Davis nodded vigorously. “They will be more than welcome. Every pound of cotton and tobacco that is sold on the wharves of European ports will mean more hard cash coming into the Confederacy.”
“The Yankees have not made much of an effort to enforce the blockade since the election. With diplomatic recognition now in the bag, it would not surprise me if the European governments insist that the blockade be completely lifted. The ships will soon be sailing to and from Wilmington and Charleston without much trouble, I should think.”
“If Mr. Seymour is on his way back with McClellan’s response to our letter, I suspect that he may turn around and get an revised version,” Davis said happily. “Everything is changed by this most glorious news.”
Davis suddenly experienced an elation rarely felt during one’s life, the kind of spinning he had felt in his head and stomach when Varina had accepted his marriage proposal or when he had been chosen to represent Mississippi in the United States Senate. He couldn’t quite persuade himself that his dream was coming to pass. The Confederacy was going to be a nation, it was going to govern itself, it was going to decide its future for itself without any outsiders attempting to dictate its fate. All for which he had striven and suffered was going to come to pass.
His mind told him that the war really was over and that he needed to begin thinking about the problems that would beset the Confederacy when the last Union soldier marched off Southern soil. After all, his term as President would not end until early 1868. Having led the Confederacy through the fires of war, he would now face the even more difficult task of leading it through the early years of peace. The economy was in tatters, the transportation infrastructure had been mostly destroyed, the various factions within the Confederacy would no longer have the Union threat to serve as a unifying force, and good relations between the Union and the Confederacy had somehow to be established.
More than any other problem, however, the Confederacy would have to come to grips with slavery. Perhaps a million slaves had been set free by Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation and over a hundred thousand of them had joined the Union Army to fight for the freedom of their people. Despite the Confederacy’s victory, the European nations as well as the United States remained unalterably opposed to the institution of slavery and this would doubtless be a millstone around the neck of the Confederacy’s international relations. Deep in the recesses of his heart, he knew that the South would eventually have to rid itself of an institution that would one day be rightfully damned by history.
What the future held, Davis could not even venture to guess.
“Are you all right, my dear?” Varina asked him. “You look as though you’re disappointed in the news.” Her voice betrayed understandable confusion.
Davis smiled and laughed softly. The difficult questions could, at the very least, wait until tomorrow. “Yes, dear. I am fine. ” He turned and looked into the eyes of his beautiful wife. “Let us have another glass of champagne. I have a feeling 1865 is going to be a very good year.”
*****
January 25, Night
“Sign here, General Thomas. If you please.”
The Confederate major passed the pen across the table. Thomas noted in passing that the man’s uniform was so immaculate that it could only have been brand new. He had noticed that other Southern soldiers were also wearing much better uniforms than had been the case a few months before. Newspapers were much easier to acquire in Camp Oglethorpe these days and many of them were reporting that the Union Navy was no longer enforcing the blockade with any enthusiasm. With peace so obviously around the corner, what was the point?
He looked over the paper. “And this says?”
“That you acknowledge being properly exchanged as a prisoner-of-war.”
His eyebrows went up. “I am exchanged?”
“That’s right, General. The Yankees gave us a hundred privates for you. Better to have them in our ranks again rather than dying of starvation and disease at Point Lookout, don’t you think?”
He carefully scanned the document. “But this is an exchange, not a parole, yes?”
“Correct. When you return to Union lines, you are an officer of the United States free to again engage in combat against the Confederacy. But we really don’t think you’ll cause us any trouble. Grant and Meade haven’t troubled us since the election and the only fighting going on is some minor skirmishing out in Arkansas. Once McClellan gets in, the war will be over. That’s what all the papers say, at any rate.”
Thomas grunted and began scrawling his name across the bottom of the document. He felt that a hundred privates was far too low a rate of exchange for a general of his abilities and importance, but it would do no good to complain. It would only damage his reputation, after all.
He finished signing his name and looked up at the major. “Now what?”
“You’ll stay with us one more night here at Camp Oglethorpe. Tomorrow you’ll be taken to Macon and put on a train north to Atlanta. We have set up an exchange site with your forces at the site of the old Western and Atlantic Railroad Bridge over the Chattahoochee, right at the spot where Grant’s big ammunition train was blown up. You’ve heard about that, yes?”
“Yes,” Thomas said sourly.
“The one hundred privates will cross over to the south bank and you’ll be escorted over to the north bank. Pretty routine, General.”
Thomas nodded. Prisoner exchanges were a fairly simple matter, after all.
The thoughts running through his head, however, were anything but simple. As he was escorted from the office back to his tiny cabin, his head was swirling with conflicting emotions. It was now more than six months since he had suffered the catastrophic defeat at Peachtree Creek. Since coming to Camp Oglethorpe, he had faced both the enticing possibility of escape and the dreaded prospect of the hangman’s noose.
Returning to his cabin, he fell onto his pathetically inadequate cot, which nearly buckled under his weight. Tonight would be the last night he would ever sleep on it. He told himself that, no matter what life had in store for him from this day forward, he would never sleep on anything so uncomfortable again.
He could comfort himself with the knowledge that he had aided the escape of Truman Seymour and perhaps two dozen other Union officers back in September. Over a hundred men had successfully scampered through the tunnel to freedom. Though most had been recaptured in the following days by roving bands of Georgia Militia and returned to the camp, nearly thirty remained unaccounted for. The first thing Thomas intended to do when he reached the Union lines was to inquire as to the whereabouts of the men who had broken out. Thomas hoped that at least some of them had made it back to the Union lines. As Grant’s offensive against Atlanta was in full swing when the escape attempt had been made, it stood to reason that the rebels had other things on their minds than trying to find a few unarmed escaped prisoners.
Thomas wondered what sort of reception he would receive from General Grant and the others. He didn’t expect it to be pleasant. Outwardly, all would no doubt be politeness and relief at his release from prison. Behind his back, Thomas knew, his detractors would do their best to discredit him and lay the blame for the failure of the Union cause squarely on his shoulders. Grant, Sherman, and all their friends from the Army of the Tennessee, to say nothing of Meade and the generals of the Army of the Potomac, would say that everything would have turned out well if only George Thomas had not lost the Battle of Peachtree Creek. The newspapers, always eager for a scapegoat and remembering Thomas’s Southern origins, would quickly leap onto the bandwagon.
His name was already reviled in the South. Now, Thomas supposed, it would be the North’s turn.
The war over rapidly coming to a close. Whatever name it would eventually be given, the conflict would be written about in the history books long after everyone involved in it passed from the scene. What would they say about George Thomas? Would they remember his victory at Mill Springs? Would they remember how he secured the
victory at Stone’s River or prevented complete catastrophe at Chickamauga? Probably not. They would remember only his disastrous failure at Peachtree Creek.
But, Thomas thought hopefully, perhaps the story was not yet over. Even if his reputation was blackened, he would still be a major general in the United States Army. The independence of the Confederacy would require that a large army be maintained and he would likely have some role to play in organizing it. There were too many issues remaining between the North and the South to allow peace to settle easily over the land. If war ever did break out again, George Thomas fully intended to play his part in it.
With that pleasant thought, he drifted off to sleep.
****
February 10, Morning
Cleburne looked at himself in the mirror, pursing his lips and shaking his head in disappointment. He had gone to considerable trouble to turn himself out as best he could, for obviously he should look his best on his own wedding day. The best tailor in Mobile had been paid a pretty penny to provide him with the finest Confederate dress uniform, using gray cloth of the highest quality that had just come in from England. The gold lace was perfectly embroidered and the laborious ironing had insured that not a single wrinkle was visible. At his side hung a ceremonial sword that had been presented to him by the men of the 15th Arkansas Infantry, the regiment he had commanded at the very beginning of the war.
Yet Cleburne was unsatisfied. The uniform and sword might be perfect, but the face looking back at him from the mirror was far from it. He had never thought of himself as handsome, though he had been told that most ladies considered him rather attractive. He had always been a shy man around people he did not already know well.
Susan’s father had offered to assign one of his slaves to serve as Cleburne’s valet the previous day, but he had decided that he needed to dress himself for his own wedding. Mr. Tarleton had taken his decline with a raised eyebrow. In retrospect, Cleburne realized that it had been a minor test to search out the truth of his alleged emancipationist sentiments. The man was probably happy that his daughter would be marrying the savior of Atlanta, but the publication of his proposal to enlist freed slaves in the army was certainly not being taken kindly in the upper echelons of Confederate society. Cleburne was not expecting many dinner invitations.
There was a quick knock on the door and, before he said a word, it opened. Hardee entered, a broad smile on his face. Every other step thumped on the floor, as his amputated left leg had been replaced by a cork peg. Like most high quality products, it had been imported from England. Hardee was already dressed in his own fine uniform and seemed as happy as a West Point cadet about to go to a rollicking party.
“Well, Pat?” Hardee was saying with boyish enthusiasm. “Doesn’t a peg leg make my dress uniform all the grander?”
Cleburne laughed. “Your ability to flirt with the ladies has increased now that you’re a warrior gallantly wounded in battle. Your wife has reason for concern.”
“I trust you will restrain me from engaging in any untoward adventures,” Hardee replied.
He smiled, attempting to fix his collar so that it appeared perfect. In truth, despite his teasing nature where females were concerned, Hardee could no more be unfaithful to his wife than he could be unfaithful to the Confederacy.
Glancing at the peg leg, Cleburne again gave a silent thanks to God that his friend’s life had been spared. For nearly a week after the amputation, fever had seemed likely to carry away William Hardee. His strength and endurance had passed the ultimate test, however, and he now seemed healthier than ever. Whereas many men grew depressed and despondent at the loss of a limb, Hardee actually delighted in showing off his new appendage. The man’s good humor was simply irrepressible.
“You look passably handsome, my friend,” Hardee said. “At least, I do not think you shall make a fool of yourself today.”
“I thank you for your vote of confidence.”
“All eyes will be on your beautiful bride in any event. The guests will scarcely notice you are there.”
“How I wish that were true. But their eyes will be on me, you know. People will be whispering how foolish Mr. Tarleton’s daughter is to marry the idiot who wanted to free the slaves.”
“Nonsense,” Hardee said forcefully. “Let the Senate prattle on for as long as they wish. The people know you as the hero who saved Atlanta. No one can ever take that away from you.”
Cleburne shook his head. Although his promotion to lieutenant general had been endorsed by both Joe Johnston and Robert E. Lee, the two great heroes of the hour, his confirmation had been filibustered to death in the Senate. A separate measure to give Cleburne the official Thanks of Congress for his defense of Atlanta had also failed. While a few of the newspapers were lionizing Cleburne for what he had achieved in September, most of them were downplaying his role, giving the bulk of the credit to General Johnston instead.
Hardee was still talking. “Besides which, what do you care about what the people are saying? Today is about nothing except you and your bride. And Susan’s love for you knows no bounds. Don’t think for a moment that she was not besieged by an army of angry friends when your proposal became public, all of them telling her she should break off her engagement. She has stood by you through the storm. Her parents, too. Focus on that. Today is the happiest day of your life, after all.”
Cleburne smiled and nodded. It was, indeed, the happiest day of his life. Within the next hour, Susan Tarleton would be his wife. Against the fact that she loved him, all the words and denunciations of the Confederate Senate did not matter in the slightest. Moreover, the fact that William Hardee would be standing beside him as best man and Calhoun Benham would also be among the groomsmen meant more to him than any number of newspaper editorials.
There was a soft knock on the door and a well-dressed slave entered.
“Begging your pardon, General Cleburne,” the man said, using the refined accent that house slaves of wealthy families often possessed. “Mr. Tarleton wishes to know whether you are ready.”
Hardee answered for him. “Tell Mr. Tarleton that General Cleburne will be along just as soon as he finishes fiddling with his collar.”
“No, don’t tell him that!” Cleburne said quickly, forestalling the slave’s departure. “Just tell him we’ll be along presently.”
“Very good, sir.” The black man bowed his head and was gone.
“Think he would have made a good soldier?” Hardee asked with a sarcastic grin.
“Give a man a uniform, rifle, a bit of discipline, and a sense of unit pride, and he will be as good a soldier as any who marched with Napoleon.”
Hardee shook his head. “You’re the bravest man I have ever met, Patrick Cleburne. But not having been born in this country, you still have much to learn about how to be a Southerner.”
“Oh?” Cleburne asked, mildly annoyed. “Such as?”
“Learning not to say what you honestly think.”
Cleburne, having gotten his collar in as good a shape as possible, turned toward the door, electing not to respond to Hardee’s last comment. “Do I look all right?” he asked.
Hardee smiled warmly. “You look like a happy man about to be married to a beautiful woman.”
“Let’s get on with it, then.”
*****
March 3, Morning
“Is that everything?” Lincoln asked.
“Just about, sir,” Hay replied. He and Nicolay picked up a heavy box at both ends, carefully stepping out of the office in order to load it onto one of the wagons waiting outside. He had asked his secretaries to personally load the boxes rather than rely on servants, as he worried that copies of sensitive papers might go missing and find themselves in the possession of unscrupulous newspaper editors.
The President, momentarily alone, looked about the office resignedly. The floor was covered with boxes and crates stuffed with papers of every kind. Since the election results nearly four months earlier had turned him into a lame d
uck, he had put his three secretaries to work diligently making copies of all the official correspondence that had been generated by his administration so that he could take it back with him to Springfield. This had been intended to simply give them something to do as much as anything else, but the thought had taken root in Lincoln’s mind that he might write a book about his time in the White House. If he did so, having easy access to the material would prove invaluable.
The last few months had passed by in a daze. After the election, the winter had closed in and prevented any significant military operations. Rather than waste the lives of men for no purpose, Lincoln had given Grant, Meade, and the other army commanders the authority to enter into ceasefire agreements with the enemy commanders opposing them. Lincoln recalled how his hand had trembled when he had given the message to Major Eckert to transmit to the generals in the field. He would always remember the moment as one of the darkest of his life.
Mary Todd Lincoln had already left Washington, having taken a train to Springfield a week earlier. She had somehow convinced herself that Lincoln had, in fact, been reelected by a wide margin and would continue to serve as President of the United States. It had only been with great difficulty that Lincoln had prevented her from sending out invitations to a victory dinner celebrating his imagined reelection. After that, she had shut herself in one of the White House rooms for nearly two days, crying hysterically. With her mental state clearly unbalanced, Lincoln had persuaded two of her friends to escort her back to Springfield, along with their son Tad. As she was boarding the train, she had reportedly been frantically shouting something about how clothing stores in New York City had robbed her of all her money.
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