1862 (3 page)

Billy shifted his rifle. It was a little awkward since it was so large and Billy so small, but he was glad he did. The rider might be wearing civilian clothes, but he carried himself like an officer and the clothes were damned expensive-looking. Billy particularly envied the waterproof rain gear that must have kept him fairly dry. The rider was clean-shaven, looked muscular, and had piercing eyes that seemed to look right through Billy, who automatically drew himself to attention. It was impossible to gauge the man’s height, but based on the length of the stirrups, Billy surmised that he was at least a little taller than the average man.

Nor was the rider unarmed as Billy had first thought. There was a knife in one boot and a cane resting across the saddle that was thick enough to carry a blade within it. Billy thought there was probably a pistol under the rain cape. Hell, why not Billy concluded. A person alone on the road needed all the protection he could get. If this man wasn’t a high-ranking officer, he sure might be one soon. Billy was convinced the stranger wasn’t one of those fat and puffy congressmen who all looked like they’d rather die than be out in weather like this.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Billy said.

Nathan Hunter looked at the bedraggled private and smiled. “Afternoon yourself, Private. How’d you get the honor of guarding this forsaken place all by yourself?”

Billy grinned back. “Short straw, sir.” He didn’t add that asshole Grimes didn’t like him.

Nathan flipped him a small coin that Billy managed to catch without dropping his rifle. “Buy yourself something warm to drink, and next time stay out of trouble.”

“Thank you: sir.”

Nathan had been impressed by the way the boy had shifted the rifle and caught the coin. Most people would have dropped one or the other. In the early days of the war, it would have been the rifle. “You know how to use that thing?”

“Yes, sir. Used it fine at Bull Run. There’re a couple of rebs that won’t fight again.”

Nathan was impressed. “You’re a good shot?”

Billy pulled himself up proudly. He still wasn’t that much taller than the rifle. “Sir, if I can see it I can shoot it.”

Nathan didn’t laugh at the bravado. It was a time when young boys were becoming men through the simple act of firing a bullet through another man’s brains. The young soldier had lost his innocence in a battle that didn’t have to occur, and would never be a boy again. Nathan shivered, but not from the cold. He wished the boy well and rode on into Washington, DC.

Behind him, the flap to the tent opened and a large man in a flannel undershirt and wearing military pants peered out. He had no boots and his socks were filthy.

“What the hell was that about,” yelled Sergeant Grimes.

“Just one harmless rider,” Billy yelled back.

“You sure he wasn’t a rebel spy?”

Billy stifled a laugh. Grimes saw rebels everywhere. If it weren’t so rainy, he’d see his shadow and be afraid of it. Grimes grumbled something and went back to his card game.

Nathan Hunter’s first visit to Washington had been as a small boy. He had visited his uncle, who had served one term as a congressman from Indiana. Nathan recalled the city as being little more than a raw small town with more than a hint of the frontier about it. That had been more than two decades ago, and Nathan had been there since then and seen the city expand and grow but little.

Nathan’s uncle had managed to get him into the Military Academy at West Point just before Nathan’s father, another Indiana lawyer and politician, had died in a wagon accident. Nathan’s mother had died trying to give birth to what would have been a brother for Nathan.

The last time Nathan had been to his nation’s capital, it had been with his wife, Amy, at his side. Dear Amy, he thought sadly, How incomplete his life had been since the moment she had died. He shook his head. So much death had touched his family, and now so much was touching the entire country.

As he rode, he digested the immense changes that had occurred since the beginning of the war with the Confederacy. The sleepy frontier town of Washington was still raw: but no longer sleepy.

Despite the bad weather, the streets were clogged with people and animals. There was a newness about the nation’s capital that astonished first-time visitors, in particular those from more elegant European cities. The unpaved roads generated clouds of dust in the dry weather and oceans of mud in the wet. There were many streets where modern buildings faced farmland, and the handful of stone-and-marble government buildings, such as the Treasury and the Patent Office, always seemed to be in the wrong spot. Construction was racing on, but still the dome of the Capitol was incomplete and protected by wood, and the Washington Monument little more than a stone stub that inspired many crude phallic jokes. The old City Canal cut across the Mall between the unfinished Capitol and the President’s House, and ran near the building that was Mr. Smithson’s death bequest to the country. The canal was fetid and stank with the rot of small animals. As he passed it, Nathan saw several dead cats floating in it and wondered how they’d gotten there.

The President’s House was commonly called the White House and Smithson’s was called the Smithsonian Institute. Temporary barracks and office buildings had been thrown up almost everywhere, and with little apparent planning to house the large garrison that guarded the city. The effect was to increase the sense of rawness of the place. Washington City was very much a work in process.

The streets were clogged with civilians. Many walked, while others rode carriages and wagons, rushing God only knew where. Alongside them, formations of soldiers marched to wherever their duty called. If there was a plan, it looked like no one knew it. At one point, a small herd of cattle pushed its way through the crowds, driven by laughing drovers who seemed to enjoy the disruption they were causing. In a little while the unknowing cattle would be beef filling soldier’s bellies. They would join the growing herd at a place called the White Lot at the southern end of the White House grounds.

Less than a year before, about fifty thousand people had lived in the city, and now it had doubled and was continuing to grow. God only knew where they were all going to sleep, and he began to hope that he truly had his own place to rest.

The streets were so congested that he congratulated himself on having arrived on horseback, rather than in a carriage. He might have been drier in a carriage, but that would have been the only advantage. Many carriages were stuck in traffic or were wallowing up to their axles in stinking brown goo, while his horse easily picked its way through the mess. Of course, sometimes Nathan drew glares as he guided the horse across some private property, or through pedestrians, but he didn’t let it bother him.

Finally, he drew up to his destination, a large house on a low hill in the prestigious Georgetown area, overlooking the Potomac River. Nathan was pleased to see that there was a stable behind the house, and wondered if that was where he would be sleeping. At least it would be dry, he thought.

As he dismounted and eased the pain from his stiff leg, a boy ran from the stable and took the horse, which Nathan gratefully gave up. He walked to the front door of the house, which opened before he reached it. A stocky, middle-aged man with the aura of a retired sergeant glared at him—a bulldog protecting his master.

“I am Nathan Hunter,” he said as he handed the former soldier his card, “and General Winfield Scott is expecting me.”

   General Winfield Scott was a gigantic and corpulent caricature of himself. At seventy-five years of age, he still stood six feet, five inches tall, but now weighed in at a flabby three hundred pounds plus instead of the hard and muscular two hundred and thirty of his youth. It was difficult for him to walk, much less ride, and his breath came in wheezes. He knew he should cut down on the rich food and the good wine, but he was helplessly addicted to the finer things of life.

Scott was a study in contradictions. While he condemned the abuse of liquor by his enlisted men, he saw nothing wrong in drinking it himself. He also believed that a true American was of Anglo-Saxon stock and distrusted the wave of immigrants from Ireland and Germany as a threat to the United States. Still, he readily admitted, they served a noble purpose in the Union army.

There were those who thought Scott’s mind had gone and that the man the Duke of Wellington, Napoleon’s conqueror, had described as the finest soldier of his era, was a senile fool. And there were times when Scott himself felt they were right.

The general stood and extended his hand as Nathan entered the room, limping slightly. “Good to see you again, Captain.”

The two men shook hands. Nathan was shocked at the weakness in Scott’s grip. “I’m glad to see you, sir, but it’s no longer captain, or have you forgotten?”

Scott sat back down in the large overstuffed chair that seemed to engulf him despite his size, and gestured Nathan to its companion. “I’ve forgotten a little, but not that. I just feel more comfortable calling you by that rank.”

“And I, too, prefer to call you general, even though you’ve retired.”

Scott smiled. “Thank God. I’m not ready to be referred to as Mr. Scott, or anything else for that matter.”

Nathan understood. General Scott would always be General Scott. The man known with irreverent affection as Old Fuss and Feathers was a stickler for military protocol. He would never change and would always be called general. Nathan could conceive of nothing else even though he had been distantly related to Scott by virtue of Nathan’s late wife being Scott’s wife’s cousin. Nathan had once tried to chart the relationship on a piece of paper, but had given up in frustration at the tangled genealogical weave.

Neither man had known of the relationship until Nathan had been a junior officer on Scott’s staff for several months. It had amused both of them, since they both lived and worked in a city where nepotism worked wonders in advancing one’s career.

The personal relationship between the general and the younger officer had developed and then deepened on Amy’s untimely death. Nathan had loved her deeply and General Scott had been very fond of her. Scott, a man with a loving wife and a large family, had tried to help the young officer through the agony of his grief. Scott’s wife of a lifetime, Maria, had also done her best to console him. To a large extent, she had succeeded, and Nathan would be forever thankful for their help.

Then Nathan had been transferred out west. It had been Scott’s idea to get him away from his memories, but it hadn’t worked out according to plan. A horse shot by an Apache had fallen on Nathan and crushed his leg. He still limped, although he didn’t need the cane as much as he had in the past. Miserable, wet weather still caused it to ache, like it did today.

Nathan had convalesced in California and then been offered the opportunity to resign his commission. He had accepted. The army no longer held anything for him beyond painful memories. “Would you like a drink?” Scott asked. “I have some excellent scotch whiskeys.”

“Not right now, thank you.”

Scott appeared disappointed. He had written frequently of the evils of drinking among the enlisted soldiers, but did not feel that any prohibition extended to senior officers or men of good taste. “As you wish. Now, my young friend, how are you doing? You look fit and trim and, except for the touch of gray hair about your ears, you look young. More important, though, how are you handling your memories?”

Nathan took a deep breath. “My wife is dead and has been for more than five years. I have to live with that fact and deal with it. I have mourned and grieved and that part of my life is over. As they say, I have begun to get on with the rest of the time I have left on this earth.”

“Which will doubtless be of greater duration than mine,” Scott said drily. “After all, you are about forty years my junior.” Nathan managed a small smile. “Indeed. However. I will never forget Amy no matter how long I live.”

“Nor should you, my friend, but I am glad that you are indeed moving on.”

An interesting and very personal comment, Nathan thought. He had begun seeing women again, but had formed no serious attachments. There had been a couple of pleasant romps, but there was the nagging feeling that some women were after his money. Or, more precisely, the wealth that he had inherited as a result of Amy’s death. Her family had left their investments and holdings to her and she had bequeathed them to him. He was rich, but he’d rather have Amy beside him at night. “Time changes people,” Nathan said.

“And sometimes for the better,” Scott replied. “I have been married to my dear Maria for more than forty years and she has borne me so many children I often forget their names. God knows I can never keep the grandchildren and great-grandchildren straight. Perhaps I
am
senile.”

“And where is your wife, sir?”

Scott’s face clouded. “She’s still in Europe seeking a cure for her ailments. She will not find them there. I only hope she realizes that and returns to me so we can spend our last months together.”

Nathan turned away. There was a hint of a tear in the old general’s eye and Nathan’s eyes began to mist as well. Dear Mrs. Scott, he thought. What a loss it would be if she were to pass away. If? No. more like “when.”

“General, I was in New York when your summons came. I took the train to Baltimore and rode here directly. I suspect you had an important reason for contacting me?”

“Of course. But you rode from Baltimore? Why not continue by train? It would have been both safer and quicker. Or was it a train you didn’t own?”

Nathan laughed. Some of his investments were in railroads. “No, but I did reserve a car and had my horse shipped with me. I chose to get off in Baltimore because it is a mess getting into Washington by train as a result of all the war traffic. Also, I wanted to see the defenses of the city, and I did.”

Nathan did not add that he’d been riding a strong fast horse, had carried a bowie knife in his boot, a short sword in his cane, and a Colt revolver in a holster strapped to his chest. He was an expert with all and had considered himself quite safe.