Читать книгу Anything But Civil - Anna Loan-Wilsey - Страница 13

CHAPTER 5

“It was the greatest adventure of our lives,” a man with only one leg and a long, flowing white beard said. Every head in the room, with the exception of mine and Sir Arthur’s, nodded in solemn agreement.

“I’ll never forget the time I got up to water the trees in the middle of a moonless night,” the one-legged man said. “Just as I finished up and turned around, I bumped right into a rebel, I did. Must of been a scout or something. Well, I be damned if I didn’t pull up my britches and run as fast as I could go. I looked back once, trying not to get shot, and wouldn’t you know, the damn reb was running the other way!” He slapped his one knee and let out a loud guffaw, spreading laughter through the room.

What was Sir Arthur thinking, bringing me here? I wondered.

When Sir Arthur, Lieutenant Morgan Triggs, and I had arrived at the monthly meeting of the #502 Edward D. Kittoe Post of the Grand Army of the Republic, otherwise known as the G.A.R., heads weren’t nodding, but beards were wagging and eyes were raised. Women were not allowed at the meetings and my presence set the men, mostly feeble old men, into passionate complaints. But Sir Arthur had been asked to attend as a special guest, and with General Starrett’s assurances, for he was the Senior Vice Commander of the post, I was allowed to stay and take notes as long as I sat in the shadowed corner and didn’t speak. As the one-legged man’s tale attested, the men quickly forgot I was in the room at all. At least most of the men. In an attempt to shield myself from the coarse men, I vainly buried myself in my shorthand. It didn’t work.

“Who can forget the ‘horizontal entertainment’? ” another man added, chuckling.

Horizontal entertainment? I wondered as several men shouted, “Hear, hear!”

One of the men, with a scruffy gray mustache and several moles on his cheek, looked directly at me and winked. I dropped my gaze, tugged my hat down as far as it would go, and pressed my back against the wall. A moth landed on my tablet, methodically searching the paper for food. When I shooed it away, the man with the moles was still staring at me. I didn’t look up again.

After taking roll call, which I had dutifully captured in my notebook, the Post Commander, Lieutenant Colonel Issac Holbrook, a tall, elderly man with thick white hair that protruded from his head and ran in various directions, read the minutes of the last meeting, including a description of the “sham battle” the men put on for the town. He then reminded everybody of the “Great Men of Galena” house tour scheduled for tomorrow that was organized by the G.A.R. specifically for Sir Arthur, though everyone was invited to attend. Then General Starrett officially introduced Sir Arthur, who in turn introduced his guest, Lieutenant Triggs. The general had allowed Sir Arthur a few minutes to speak to the group. Sir Arthur described his purpose for moving to Galena and then asked if anyone was willing to tell their impression of the war. Contrary to his normal dominating personality, Sir Arthur never passed on the chance to live vicariously through men who had actually fought in the war.

“We had to walk fifteen to twenty miles a day, share our short rations of rancid bacon and hardtack with the worms, use our rifle butts to crush coffee beans, sleep out in the rain with only our coats to cover us, and yet we enjoyed ourselves capitally,” the old one-legged, bearded soldier said.

“Damn near got myself killed three times over,” another said, “but I’d have to agree with Rufus here. I had one hell of a time!” Unlike the other veterans, Lieutenant Triggs did not smile nor did he nod his head in response.

“But you were at war,” Sir Arthur said. “How could you describe your experiences with such joy?”

“I didn’t say it weren’t hell, Mr. Englishman,” the old soldier named Rufus replied. “A man’s not supposed to see his own leg tossed onto a pile of severed limbs like so much refuse or whittle away his hours between battles betting on how long a tick can crawl on a man before it bites him. No, it was war all right but if you’ve never lived through it, you have no idea what we here are talking about.” Sir Arthur flinched. The old soldier didn’t realize it, but he cut right to Sir Arthur’s one known vulnerability. He would’ve given his title and lands for a chance to experience the war as these men had.

“There’s a pride in it, sir,” a small, round-faced, spectacled man said in response to Sir Arthur’s open expression of bewilderment, suspicion, and hurt pride. “I know you are interested mostly in the big men that came from here, like General Grant or Dr. Kittoe, but for us ordinary folk, who never traveled more than twenty miles from home before the war, there’s a pride and a sense of importance in being a part of beating the rebs and keeping this country together.” A preponderance of head wagging followed.

“Yeah, we Union men stuck together, fought together, and lots of us died together. But those of us who lived, we can hold our heads up higher than before because we did what was right.”

“Unlike those Southern-loving rich folk!” one man cried.

“Or those lousy Southern-loving copperheads,” someone else added.

“I’d heard a certain segment of Galena society had ties to the South, especially those relying on the Mississippi River trade,” Sir Arthur said. “But I didn’t know there were copperheads.”

I’d learned about the Copperhead Movement while helping Sir Arthur with his first book. A Northern faction of the Democratic Party, they were called by President Lincoln “the fire in the rear” and by their enemies who hoped to stigmatize them like venomous snakes “copperheads.” Among other things, they believed the Union could never be restored by war and demanded peace at any cost. To undermine the war effort they were known to fight the draft, encourage desertion, talk of helping rebel prisoners of war escape, and take money from the Confederacy. Even unsuccessful efforts to organize violent resistance occurred. When the Union suffered losses, the movement had strong support. After Sherman’s victory in Atlanta, support for the movement waned and some movement leaders were tried for treason. Copperheads in Galena could’ve split the town apart.

“It sounds like living in Galena during the war was . . . complicated,” Sir Arthur said, in what I took to be a vast understatement.

“Oh, no, sir,” the round-faced man said. “Like General Grant once said, ‘There are but two parties now, traitors and patriots.’ ”

“Hear, hear, Charlie!” Rowdy applause erupted and several men slapped the round-faced man named Charlie on the back. Before the clamor settled down and Sir Arthur could ask another question, the door swung open.

“Who’s a traitor and who’s a patriot?”

“Henry!” a simultaneous cry went up as Henry Starrett was welcomed heartily into the room. Sir Arthur scowled. Lieutenant Triggs stared at the newcomer with an unreadable expression.

“You old rascal!” someone said.

“We heard that you were back.”

“Break any hearts lately?”

“Sink any ships lately?”

Men clambered over to shake Henry Starrett’s hand. I couldn’t shake the impression of ancient boys vying for Santa Claus’s attention.

“Now what’s this about a copperhead I’m hearing?” Henry Starrett said.

“The men were graciously answering questions for my book, Captain Starrett,” Sir Arthur said. “We weren’t talking about ‘a copperhead.’ ”

“No, actually, he’s right, mister,” Charlie said. “That’s one of the reasons your questions got us so fired up. There’s talk that Enoch Jamison is back in town, visiting his ailing mother for the holidays.”

“And who is Enoch Jamison?” Sir Arthur said, knowing full well he was the same man we witnessed being beaten.

“One of the most vile creatures to walk the earth, Sir Arthur,” Henry Starrett said. “Am I right?” The men began grumbling among themselves. “Am I right?” he said again.

“Oh, Henry,” General Starrett said. “Don’t be ridiculous. It was over twenty-five years ago.”

“Again, I ask,” Sir Arthur said, getting annoyed at his time being wasted. “Who is Enoch Jamison?”

“One of Galena’s most notorious copperheads,” the man with the moles on his cheek said. “He spent time at Fort Delaware for treason.”

“I believe he was honorably discharged, Mr. Groat,” General Starrett said.

“That was a mistake, sir,” Mr. Groat, the man with the moles, said.

“Yeah, some say he should’ve hanged,” Charlie added.

“Which is why he has some nerve showing his face around here again,” Henry Starrett said.

“Yeah,” a few men said in vague agreement as a middle-aged man with brown hair, a large, floppy mustache, broad shoulders, and big, muscular arms stood and made for the door. He shook a fist at Henry Starrett. In India ink, O.C.K. was marked on the back of his left hand. He was clearly angry. But why?

“Speaking of copperheads,” Henry said, glancing at the man in the doorway.

“Damn you, Starrett!” the man shouted before slamming the door behind him. More grumbling came from the group. Henry either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

“I think something should be done about it,” he said.

“Like pull the man from his buggy and give him a lashing in the street, Captain Starrett?” Sir Arthur said calmly. The room fell silent and all eyes were on Captain Starrett.

“That’s right, by God!” he said, slapping the back of the man nearest him. Chaos erupted. Several men jumped up and shook Henry’s hand while everyone spoke at once.

“Pulled him from his buggy?”

“Doesn’t he have a sick mother to tend?”

“Did you kill him?”

“Henry, you are a madman,” one man yelled, “but I’m sure Jamison deserved it!”

“Damn right he did,” Henry said, “and more if I have anything to do with it. I’ll have him regretting he ever came back to town.”

“Hear, hear!” several men shouted in approval.

“If I may,” Sir Arthur said, ignoring the growing tension in the room, “I have a few more questions for you gentlemen.”

No one seemed to hear Sir Arthur as the men all talked, almost shouting, among themselves, gesturing with their hands and canes.

“Order, order!” Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook shouted about the din. “We still have the newly purposed charity works to discuss.”

I quickly gathered my things and, being careful to stay out of arm’s reach of Mr. Groat, followed as Sir Arthur stomped toward the door. Lieutenant Triggs scrambled through the crowd to catch up with us.

“Order, order!” Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook shouted again. “Please, gentlemen.”

“Oh, where’s your fighting spirit, Holbrook? Let the old codgers have some fun.” Henry Starrett pointed to two men who were red faced and arguing over something I couldn’t hear. One minute the room had been filled with reminiscing old men and now it was filled with angry ex-soldiers who were eager for one last battle. How had Henry Starrett’s surprise appearance turned a routine meeting into a mob scene?

“Sir Arthur, please don’t leave!” Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook shouted. Sir Arthur, knowing he wouldn’t be heard without shouting back, and Sir Arthur never stoops to shouting, shook his head and waved. Lieutenant Triggs hesitated slightly and looked back once before leaving.

“Don’t forget. The tour starts at eleven,” was the last coherent statement I heard as I gladly followed Sir Arthur and the lieutenant out the door.

BOOM!

The house shook and I heard Mrs. Monday downstairs scream. The explosion was still ringing in my ears as I raced down the stairs and found the entire household congregating in the foyer. Sir Arthur was still dressed, but the Triggses, William Finch, and Mrs. Monday, a reed of a woman in her mid-sixties, were still in their robes, having been startled awake.

“What the devil was that?” Sir Arthur said. Sweat ran down Lieutenant Triggs’s face and he was shaking. He shook his head as his wife clung to his arm.

We followed Sir Arthur out the front door and looked toward a plume of smoke rising above Grant Park across the river. The street was filling with people as they poured out of their homes, most still in their dressing gowns and robes. I was happy that I’d been working late and like Sir Arthur was still modestly attired.

When Sir Arthur dismissed me after the G.A.R. meeting, I’d headed straight to my room to type up the meeting notes; I was too distressed to sleep. With that done, I had further tried to distract myself from the unpleasantries of the evening by starting a list of everything I could think of that needed doing before Christmas. I sat at my typewriter for an hour trying to recall everything I’d ever seen in magazines or read about in books, because that was the only place I’d seen the Christmas finery that Sir Arthur expected.

1. Arrange menus with Mrs. Monday for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day

2. Shop for presents for staff from Sir Arthur

3. Shop for presents from me

4. Cut down tree with Harvey

5. Buy greenery, hothouse flowers, bows, and ribbons

6. Buy ornaments, confections, walnuts, Brazil nuts

7. Make cornucopias, garlands

8. Decorate halls, mantels, tables with Ida and William

9. Organize games: snapdragon, charades, button, button, who’s got the button

The exercise had worked. I’d finally started to feel excited again about the upcoming festivities when the explosion had occurred.

“That was cannon fire,” a neighbor explained when Sir Arthur inquired.

“Well, bloody hell,” Sir Arthur said. We all strained to see movement in the dim gaslight that glowed over Grant Park. A crowd was gathering there too. “Finch, go get Harvey.”

“You wanted me, sir?” Harvey, the middle-aged groundskeeper and coachman, said. He stood only a few feet away. He was fully dressed but still rubbing his eyes. The cannon blast had aroused him from his room in the carriage house.

“Yes, Harvey. Bring the gig around. I want to see what all the commotion is about.” Harvey went back toward the carriage house. “Lieutenant? Care to join me? I’ll wait for you to dress.”

Triggs looked down at his wife and kissed her brow. “Sorry, Sir Arthur,” he said without his usual jovial tone, his wife still clutching his arm. “Too reminiscent of Vicksburg for my tastes.”

Sir Arthur turned to me. “Since you’re prepared as always, Hattie, fancy a midnight drive?”

Why not? I thought.

Within minutes, Sir Arthur and I were rumbling over the Green Street Bridge toward Grant Park. Since coming to Galena a few weeks ago, I made a stop at Grant Park a regular part of my morning hikes. Spanning almost two blocks of Park Avenue, it was a place of meandering walkways and strategically located benches, all with a superb view of the river, the bluffs, and downtown, on the river’s eastern bank. It was flanked on one end by a monument honoring the Civil War soldiers from Galena and a bronze “Napoleon” cannon marked with a deep impression of some past battle, and by a statue of Ulysses S. Grant on the other. Between the two was a lovely fountain installed last year by the Ladies’ Auxiliary of a female figure, on bended knee, elevated on a pedestal. Four nude cherubs, sitting on rocks, held shells aloft from which, had the fountain been turned on, water would spray. Its pool was empty but for last autumn’s fallen leaves. I could only imagine how pleasant a spot it was in summer. Even stark and cold, the park was a peaceful place that I often had to myself. Not tonight. We’d been right about a crowd. Dozens of people had gathered in the northwest corner of the park, near the soldier’s monument. And they sounded angry.

“Stomp on the copperhead! Stomp on the copperhead!”

Sir Arthur and I pushed our way through the shouting crowd for a better view. Sir Arthur stopped short.

“Astonishing. Isn’t that . . . ?” Sir Arthur said, speechless.

“Santa Claus,” I said, finishing Sir Arthur’s thought. He looked at me perplexed.

“Santa Claus?”

“I’m sorry. I mean Henry Starrett,” I said. Sir Arthur looked at the man in the fur-trimmed overcoat and fur cap standing next to the cannon.

“I didn’t see it before, but you’re right, Hattie. Captain Starrett does bear an uncanny resemblance to Father Christmas. But what is he doing?” The captain had climbed onto the cannon, which had been turned around to face Park Avenue, and was now straddling it as if it were a horse. He waved his cap in the air as the crowd clapped and cheered him.

“Do you think that got his attention?” Henry yelled.

“Again!” several in the crowd cried.

“It didn’t hit his house!” someone else yelled.

“Enough of this,” Sir Arthur said as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd and confronted the man on the cannon. “What is the idea, Captain, disturbing the peace like this?”

“Disturbing the peace?” Captain Starrett said as he deftly leaped down from the cannon. “We’re just getting started!” He stooped over and retrieved a sack that had been lying on the ground. He waved his arm above his head. “To the copperheads!”

Captain Starrett purposely cut across the park and crossed the street. The crowd followed. As I walked among them, I recognized many of the men who had been at the G.A.R. meeting earlier this evening. They held shovels or horse whips or carried sacks or pails filled with I knew not what. I was surprised to see that I was not the only woman, but the proximity of others of my sex did not make me feel more secure. Two separate women, bent upon staying with the mob, had heedlessly trampled a brown derby hat that lay abandoned on the ground. I stayed as close to Sir Arthur as was appropriate.

We didn’t walk far. The crowd stopped suddenly in front of a small, two-story redbrick house, with green shutters and a white, pillared portico, a block from the park. Henry Starrett reached into his bag and retrieved a large, rancid cabbage.

“Now!” shouted Captain Starrett, smashing the wilted, slimy cabbage into the front door. The cabbage slid down the length of the door, leaving an oily, putrid-smelling streak. Already at the edge of the throng, I instinctively took several steps back.

With that order, men and women shouted, laughed, and gloated as they bashed windows, trampled hedges, and volleyed eggs, rotten vegetables, and animal feces at the house. Even a man with one arm missing below the elbow lobbed tomatoes at the house, creating what looked like splatters of blood. It was horrible to watch and the stench was almost unbearable.

So why am I still here?

“My God!” Sir Arthur cursed from behind the handkerchief he held to his nose. “This is barbaric.”

Mere minutes had passed when, with the damage done, Captain Starrett held up his hand and bellowed, “Come out and face us, Jamison, you traitor, you coward!”

Jamison? Was Captain Starrett going to attack the man again? Hadn’t he suffered enough?

The mob miraculously fell silent and all eyes stared at the front door. Would he come out? The door slowly opened and a man took a firm step onto his porch. A rocking chair beside him was still swaying from the impact of a brick. With gaslight from the street and a few lanterns that swayed in the midst of the crowd, it was difficult to see the man’s face clearly. Then he raised a lantern above his head, casting light on both himself and his immediate foe. I gasped. The man’s face was swollen. One eye was circled by black and purplish bruises and his nose looked slightly off center. With the evidence of Captain Starrett’s savage beating written on the man’s face, I knew Enoch Jamison at once.

“What do you want?” Enoch Jamison said. He suddenly dodged his head to the side as a rotten potato missed him by inches. “Don’t have anything better to do than attack the home of a feeble, old woman? Cowards!” he yelled.

“Traitor!” someone shouted in reply.

“Go home,” Jamison said. “Go home and frighten your own wives and mothers with your savagery.” The man whom they had called a coward then turned his back on his attackers. “And Merry Christmas!” he shouted over his shoulder before slamming the door behind him.

“Astonishing,” Sir Arthur said as the crowd slowly dispersed. Some shaking their heads, others mumbling. Most seemed ashamed of what they’d done. Not Captain Starrett. He shook hands with anyone who would take his hand and congratulated them on a job well done.

“We showed him,” I heard Captain Starrett say over and over. What was he trying to prove? He had attacked the man physically and now had succeeded in terrorizing him in his mother’s home. But why? Because of a political stance Enoch Jamison had held over a quarter of a century ago? I didn’t think I would ever understand.

As the crowd dispersed, Sir Arthur approached Captain Starrett, who now stood alone in Enoch Jamison’s front yard.

“Why?” Sir Arthur asked, wondering as I had.

“Why what?” Captain Starrett said.

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“I can’t abide copperheads.” Captain Starrett shrugged. “Plus,” Captain Starrett said, slapping Sir Arthur on the back, sending my employer forward a few inches. “It sure beats the usual evening’s entertainment,” he said, laughing as he gathered up his belongings and headed toward General Starrett’s home a few blocks away. He whistled a strain of the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” as he went.

Sir Arthur stood still, his face flush with anger, watching until Captain Starrett was out of sight. I’d never seen anyone treat Sir Arthur with disrespect. And with the exception of his wife, Lady Philippa, I’d never even seen anyone touch Sir Arthur. Captain Starrett had done both in one day. I didn’t know how Sir Arthur would respond, but I knew better than to say anything.

“The impudence! The . . .” Sir Arthur was speechless with fury.

He stormed toward the horse and gig he had left tied up at the edge of the park, with me struggling to keep up. We rode back across the river and up the hill to Prospect Street in silence. Harvey was asleep on the step when we arrived. I envied his repose. I knew I wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight. Sir Arthur, after nudging Harvey awake with his foot, handed him the horse’s reins. A deep imprint of the porch banister Harvey had been leaning on marked his cheek. He rubbed it absentmindedly. As I stepped down from the gig, Sir Arthur turned on me with a pointed finger inches from my face. Startled, I took a step back, hitting my elbow against the rim of the wheel.

“I don’t care if he served as Grant’s aide-de-camp,” Sir Arthur said, turning then and stomping toward the door. “That man will not be mentioned in my book!”