Alternate Generals (36 page)

And maybe two hundred more men would still be alive today.
The author made a mental note.

At the next stop another passenger joined the author and the nephew in the compartment, and, as it was a member of the fairer sex, Reed quickly turned his attention towards her, regaling the young lady with tales of his own heroic exploits during the Plains campaign, thus giving Clemens the opportunity to nap for the rest of the trip southward.

Upon their arrival in the nation's capital, Sam Clemens quickly bid his compartment companions farewell in search of a fresh bottle of bourbon. An eager-to-please bellhop at the hotel where Bennett had arranged a room for him, provided him with more than enough of the spirited liquid from Kentucky to sate his thirst and more, and in no time at all, Clemens had passed out, sleeping through the night and the next day, thus missing the entire funeral that had been the reason for his journey.

Realizing his situation, the author quickly dispatched the still-willing bellhop to round up all of the Washington papers so that he could piece together as many facts (if newspapers reported such things) as were available so that he could bluff his way through this bit of reportage. Thus, have secured his "firsthand research," he quickly set off for a local bar known to be frequented by military men in hopes of adding a little more color to his notes on the President's final passing.

As was the usual case with military men, Clemens soon found himself an outsider in their crowds, and a catalyst of silence to each group he joined. Realizing that socializing with the men in blue was getting him nowhere, he quickly decided to dedicate himself to some serious drinking, and took a place at the bar next to a slovenly soldier whose shoulder bars bore the insignia of a cavalry major.

After asking for a bottle of Kentucky's best, the author was about to start down his latest road to inebriation when he heard the bartender say to the soldier, "If you want another drink, Reno, you're going to have to show me some coin first."

As the semi-conscious major searched through his pockets for the means to prolong his state of panacea, Clemens' not yet fully alcohol addled mind recognized the possible identity of his coin-desperate drinking companion. The author quickly told the bartender, "His drink's on me."

"Thank you, kind sir," the soldier said, his eyes brightening from their formerly half-mast state at the possibility of more drinks to come. "You are a gentleman and a scholar."

"And a fool and a scoundrel," Clemens added.

"Aren't we all," the soldier admitted, "including some of them who are no longer with us."

"Are you Major Marcus Reno formerly of the Seventh Cavalry?" Clemens asked.

"And if I am?" the drunken soldier replied.

"I understand that you were at the Little Big Horn with Custer at his moment of glory."

"I was drunk at the Little Big Horn at that bastard's moment of carnage, and now that he is dead, I don't care who knows it!"

"Shut up, Reno," a voice said from across the room.

Clemens sidled over, and gestured for the soldier to lower his voice.

Reno muttered under his breath. "What are they going to do, court-martial me? I kept my part of the deal. I've been quiet."

"Deal," the author queried, refilling the soldier's glass.

"Custer didn't have me court-martialed for drinking on duty, and I kept Benteen busy while the Custer gang usurped his and my commands," said Reno, taking another drink. "It wasn't that hard to keep him in the dark, and once the body count from the massacre was tallied up, I had little choice but to toe Yellow Hair's party line, and wallow in the blood of my fallen comrades."

Clemens could not help but notice Reno's voice was once again becoming distractingly loud.

"Yes, indeed," he began to boom, "let's drink to the bastard, I mean the General, I mean the President. First in line for the medals and honors, last in line to meet the enemy."

"Shut up, you old drunk!" another voice from the crowd ordered.

"Go to Hell," Reno retorted at the top of his lungs, "and give Custer my best!"

The exertion from his last outburst and effects of prolonged alcohol abuse brought on a coughing fir in the old soldier, and Reno was quickly spitting up blood.

"Someone get a doctor," Clemens shouted.

"Too late for that," Reno said between coughs. "Get O'Connor to write my obituary. He can make a hero out of any old fool."

"O'Connor?" Clemens said out loud, cradling the dying major in his arms until a pair of medics arrived to take him back to the base hospital.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," the officer accompanying the medic team offered, "but you know how old soldiers are, particularly when a comrade of ours has died, let alone one who has meant as much to us as President Custer."

"The General," Clemens said.

"That's what we who served with him called him."

"So you were part of the company at the Little Big Horn?"

"That's right," the officer replied. "Served right next to that sorry wretch," he added. Gesturing towards the prone body of Reno that was being carried out the door. "It's a damned shame how some men go to pieces."

Clemens put his hand on the officer's shoulder to detain him for just another minute.

"He said something about an O'Connor," the author asked. "Was he part of the Seventh Cavalry on that day of glory?"

"Not really," the officer replied, disentangling himself from Sam and the crowd to follow his medics and Reno, "he was a reporter from the New York
Herald
. He was assigned to follow Custer around."

Clemens returned to his drink and made yet another mental note.

Tomorrow he would have to return to New York and he was pretty sure that he knew what he would find there.

The trip back northward was uneventful, and Sam Clemens was able to enjoy the privacy of his compartment for the entire trip, a situation that he took advantage of with the able assistance of a porter who for the right price had easy access to liquor and ladies in search of companionship. As his expenses were all on the New York
Herald
, he decided to make the most of it while he still could as he had a feeling that his days on Bennett's dole would soon be coming to an end.

His office was as he had left it and he realized that he would not miss it when he had to give it up.

As Marshall, his keeper, was out with a hopefully fatal or at least uncomfortable malady, the writer decided to expedite his own fate, and after a quick trip to the archives with a brief stopover in the personnel department, he gathered up his notes and the one or two belongings that he had kept in his office that he considered worth keeping, and set off for the night club where he knew that his benefactor would be enjoying an expensive cigar and a snifter of fine brandy.

Clemens was told to wait at the bar until Mr. Bennett was made aware of his arrival. The bartender offered him a drink, but he uncharacteristically declined, preferring to have a clear head for the upcoming discussion. After a few minutes the majordomo returned, and escorted him to a private sitting room where James Gordon Bennett, publisher of the New York
Herald
and the New York
World
, waited, cigar in one hand, brandy snifter in the other.

The large man set down his drink on an end table, and stood to greet his employee.

"Sam," he boomed, "this is an unexpected pleasure. How was Washington?"

"Unsettling," Sam replied, avoiding taking the publisher's hand by reaching into his own jacket to extract a cigar.

"How so?" the publisher asked. Sam detected a certain guarded quality in his tone. "Surely, you picked up more than enough material for a suitable memorial for the great man who has passed from the earth."

"I prefer to make my own fiction, thank you."

"Your assignment was to write a suitable memorial for President Custer that we could publish on the anniversary of his victory against all odds at the Little Big Horn."

"Why don't you have O'Connor do it? He was a
Herald
reporter," Clemens said, adding, "Oh, that's right. He's probably too busy being a press secretary and all."

The publisher asked pointedly, "And the point of all this is?"

"Custer was a fraud," Clemens barked, "and you abetted him."

Bennett laughed.

"Custer was a pawn," the publisher corrected, "and I made him. Grant wanted to seek a third term. That was contrary to the interests of a group of very important people. The corruption investigations helped to undermine his administration, but certain sources within the Republican party leaked that they were preparing to nominate Rutherford B. Hayes in his place. No one is more popular than an old war hero, except, perhaps, for a new war hero. Custer was the Democrats' answer since he could suit the bill on both counts, Civil War hero and Indian fighter—at least that was the case after we of the press worked our magic on him."

"Little Big Horn was a fraud!" Clemens insisted.

"No," the publisher corrected, "it was a terrible massacre of innocent white men at the hands of bloodthirsty savages . . . and out of that bloodstained ridge, a living legend was born. We knew the toll the battle would take. That's why we were very careful to put the proper interpretation on the events. Custer had to emerge both a hero and alive. He wouldn't have been much of a candidate if he was dead."

"But what about his men," Clemens countered, "the ones who really died on that ridge?"

"Men die in war," the publisher said matter-of-factly. "No doubt about it. But their deaths served a good cause."

"Your cause," Clemens countered.

"And those of a few of my compatriots," the publisher conceded, "as well as that of Custer, and the American people for that matter. He didn't have greatness thrust upon him. He asked for my help in attaining it. I was willing to assist him so that he could in turn assist me in other areas. Anything to get rid of those damned Republicans."

"Like ousting Grant and his lot."

"Exactly," the publisher agreed, took a drag from his cigar. "But this is water under a bridge. Your job is to further enshrine Custer in history. It is important that the legend outlive the facts."

"Why?" Clemens demanded.

"Custer had a nephew by the name of Autie Reed," Bennett replied. "I think that it would only be fitting that he ride his uncle's coattails to the White House."

"To protect your interests?"

"And those of my friends."

Clemens removed an envelope from inside his jacket, and handed it to the stately older man. "This is my resignation. Have another one of your has-been hacks to spin a tale of fiction befitting a legend. I resign."

"Not a problem," the publisher replied. "There are plenty more where you came from. Get out of here, and remember, men like me control the press. The facts are what we see fit to print."

"The facts are fiction," Clemens replied.

Bennett laughed, and chided the departing author, "Still sells better than anything you've ever written."

Clemens left the exclusive club, and sought out a bar to try to wash away the image of the bloodstained ground and the innocent lives that were lost on the ridges above the Little Big Horn in order to assure the election of a Democrat to the office of the President of the United States of America.

He reckoned it would take him more than a few bottles of Kentucky's best. He hoped that in a few hours he would know exactly how many.

Werner Moelders climbed out of the Horch staff car to face the Air Ministry. A massive building, it was designed to impose, intimidate. It did.

It would not have affected him were he not here without orders.

He had been too angry and desperate to wait, stuck in the frozen Crimea without fuel, without ammo, without airplane parts, without support. He had to make the Reichsmarschall listen to him. Face to face was the only way.

He'd known what he was going to say as he left the Eastern front. Here, now, in front of this 2800-room showpiece of the Reich, he had to wonder if he wasn't being headstrong and stupid. So hot he'd been to get here, the possibility of a charge of desertion hadn't occurred to him.

Brutal weather had closed behind him an icy door. He couldn't run now if he wanted.

Well, he thought cheerfully, that won't be a problem if they shoot me right here for leaving my command without orders.

He squared his angular shoulders and marched in.

Immediately he was ushered through layers of security without question, as if everyone knew where he wanted to go.

They all knew him on sight. The most decorated man in the Luftwaffe, his picture was in every paper, every magazine, on picture postcards. Handsome. Aryan. Cameras loved him. He was the man who first broke the Red Baron's record. The Knight's Cross at his throat bore oak leaves, swords, and diamonds.

They sent him up the grand stairs through the kind of security gantlet one only passed through to see the Führer.

Oh hell.

Hitler was here. Hadn't expected this.

May as well be ordered shot from the top.

He touched his hat tucked under his arm. It was flat. He'd forgotten to put the spring back in. Fighter pilots regularly pulled the damn thing out. Now he was going to look sloppy for the Führer.

Never fear. The trusty adjutant was always good for making pilots presentable. Had dealt with worse. Was relieved that Moelders was sober. Produced a spring.

Hat looks sharp. Back under the arm. All's well.

Except what was he to say to the Führer?

Before he could rethink, the doors burst open from within. An aide started out, saw Moelders. Eyes big as wall clocks. Turned abruptly back into the room, clicked heels. Announced: "Oberst Werner Moelders."

A perplexed Moelders advanced to his fate. Quick glance round the room. Hitler not here at the moment. Absolutely everyone else was. Tin ties all around. The room was top heavy with Luftwaffe commanders who, like himself, ought to be on the front.