John Brown's Body, page 34
The corporal was not overawed with rank; he easily approached a tall, balding general with elaborate muttonchops whiskers, saluted, and said, “Beggin’ your pardon, General, but these officers come from General Grant. I figured you would want to see them as soon as may be.”
The tall general looked at the corporal with an expression that he must have thought was fierce but only managed petulance. “Yes, well corporal … yes. You are dismissed.” The corporal easily saluted and left the parlor, while the general turned his attention to the new arrivals.
Major General Ambrose Burnside was well over six feet in height, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Somehow, his balding head and flaring side-whiskers seemed to enhance his handsome features, rather than detract from them. Burnside studied the new arrivals silently for an unaccountably long time. This puzzled Clay until he remembered how Burnside’s brief tenure as head of the Army of the Potomac had been a disaster more from petty backbiting and jealous intrigues among his own officers rather than his somewhat limited military abilities. With a flash of insight, Clay realized that the commander of the Army of the Ohio was suspicious and afraid of staff officers sent by his division commander, Grant. Although not normally a warm character, Clay felt a stab of sympathy for the general and sought to break the ice.
“General, I have been sent by General Grant to act as liaison between his headquarters and the Army of the Ohio. He is with the Army of the Cumberland, which as you know is in a very delicate situation just now. He believes it is essential that there be someone at your headquarters with a good appreciation of the situation.”
“A spy!” exclaimed the short, thin brigadier immediately to Burnside’s right, sporting an exact replica of the commanding general’s facial hair. “Damn, you sir! I saw what your type did to General Burnside back in the Army of the Potomac. Your kind pulled him down, sir. Why, I will …”
“That is enough of that, John,” said Burnside quietly but firmly, laying a hand on his furious subordinate’s shoulder. “General Grant is well within his rights. In fact, coordination of our forces is vital. Hang together or hang separately, you know.” He turned to the new arrivals and said, “This is General John Parke, my chief of staff. Forgive his outburst. We have all been under strain, and his personal loyalty led him to some intemperance of speech. And who might you be?”
“Captain Alphonso Clay, of Grant’s staff. This is my orderly, Sergeant Lot, and Lieutenant Bierce, a cartographer and scout with the Army of the Cumberland.”
“Well, Clay, in addition to my invaluable Chief of Staff, here we have General Robert Potter, acting commander of the Ninth Corps,” said Burnside, indicating a small, mild-looking man who responded, “Pleasure to meet you,” in a curt New York accent. Nodding to the remaining general, Burnside said, “And this is my invaluable cavalry commander, General William Sanders,” indicating a tall, solemn, fully-bearded young man, who responded, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” in the syrupy accents of the South.
Gesturing to the stiff-backed, fierce-looking captain, Burnside said, “This is Orlando Poe, my chief engineer.” The dark, unsmiling Poe merely inclined his head, saying nothing.
Burnside turned to the last of the officers gathered around the table. “And this is the most recent addition to my official family, Major Joachim von Lindau, an excellent signals officer. In addition to everything else, he has undertaken to personally question the prisoners we collect, and he has proven able in extracting useful information from them.” Von Lindau, a tall, portly man of about fifty with heavy side-whiskers and sad brown eyes, stared intently at Clay.
“I know of Hauptmann … ach … Captain Clay,” said von Lindau in careful but heavily accented English. “Read of his … exploits in Louisiana. Read of his grandfather, Friedrich von Juntz, back in Germany, before I had to flee Prussian police in ’48.”
It was painfully obvious that von Lindau disapproved of Clay. However, as his words gave no overt offense, Clay chose to ignore the hostile overtone.
“And I know of you sir,” responded Clay. “Your fight for democracy in Germany was admirable, if ahead of its time; your fearless prosecution of politically well-connected criminals in St. Louis is an example to all district attorneys. In fact, when you have the time, I would like to discuss certain individuals in the St. Louis city government with you. You may not know it, but General Grant lived there for some years and has suspicions that certain individuals may be secret Confederate sympathizers. He undoubtedly would wish me to get your opinion on those people, whom you must know. I am sure that you will agree that there is nothing worse than a secret traitor.”
Von Lindau focused his sad brown eyes on Clay with some surprise but recovered quickly, “That would indeed be interesting, Captain. Matters are quite intense right now. Still, I should be able to spare some time, if General Burnside can spare me, after eleven o’clock tonight. Room 3E upstairs.”
“That will be fine, Major,” responded the army commander, who turned his undivided attention to the new arrivals. “Now gentlemen, you could help us by telling what you learned about the enemy on your trip from Chattanooga.”
“Certainly,” responded Bierce without prompting; the young lieutenant certainly did enjoy his area of expertise. “We did not take the direct road to here, as without doubt, Longstreet and his corps are using it to advance upon Knoxville. We took a wide swing through Lenoir County, using the miserable trails that pass for roads in those parts,” indicating the path on the map with his forefinger. “We had no actual contact with Confederate forces up there, although we ran across indications that elements of Forrest’s cavalry have been active in oppressing loyal citizens.” Bierce suddenly stopped, a dark cloud passing across his handsome features. He slightly shook his head, evidently deciding that the horror at the farm was of no practical interest to his audience, and continued. “In any event, no forces of military significance are coming here from the northwest, and all accounts are that the road network to the southwest is even worse. Therefore, you can count on Longstreet using the main road through here to Knoxville. It is the only hope he has of moving fifteen thousand troops and their supplies and equipment.”
“General Burnside, I am empowered by General Grant to tell you that the supply situation in Chattanooga is well on its way to being solved,” said Clay. “However, he must still dislodge Bragg’s army from its stranglehold on the town before he can think of aiding you here. In fact, he is as much in need of your help as you are of his.”
“That much was obvious,” replied General Parke. “That is why General Burnside ordered the Ninth Corps forward to either frighten Bragg into inaction or to tempt him into detaching part of his army to gobble up the bait posed by the Ninth. Bragg went for the latter alternative.”
“Very prompt, very intelligent,” said Clay. “Grant will appreciate that, General Burnside.”
“Now, now, General Parke is modest,” replied the bewhiskered Burnside. “It was his plan entirely. I simply endorsed it.”
“With respect sir, it was your basic idea,” General Parke said. “I only translated it into specific orders.”
“Well, let’s say we came up with it together and have done with it,” replied Burnside, smiling indulgently at his chief of staff. “Be that as it may, now that Bragg is taking the bait, we have a narrow path to walk. We will be falling back on Knoxville; however, we cannot do that so quickly that Longstreet tires of the chase or entrench so thoroughly at Knoxville that he regards an assault as hopeless. We do not want Pete Longstreet returning to Bragg before Grant and Thomas have had a chance to chase the Confederates away.”
“So what will be your plan of operation, if I may ask?” asked Clay.
General Parke answered for his chief, leaning over the map on the table and pointing with the stub of a pencil as he spoke. “The road from Chattanooga crosses the Tennessee here at Huff’s Ferry, a natural ford. Crossing a large body of men is not feasible for many miles in either direction, so Longstreet must come that way. General Potter will move his forces to the ford, supported by General Sanders’ cavalry.”
“Could you not hold Longstreet indefinitely at the ford?” asked Bierce.
“Such an attempt would be unwise,” responded Burnside. “The Ninth was sadly depleted by illness and casualties during the Vicksburg campaign. What with garrisons I’ve had to leave at various points, Potter has barely eight thousand men, many of them untrained, green replacements. Sanders’ cavalry is as good as there is, man for man, but he can count on less than twelve hundred sabers. Longstreet’s corps has at least fifteen thousand well-trained veterans, and if I remember Pete Longstreet aright, you can count on him using them very well.”
“We must count on a fighting retreat,” continued Parke. “It will be tricky, very tricky. If the engagement becomes general, Longstreet will pin us in place and grind us up with superior numbers. I am especially concerned about our supply train. The one advantage to the limited supplies possessed by Johnny Reb is he is not slowed down by their weight. The officers and men must be told to discard or destroy everything not immediately necessary to fighting. Meanwhile, we wait for the pickets at Huff’s Ferry to alert us to the main body.”
“You should not forget Forrest,” said Clay quietly. “The man is moving east with Longstreet. There is a tendency for both sides to dismiss cavalry patrols as irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. I assure you, anyone who dismisses Forrest will be fortunate to live to regret that assumption.”
Parke looked at Clay carefully, appearing to try to determine if he was an alarmist. After a moment, he said “We’ll keep that in mind, Captain.”
The genial Burnside intervened, “Well, gentleman, my staff and I have much to do to prepare the army for this fighting retreat. There is little you can do to aid us, and you look exhausted from the road. Best get some grub from the commissary wagon out back. Then if you don’t mind being cramped, the three of you can share room 3G upstairs. It is set aside for visiting generals, but we don’t have any right now, and it’s yours, at least for tonight.”
The three new arrivals saluted Burnside and his officers and exited through the front door. They found the commissary wagon immediately, a broken-down affair serving an indescribable substance that was allegedly stew. Each took a tin plate of the gruel, which had the sole virtue of being hot, served by a dirty private who seemed to be largely unacquainted with soap. All three were famished from the road and sat down on empty cracker boxes to eat. Lot was only able to finish his plate with difficulty, and the fastidious Clay took one spoonful, grimaced, and left the rest untouched.
With loud approving grunts, Bierce finished his entire meal, and to the surprise of Lot and the disgust of Clay, he licked his tin plate clean. He sighed contentedly, belched, then stood up and strolled over to the filthy cook who was pretending to clean his pots. “Private, an excellent meal. Now all I need for perfect contentment is refreshment of both the liquid and horizontal kind. Any establishment in this thriving metropolis that can answer that need?”
The private seemed to consider, then he spat on the ground and said, “Well, the only fancy house hereabouts is Rosie’s place, the two-story frame building about halfway down the main street on the right. Hear tell they got some damn good whiskey, and even a couple of fresh Dutch girls. Don’t know from personal experience.”
“Ah, a good Christian?” asked Bierce.
“No, sir, just can’t afford the tariff. Only officers and sutlers seem to have that kind of money. Get what you pay for, I suppose.”
“Well, I’ve been saving my allowance,” said Bierce with a smirk. “Thank you, private.” He strode over to Clay and Lot, saying, “Care to join me in exploring the mysteries of Rosie’s? It will be my treat; I am feeling generous for some reason.”
“Intimacy without love is fit only for animals,” said Clay with sneering contempt in his voice. “I do believe I will find more elevated ways to spend the evening.”
“Lieutenant, please think twice,” said Lot, genuine concern in his voice. “You are an intelligent man; surely you know the … risks to your health in such establishments.”
Bierce threw his head back and laughed his harsh, barking laugh, a laugh devoid of genuine amusement. “Risks to health, Sergeant? What risks, sir? The risks of distilled liquor destroying my liver and kidneys? What are the chances of any of us making old bones? The risk of unmentionable diseases? The clap passes with time, and as for the pox, it only kills you after many years, and then does the mercy of extinguishing your mind before ending your life. The risk of having my heart broken? No heart to break, sir, no faith in humanity to destroy sir, not after … never mind. To lose oneself in sensation, to have one’s conscious mind overwhelmed by pleasure—now, that is true entertainment, sir.”
Lot averted his eyes; his mouth set in sad lines.
Suddenly serious, Bierce placed his hand on the black sergeant’s shoulder. “Do not be disappointed in me, Jeremiah. I never pretended to be better than I am. Part of me wishes I wasn’t this way. It is hard to explain. All I can say is that I need the release of dissipation from time to time, need it desperately.”
“Ambrose, you are capable of being so much more than what you pretend to be,” blurted Lot suddenly. “You do dishonor to the gifts that God gave you.”
“Let us agree to disagree on the superstitions that some people hold,” said Bierce, his expression darkening. “Perhaps, if I survive this war I will try to do something in literature. However, I will not deceive you. My character will always be what it is now; accept me as I am. I did not entirely create what I am, but I accept it despite … ah, well. In any event, do not wait up for me, gentlemen.” With a mocking salute, Bierce strolled off down the main street, whistling “The Yellow Rose of Texas.”
That evening, Clay and Lot were in the cramped Room 3G; Lot sat on the rickety bed, while Clay sat stiff-backed on the room’s single stool. Clay removed his new pocket watch, the inadequate replacement for the precious one he lost the day Vicksburg had fallen, the one that contained the portrait of the only woman he had ever loved. “It is a quarter until eleven,” commented Clay, snapping the watch shut and restoring it to its pocket. “We will go to von Lindau’s room soon. I believe he took the hint and knows we are here to receive his information on the traitor.”
“It appears that Bierce will not be back for this interview,” said Lot, a disillusioned tone to his voice. “He may be gone all night.”
“He prefers his whores to saving the Union,” muttered Clay darkly. “Just as well, this room is crowded enough with two people; with three, it would be intolerable.”
“You are being unfair to Bierce. Whenever needed, he has done service that few of his rank can equal, and none exceed.”
Clay sighed. “I suppose I am being unfair. After all, he did help you save General Sherman outside Vicksburg, and in the process save you from almost certain death. I owe him much for that. It is just that I am so irritated to see him not living up to his considerable potential.”
“We both know that something horrible must have happened in his youth, something that twisted him. He has started to talk about it several times, only to stop himself. Whatever it was, it has warped his character. He chooses to battle his demons privately. Perhaps we should pity him rather than despise him.”
“Perhaps.”
Lot hesitated, then said, “I hope you will forgive me. I know the issue of your German grandparents is a sensitive one, one that you prefer to keep private. However, Major von Lindau alluded to it today. In private, let me be blunt. We are cousins—our fathers were brothers. That is not uncommon with the so-called gentry of the South, who usually act as if the relations of blood do not exist when offspring results from their lusts with slaves. You have never acted that way. You have always treated me not only as a friend, not only as the cousin I am, but as a brother. That means more to me than I can say. So it pains me that you do not share whatever it is that concerns you, something that even complete strangers like von Lindau seem to know. I cannot demand, but I do ask, as family, what von Lindau was hinting at.”
Clay stared into space for such a long time that Lot had almost decided the captain had chosen to ignore him when Clay suddenly started to speak.
“You must understand that the Starry Wisdom cult is older and more widespread than people dream. When Professor Slaughter and his henchmen were captured and hanged two years ago, the discovery of all the mutilated children’s bodies made people think they were degenerate monsters with unnatural tastes. Revolting, but a one-time horror, gradually being forgotten as this war releases seas of blood. Perhaps that is just as well; the public would not bear the truth. Starry Wisdom was simply the name the local practitioners used of a cult so old that it has no proper name. My grandfather, Friedrich von Juntz, described it, albeit imperfectly, in his little-known book Unaussprechlichen Kulten, published in 1827 in Weimar. The followers of the cult, who spread throughout Europe and even the Americas, had many goals, my grandfather reported. The indulgence of unnatural desires and opposition to the principles underlying the Christian and Judaic philosophies were the more prosaic. However, there were rumors of attempts to obtain powers and dominion through … unusual paths.”
“Surely he didn’t believe such superstitious nonsense,” exclaimed Lot. “He was a professor of natural philosophy at the University of Jena, I understand. The Germans take the quality of their academics very seriously.”
Clay laughed mirthlessly. “Remember when I went to Germany in the summer of ’61? For reasons that are not relevant right now, I had acquired an urgent need to learn more about Grandfather. It was there that I was finally able to get a copy of Unaussprechlichen Kulten, which was never widely circulated. The book talked of wild, incredible things. He certainly wrote as if he believed all of it. In fact, a sense of excitement seemed to leap out of the pages, as if the author could barely contain his eagerness to try … certain things, things only hinted at in the book. It was a disturbing read. I then better understood the stories about his colleagues and friends dropping away from him, leaving him an isolated, even feared figure. Then, in 1829, my mother was born. Friedrich von Juntz was never married, and there is no clear record of upon whom he sired my mother.”
