In a certain sense, Lincoln was glad of being freed from the burdens of power. He would now be able to focus his attention on giving his wife the help she obviously needed. He would have to steel himself to endure his wife’s insanity the same way he had steeled himself against news of Union defeats like Chancellorsville or Peachtree Creek, but at least the burden would not involve the deaths of thousands of men.
Seward and Stanton entered the room, looking around curiously.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Stanton offered.
“Is it?” Lincoln replied. “It is the morning of my last full day in office. I’m not sure if that makes it a good day, but I suppose it will be better than tomorrow morning is likely to be.”
“That’s the truth,” Seward said sourly. “It is revolting to think that, a mere twenty-four hours from now, that pompous blowhard will be sworn in as President.”
Stanton glanced out the window at the gathering gray clouds. “Perhaps there will be a torrential downpour,” he said hopefully. “At the very least, the Almighty might express His displeasure by forcing the Copperhead bastards to move the inaugural ceremony indoors.”
Lincoln chuckled. “We shall see.”
Seward’s face curled into anger and he shook his head. “The office of the Presidency has been held by George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and Andrew Jackson. Now George McClellan is expected to take their place? He would not be fit to shine the shoes of any of those men!”
Lincoln shrugged. “The office has also been held by such men as James Buchanan and Millard Fillmore. Noble men as well as rascals have governed and will govern from within the walls of this house. Democracy, after all, is the manifestation of the will of the people. We cannot always count on the people to make wise decisions, but we must always respect their will whether we agree with it or not.”
Stanton only grunted in response. He had never been as infatuated with democracy as Lincoln and Seward, which Lincoln had always found somewhat amusing.
“What will you do now?” Seward asked.
“Go back to Springfield and resume my law practice, I suppose. I asked my old partner, William Herndon, to keep my name on the sign hanging outside our office while I was away in Washington. I’m still a small-town country lawyer at heart. I may travel to Europe at some point, to see all those places I have only read about in books.”
“I may attempt to return to the Senate or the Governorship of New York at some point,” Seward said. “But first I shall return to Auburn and rest. It should not be difficult for us to find our way home, as the route will be lighted for us every step of the way by our own burning effigies.”
Lincoln was pleased to discover that he could laugh at such a morbid joke. Since the election results had come in, he and the members of his cabinet had been violently excoriated by just about every newspaper in the country. He had long been used to such treatment from Democratic newspapers, but now every Republican paper had joined in denouncing him as well. In particular, the abolitionist periodicals in New England had been filled with near-hysterical rage toward him, accusing him of everything from exercising gross incompetence to willfully sabotaging efforts to abolish slavery.
It would be this way for some time, Lincoln knew. Having failed to win the war and having seen hundreds of thousands of their sons, husbands, and brothers lose their lives in the process, the people of the North would need a scapegoat. The President was the logical choice.
Who was to say that the people were wrong in assigning blame to him? Lincoln had wracked his mind time and again wondering what he might have done differently. Had he been wrong to make Grant commander-in-chief? Had it been wrong to issue the Emancipation Proclamation, or had it been too early or too late? There were a thousand things he might have done differently and Lincoln knew he would spend the rest of his life, however long it would be, asking whether he had truly done his best.
He wondered whether it would be worse to conclude that he had done his best and it had not been enough or to conclude that he had failed because of his own shortcomings. In the former case, he had suffered through the nightmare of the last four years for no purpose, whereas in the latter he would forever blame himself for the fact that the country had been torn apart and millions of human beings remained enslaved. It would be another question he would spend the rest of his life trying to answer.
“And you, Mr. Stanton?” Seward was asking. “What are your plans?”
“I plan on running for Congress at the first opportunity so that I can oppose McClellan in every way I can. And I don’t care whether it’s the House or Senate.”
A broad smile swept across Lincoln’s face. “You will be here in Washington to oppose McClellan, Mr. Stanton. But you will not do so as a congressman.”
Stanton’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“As you know, I remain the President until the moment George McClellan is sworn in tomorrow. The Senate will not change until tomorrow, either.”
“I know that,” Stanton said irritably.
“Having consulted our friends in the upper chamber for the past few weeks, yesterday I sent your name to the Senate as my nominee to be the next Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. I suppose it is the last official act of my administration and, if I am not mistaken, the Senate is confirming the nomination even as we speak.”
Stanton’s eyes widened in shock. Seward, who had been fully informed from the beginning, smiled and extended his hand.
“Congratulations, Mr. Chief Justice.”
Stanton was dumbstruck but instinctively shook Seward’s proffered hand. “Chief Justice of the Supreme Court?”
“That’s correct, my friend. You are the best man possible for the job. McClellan and his Copperhead allies are likely to spend much of the next four years cozying up to the slaveocrats in the Confederacy and undoing whatever good we managed to do in the North over the past four years. He’s a silly and foolish man desperate to gratify his own vanity and those who will be his chief advisors in office are self-interested villains. Having a man in charge of the Supreme Court certain to oppose them with every sinew of his strength will allow me to leave the White House slightly reassured.”
Stanton nodded, recovering his senses. “I shall do absolutely everything I can in service of the United States,” he said with determination.
“I know you will. You shall be the rock on the beach of our national ocean against which the breakers shall dash and roar.”
The new Chief Justice nodded sharply once again. Lincoln knew Stanton well and could sense the weight of responsibility he felt coming upon him. Most men would have flinched from it, but it only seemed to give Stanton more strength.
“It is our final night in office,” Seward said. “Would you two gentlemen do me the honor of dining at my house this evening?”
“I should be very glad to do so,” Lincoln replied.
Stanton shook his head. “Thank you, Mr. Seward, but I must decline. If I am to begin my tenure at the Supreme Court properly, I must get to work at once. I bid you gentlemen a good afternoon.”
Stanton scurried out the door just as Hay and Nicolay walked in to get another box.
Lincoln turned to Seward. “I shall see you tonight, my friend.”
“I look forward to it.” The Secretary of State nodded and left the room.
The two secretaries lifted the box and walked out the door, leaving Lincoln alone once again. He sat down at the desk, thumping its surface with his fingers and wondering what the future held.
*****
May 16, Afternoon
The city of Atlanta was recovering quickly, Johnston was pleased to see. The debris had been cleared from the streets by working gangs of slaves, some of whom had unfortunately been killed after accidentally disturbing unexploded shells. The buildings most heavily damaged by the Union bombardment had been torn down, while those which were only moderately damaged were already mostly repaired. Many of the brick buildin
gs in the downtown area had solid shot or bits of shrapnel lodged in their structures, with some owners having decided to simply leave them there as a reminder of what had happened.
There had been a good deal of suffering on the part of Atlanta’s civilian population in the weeks and months after the departure of Union forces. Many civilian homes had been destroyed or rendered unlivable and for a time many people lived in tents provided by the Army of Tennessee. A relief effort by the city’s churches, organized primarily by Father Thomas O’Reilly of the Catholic Church of the Immaculate Conception, had distributed needed supplies. Eventually, the railroad to Augusta had been repaired and a supply of food and other necessities became available.
According to what Cleburne and others had told him, the streets of the city had been all but deserted during the bombardment as the people huddled fearfully in their homes. However, on this bright spring day, it seemed that all of Atlanta was out and about, trying to find a good place on the parade route to see the men march past. For today was the day that the Army of Tennessee was holding its long-awaited grand review in the city where it had won its greatest victory.
Johnston sat in the center of a large review stand that had been erected on Mitchell Street by the Atlanta City Hall. His wife Lydia was with him. Various dignitaries were present, including Mayor Calhoun, Vice President Stephens, Governor Brown, and others. Various wealthy citizens of Atlanta had also managed to secure seats on the review stand. The corps and division commanders of the Army of Tennessee would be riding at the heads of their units.
He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. The review was supposed to have already begun, but he saw no sign of his troops.
“Something troubling you, General?” asked Vice President Stephens, who was sitting to his left.
“The men should have begun the march by now,” Johnston said.
Stephens laughed softly. “Delays in such things are ordinary, my friend. Don’t worry.”
Johnston nodded, but was surprised to realize that he was almost as nervous as he had been on the eve of the attack at Peachtree Creek. It was very important to him that the review come off without a hitch, as it was quite possibly going to be the final act of his beloved Army of Tennessee.
Stephens leaned closer. “May I tell you something in confidence, General?”
“Of course.”
“I received a telegram from President Davis yesterday. He has asked me to serve as a member of the delegation that will discuss a peace treaty with representatives of the United States. I leave for Richmond tomorrow.”
“Really?” Johnston said. “McClellan has agreed to direct negotiations?”
“Apparently so. General Breckinridge and I are to lead the Confederate delegation. From the wire Davis sent me, Governor Seymour of New York is to lead the Union delegation. The negotiations are intended to conclude in an official treaty of peace between our two nations.”
“I can think of no man better than you to lead our delegation, Mr. Vice President,” Johnston said. In truth Johnston did not know the Vice President particularly well. He wondered why Stephens was confiding in him in the first place.
“Thank you. It will be a mammoth task, of course. The Yankees will demand concessions in exchange for their withdrawals from Tennessee and other areas they still control. They will also probably insist that the Confederacy assume a portion of the pre-war national debt of the United States. It will be very difficult to get a treaty to which both sides can agree, but we must do it. We must start our new relationship with the North on good ground.”
“What about the slaves?” Johnston asked.
Stephens responded immediately, without having to think. “Asking for the return of the slaves the Union armies have set at liberty will be futile. I still must do it, of course. Too many of our own politicians will demand it. But the Yankees will never agree to it. I doubt we shall even obtain financial compensation for our lost slave property.”
“If the United States is now a foreign country, it seems to me that more of our slaves will attempt to escape into the North than was the case before the war.” Since the cease-fire, large numbers of slaves had been frantically trying to escape into the Union lines before the Yankees withdrew. Under orders from Richmond, Johnston had organized patrols of the back roads of Georgia and parts of Alabama to try to stem this tide, a duty he found profoundly distasteful and which the men themselves found boring.
Stephens nodded. “Indeed. There will be no Fugitive Slave Law now. The implications of this are obvious.”
Johnston was about to ask Stephens what he meant when there was a sudden increase in noise from the crowd, many of whom were gesturing to the east. Johnston looked down the road and saw the first regiment of the Army of Tennessee approaching. The people on the review stand rose to their feet.
Only two corps of the Army of Tennessee, those of Hardee and Cheatham, were actually participating in the grand review. Stewart’s corps was encamped in and around the town of Dalton in north Georgia, keeping a wary eye on the Union forces at Chattanooga, to which they had withdrawn following the official announcement of the ceasefire. This decision was hard on Stewart’s men, who deserved the honor as much as the rest of the army, but there had been no way to avoid it.
General Hardee, sporting a fine cork peg where his left leg had once been, rode a beautiful black charger at the head of his troops. His beard was neatly trimmed, his gray dress uniform was immaculate and he wore an elegant cream colored sash across his chest. As he passed by, men doffed their hats and several of the ladies threw flowers in his path. Johnston was amused to see a grin form on his corps commander’s face. Much as he might try to maintain a stoic expression, his vanity would always be touched when bombarded with female attention.
The troops followed their general. The first unit was Maney’s division of Tennessee troops, who had fought so splendidly in so many battles. Then came Bate’s division of Kentucky, Tennessee, and Florida boys, now led by General Finley since Bate’s untimely death during the Battle of East Point. After him came Walker’s division of Georgia, South Carolina, and Mississippi troops.
General Walker rode somewhat sullenly, still smarting from his arrest by Cleburne during the fighting around Atlanta. His court martial had been delayed by the War Department in Richmond, and Johnston suspected that the charges would be quietly dropped in the near future. President Davis and Secretary Seddon had decided it would be best if the matter simply went away. For once, Johnston agreed with them.
All along the route, the people cheered wildly. The younger men and women, along with the children, continually jumped up and down as if they were bobbing in the ocean surf. Older men waved their hats above their heads as they cheered. From the rooftops of the nearby buildings came colorful streamers. The roar and applause of the crowd mixed with the tramping of thousands of marching feet and the shouted orders of the officers. The men paraded with a perfect order that Johnston had seldom seen during the Atlanta Campaign itself. But then, the Army of Tennessee was out to impress on this particular day.
As he watched the men march past, Johnston was saddened. A standard division in the Confederate Army was supposed to number between four thousand and five thousand men. But the divisions he saw marching past were scarcely the size of brigades, perhaps only a quarter of the size they were supposed to have been. So many good men now lay in shallow graves across northern Georgia.
The South might have won its independence, but it had only done so at a terrible cost.
Now came Cleburne’s division, with its commander riding at its head. As the troops from Texas, Arkansas, Alabama and Mississippi approached, Johnston noticed a strange phenomenon. The women and children continued to cheer as loudly as before, if not louder. However, a large number of the men placed their hats back on their heads and stood silently as Cleburne rode past. In the review stand itself, most of the dignitaries remained impassive, looking down at the fighting Irishman with obvious disapproval. T
he single exception was Mayor Calhoun, who saw what was happening and boldly stood from his chair to applaud Cleburne as he walked past. Johnston himself had the luxury of giving his fellow officer a salute, thereby showing neither public approval or disapproval.
“Poor fool,” Stephens said, shaking his head. “Were it not for his emancipation proposal, that fellow would today be the greatest hero in the Confederacy. Next to you, of course, General Johnston.”
“Patrick Cleburne is a patriot,” Johnston said sharply. “I was honored to endorse his promotion to lieutenant general and I believe the Senate was very wrong to reject it.”
Stephens glanced up at Johnston. He voiced no opinion, but his eyes seemed to Johnston to be saying that it was not for a mere general to question the actions of the Confederate States Senate.
Cleburne’s division completed its march past the viewing stand and the men of Cheatham’s corps were now approaching. Johnston told himself that he should stop thinking about politics and slavery and all the rest of it and focus on enjoying the rest of the parade. After all, this was supposed to be his army’s special day, its moment of glory.
Joseph Johnston figured that the future would take care of itself. It would be many years before he realized how terribly wrong he had been.
*****
June 18, Morning
As James and Annie McFadden travelled westward, they had passed through a land that seemed not unlike the tree-clad hills of Georgia they had left a month before, just after the Grand Review of the Army of Tennessee had been completed. The swampy areas of central Louisiana through which they had passed after crossing the Mississippi River had been the only noticeable variation. As they approached the Balcones fault line that roughly divided Texas into two halves, James had begun preparing Annie for the abrupt transformation in terrain that they were about to see.
McFadden had traveled the length and breadth of the South from Atlanta in the east to the deserts of New Mexico in the west. He knew that a squirrel could be born in a tree near the Atlantic coast and, the Mississippi River aside, jump from tree to tree and get all the way to Texas without ever touching the ground. As the wagon carrying their few possessions rolled ever westward, however, they were reaching the point where the squirrel would have to stop.
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