A Deeper Sense of Loyalty (24 page)

Feeling refreshed from his nap, he decided to put aside the letter to Polly and go out for a beer. He could have gotten his drink at Willard's but chose to take the walk he had passed on earlier. In spite of the January temperature, there were quite a few people on the street. It was soon obvious that, for the most part, they were night people. James knew that darkness usually brought out the more unscrupulous of humanity; in the city there were just more of them. He knew as he walked along, that many he passed were not trustworthy, men who reminded him of the two in Willard's dining room. Every block he covered yielded at least a half dozen drunks and the type of women referred to as soiled doves were plentiful as well.

Before he realized it, he had walked as far as the National Hotel. The warmth of the lobby was inviting as he walked inside, seated himself in the dining room, and ordered a beer. Over near the far wall, James noticed a group of people crowded around one of the tables. They seemed highly excited as if someone of great importance was seated there. Quietly sipping his beer, he heard a lady at the next table ask her waiter, “What is going on back there?”

“Why, Mr. J. Wilkes Booth is in town, ma'am. He always stays at the National when he's in town and he never fails to draw a crowd.”

“How wonderful,” the lady replied. “I must try to get his autograph.”

James was impressed. He had learned a great deal about the flamboyant, charismatic actor from newspapers and dime novels. The entire Booth family starred on the stage. James had never seen Booth perform but had always wanted to. In a short while, the crowd moved away and James saw the man himself cross the dining room and disappear up the stairway. He certainly understood why it was said that all the women loved him.

James ordered a second beer and sat a little further back in his chair. He was beginning to relax a bit and without intention, he tuned in to another conversation coming from a nearby table. This time the talk was not coming from a pair of crude, loose mouth tramps, instead it was two refined looking gentlemen and two well dressed ladies. The topic of conversation was the concern for proper security in Washington.

“I understand,” said the first man, “that when civil war breaks out and a dividing line is drawn there will always be enemies inside your territory. Most will head for the side for which they sympathize. Others will remain and become a disruptive force. The government must rid this city of all the secesh. It must be the first and foremost priority.”

“But I believe that they are, Richard,” said the second man. “Didn't they arrest that Greenhow woman and put a stop to her spy ring? That was a year ago, and last May they sent her to the Confederacy.”

“That is true, Randolph, but while she was in Old Capitol Prison, despite tightening security, she still managed to carry on with her activities. And what of Belle Boyd? She was also in Old Capitol but after a month she was exchanged. God only knows what she's up to now. No my friend, by no means has the Secret Service a firm handle on the situation. This city is full of damn secessionists.”

“Well,” said Randolph, “I cannot say that the president takes the issue seriously. He can be seen everyday walking from the White House to the War Department and other buildings in President's Park without so much as an escort. Apparently
he
is not concerned about security.”

“Well, what can you expect from a man who is more concerned about the slaves than he is about putting down the rebellion?”

From there the conversation went on and on, condemning the people of the South for everything from their way of life to disloyalty to the United States flag. James began to squirm a bit in his chair. The irritation he dealt with in Willard's dining room that afternoon was climbing the back of his neck again. He was on his third beer now and it was beginning to have some effect since his experience with alcohol was extremely limited.

As the crowd in the dining room grew he became surrounded by people and the same words began to circulate through his head as if they were purposely taunting him. “Despicable Southerners . . . goddamn Rebels . . . nigger loving abolitionists . . .”

It was becoming impossible to listen without being provoked. James had thought he was doing the right thing. In so doing he had, in principal, turned against his family. He had joined an army of men who were the enemies of his family. His family members could end up being killed at their hands. Now he was in a place where everyone cursed his birthplace and all the Southern states. He was in a place where everyone cursed his parents, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, and for no reason other than the fact that they were from the South. What made these people of the North any better? James saw no respect or equality for the black race in the North. They could not vote. They could not hold positions in public office. They worked as servants and laborers. They were lashed just as hard with the tongue as the slaves were with the whip. James knew that not everyone supported President Lincoln and his proclamation, but he was hearing the same kind of garbage everywhere he went and not just from riff-raff and rabble rousers. He was beginning to feel like a fool. Had he made a huge mistake? Did he let Colonel Mulligan sell him a bill of goods?

The alcohol was making him lightheaded. He had to get outside and clear his mind; get away from people; get back to his hotel room. Carefully he got to his feet, trying not to stagger, and walked outside. The streetlights illuminated the sidewalk along the avenue. Just ahead, James saw a woman standing by a light post, appearing as though she were waiting for someone. As he approached, she took a few steps toward him.

She wore a dark green overcoat open down the front, revealing a crimson colored dress with a low neckline. Her hair was long and dark; a cigarette dangled from her red painted lips. An overabundance of rouge smeared her face and the smell of cheap perfume covered her like a mist.

“Where you headin, honey?” she said without removing the cigarette from her mouth.

“My hotel,” said James. He was pretty sure of her game but hoped he was wrong, being in no mood for it.

“How about a little company this evening?”

Anticipating her ability to take a hint he said, “I'm afraid not. I happen to be a married man.”

“Is your wife in town?”

“No, she isn't.”

“Then what's the problem, honey?”

Something inside let loose and James responded in such a way as he never had before. “What's the problem? You ask me what the problem is? If there is a problem, it lies with you. I told you that I was married. Maybe that means nothing to you and maybe it wouldn't mean anything to every other married man in this city, but it does mean something to me. Furthermore, even if I were not married I would not debase myself by consorting with someone of your low moral character. Now would you please step away from me before I call a policeman, who in this city would probably do nothing more than to avail himself of your services.” With that, James walked away leaving the woman who commenced weaving a web of obscenities that would cover every vulgar way of expressing oneself. Out in the cold night air, the affects of the alcohol began to weaken it but did nothing to dilute his vexation.

When he reached Willard's, he picked up his key at the desk and went straight up to his room. Never being one to brood, the past two days had, nevertheless, reduced him to a sullen mass of despair. He lay on the bed with a hundred conflicting thoughts doing battle inside his head. He was fast beginning to think he did not belong up north or down south. All communication with his family in Georgia was gone. By now they must think he had fallen from the face of the earth. He was married to a woman whom he adored, a loving creature who bore him a son; he had no idea when he would see her again. The walls were closing in. Suddenly, he thought of deserting. He would leave immediately for Mapletown. Once there, he would pack up his family and head to Canada. They would be safe there and could simply wait out the war. When it was over they could come back and re-establish their lives in Mapletown or Georgia or anywhere. But what would Polly think of his plan? Would she lose respect for him? Would it scar their relationship? James's soul was in torment. How could a beginning with such good intentions end up going so badly?

Looking for a way to ease the pressure, he took out the unfinished letter. When he had completed it, he saw that he had not included a single discouraging word. It was a good letter; simply expressing his love, telling her how much he missed her and little James. Then he sealed the envelope, addressed it, and fell into a deep sleep.

 

NINETEEN

 

The Assignment

 

 

The following morning James awoke, surprised to find that most of his anxiety was gone. If only he could receive his assignment and be on his way.

After a quiet breakfast, he walked up Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House. When he reached President's Park he sat down on a bench with very little purpose other than to kill some time. Only a few minutes passed before his attention was taken by the sight of a solitary figure walking across the White House lawn in his direction. As the man drew near, James began to wonder if his eyes might be deceiving him. The tall, lanky gentleman dressed in a dark suit and stovepipe hat changed direction to a course that would have bypassed the bench upon which he was sitting. Then, noticing the young soldier, the man turned and walked directly toward him. From a distance of about fifty feet, James knew that there was nothing wrong with his eyesight. Jumping to his feet, he found himself in the presence of President Abraham Lincoln.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” said the president.

“Good morning, Mr. President. It is both an honor and a pleasure to meet you, sir. I must say that I am rather surprised to see you out here alone.”

“Yes,” said Lincoln. “I hear that quite a lot. I am forever being chastised for my indifference to personal safety, especially by Mrs. Lincoln and my good friend, Ward Hill Lamon.”

“Forgive me, Mr. President, I meant no offense.”

“Not at all, Lieutenant. I believe that a president must be accessible to the people he serves. And I do not believe that any measure of security can keep a man safe if there are those who are determined to do him harm.”

“I suppose that is sad but true, Mr. President. But perhaps a complete lack of protection might encourage an attack that might otherwise not be attempted.”

“A deterrent?”

“Quite possibly, sir.”

“I shall give it some thought. I do not mean to be forward, Lieutenant, but I cannot help noticing your accent. From where do you hail?”

“I was born and raised in Georgia, sir.”

“That is very interesting. Could I be so bold as to ask why you joined the Union army?”

“I do not consider your question to be bold, sir. It is something that
I
hear quite a bit.”

Having accepted the fact that he would find himself being asked to repeat his story, he explained it all again for the benefit of the president. And like the others before him, Mr. Lincoln was impressed by James's insight and equally impressed with his ardent compassion for the slaves.

“I can imagine how difficult it must have been to make such a decision. I daresay that not many would do as you have done. You say that you are waiting to be assigned?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you been in Washington?”

“I arrived yesterday, sir.”

“I see. Well, in my opinion it is a serious misuse of a fine military resource, having you sit idly by. I was heading to the War Department this morning. Will you accompany me?”

“Of course, Mr. President, I would be pleased to.”

At a leisurely pace, James walked side by side with President Lincoln, indulging in pleasant conversation. He felt like someone special in the company of the man whom everyone greeted and made way for. He was very taken with the president's warm, unpretentious personality.

Instead of going to Mr. Scott's office, James soon found himself being introduced by the president to Mr. Edwin M. Stanton, the Secretary of War. It was like being invited to dine with royalty. “Mr. Stanton, we have a very good man here who has been waiting since yesterday for his assignment. I would like to have him taken care of right away.”

“Of course, Mr. President.” Stanton took paper and pen; wrote a few lines, folded the paper, and handed it to James. “Take this to Louis Weichmann's office, Lieutenant. It is just up the hall on the left. You will be on your way by this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” said James. President Lincoln held out a sinewy hand with long bony fingers. “I wish you God's speed and good luck, Lieutenant.”

“And the very best of luck to you, Mr. President,” James replied, grasping the bony fingers.

Amazed at the results of presidential power, an hour later, James had his orders and was on his way to Willard's to pack and check out. He had been assigned as a staff officer to 1
st
Brigade, 3
rd
Division, Cavalry Corps, Army of the Potomac, and ordered to report to the winter quarters at Falmouth, Virginia. It also pleased him to learn that he did not have to make the trip alone. A Corporal Thomas Milroy, assigned to the same unit, would be riding to Virginia with him.

Corporal Milroy was an affable man with a terrific sense of humor and James liked him immediately. He was tall and broad shouldered; a build that said he was no stranger to hard work. His red hair and green eyes were evidence of his Irish descent. But the corporal was about ten years older than James and somehow it didn't feel right having Milroy call him sir; especially since James had just joined the army and his subordinate had been in since the war began. However, it did not seem to bother his jovial companion. In fact, he seemed rather impressed when James told him the story of being a Confederate conscript at the battle of Cumberland Gap.