Читать книгу Anything But Civil - Anna Loan-Wilsey - Страница 14

CHAPTER 6

The next morning, I took an early walk before Mass down the entire length of Main Street. My boots clicked on the dry boardwalk and, like a pioneer, I made a new discovery with every bend in the road. This downtown thoroughfare, just wide enough for two carriages to pass, was level but, unlike the straight main streets of most Middle West towns, snaked around for almost a mile, parallel to the original path of the river. With the sun not yet above the three- and four-story buildings that lined the road like a continuous wall of red brick, I was walking through a tunnel punctuated with colorful wooden awnings. At each crosswalk, I’d emerge where I could see the river or the bluffs above. But gazing at natural wonders would have to come later, I was here to peek at the shops: Henning’s bakery, Geo. Young’s books & stationery, Grumme’s confections, the Fair Store, the St. Louis Department Store, Barry Bros. Dry Goods, Siniger & Siniger’s Drugs, LeBron and Son, Jewelers, Killian’s fine groceries, Kuhn’s Meat Market, and my favorite, Mrs. Edwards’ Millinery. Fortunately for me with my extra Christmas duties, Main Street still reflected the wealth and prosperity of the town’s heyday of productive lead mines and steamboat traffic. I’d be able to find anything I needed.

So what? Christmas is already spoiled.

The thought popped into my head as I stood in the same spot I had occupied the night before. After my walk down Main Street, I’d crossed the footbridge and strolled through Grant Park. The park was vacant, of people and of evidence that anything extraordinary had occurred. Another dusting of snow had fallen in the early morning hours, enough to cover any traces of last night’s mob. I brushed away the snow from a bench and sat down, setting my plant press on my lap to keep it dry. In the few weeks I’d been in Galena, I had only found two new specimens for my plant collection, red-osier dogwood, with its bright red branches, and blue ash twigs with winter buds. I’d gotten spoiled in Eureka Springs, where I had collected something new almost every day. But it was too cold here to find almost anything that wasn’t dead, brown, and shriveled up. So I had given up bringing my plant press along on my hikes. But today I’d brought it along as a case of false optimism. For despite the exciting day I had planned ahead of me, a melancholy had taken hold of me during the night. I’d barely slept. I looked out across the river valley to the town of redbrick buildings on the bluffs built from where the water’s edge used to be. Without the slightest breeze, smoke from chimneys and smokestacks rose unwavering straight up into the sky.

What’s wrong with me? I wondered.

Images of Captain Henry Starrett came to mind, his mocking of Sir Arthur, his brutal attack on Mr. Jamison in the street and then on the man’s house, all in the name of a “night’s entertainment.” Men had been injured and insulted and yet all I could think of was that Santa Claus wasn’t who we thought he was. The Santa Claus of my childhood had given me the book I’ll treasure forever. With her inscription inside it, he had given me back my mother, for an instant. He was the Santa Claus who with every glimpse of him on a card or in a newspaper or in a church hall filled me with the hope of recapturing the magic, peace, and love of that Christmastime almost twenty years ago. I’d been excited about planning the Christmas festivities, but seeing a version of Santa Claus be so cruel had put a damper on my exuberance and had made me wonder if I’d ever enjoy Christmas again.

How absurd, I thought, having felt sorry for myself when Mr. Jamison was the one who deserved my pity. Captain Starrett wasn’t Santa Claus. So why should he ruin my Christmas?

I felt immensely better. I stood, shook the snow off the hem of my dress, straightened my hat, and headed back across the bridge toward Sir Arthur’s house to change for Mass at St. Michael’s.

“You’re going back to the general’s house, Hattie.” Sir Arthur waved a simple gold-bordered white card in one hand and his cigar in the other. “Starrett sent word that he’s ready to talk again, now. So you’ll have to go without me.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment.

I’d planned to attend the G.A.R.-sponsored home tour. I’d raced back from St. Michael’s, changed into a less formal day dress, and fetched a pencil and tablet of paper from my room before meeting Sir Arthur and Lieutenant Triggs in the foyer. I’d been especially looking forward to seeing the late Dr. Kittoe’s greenhouse.

“Take down everything Starrett feels up to talking about,” Sir Arthur said. “You know the topics I’d like him to cover, including the Custer question. I look forward to reading the material tonight.”

“Starrett?” Lieutenant Triggs asked, surprised.

“Not to worry old chap, I’m not talking about the brute but his father, General Cornelius Starrett of the Army of the Cumberland, Fourth Corps. I’m interviewing him for my book. You saw him at the G.A.R. meeting, I believe.”

“Well, I’ll be. So that was him? My brother served with the general at Missionary Ridge, though he was Major Starrett then. Had nothing but praise for the great soldier. Amazing he’s the sire of . . .” Morgan Triggs didn’t finish his thought. He didn’t have to. “I didn’t know the general was living here.”

“Well, come along after the tour then if you’d like. Bring Mrs. Triggs too if she’s up to it. I’ve been invited for tea.” Only Sir Arthur would invite two additional guests to someone else’s tea. Sir Arthur looked at his watch.

“Right!” he said. “It’s time to go.”

The tour, arranged by the G.A.R. weeks ago for Sir Arthur during his visit to Galena, began and ended with U. S. Grant’s homes, with several of Galena’s other famous men in between, including the former homes of General John Rawlins on Hill Street, Dr. Edward Kittoe’s on S. High Street, the statesman Elihu Washburne’s former home on Third Street, an impressive Greek Revival house that had appeared in Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, and General William Rowley’s on Park. At each home, the Union Army veterans’ group had arranged someone to show the tour group around and answer any questions Sir Arthur might have.

While he was still a clerk in his father’s leather-goods store in 1860, Grant and his family lived at 121 S. High Street, a modest brick house, only a block from Sir Arthur’s rented home. After his triumphal return in 1865, the people of Galena presented Grant with a beautiful Italianate brick house high on the hill overlooking Galena from the east side of the river. Although Grant had died seven years ago, the home was still owned by his children, who on this occasion allowed the caretaker to show the G.A.R. members and Sir Arthur around the house. So the tour was to begin with Grant’s more humble beginnings on one side of the river and finish in the grand home on the other side.

I followed Sir Arthur and Lieutenant Triggs out the door as Sir Arthur questioned the lieutenant about his brother’s experience with General Starrett. The two men carried on a lively conversation as they waited, while I unobtrusively took notes. The only exception was when Sir Arthur asked Lieutenant Triggs if he knew anything about Captain Starrett, the general’s son.

And I thought Sir Arthur didn’t want anything more to do with the man?

Lieutenant Triggs spit on the ground.

“That’s what I think too,” Sir Arthur said, laughing at his friend’s reaction as two Rockaway carriages arrived with Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook, his hair as tousled as last night, as if he hadn’t combed it in days, and two other men I remembered seeing at the G.A.R. meeting but was never introduced to. Lieutenant Triggs smiled and waved to me as they pulled away. I tentatively waved back, before heading down the Washington Street stairs.

The lieutenant’s reaction puzzled me. Why would Morgan Triggs spit at the mentioning of Captain Starrett’s name? I didn’t think Triggs even knew the man.

After crossing the river at the Green Street Bridge and traversing the park, I approached the scene of last night’s pandemonium, the home of Enoch Jamison, the so-called “copperhead,” on my way to General Starrett’s home. Hoping to go unnoticed, I stood behind a delivery cart, piled high with crates labeled: Martin Dairy, stopped in the road across the street. Except for the trampled, muddy lawn and two rhododendron bushes that looked as if someone had bedded down for the night in them, the home showed little evidence that anything had occurred to disturb its peace last night. The walls and windows, last night streaked with egg and rotten vegetables and other filth, had already been cleaned. The broken window was boarded up and the glass cleared away. As the milkman returned carrying two empty milk bottles, Enoch Jamison’s door opened. But instead of Mr. Jamison, the man who stepped out was young, only a few years older than me, bespectacled, short, and pudgy. I wouldn’t have given him a second glance except that the man wore a black suit that had gone out of fashion ten years ago. It was so faded it appeared perpetually covered in dust. And on his head was a dented foot-tall black stovepipe hat. In an unladylike manner, I stood staring, even after the milk cart pulled away and the man walked down the street in the opposite direction. I hadn’t seen a stovepipe hat like that in years.

“Come in,” someone said. “Ah, here she is,” the general said when I opened the door. “Sir Arthur said you’d be on time.”

The old general was seated in a rocking chair near the fire. He indicated a chair across from him. “Ready?” he said enthusiastically, smiling and rubbing his hands together. He lit his pipe as I retrieved my notebook from my bag, flipped to the last entry, and sat poised to take down his every word.

“As I was saying when my son interrupted us yesterday, reveille was at 0500 hours. Grant was already up and complaining of a headache. The general had received a message from Lee the night before requesting a meeting at 1000 hours the next day, but at 1150 that morning we were only about four miles west of Walker’s Church. . . .”

It was as if he were recounting the events of the day before. Every detail, every thought, every emotion from that day almost thirty years ago had been stamped on his memory like a photograph. Twice I had to scramble to catch up with the dictation, having been mesmerized by the general’s story.

“. . . Lee, with his man Marshall, and Babcock had arrived first and were waiting for the general in the home of Wilmer McLean. Funny one that McLean. Claimed that the war began in his front yard and ended in his front parlor!” The general burst into a fit of laughter that turned into coughing. He waved me away when I rose to help. “Doggone it! I hate getting old. Now where was I?”

He stared up at the ceiling for a moment. I followed his gaze to the wallpaper border of brown deer leaping through a swirl of olive and blue–colored leaves, flowers, and birds. A cobweb stretched across the corner above the general’s head.

“Oh, yes, I remember,” he said. “We arrived in Appomattox Court House around 1300 hours. Grant had us wait outside on the front lawn while he went in to meet Lee. I whittled two sticks to straws I was so anxious waiting until he summoned us. Hats in hand, we entered quietly and arranged ourselves on either side of the large parlor room. I’ll never forget what a contrast those two made. Grant, short, in his rough traveling suit, without a sword, and with barely any insignia, was sitting in the middle of the room, at a small oval table. Lee, a tall, commanding man, was wearing a new uniform and bejeweled long sword and sat beside a marble-topped table in the corner facing him. The silence was heavy, as if we entered a dying patient’s sick chamber. But then Grant said, ‘I met you once before, General Lee, while we were serving in—’ ”

A knock on the door interrupted the general mid-sentence.

“Oh, what is it now?” the general said peevishly. Adella Reynard opened the door.

“Oh, Papa, must you smoke that thing?” she said, waving her hand about to dispel the smoke from the air.

“What do you want, Adella? I’m about to dictate my story to Sir Arthur’s secretary,” the general said.

“I know that, Papa,” Adella said, kissing her grandfather’s almost bald head. “I wanted to give her something.” She handed me an envelope with gold foil trim. “Give this to Sir Arthur, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” I said.

“What is it?” General Starrett asked.

“It’s an invitation for tomorrow night.”

“Oh,” General Starrett said, raising his pipe to his lips.

“Now don’t let him talk too long, Miss Davish. He tires easily,” Adella said as she plucked a book from the shelf, A Woman’s Trip to Alaska, and then made for the door. She waved her hand in the air again. “And do put that pipe away, Papa.” As the door closed behind the young woman the general shook his head, then smiled.

“Means well, that one,” he said. He lifted his pipe slightly away from his lips.

“Do you really not mind the smoke, dear girl?” he asked.

“Actually, the smell of a pipe is sweet and pleasant. My father smoked a pipe.” I knew better than to completely contradict Sir Arthur and mention my abhorrence for cigars.

“Sir Arthur’s right. You are a treasure,” the general said, and then took a long puff. “Now where was I?”