Judgment at Appomattox--A Novel, page 23
“Hallelujah, hallelujah, black folk got they freedom!”
“Glory to Jesus Lord, Kingdom done come!”
“Freedom!”
But were they free? The demands and horrors of war had left him uncertain of what freedom meant even for white men, let alone for these exultant creatures. In their delight, he saw hopes bound to falter, not despite, but because of, their humanity. They were neither the holy martyrs proposed by the abolitionists nor the two-legged beasts damned by the slaver party. They were born to imperfection, as all men were, and he knew that some would be good and others bad, bound to disappoint advocates and detractors. Worse, they were destined to disappoint themselves. They expected Heaven but would awaken on earth.
He smiled as gently, as warmly, as he could at their caresses. So much remained to be done, so many wounds had to be healed on every side, and some of the gashes would never be made whole. It would demand a full generation and more before the Negro, educated and formed to modern society, discovered a fitting role and a fresh utility. And it would be that long, at least, before white Americans, South and North, agreed upon how much living space to cede.
A hard road stretched before all of them, black or white. But it would not be as hard as the war, he told himself. Nothing could ever be as hard as that.
Tears bejeweled faces brown and black, and features twisted in joy. Formidable women gone weak petted his sleeves and men touched the hem of his coat, expecting miracles.
“Admiral,” Lincoln said to his flustered companion, “do you have any idea where we’re going? I don’t.”
“Don’t know the city myself, Mr. President. Never set foot…”
Lincoln turned to a colored man who had an intelligent face. “Know the way to Jefferson Davis’ house?” He had almost said, “President Davis.”
“Sure do, sure do. Every last soul know that house. You already going right, it just a stretch on.”
A dozen and more voices insisted they’d lead him to Davis’ house, as buoyant of spirit as if they were off to the Promised Land.
Edging in, Porter said, “Mr. President, I must fear for your safety.…”
The crowd had swelled to hundreds.
Lincoln smiled. “Reckon I’m safer here than in Washington.” He strode on.
The fuss increased. They had left the last burned blocks behind, and white faces, summoned by the celebration, appeared at second-floor windows to show disdain.
Fear, too.
The climb up the streets had set the admiral wheezing, but Lincoln’s problem was not with lungs or leg muscles. It was what to do next with this riven, expectant, stained, and striving country.
This was it. The end, or pretty near. Of an immense and agonizing effort. He thanked God for it as fervently as these Negroes thanked him. But with the wondrous relief came the suppressed worries, the nightmare doubts. There had been times when he wondered whether he might not be the monster the Southerners made of him, times when he felt drenched in gore, bathed in other men’s blood. How far did his guilt go for all of the suffering?
He had ably mouthed the arguments for refusing to let the country divide in two, from the need to defend those Southerners whose allegiance remained with the Union, through the wantonness of extending slavery to states whose populations did not want it, to the hypocrisy of bondage in a land that proclaimed freedom for all men. But none of the earnest arguments added up, not to a sum that justified such bloodletting. A logical man, a wiser man, in his position might have allowed secession to proceed, striving to limit the damage and pain of parting.
But logic had little to do with the stand he’d taken. He had acted on a mystic belief in the Union’s sanctity, a conviction he could not justify with law books, one that relied on a sense of justice, of the necessity of justice, above the common run. Even the word justice did not suffice. His belief in the United States was as blind as the faith of a Christian in salvation.
He had acted as he did, he had made this war, because he could not do otherwise. He had not been fitted for the choice forced upon him.
“Freedom! Hallelujah! Freedom!”
The Negroes did not walk, but danced beside him.
The city’s uncharred streets wanted paint and tidying, but peace would see to that. It stumped him, though, how folks took pride in very different things, some in a fine property, others in achievement, Mary in new curtains and good china—how the newspapermen had attacked her for trivial things amid war! He meant to make it up to her, after they left the White House, which was far too big for such a little woman. Too big for him, too. And too haunted.
He had meant to bring his son along on the day’s excursion, but had decided at the last minute to leave him back on the Malvern, watched over by the sailors. Mary could not bear another loss.
Pride, though. Pride, not slavery, had led a haughty South to clamor for war. That was what men did not understand: This struggle hadn’t been about black bondage, not at the start. Arguments over slavery served as the trigger, and the abolitionists had done their share to provoke friend and foe alike, but it was the pride of the South, not the Negro question, that stirred millions to violence. The war had sprouted from the planter class, whose members believed they were not only better than the Negro, but better than other whites, especially Northern “shopkeepers.” They had imported notions of aristocracy, of honor worn on the sleeve, better left behind. They valued indolence above honest work, wealth above rectitude, position above justice, and the horsewhip above the apology. The war had been made by “gentlemen” who had never chopped their own wood.
Those proud men had watched as the North passed them by, with Northern bankers holding their notes and Northern businessmen setting the price of cotton. They had let their fates slip from their hands and found they could not bear it.
They would have to bear it now.
The singing, weeping crowd surged past finer establishments, proud dwellings with heavy curtains and forbidding doors. The jubilation quieted a measure, as if dark-hued humanity still feared disturbing the master.
Well, he would do what he could for them while he remained in office, but he had no magic solutions, that was the truth. Nor would he drive the South to another war. It was going to take time, but everyone, on every side, would be impatient, he knew. Victory would unleash demands no president could honor, no wounded country sustain. And the South would be sullen and stubborn in defeat.
He wished he had a convincing plan. He’d learned to respect plans. Grant had had one, based on a clear-eyed vision. But Lincoln saw that his own decisions would have to be taken one after another, day by day, the stumbling improvisations of a blind man feeling his way.
And who would replace him, when it was time to leave Washington, time to go home and let others take up the burden? He wasn’t about to say it aloud—make too many enemies of men he was going to need—but he’d bet on Grant. The veterans would carry him in, they wouldn’t give him a choice. And while Grant didn’t seem to have much interest, it was obvious that his circle had ambitions.
Well, Grant would do as well as any other and better than most. If he wasn’t skilled at hoodwinking Congress—the primary job of a president—he possessed decency, even goodness. And Grant could lead men.
Lincoln only hoped that Grant’s supposed friends, those of his intimate circle, would not mislead him. Rawlins was fine, but the man was sick with consumption. And others … Babcock, Grant’s other pets … they were not all men to be trusted.
Leading his grand parade up the boulevard, Lincoln noted an elderly black man ahead, standing alone on a corner, erect and of serious mien, dressed in what Lincoln took for his Sunday clothing. The man’s rigor calmed Lincoln’s smile.
As the throng approached, the old man’s eyes sought Lincoln’s. There was no subservience in his gaze, only one upright man meeting another. The old fellow did not say a word, but removed his hat and placed it over his heart. Only then did tears escape him.
The president of the United States tipped his hat to a Negro.
* * *
A detail of cavalry clattered down the street toward the procession. The captain leading the horsemen stopped them short and leapt to the ground. He rushed toward Lincoln, saluting and almost tripping.
“President Lincoln, sir! We expected you down at Rocketts … General Weitzel’s apologies, sir. He’ll be along shortly, I’m sure.”
“No better way to see a city than walking, Captain. And you would be?”
“Graves, sir. Aide to General Weitzel.” The young man looked bewildered still. “You must’ve walked two miles, at least.”
Lincoln smiled. “I had good company.”
The sheath of the captain’s saber tapped the cobblestones. He seemed overwhelmed by his circumstances.
“We anywhere near the Confederate White House, Captain? Or have I been on a wild-goose chase with all of my new friends?”
“You’re almost there, sir. It’s just ahead. General Weitzel’s taken it for his headquarters.”
Lincoln thought about that for a moment.
“Good.”
* * *
The president wasn’t at all what Thomas Thatcher Graves had expected. He’d turned out of Clay Street to find Lincoln looking like the Reverend Dr. Scarecrow, leading the Children of Ham on a picnic outing. Then, in Jefferson Davis’ house, he’d sat down in the arch-rebel’s office chair, delighted as a child and grinning foolishly. Next, Lincoln had leapt up and run through the house, upstairs and down, opening closets and drawers and asking questions that seemed impossibly trivial. All in all, he’d had the air of a little boy on a lark—and not a well-bred one.
When General Weitzel arrived, the playfulness stopped. There were serious matters to discuss and—as if notified by a wizard’s telegraph—high-ranking Confederates begged for an audience. And the president had repeatedly to step outside and show himself to the multitude. Lunch was got up, after which the president asked to visit, of all places, Libby Prison and Castle Thunder. The general had taken him by carriage, with a proper cavalry escort this time, and Graves had been allowed to sit with his back to the driver.
He’d rather expected the president to be pleased that the vile prisons, which had been dens of torment for Union captives, now teemed with Richmond’s scrofulous sorts caught in acts of destruction and looting, intermingled with Confederate soldiers who’d been scooped up tardy, drunk, or just plain quits.
But Lincoln had grown somber. Inspecting Libby Prison—a filthy tobacco warehouse with bars added—he had stopped asking questions and done no more than putter about and nod to himself repeatedly.
Back in the carriage—and the fresh air—General Weitzel had asked the president for guidance about how to treat the vanquished population. In a voice that seemed not entirely present, Lincoln had told him, “I don’t have particular orders for you, I don’t want to interfere. Do what seems best.”
General Weitzel’s expression told Graves he had not found the president helpful.
But after pondering the matter, Lincoln added, “If I were in your place, General, I’d let ’em up easy, let ’em up easy.”
Eleven a.m.
Amelia Court House
Robert E. Lee could not credit his commissary’s report. He needed to judge the truth of it for himself. Leaving his staff behind at the edge of the hamlet, where Marshall had selected a headquarters site, Lee rode straight for the water tower that announced the rail line. Only Lieutenant Colonel Cole, his abashed commissary chief, and two couriers trailed him.
At the rustic depot, seven freight cars sat behind a slumbering locomotive. Longstreet stood beside the tracks, alone, looking as somber as Lee had ever seen him.
Lee dismounted, his action aped by the empty-handed Cole.
Longstreet said nothing. Nor did he salute. He only shook his head slowly, as if the barest movement caused him pain.
“Well, General?” Lee asked.
“Best look for yourself, sir.”
Lee walked to the first car and peered in the door. There were no rations. The car had been crammed with harnesses and saddles. He walked the gravel roadbed to the next car. It held artillery charges and shells, of which the army already had a surfeit. The next two cars carried identical loads. But Lee did not give up. He had to believe the mistake had not been complete.
The fifth car was filled with blankets, with perfectly new blankets that could have warmed his soldiers in the winter. The next car held enough pantaloons to outfit a division. The last carried more artillery shells.
It took all of Lee’s discipline not to weep. Beside him, the chief of commissary said nothing.
Strict of posture and stern of face, Lee returned to his First Corps commander. Longstreet looked stricken, even more so now than upon Lee’s arrival. As if the lieutenant general had hoped that Lee would see something other than he had himself, that Lee’s presence would work a wonder.
“A disappointment,” Lee said.
* * *
Lee read Marshall’s draft of the proclamation:
Amelia C. H., April 4, 1865
To the citizens of Amelia County, Va.
The Army of Northern Virginia arrived here today, expecting to find plenty of provisions, which had been ordered to be placed here by the railroad several days since, but to my surprise and regret I find not a pound of subsistence for man or horse. I must therefore appeal to your generosity and charity to supply as far as each one is able the wants of the brave soldiers who have battled for your liberty for four years. We require meat, beef, cattle, sheep, hogs, flour, meal, corn, and provender in any quantity that can be spared. The quartermaster of the army will visit you and make arrangements to pay for what he receives or give the proper vouchers or certificates. I feel assured that all will give to the extent of their means.
R. E. Lee, General
“That will do,” he told his military secretary. “But it must be copied swiftly and put in the hands of couriers. It must be carried in advance of the wagons.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The people will not let their army down.”
“No, sir.”
But the mood in the tent was glum. Lee turned to his chief quartermaster, summoned from his duty to help distribute the rations the commissary had failed to provide for the army.
“Colonel Corley, I must ask two things of you. First, you will empty additional wagons, all wagons not bearing essentials. You will send them to Colonel Cole, to join those assigned to the commissary detail. We must reach every farm and settlement. We must bring in all that the people may provide, and do it in haste.”
“Yes, sir. And the second matter?”
“Pare down the trains. Any wagons not critical to this army’s battle-worthiness must be dispatched on more northerly routes. They cannot further impede the army’s movements. Nor can we spare such lavish detachments of guards. Am I understood?”
Corley nodded.
“The artillery, too, will be reduced,” Lee added. “But that is not your concern.”
Still, there would be a thousand wagons, at least. Lee knew it and rued it. Even an army lean and lithe could not carry all on its backs or in its saddlebags.
When the quartermaster had gone, Lee addressed Marshall, Venable, and Taylor, whose labors let him administer the army. “I need to know precisely where General Ewell is now, if he has finished his crossing. He must not be dilatory. And I must know General Mahone’s present situation. Has his rear guard crossed? Has the bridge been burned, the pontoons broken up? Have those people pressed him yet?” He looked specifically at Venable. “Any more reports from our cavalry?”
“Nothing since the earlier message. Still sparring with Sheridan.”
“I can hear the ‘sparring’ as well as you, Colonel. I must have reports, coherent reports. Where are Grant’s forward elements? When will they close? Where are we likely to meet them? We are not at sport, gentlemen.”
No one dared speak.
Applying his cold fire to Marshall, Lee continued: “Communicate with Lynchburg. Before their scouts cut the wires. We must have two hundred thousand rations delivered by rail to Burkeville, they must be there in twenty-four hours. It must be done. I will not sacrifice this army to the leisure of supply clerks and railroad men. This inefficiency, this … this irresponsibility, is intolerable. And Colonel…” Lee could feel the force of his own glare. “There must be no confusion this time. Do you understand me?” He scanned the blanched faces, the sleepless eyes. “Does everyone here understand me?”
He left the tent. He was wrong, he knew, to chide them so. All had been used without respite, each of them did his best. But since he had walked that terrible line of railcars …
Longstreet rode up, a big man on a big horse. He dismounted heavily, hampered by his bad arm.
“Just heard Corley whipping up the teamsters. Thought I’d see if I should believe my ears.”
“And what have your ears told you, General Longstreet?”
“Corley’s sending out wagons, hither, thither, and yon.”
“That is correct.”
Longstreet’s eyebrows climbed beneath his hat brim. “Going to take time. Foraging. How long—”
“The good citizens will support us. They will provide what is needful.”
“Yes, sir. No doubt. But even if they do … we can’t expect those wagons, most of them, to come in before morning, not with anything in them. You know these roads. Grant will be all over us by then.”
Lee turned on him. “Do you believe I’m not cognizant of the risk? Is that what you suggest to me, General Longstreet?” He struggled to rein in his temper again, to discipline his voice. “What would you have me do? The men must eat. They must be fed, if we expect them to fight. If … we expect them to stay with this army.”
On the road, another increment of soldiers began its passage through the hamlet. Heth’s Division, in fair order. But they seemed so few. Even in the autumn, their strength would have been double what Lee saw. Spring was supposed to bring increase, flowering.…
