delivered the address a few weeks ago to commemorate the opening of a Union cemetery there. Every date from Fort Sumter to the present autumn were etched completely and unshakably in her consciousness. But what next?

  Leaning over a small writing desk, her arms braced on the back of a chair, she closed her eyes. The future was uncertain because of her.

  Every event from now on had a potentially different ending.

  She softly opened a drawer and removed a thick piece of paper and a pen, uncorking a bottle of ink. Sliding into the chair, she began writing furiously before she even sat down.

  The pen scratched as she wrote, and she spilled out every
fact she could recall as quickly as she possibly could. She needed to get the facts committed to paper before she forgot every bit of information she possessed, before she became as helpless as any other woman in the Confederacy.

  The paper filled up with remarkable speed.

  "Sherman's March, November 1864, Battle of Atlanta, summer-early fall, 1864. Sherman wages war on civilians to end war. Appomattox Court House, Lee surrenders to Grant, April 1865. Lincoln reelected in 1864, then assassinated by Booth in April 1865. ASHTON KILLED ON LICK SKILLET ROAD on July 28th, 1864."

  She tapped the pen and wrote some other dates, other events, finally concluding. "World War I—U.S. enters 1916, Allies win 1918. Treaty of Versailles, 1919. Stock market crash, worldwide depression, 1929. Hitler. World War II—1941-45, Korea—???, Vietnam—???, Kennedy assassinated—1966? Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, the Beatles, Woody and Mia, TV and Sam Malone on "Cheers," civil rights, Martin Luther King. Who are Bill and Hillary Clinton? Madonna? Robert De Niro? Bart Simpson?"

  Her hand was trembling. She dipped the pen into the ink to write more, and the nib snapped. The farther into the future she reached, the less she remembered. Her own life was still clear, learning to drive a car, taking SAT exams, her family's death, her first week of classes at Columbia . . . right until her brief days at Magnolia. But events on a grander scheme eluded her.

  She folded the paper, heedless that some of the ink was still damp, and shoved it back into the drawer. Perhaps in the morning she would remember more. Maybe then her mind would clear and relax, and the information would come rushing back to her.

  For a while she sat at the desk, staring but not seeing out of the window.

  Ashton watched his wife, the frantic writing done now, the paper hastily pushed into the drawer. Even when she returned to the bed, her soft arm closing around him, he was unable to find sleep. He knew with absolute certainty that he would not be able to sleep at all until he read what was written on that paper.

  In the brightness of day, the Executive Mansion, formerly owned by the Brockenbrough family, seemed less magical than when illuminated for a ball. Its harsh lines seemed stark and cold, just another house on the corner of Twelfth and Clay.

  Ashton paused for a moment as he passed. He hadn't meant to walk this way—he simply needed to clear his mind before facing the leaders of the Confederacy. A sleepy-looking guard was posted, the only indication that someone of importance was in residence. Upstairs he heard the voices of the Davis children, shrieks of delight, a call of "You're it!" as they engaged in a game of tag.

  In his pocket was his own speedily drawn copy of the notes Margaret had made in the middle of the night. Just after daybreak she had donned the green apron and set off for the hospital, giving him ample opportunity to examine the paper.

  The words were clear, their meaning, however, uncertain. The one lucid point, other than the approximate dates of recent battles, had jumped out at him. In bold letters, his wife had written: "ASHTON KILLED ON LICK SKILLET ROAD, July 28th, 1864."

  Had that been a prediction, or was she informed by some enemy source that that was the plan?

  He immediately dismissed the notion that this was some sort of scheme. Nobody, not even Lincoln himself, could point a finger and say with any certainty where a person would be on a day over six months in the future. The war was taking twists and turns that could not be anticipated even a week before. It might be waged in northern soil by then, or in the westernmost territory of Tennessee or the eastern coast of Virginia. If England joined the war on the side of the Confederacy, the fighting could be in New York City—even St. Louis.

  The words were probably the result of a dream. Or perhaps she felt some sort of psychic vision, the kind Queen Victoria had made popular ever since the death of her husband Albert two years earlier. Communication with the departed was all the rage, and since most of Margaret's family was now dead, she would certainly have more than her fair share of sources "on the other side,"

  Yet he was still bothered by the inked words. How could she know about those events? And the broken phrases that seemed to indicate a southern surrender were completely baffling. Of course the war was not going well for the Confederacy, but history was filled with instances of victory pulled from the jaws of defeat.

  Then the note deteriorated into a jumble of strange babble, meaningless strings of words such as World War I and TV. He wasn't sure whether or not these were the product of some sort of hallucination. He immediately thought of the small amount of laudanum he had given her at Rebel's Retreat, but shrugged off that notion. The few drops had not been significant, and she had been acting strangely before that.

  Next he wondered if she had perhaps been sneaking some sort of mind-altering elixir from the hospital. He instantly became ashamed at the very thought— his wife had bitterly complained of the fact that there was nothing in the hospital to dull the pain of the wounded men, nothing to lessen their agony. His spy had even told him that she was gently reprimanded by Dr. Parish for trying to locate his brandy stash to give to a wounded Yankee. The doctor said he appreciated her effort and understood her desire to help the men, but the ones who would survive would do so without his brandy, and they all needed the doctor. Without the liquor to brace him, he would be unable to treat the patients.

  What he needed was time alone with Margaret, a real honeymoon, days to spend getting to know each other. In truth, he knew very little of his wife. The war was playing havoc with romance, shattering whatever security a newly married couple might attempt to create.

  Ashton straightened his shoulders and headed toward the old U.S. Customs House on Main Street between Tenth and Eleventh. His mind flashed to the meeting he would soon be attending in the second-floor office the president shared with the Confederate State Department. The reason for the conference was to discuss the Union's U.S. Grant, a general they had been hoping would remain in obscurity.

  An arm grabbed Ashton, and he turned to see the bearded face of General Longstreet, "Pete" to his friends.

  "Morning, Ash," said the older man with a swift nod. His worn uniform had a fresh stain on the lapel, and Ashton shook his hand.

  "Morning, Pete. You going to the meeting?"

  "Yep." Together they marched to the Customs House, Longstreet, never much of a talker, typically silent.

  "You know him, don't you?" Ashton asked. He didn't have to explain that he was speaking of General Grant.

  Longstreet nodded, a faint smile coming to his face at the memory of his old friend. "I was the best man at Sam's wedding," he said at last, referring to Grant by his nickname.

  "Do you think he's going to be a problem?"

  Ashton's question was, by now, purely rhetorical. Everyone in the Confederate Army knew damn well that U.S. Grant posed a serious threat.

  Longstreet didn't answer. Instead, he looked Ashton directly in the eye. "Do you know what? When Sam first came to West Point, he was mortified by the fancy luggage his father had given him. His initials were embossed in gold, and not many people know this, but his real name is Hiram Ulysses Grant. So here he was, entering the military academy, with a big trunk with the word HUG emblazoned across the top."

  Ashton gave an exaggerated cringe, knowing full well how mercilessly any incoming cadet would be taunted with such a trunk. "What did he do?"

  Now Longstreet chuckled once, a rare sound, especially since his three children had perished in a fever epidemic the previous spring. "Well, first he made the leather store switch the first two letters, so that it read UHG. And then the registrar at the Point was kind enough to jumble the name further, making him Ulysses Sampson Grant. To me, he's been Sam ever since."

  The guard at the Customs House snapped to attention and opened the door for the two generals. Just before they entered the president's office on the second floor, Longstreet turned to Ashton.

  "You can bet on it. Old Sam is going to give us a hell of a lot of trouble."

  Margaret was surprised at how mu
ch easier it was to treat the patients when she knew she would be seeing Ashton in a few hours. Every job, from the tedious duty of foraging for food to writing dictated letters home for the patients, even changing the gruesome bandages was more pleasant for Margaret.

  The soldiers noticed her quiet happiness and gently teased her. Behind her back they all whispered about the gallant General Johnson and how very fortunate he was to have married Margaret. Any mention of her earlier reputation, of being a spy or even her formerly flirtatious air, was swiftly hushed. They appreciated her for her warmth and humor and dedication, ignoring the unjust gossip from the previous year.