How Few Remain (34 page)

“Certainly,” Richardson replied. Now that the black man had come within earshot, the adjutant was cordial enough. “Mr. Douglass,” he said, “I should like to introduce you to Colonel von Schlieffen, the German military attaché to the United States. Colonel, this is Mr. Frederick Douglass, the famous speaker and journalist.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Colonel.” Douglass’ deep, rich voice left no doubt why he was a famous speaker. He held out his hand.

Schlieffen shook it without hesitation. “And I am also pleased to meet you,” he said. He’d asked Captain Richardson to introduce him to Douglass, not the other way round. Had the captain assumed Schlieffen was of higher rank because he was a soldier or because he was a white man? On the other side of the Ohio, in the CSA, the answer would have been obvious. Maybe it was obvious on this side of the river, too.

Douglass said, “It is good to see, Colonel, that Germany maintains a friendly neutrality with my country despite the affiliation of the other leading European powers with our foes who set freedom at nought and whose very land groans with the clanking chains of oppression.”

Germany also remained neutral toward the Confederate States, a fact Schlieffen thought it wiser to pass over in silence. Instead, he asked, “And when you speak and write of this campaign, what will you tell your … your”—he paused for a brief colloquy in German with Captain Richardson—”your readers, that is the word?”

“What shall I tell them about this campaign?” Douglass repeated the question and so gained time to think, a trick Schlieffen had seen other practiced orators use. His answer, when it came, surprised the German officer: “I shall tell them it should have started sooner.”

Oliver Richardson scowled angrily. “General Willcox will have overwhelming force in place when he strikes the Rebels,” he said.

“And what force will the Rebels have—when he finally strikes them?” Douglass asked, which did nothing to improve Richardson’s temper.

“Knowing when to strike is an important part of the art of war,” Schlieffen said, in lieu of agreeing out loud with Douglass. A few sentences from the man had convinced him that Negroes, of whom he knew little, were not necessarily fools.

“As I happen to know, the general commanding the Army of the Ohio has informed Mr. Douglass that he has conceived his own understanding of when that time is,” Captain Richardson said, “and I am willing to presume that a career soldier knows more of such things than one who has never gone to war.”

“The United States have refused to let men of my color go to war, though we would be their staunchest supporters,” Douglass rumbled, his temper rising to match that of Willcox’s adjutant. Then he shook his massive head. “No, I am mistaken. The United States permits Negroes to serve in the Navy, but not in the Army.” He held out his hands, pale palms up, toward Schlieffen in appeal. “Colonel, can you see the slightest shred of reason or logic in such a policy?”

Schlieffen said, “I have not come to the United States to pass judgment on my hosts.”
Certainly not in front of my colleagues in U.S. uniform
, he added to himself.
What goes back to Berlin is another matter
.

“When the attack goes in, we shall see who had the right of it,” Richardson said. “After the attack succeeds, I trust Mr. Douglass will be generous enough to acknowledge his mistake.”

“I have acknowledged my errors many times,” Douglass said, “which is a good deal more than many of our career soldiers have done, judging by the memoirs that have seen print since the War of Secession. As for career soldiers’ knowing when to strike, was it not President Lincoln who said that, if General McClellan was not using the Army of the Potomac at the moment, he would like to borrow it for a while?”

Richardson rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to hold up Lincoln as a paragon of military brilliance—” His expression said what he thought of that.

But he’d misjudged—and underestimated—Douglass. “By no means, Captain.” The Negro took obvious pleasure in demolishing his foe’s argument: “But he seemed to have a better notion of when to fight than the career soldier in charge of that army, wouldn’t you say?”

Oliver Richardson stared. He turned even redder than heat and humidity could have accounted for. But when he found his tongue, he spoke in chilly tones: “If you will excuse me,
Mister
Douglass, I am going to take Colonel Schlieffen back to his accommodations.”

“I’m so sorry, Captain. I didn’t mean to keep you.” Douglass tipped his bowler, as if to apologize. His courtesy was more wounding than spite would have been. He tipped the hat to Schlieffen, too, this time, the German officer thought, with genuine goodwill. “Colonel, a pleasure to meet you.”

“Very interesting also to meet you,” Schlieffen replied. They shook hands again.

Douglass went on his way, his step jaunty despite age and imposing bulk. He knew he’d won the exchange. So did Captain Richardson. “Come on, Colonel,” he said sharply. A moment later, he muttered something to himself. Schleiffen thought it was
God
damn
that nigger
, but couldn’t be sure.

After a few steps, the military attaché asked, “If the United States let blacks into the Navy, why do they not let them into the Army as well?”

“In the Navy, they’re cooks and fuel-heavers in the engine room,” Richardson answered patiently. “Mr. Douglass is glib as all get-out, I grant you that, Colonel, but you can’t expect a Negro to have the courage to advance into the fire of the foe with a rifle in his hands.”

If
glib
meant what Schlieffen thought it did, it was about the last word he would have applied to Frederick Douglass. Richardson’s other point perplexed him, too. “Why can you not expect this?” he asked.

Patient still, Richardson explained, “Because most Negroes haven’t got the necessities—the spirit, the courage—to lay their lives on the line like that.”

“I think perhaps the Englishmen fighting the—Zulus, I believe to be the name of the tribe—in the south of Africa would about this something different say,” Schlieffen observed.

Richardson gave him the same stony stare he’d sent toward Douglass. General Willcox’s adjutant walked along without another word till they came to Schlieffen’s tent. “Here are your quarters, Colonel,” he said then, and stalked off without a backwards glance. As Schlieffen ducked his way into the tent, he realized he might as well have challenged Captain Richardson’s faith in God as his faith in the inferiority of the Negro.

Though coarse canvas hid the land on the other side of the river, the German military attaché glanced south, toward it. The men of the Confederate States held similar opinions. Did that make them right, or merely similar? With his limited experience, Schlieffen could not say.

He wanted to get another chance to talk with Douglass at supper that evening, but the Negro must have chosen a different time to eat or eaten away from the headquarters staff. If Captain
Richardson’s attitude toward him was typical, Schleiffen didn’t blame him for that. After supper, he decided not seeing Douglass might have been just as well. He himself still had to remain in the good graces of the staff, or he would not learn everything he wanted to know about the U.S. plan to cross the Ohio and invade the CSA.

He wondered if General Willcox was coming to regret having chosen to concentrate against Louisville rather than, say, Covington farther east. Bringing invasion barges down to Cincinnati would have been easy, since the Little Miami River ran by the town. The streams that flowed into the Ohio opposite Louisville—the Middle, the Falling Run, the Silver, the Mill—were small and feeble. Most of the barges came to them by rail. That that could be done impressed Schlieffen; that it had to be done impressed him in a different way.

The next morning, the Confederates started shelling the barges and boats that were being gathered. U.S. artillery promptly opened up on the Confederate guns. Schlieffen had already noted how many cannon the United States had brought to support their attack. Now the USA used the guns to keep the Confederates from disrupting it.

A considerable artillery duel developed. The C.S. gunners had to take on the U.S. cannon bombarding them, lest they be put out of action without means to reply. That meant they had to stop hammering away at the barges, so the U.S. shelling served its purpose. Schlieffen judged the United States had more guns here than did their foes. They did not put the Rebels out of action, though.

Schlieffen shook his head. The Confederate States were bringing men and materiel to Louisville, as the United States were on this side of the river. He didn’t think the CSA had as much, but defenders didn’t need as much, either. Had Willcox struck fast and hard two weeks before, even a week before, he might have had a better chance of carrying the town by main force. That wouldn’t be so easy now.

Men and guns and barges kept pouring into Jeffersonville and Clarksville and New Albany, though. When all else failed, numbers worked wonders. Orlando Willcox had numbers on his side. If only, Schlieffen thought, he would get around to using them.

* * *

Abraham Lincoln watched in fascinated wonder as U.S. troops marched into Salt Lake City from the north. The soldiers, some mounted, others afoot, tipped their hats and grinned widely at the flag-waving crowds who cheered their arrival. Down State Street they came, under the Eagle Gate at the corner of State and Temple. The wooden eagle, its wingspan more than twice as broad as a man was tall, perched on a beehive supported by curved iron supports mounted on pale stone posts. Though the Latter-Day Saints had erected it, and though the beehive was their symbol, its fierce beak and talons now seemed to symbolize the power of the United States.

Leaning over toward Gabe Hamilton, who was cheering as loudly as anybody else, Lincoln asked, “In all these people on the street, do you see a single, solitary Mormon?”

“Not a one,” Hamilton answered at once. “Not many Gentiles who’re missing, though, I’ll tell you that.”

Surveying the soldiers in their natty blue jackets, the metal-work of their rifles bright and shiny, the sun glaring off the steel barrels of the field guns that rolled along after a troop of cavalry, Lincoln was moved to quote Byron:

Gabe Hamilton clapped his hands together. “That’s first-rate stuff. And remember how it ends?

I think that’s how it goes. I know damn well that’s how the Mormons hope it goes.”

“True enough,” Lincoln said. “I am of the opinion that they are doomed to disappointment in those hopes, however. President Blaine, whatever else may be said of him, is not a man to take half measures, as we have seen in his recent conduct of foreign affairs. Having decided not to suffer the semisecession of Utah, he will aim to make certain such a mischance cannot occur again.”

A tall, handsome man with a fine gray beard came riding down the street on a gray gelding that was a splendid piece of horseflesh. The fellow’s coat was endowed with a superabundance of brass buttons; as he got closer, Lincoln saw that each of his shoulder straps bore a single silver star.

Though they had not set eyes on each other for almost twenty years, Lincoln and Brigadier General John Pope recognized each other at about the same time. Pope broke out of the parade and rode over toward Lincoln, the horse’s hooves kicking up dust at every step. “I heard you were in Salt Lake City, sir,” the general said, nodding. “Are you well?”

“Very well, thank you,” Lincoln replied. “I am glad to see the power of the United States return to Utah. It has been sorely missed.”

“Glad to see it even under my command, eh?” Pope might not have seen Lincoln since the War of Secession, but his glare made it plain he had forgotten nothing in all that time.

“Yes, very glad,” Lincoln said simply.

“You shipped me away from the real war,” Pope said. “You sent me off to fight redskins and gave my men back to the Young Napoleon, that lazy, pompous fraud—and look how much better than I he did with them.” No, Pope hadn’t forgotten a thing. His sarcasm was meant to wound, and it did. “But my duty is to serve my country in whatever place I am given, Mr. Lincoln, and I have done that duty. And so now I find myself able to liberate you along with the rest of this rebellious Territory. Strange how things come full circle, is it not?”

“General, you made errors during the War of Secession. I likewise made errors, and those far worse than yours, else the war should have been won,” Lincoln said. “If you believe a day has passed from that time to this when those errors were not uppermost in my mind, I must tell you, sir, that you are mistaken.”

Pope grunted. The soft answer, giving him nothing against which to strike, seemed to discomfit him. “Well,” he said at last, roughly, “I aim to make no mistakes here. I intend putting the fear of God—the proper Christian God, mind you, the God of wrath and vengeance—in these Mormons. They shall obey me or suffer the consequences. No—they shall obey me
and
suffer the consequences.” He gave a stiff nod, then kicked his horse up into a canter so he could resume his place in the military procession.

“Well!” Juliette Hamilton said, in a tone altogether different from General Pope’s. “Did I hear that man call General McClellan pompous? Has he looked in a mirror any time lately?”

Lincoln smiled at that. He thought she spoke to vent her own feelings, not to make him feel better. Paradoxically, that did make him feel better. His relief, however, was short-lived. A cavalry colonel with long golden locks and a fierce mustache gave him a look that made Pope’s seem mild and benevolent. The horseman kept scowling back over his shoulder at Lincoln till he was out of sight.

“Fellow doesn’t seem fond of you,” Gabe Hamilton remarked.

“No,” Lincoln said. Resignedly, he went on, “Not many who served during the War of Secession are, for which who can blame them? I can’t remember that man’s name, but he was one of McClellan’s staff officers. I wonder how he likes serving under McClellan’s rival now.”