John Brown's Body, page 3
Butler collected himself. “All right Clay, what does this fool document mean?”
“It is a confession, of course,” replied the captain in a soft, calm voice.
“You can’t be serious! No one would voluntarily write something like this. You’re covering for someone, aren’t you?”
Clay moved not a muscle. “Every word in my confession is strictly true. It can be verified by Sergeant Lot there; others, if necessary.”
For the first time, Butler truly noticed the black sergeant who had accompanied Clay into the room. The lightly colored Negro was obviously a mulatto; almost identical to Clay in height and build, but did not share Clay’s placidity. Struggling to control his emotions, he fidgeted nervously with both the hilt of a heavy officer sword, which had surely been strapped on hurriedly, and the butt of an unusual revolver jammed into his belt.
“Sergeant, what is your name and unit?” demanded Butler.
“General, sir, Jeremiah Lot, Company D, 1st Regiment, Native Guard.” Lot spoke cultured, educated English, a surprise to Butler. Even the free blacks in Boston with whom Butler dealt did not usually speak in that fashion.
“What is your relationship with Captain Clay, and how did you come to witness the events described in this paper? He is a staff officer and you are in a line regiment.”
Lot hesitated before speaking, gathering his thoughts. “Sir, I was born to a house slave on the plantation owned by the brother of Captain Clay’s father and have known the captain since we were both small children. When his uncle died, I came to be … owned by the captain’s father. When the elder Mr. Clay himself passed in August of last year, I came to the captain along with all his father’s other … property. The captain gave me my freedom immediately, as he did all his father’s other slaves, whom were registered regular-like with Kentucky. When the captain took his commission, I went as his personal servant. When we got down here and I saw you were allowing Negroes to join the fight, he helped me sign up with the Native Guard. Last night, he asked me as a personal favor to accompany him to the Devereaux plantation with my squad. My lieutenant wasn’t available to ask permission, but I didn’t feel it was necessary since Captain Clay is on your staff.”
“Are you fond of Captain Clay?” asked Howard unexpectedly.
The sergeant turned his attention to the sullen major, and then spoke carefully, “The captain did more than free me. He persuaded his father to keep my sister and me from the fields. He guaranteed we’d receive a decent education, despite the fact it was a criminal offense under Kentucky law. What is most important, he treated me as an equal; most abolitionists wouldn’t do as much.”
There was a moment of silence in the room, and then Butler asked, “Sergeant, do you know what is in this document?”
“General, sir, I read it as he wrote it. It is the truth. I would give my life if it were not.”
“Are you aware this is his death warrant? No military or civil court will be able to keep him from hanging?”
“General, he is out of his senses and can’t be held responsible. There are circumstances not in that paper, which if you knew—”
“Enough, Sergeant,” said Clay loudly. Then addressing Butler, he said, “The circumstances to which Sergeant Lot alludes are irrelevant. You are a trained lawyer, as am I. You know the only defense under the circumstances set forth in my confession would be legal insanity under the McNaughton Rule, which would only apply if I did not know what I was doing was wrong, or did not understand others would believe it to be wrong. I will testify I knew both to be the case. I would suggest you convene a court martial as soon as may be, so we can dispose of this matter expeditiously.”
“Goddamnit man, you will hang!” exploded Butler. “What is your game? Are you trying to convince me you’re insane by seeming to commit legal suicide?”
“It would not be suicide!” Clay shouted with the first hint of displayed passion. “It would be operation of law. Clays do not gamble, do not use foul language, do not drink to excess, and do not seek easy ways out of difficulties. Clays do take responsibility for their actions. Suicide is a coward’s evasion.”
“Yet, if you tell the truth in this document, Clays can do unspeakable things,” said Butler brutally.
Clay’s sky-blue eyes narrowed chillingly. “Sir, I said Clays take responsibility for their actions. I am prepared to take responsibility for mine.”
“Damn you, I won’t give the rebels the satisfaction of seeing me hang one of my own staff officers. I’m going to dispose of this insane document of yours and ship you back East. Nothing you can say is going to persuade me to hang you.”
Clay smiled. It was chilling enough to Butler and Howard, but Lot actually got goose bumps and shivered. “Oh, I think I can persuade you to convene a court martial when I tell you—”
At that moment, a flustered aide burst into the room.
“What is it, Lieutenant? Can’t you see I’m occupied?” Butler berated the already-upset man.
“Sir, the ship that just docked … I asked the General to give me time to let you prepare …”
A small, puffy man in a major general’s uniform shouldered past the lieutenant, followed by three immaculate staff officers. Butler beheld the newcomer with incomprehension, then growing anger. “Banks,” he growled, making it sound like a curse. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“General Butler,” Nathaniel Banks acknowledged disdainfully, making it sound as if he had discovered a horse apple in the parlor, then addressed Captain Clay. “Ah, Alphonso, I didn’t expect to see you quite yet. I must apologize; I never had a chance to send you a note of condolence on the passing of your father. Despite his being a slaveholder, he was a good man and a loyal American.”
Clay cordially replied, “Thank you, General, he was all those things.”
Butler could not believe his ears. “You know Captain Clay?”
“Of course. His family is well known to several of my key political supporters. I’ve known Alphonso ever since he came out of Harvard; the same year I blocked your bid for Governor,” said Banks with deliberate emphasis.
“I remember.” Venom dripped from Butler’s voice. “The voters deserved your holier-than-thou tenure in the governor’s mansion.”
“They did,” replied Banks arrogantly. “People know their money is safe with me, and I am flattered the President trusts my honesty absolutely.”
“Better than he trusts your military competency,” snarled Butler at his fellow political general. “He had to take you out of the Shenandoah command after Stonewall Jackson chased you all over the map. I heard Jackson seized so many of your supply depots, his soldiers referred to you as ‘Jackson’s Commissary Officer.’”
Banks froze for just a moment. “Well, the President thought I might do better in a different command. As a matter of fact, the reports of your questionable dealings have persuaded him an officer with higher moral standards was called for in New Orleans. That is why he has sent me to relieve you.” Banks certainly was enjoying this moment a great deal.
Butler shouted a vile oath, and then more coherently said, “What reports? Why didn’t Lincoln ask me? I could explain everything—”
“Oh, you will have the chance to explain, Ben,” said Banks, giving ironic emphasis to Butler’s nickname. “You are relieved immediately, and are hereby ordered to report to the President as soon as a ship can get you back east. The reports Captain Clay, here, have been sending to Washington made it very clear there are some rotten dealings in your department. I am flattered the President thinks me able to set things right.”
Butler shifted his attention to Clay, his visage contorting murderously. “You son-of-a-bitch! You’ve been writing to Washington behind my back, making up lies—”
“Hardly lies, General,” responded Clay. “Lincoln already had his suspicions. That’s why he ordered General Meigs to send me out here and quietly look into matters. I must admit, you’ve been clever. I was unable to come up with enough evidence to construct an ironclad case, but I was able to show enough hints of civilian property theft, misuse of government stores, and trading with the enemy to make the President think perhaps he would like you closer to him, where he could keep an eye on you.”
Major Howard involuntarily gasped.
“By God, you are not getting away with this Scot-free! You’re going to have your court-martial and hang before sunset!”
Banks protested, “What court martial? What hanging?”
The ungainly Butler lurched to his feet with Clay’s confession in his hands, strode over to Banks, and thrust the document into his hands. “Here, you sanctimonious bastard, read this! Do you really think any reports against me, written by a man who could do what is put down there, could possibly harm me?”
Banks snatched the paper and commenced to read, wincing at several points. By the time he finished, he was white as a sheet. “Alphonso, this cannot be true! Can it?”
“I wish it were not, but it is. After it was over, I surrendered myself to Sergeant Lot, giving him my sword and pistol. I have nothing more to say, nothing in extenuation.”
“General Banks, sir, if I may—” began Lot.
“Sergeant!” Clay threatened. “I order you to silence on this matter. Nothing you can say will alter what happened. You swore to me you would be a superlative soldier when I agreed to help you get in uniform; now prove it by demonstrating your discipline!”
Agonizingly, Lot resumed his silent pose.
Butler self-righteously announced, “Now, let me gather some officers together and we will have ourselves a little court martial.”
“Just a moment,” said Banks slowly. “Perhaps you did not hear me. You are relieved. You no longer have authority in this department to convene a military court martial.”
With a trace of anxiety, Clay said, “General Banks, there is no need for delay. You can convene the court and get this out of the way to everyone’s satisfaction.”
Banks disagreed, “Alphonso, something here isn’t right. I can’t believe what is described in this document is the whole story. We must investigate this matter. Washington will—yes, Washington will need to be involved. The ship I came in on will be setting out tomorrow morning. You will be on it, informally under arrest. Sergeant Lot, you should accompany him as guard. According to this paper, you were a witness. Washington will want to hear what you have to say.” He extended the confession to Lot, who accepted it reluctantly. “I hold you personally responsible for delivering Captain Clay to Washington. Guard this paper carefully. You do realize that was just a formality. If he were inclined to escape, he would never have written a document such as this. See he gets his personal possessions together in time for tomorrow morning’s departure.” Rotating to Clay, he asked, “Do I have your personal word of honor you will attempt no escape?”
“You do, General. Nevertheless, I must again urge you to convene the court. The end result will be the same in Washington. All this is merely deferring the matter.”
Banks shook his head sadly, puzzled. “You are not being perfectly candid with me, Alphonso. I know you well enough to recognize there is some deeper reason. But, we will let Washington decide this matter.”
“Hold on there!” Butler howled. “You are actually going to let him go home in informal arrest, with no manacles or irons?”
“Yes, I believe I am, Ben,” responded Banks mildly, but with a steel gaze. “Alphonso’s word he will not try to escape is enough for me. And, by the way, although you and your operations officer are relieved, you are not to attempt to return on the same boat as Clay but wait for the next one. I have a feeling having you on the same ship with Alphonso for several weeks might be … unlucky for him. Now, General, Major, you are to leave this office immediately. We would not want any key documents to be misfiled in the last minutes of your tenure.”
As Butler and Howard trudged down the road toward Butler’s hotel, Howard twittered, “That hypocritical Pontius Pilot doesn’t want Clay’s blood on his hands, so he sends the case to Herod. We are both in serious trouble, which means trouble for my mother and my sister, also.”
Surprisingly, Butler snickered. “Alan, it is good to remember, some days are better than others, and there is a world of tomorrows. I’m pretty sure there is nothing beyond hearsay and suspicion they can make stick to me. I’ll get clear of this, and I’ll make sure you get clear of it, too. And if by some miracle they don’t hang Clay, well … Butler left the statement hanging in the air as he contemplated a future with infinite possibilities.
Chapter Two
The Father’s Burden
“Damn you Clay! You are a low monster and a disgrace to the uniform!” shouted Quartermaster General Montgomery Meigs, staring with rage across his desk at the docile captain sitting quietly in front of him. Meigs clutched the confession he’d just finished reading, his heart racing and nostrils flaring. The dim, early-morning light from a drizzling winter sky filtered fitfully through his window in the War Department Building, setting the scene—dreary.
Most people would have quailed before the fury of Montgomery Meigs, a large bull of a man with a grizzled beard shot through with gray: the spitting image of an Old Testament prophet. Not Alphonso Clay. Immaculately dressed in a perfectly tailored new uniform, acquired immediately upon arrival in Washington, he wasn’t the least intimidated.
Sergeant Lot stood rigidly near the door, his eyes focused on a point somewhere over the middle of Meigs’s well-organized desk.
“Damn you, Clay! Damn you—” Meigs choked off a worse curse. Even in his rage, the Georgia-born Southerner, and good friend of Robert E. Lee, could not entirely forget the artificial code of gentility he’d been taught to revere since birth. Finally, under some control, Meigs questioned, “Why, Clay? Why? In the name of God, tell me this doesn’t mean what I think it means.”
“It does, General,” replied Clay in his soft, rather high voice. “I will not demean you or myself by offering any excuses. The matter is inexcusable, and the military code of justice should be allowed to follow its course.”
“If it were up to me, you would hang before tomorrow noon, Clay! It’s not just the monstrosity described in this paper, it’s the shame and dishonor you brought on me personally. I selected you for New Orleans, thinking you would be perfect for a discreet, politically delicate assignment—a Harvard man who had traveled in Europe, from one of the wealthiest families in Kentucky, first cousin to Cassius Clay, and second cousin to Henry Clay himself. But if I hadn’t chosen you, this wouldn’t have happened!” Meigs threw the offending piece of paper onto his desk, furious with himself.
“There has been absolutely no dereliction on your part, General,” comforted Clay. “The fault is mine completely, morally as well as legally. As you recall, I asked for an assignment, any assignment, in New Orleans. It is doubtful you would have chosen me without my request. As it happens, my wishes coincide with yours. I believe by noon tomorrow, this matter can be resolved as it should be.”
“As I said, if it were up to me, you would hang, but Lincoln learned of your behavior from the newspapers and told me to set up this meeting. He is already late, but—”
Unmistakably, argumentative voices sounded directly outside the door, which was flung open to reveal the tall, angular figure of Abraham Lincoln, sporting a look of wry amusement.
A small man, floridly dressed in checked trousers, a loud vest, and a somewhat frayed frock coat was tugging insistently at Lincoln’s elbow. “Mr. President, you can’t just walk away from me! I broker cotton for some of the largest mills in New England, and I’m ruined if I can’t come up with at least a thousand bales by next month,” said the insistent man. “I’ve got a Treasury permit from Secretary Chase, all legal of course, allowing me to trade for Southern cotton, but it’s no good if the Secretary of War doesn’t give me a pass to cross the lines, and Stanton refuses to do so. Why, Mr. President, he actually threatened me! Just minutes ago, I spoke to him in this building, and Stanton said if I asked him again, he would have me hanged!”
“Mars truly said he would hang you?” Lincoln enjoyed using his favorite nickname for the mercurial, hard-charging Edwin Stanton. “If he said that, then I would be careful if I were you. He generally does what he says he will do.”
The blustering little man was discernably deflated. No doubt, he did, indeed, expect to endure financial ruin if he did not obtain enough cotton to meet his contractual commitments to the mills.
Lincoln smiled sadly at the crestfallen broker, saying, “Oh, come on, it won’t be as bad as all that. I have an idea for you. Rather than trying to go through Stanton, hop a steamer down to New Orleans and talk to General Banks. I have given him special dispensation to permit trade in cotton, so long as certain military goods are not part of the trade. Show him Chase’s permit, and you will have no trouble obtaining cotton for your customers.”
With cringing gratitude, the broker thanked the President for his suggestion and left the room.
Sighing, the President eased himself into an armchair in front of Meigs’ desk.
Captain Clay’s face had lost some of its tranquility; his lips had thinned, and his piercing blue eyes, glittering behind spectacles, focused on Lincoln with a cold intensity. “Mr. President, I can hardly believe you are encouraging this trade with traitors and slavers,” said Clay. “I expected this sort of thing from a corrupt creature like Butler, but not from you. Prohibiting military goods is a fiction. One way or another, the South will convert the proceeds of such trade into arms, and good men will die. It is outrageous!”
