John Brown's Body, page 18
The witnesses to this drunken monologue were so entranced they scarcely noticed the four Provost General horsemen who rode up to Grant’s tent and were greeted by Major Parker; no doubt rendering some late report relating to the security of the encampments.
Grant lurched over to the horse and lay the side of his head along the animal’s neck, eyes completely unfocused, lost in bygone nightmares. “Very strange,” he muttered in a slurred voice. “Moment I got back to ’em, dreams stopped. Was real hard-scrabble; wasn’t much good at anything but soldierin’. Didn’t matter. Julia put up with the hard times, bless her. And, as long as I was with her and Fred, the thoughts, dreams, whatever were right out of my head. Then war came, and the country needed every officer it could get, even washed up drunks. It’s really a para-paradox. When I was real busy dealing out death and destruction, everything was all right. Only when things were quiet-like did I need Julia and Fred to keep away … to keep away …”
All at once, Grant became terrified, white as a sheet. Those who saw it would later find it hard to describe—fear, loneliness, panic, regret—all a human being could stand concentrated in one man.
“Gotta run! Gotta leave it all behind. Gotta run!” he shouted in a piercing voice. With a surprisingly athletic leap for someone so drunk, he was in the saddle and spurring Jeff Davis into a wild gallop.
“Sam!” screamed Rawlins at the top of his lungs. “Stop! You’ll kill yourself!”
The commanding general paid no heed, charging rapidly into the darkness.
Without a sound, Clay sprinted the short distance to where the four mounted soldiers were quietly conversing with Parker. They had jerked their heads around in surprise at Rawlins’s screams, but much less expected Clay, who shoved a corporal out of his saddle, sending him sprawling. Vaulting into the saddle, he frantically urged the animal into pursuit of Grant.
Rawlins, Lot, and Bierce were only steps behind. At a shouted command from the chief of staff, the other three tumbled voluntarily from their mounts. Astonished, Parker watched the three take off into the night after Clay.
With reason, Clay considered himself a superb horseman. But as he chased after the galloping general, he realized with amazement that Grant drunk was a better rider than Clay sober. The moon shone bright, but not bright enough to illuminate all the obstacles and pitfalls. Heedless, Grant urged his mount around, over, and through every conceivable barrier. At one point, Clay was gaining on the general, only to see him effortlessly jump his steed clean over a buckboard in his path. He dared not attempt the same maneuver in the dark, and he lost precious seconds going around the wagon. Soon after, a large campfire, lit by a Union infantry company, stood in the way, a stew kettle bubbling merrily over it. Grant effortless cleared the large fire, kettle and all. Knowing he could not be sure of equal success, Clay fell further behind, then even further as he slew through the surrounding tents and surprised soldiers who were clueless of what was transpiring. Fearing a Confederate raid, they seized their rifles and began to fire. A bullet whizzed past Clay’s ear. Ignoring Rawlins’ shouts of cease-fire behind him, he concentrated all his senses on gaining on the general. Several more encampments were rudely disturbed in rapid succession; only the darkness kept them from realizing it was their commanding general causing their temporary fright.
Clay was certain Jeff Davis would, at any moment, step into some hole or trip on some obstruction obscured in the shadows, sending Grant flying to break his neck on a tree or crush his skull on a rock. Then, by a combination of luck and superb horsemanship that even drink could not eclipse, Grant unerringly avoided all such deathtraps.
It was at that moment, a tent with a small fire nearby came into view, and Clay realized Grant had led them in a huge circle, bringing them back to his headquarters. Parker, two sentries, and the four forlorn soldiers from the Provost’s office had not moved from the front of the tent. Seeing a figure approaching he knew must be Grant, in no fit state to be seen by casual witnesses, Parker barked an order to the horseless troopers, who scurried off into the darkness so quickly they forgot to salute.
Grant brought his exhausted animal to a stop directly in front on Parker and slid smoothly off his back. He was patting the heaving sides of the tired beast with affection when Clay rode up and swiftly dismounted, followed in a few moments by Rawlins, Bierce, and Lot.
“Major, I wouldn’t ordinarily ask this of you …” started Grant, much soberer than when he commenced his wild gallop. “I’m tired from the trip, and this magnificent animal needs to be toweled off and watered. Could you handle that for me?”
“Yes, sir,” said Parker most respectfully, eyeing the furious Rawlins over Grant’s shoulder.
In an appalling breach of military etiquette, Rawlins grabbed his commander’s arm and dragged him into the tent. Angry words were immediately audible.
Clay only hesitated for a moment before saying, “Major Parker, have our horses tended for as well; then join the lieutenant and the sergeant in my tent for a few hours. I think Colonel Rawlins will only require my help him with the general.”
Parker could not believe his ears. He thought the captain had less right than himself to aid Ulysses Grant. But then he remembered his own binge drinking, a secret from all but Grant, which made him an appallingly stereotypical drunken redskin and knew he was not the one to give help to Grant this time.
“Fine, Captain. Send for me when you feel the general is rested.”
Clay saluted, then entered the tent, leaving the others to swiftly care for their horses, grateful to have left the scene of what could have been a career-destroying scandal.
Inside the tent, Rawlins was speaking to Grant in a low voice charged with more emotion than other people’s screams. “Sam, you may have thrown it all away! How could you? How in the name of the Lord could you?” He gasped for air. “You told me that was all behind you: that you would never—never—” Rawlins could not go on and began coughing a series of deep, rasping coughs that could not manage to clear his lungs. After an especially violent series, he quickly brought a handkerchief to his mouth. When the coughs subsided, he removed the cloth and stared at the crimson it contained. He hurled the bloody garment into a far corner of the tent and collapsed, silently weeping into a camp chair.
In a controlled effort, Grant walked over to his dear friend and put a hand on his shoulder, at a loss as to what to say.
“There isn’t much time left, Sam,” said Rawlins miserably between sobs. “I had to work myself into ill health when the worthless alcoholic I had for a father drank himself into an early grave, and Mother and all my brothers and sisters became my responsibility. And I met that responsibility! But Lord, it was hard. The work was unrelenting, but no one dependent on me was ever in want. I know pride is a sin, but I confess I was proud of that. Now I have children of my own, children without a mother, and I support them like I supported my worthless father’s offspring. As much as I worry about leaving them, I worry about leaving no mark in this world. When we met, back in Galena, I could tell there was more to you than a weak-willed drunk, Sam. And when the war started, I realized we both were going to leave a legacy behind. You were going to win this war, and I was going to help you to win it.”
“That’s true,” said Grant quietly. “Even when I got my first star, the most I hoped for was a cavalry division. You and Ely, and of course Julia, were the only ones who thought I would ever rise to command a great army.”
“And you have been brilliant, Sam! You’ve justified all the faith I ever had in you. That’s why I weep when I see you slip back into the bottle. That’s why I stormed and raged that other time and made you swear before the Lord God not again! It’s not even that you’re addicted. You know you’re not! You can go months without touching a drop. No, you choose the bottle!”
“Yes, I do, John.” His voice cleared, as did his eyes, except for the moisture. He grunted and swallowed. “I’ve hurt those I care about more than I care to think. I was so wrapped up in self-pity, I didn’t stop to think what it would do to them. I know it is hard for you to believe after tonight, but I promise this will never happen again. Never.” Grant released Rawlins’ shoulder, and an infinite weariness washed over him. “I need to sleep. Tomorrow will be time enough to start planning the deaths of fine young fellers. Just do me one favor, John …” Grant hesitated with embarrassment. “Stay here until I’m fast asleep. I may need to … talk to someone.”
It was then he noticed Clay, who had witnessed the whole drama emotionlessly. “Captain Clay, you are in a position to do me two favors. One, stay with Colonel Rawlins for a spell. As you have seen, he is not in good health. I would rest easier if someone was here to make sure he has aid if needed. Two, on your honor as a gentleman, never breathe a word of what you have seen to another soul.”
The response was immediate. “You have my word, sir.”
Grant nodded, but said nothing. Without removing any clothing, not even his hat, he collapsed onto the camp bed, and in moments was softly snoring.
Clay drew the tent’s remaining camp chair up alongside Rawlins. Reverently, they watched the commander of the Army of the Tennessee sleep for some time, until Clay spoke. “I was wrong, Colonel Rawlins, in demanding Mrs. Grant and Fred Grant be sent away. I demanded that as much for reasons of my own as for concern over their safety. You should telegraph Mrs. Grant at first light and let her know her husband needs his family.”
Rawlins nodded silently, staring at the sleeping form on the cot.
After thinking for a moment, Clay spoke again. “I suppose it is a weakness in a great commander to need his family so. Still, as weaknesses go, it speaks well of him that alcohol is his second choice.”
The petite captain and the pale, gaunt colonel remained vigilant over their sleeping commander for the rest of the night.
Jeremiah Lot and Ely Parker shuddered involuntarily as Ambrose Bierce finished his gruesome tale of a man literally frightened to death by the ghosts of the wife and children he had murdered years before. They were seated on empty cracker boxes around a small campfire in front of the tent Clay and Lot shared. All three had been concerned about what was happening back at headquarters, so Bierce had decided to divert them by telling them a story he was thinking of putting into writing, to take their minds off things.
Lot chortled, “Lord, Lieutenant, when I was a child, the stories of haints the old slaves told frightened me nearly to death, but they couldn’t hold a candle to you. You really should write that down and sell it to one of the magazines.”
Parker drew out a pipe and began to absently fill and light. “Bierce, I admit you can spin a yarn better than most, but after all, you are only talking about fiction. At some level, we know it isn’t real, so it doesn’t truly frighten us.”
“So, Major, you’ve heard more frightening stories around the tribal campfire?” Bierce challenged.
“As a matter of fact, I did, as a youth. Of course, there were stories made up to frighten little ones, which had no effect on the braves. But late at night, when the children could not hear, sometimes tales would be told by those who believed them to be true. Some may have been originally lies, but some were undoubtedly true.”
Bierce guffawed at Parkers revelation. “Ignorant savages scared of thunder and cringing at the wind.”
Parker did not laugh. “Perhaps, Lieutenant, but there were many things braves, who were not fools and were afraid of nothing, feared: things the white man did not fear because they had not read of them in books and because college professors laughed. Things like the Manitou.”
“What’s a Manitou?” asked Lot.
“No one knows for sure because no one who gets close to one ever comes back. It is said he is an evil spirit who eats human flesh, can disguise himself as any animal, and cross the forests with the speed of the wind. It is said that among many of his snares, he can assume the form of a deer and lead a lone hunter far away from his people. Then he lets the hunter come close, and only then, in his last moments, does the hunter see the true shape of the Manitou.”
Lot felt a chill creep up his spine. It must have shown on his face, for Bierce laughed. “You two are a pretty pair,” he said. “It is amusing to tell tales of monsters and ghosts, but we live in the 19th Century, an era of science, of steam, of physics. Ghosts and goblins are now banished to the nursery and used to frighten misbehaving children into obedience. Why, I will bet either of you twenty dollars in gold you could not tell me a true story that would really frighten me.”
“That is hardly a fair bet,” said Parker. “You would be the sole judge of what frightened you.”
“True enough. You would have to trust my sense of honor, and you can trust it since I don’t require you to cover the bet. You win, I pay twenty dollars; I win, you pay nothing.” In the flickering light of the campfire, a cloud could be seen passing over Bierce’s face. “But be warned, I saw something truly horrible in Indiana, more horrible in certain respects than anything you have seen in this war so far. After that, I don’t think any tale could truly frighten me. Alright, gentlemen, what do you say? Do you have a true story up to the challenge? What’s the most frightened you’ve ever been?”
Sergeant Lot stared anxiously into the fire, poking it with a stick, before speaking. “Lieutenant Bierce, I can tell you a story of the most frightened I have been that will terrify you to your marrow. But I’m not doing it to win a bet. I must ask both of you, what do you think of Captain Clay?”
“A bad man,” Parker said without hesitation. “Brave of course; there are uses in war for bad men. But what the newspapers said about New Orleans …” Parker shook his head in disgust.
“Oh, clearly a candidate for Bedlam. Ought to be in a cage, but he’s very entertaining to be around,” added Bierce cheerfully.
“He is none of those things,” said Lot sadly. “He is ever so much more complicated than the newspapers said.”
“Are you saying the papers lied about the incident at the Devereaux plantation?” asked Parker.
“Oh, the accounts were accurate enough. It just wasn’t the whole story. I am about to break confidence with Alphonso, so as hypocritical as it sounds, I want you to swear you will never repeat the story I am about to tell you.”
“Why break the confidence then?” asked Bierce, amusement in his voice.
“Because I am the only living man who knows there is more to what happened than what was printed in the newspapers. Death comes unexpectedly in war. I want there to be someone who knows that if Alphonso Clay is a monster, there are reasons for it. Do I have your word?”
A solemn Parker and an amused Bierce both nodded their heads.
Lot then stared into the fire for a long time, marshalling his thoughts. “I have to go back quite a ways, to set the stage, so to speak. You must first understand, it is a very hard thing, being a Clay. Very hard. The family has high standards, very high. Many live up to them, but those who fail, fail spectacularly. There is light and dark in the family. On the one hand, you have those like Henry Clay, who, although a slaveholder, rejected the South to help preserve the Union, and, hence, lost forever the chance to be President. And, there is Cassius Clay, who survived decades of being an abolitionist crusader in Kentucky only through a proficiency with pistol and Bowie knife. On the other hand, you have those like my father.”
Lot could not tear his eyes from the embers. “Of course, you can tell I have white blood. I and my sister Arabella was fathered on an unwilling slave by Decimus Clay, younger brother to Alphonso’s father, Cicero. Our mother died giving birth to the stillborn result of yet another drunken outrage by Decimus.”
The silence of the listeners was absolute, but Lot was completely unaware of how he had riveted them in their seats.
“The death of my mother caused Cicero to descend on his brother like the wrath of God. I was only eight at the time, but I distinctly remember when the enraged elder Clay arrived at the plantation, accompanied by the superintendent of the state asylum and a sheriff holding a court order for the commitment of Decimus as a “moral lunatic” and appointing Cicero as conservator for Decimus’s estate. Decimus was drunk, as usual, and hardly understood what was happening. But to Cicero, it didn’t matter whether his brother understood. In truth, he acted more like a madman than his brother did, shouting repeatedly of the disgrace his brother had brought on the family name by his drunkenness and fornication with inferiors. The befuddled alcoholic was led off unresisting to the madhouse, where he would hang himself six months later, completing his disgrace as far as Cicero was concerned, who would never mention him by name again.
“After his brother had been taken away, old Clay began to examine the slaves and the other property, limping along with the aid of his heavy cane. I never heard for sure how he had been lamed. Later on, some slaves said they believed he had been bayoneted in the leg by a Mexican grenadier at the battle of Buena Vista. They also said they believed the Mexican was dead.
“His stay ended by a detailed examination of the estate papers in the library. In my short life, I had known nothing but the arbitrary, drunken neglect of Decimus and his overseers, and I feared things would get worse.
“Slaves learn early to spy on their masters; knowing their moods, strengths and weaknesses is the key to survival. I snuck into the house and peeked around the corner of the library, wanting to get a close look at my new owner. I saw a short, heavy-set man, red-faced and angry, muttering with disgust over documents that apparently were not arranged, as they should have been. I was holding my seven-year-old sister’s hand. To my amazement and dismay, Arabella shook off my grip, and, before I could react, she entered the room confidently. She stopped in front of the desk where Clay worked, curtseyed in an amazingly adult manner, and said, ‘Good afternoon, sir. I believe you are our new master.’” Lot’s eyes misted over at the image of his little sister, so sweet, so innocent.
