The Violent Peace (4 page)

“It's disgusting,” a woman said shrilly as the swing doors squeaked closed. “The President dying and men get falling down drunk.”  

The old timer cast a fearful glance at the spreading carpet of fire behind the bar counter and staggered across to the man sleeping beneath the table. Hoofbeats sounded out on the street as he prodded the sleeping form with his boot. The man grunted and snapped open his eyes.

“Come on, Henry,” the old timer said urgently. “Let's go home. Elmer won't be serving no more drinks.'

MIDNIGHT was long gone when Lieutenant George C. Carey rapped his knuckles on the door marked GENERAL MILTON K. DEAN - CHIEF OF MILITARY INTELLIGENCE.

“Come in!” the general said curtly and Carey complied, entering a large office with paneled walls and a floor covered with a deep-pile carpet. It was lit meagerly with a single oil lamp on one corner of a large desk. The desk top was littered with sheaves of papers, several unfolded maps, a photograph of the general's wife and another of President Lincoln: the latter not yet draped by the black ribbon which was visible beneath the glass paperweight.

The general, tall and thin, his head bald and the face beneath hung with slack, wrinkled skin, was just sitting down behind the desk as Carey closed the door reverently behind him and saluted.

“Your men are ready, lieutenant?” Dean demanded, touching his deeply scored forehead and then waving the junior officer into the chair before the desk.

“Yes, sir,” Carey replied brightly. “And anxious to leave.” He injected a mournful note into his voice. “Is there any further news from the Peterson House, sir?”

Carey was twenty-five and a war veteran. He had done a great deal of front line fighting in sixty-one and two before being wounded at Antietam Creek. Then he had been assigned to an army post in Indian Territory which was supposed to have been an easy number. And so it could have been, for a man willing to turn a blind eye towards his superiors’ trafficking in arms for the Confederacy. The efficient manner in which Carey dealt with the situation at the fort, severing a vital supply line for the Rebels, resulted in re-assignment to Army Intelligence in Washington, he served with as much distinction as elsewhere.

It was because of this excellent record that Dean had selected the young junior officer for such an important duty.

“President Lincoln is deteriorating fast,” the general said with a sigh, rubbing his weary eyes. “There is little hope. But the doctors think the Secretary of State will survive.”

Carey's lanky body stiffened in the chair and his good-looking face revealed deep shock. “Mr. Seward was shot, too?”

The general shook his head. “Stabbed. With members of his family at home.” He fixed the young man with a level stare. “And there's more, lieutenant. We have information that there was also a plan to assassinate Vice-President Johnson.”

“My God!” Carey exclaimed. “Mass murder. They're madmen!”

“Unreasoning men with an unreasonable motive,” Dean corrected. “Dedicated to the overthrow by force of the duly elected Government of the United States.”

“Confederates, sir?”

Beyond the confines of the dimly lit office, the city was quiet. Inside the paneled walls the silence was funereal in its heaviness. The general's chair creaked as he stretched out his legs, seeking to relieve the muscle ache.

“We know that many thousands - maybe millions - of supporters of the Southern Cause are disenchanted with the outcome of the war, lieutenant,” he said. “It was to be expected that anti-Union feelings would run high. But the tragic events of this night do not comprise a mere impulsive backlash against defeat.”

Carey leaned forward in his chair, aware that General Dean was reaching his point. All Carey knew so far was that he had been ordered to prepare a cavalry troop to combat readiness. He had surmised that he and the men were required to perform some duty in connection with the crime committed at Ford's Theatre.

“The violence in Washington is part of a well-organized plot,” the fatigued general went on. “Your troop is just one unit of law enforcement being deployed to track down the plotters and bring them to justice.”

Dean levered himself up and began to pace the room.

“But naturally,” he said to the eager-faced lieutenant. “Army intelligence desires to have the honor of capturing these men.” He altered the direction of his pacing and halted at the side of Carey's chair. His face as he looked down at the younger man was momentarily lit by the fire within him. “I don't merely desire it, Lieutenant Carey. I demand it!”

Carey nodded enthusiastically. “You can depend on me, sir.”

For a long moment, Dean was not entirely convinced. Carey was not much more than a boy, fresh-faced and innocent looking, as if he still had at least one hand firmly clutched to his mother's apron strings. But then the general remembered the young man's record and he returned to his chair and sat down with a sigh. His own record was far better, mainly because he had lived longer and been a soldier for more years than he cared to remember. That was the trouble. His record was a matter of history and the long years of making it had drained him of the energy to match his spirit. Now the army was filled with young men like Carey, literally fresh from the war: able to put into physical action the schemes and plans which wearied soldiers of Dean's generation had to work out.

“Very well,” he said, closing his eyes and massaging the lids with his thumbs. “Those are your orders - to track down the plotters. We have only one lead. This afternoon, an Englishman and three Americans were seen in the company of Booth. These same four were at the theatre tonight and left immediately the shot was fired. They entered a drinking establishment across Tenth Street and there lynched an innocent man after accusing him of complicity with Booth.”

“To try to divert suspicion away from themselves, sir?” Carey suggested.

“Perhaps,” Dean said reflectively, and made a motion with his hand to indicate the briefing was ended. “The four are front line activists, lieutenant,” Dean went on as Carey rose from the chair before the desk. “Remember, it's the men directing them we want.”

“Sir!” Carey acknowledged, slapping up another smart salute, and getting a weary response from the general. “You might as well know it,” the senior officer said suddenly as Carey reached the door, and waited for the lieutenant to turn to face him. “They might have murdered the man at the bar because they knew who he was.”

“Sir?”

“Ben Steele,” Dean supplied. “Unlikely you'd come across the name. He was a personal friend of President Lincoln. He was also a good friend to this department of the army and the Union army in general. “One of the best agents we had.”

ADAM Steele had never before cried as a man, and he considered he achieved adulthood at the age of twelve. But he wept a great deal on the trip south from Washington. For most of the way it was night and there was no one to see him. Then, when dawn broke, his emotions were exhausted, squeezed dry of the capacity to feel grief or express it. Those early risers who saw the lone rider on the bay gelding travelling with a body slumped across the horse in front of the saddle, veered away from him. For there was something in his upright posture, the set of his head and his unwavering stare to the front which warned against physical approach or even a verbal greeting.

He still had more than two miles to go when he caught sight of all that remained of his former home. Shafts of bright sunlight angling in low from the east pierced cruelly into the blackened ruin of the plantation house. The west wall still stood, more or less intact. And the stoop at the front was still there, littered with fallen masonry from the upper floors. But apart from this, the house was now no more than a pile of sooted stone and charred wood. And the vast fields around it, once the color of good Virginia soil or the seasonal hue of strong-growing tobacco, were now a single expanse of ebon and grey.

As the gelding crossed the northern boundary of the property, his hooves erupted small puffs of grey ash and black soot: the dry and useless residue of an act of mass hatred.

Steele noted fresh tracks in the fire dust, showing that a single rider had headed towards the ruined house not long ago. And if he had left, it had not been by the same trail he had arrived. Then, as Steele drew closer to the house, he saw a saddled horse hitched to one of several half burned upright posts which had formerly supported the stoop's wooden canopy. And a regular creaking sound drew his attention to a figure in a rocking chair further along the stoop. He recognized the lanky frame and lean features of Jim Bishop. As Steele reined his horse to a stop at the foot of the steps which used to lead up to the front door, the man who had been born on the same day as himself and who had been his friend since childhood, slowly stood up. Sunlight glinted, on the deputy sheriff's badge pinned to his shirt front. The garish shine emphasized the mournful dullness in his eyes.

“I heard they hung your dad, Adam,” Bishop said sadly.

He wore a revolver at each hip. His clothes were well-worn, but clean and neatly pressed. His pleasant face was clean shaven and only slightly dust marked by the ride from town. By contrast, Steele's appearance showed many signs of his long trip. His new clothes were dusty and creased and his jaw and cheeks were heavily matted with prickly bristles. He nodded and then slid from the saddle and turned his back on the deputy as he unfastened the rope which held the body in place. “You heard why, Bish?”
he asked.

Bishop stayed at the top of the steps, squinting into the rising sun. “The telegraph said they accused him of being part of the plot.”

Steele interrupted his work on the knots for a moment, to stare out over the blackened fields. Then he went to work again. “You know how wrong they were.”

Bishop's nod was unseen by his life-long friend. “Sure, Adam. If it was you they said was in on the plot, I'd maybe have to consider it could be true. But your dad and Mr. Lincoln were—”

“I was on the losing side, Bish,” Steele put in evenly. “I fought for the South and we lost. But we lost honorably.”

He released the final knot and eased his father's body gently down into his arms. The cape had hung over the bloated features during the ride, and he left it thus now as he turned to survey Bishop and the ruin behind the lawman.

“Some ain't so ready to forget and forgive so easy, Adam,” Bishop said with a sigh. “When word got out your dad was working as an agent for the Federal Government, there was no stopping folk coming out here to do all this.” He raised a hand and gestured to encompass the entire scene of destruction. “We'd have built it again,” Steele murmured. “When I was told what happened here, I had to try to heal the old rift with him. He wanted it that way, too. That's why we agreed to meet in Washington. We'd have forgotten the war.”

“Some things just ain't meant to be, Adam,” Bishop replied softly, dropping his hand so that both were hanging close to his gun butts. “You shouldn't have killed that bartender. They telegraphed me to take you in if you showed up. I figured you'd bring him home.”

“You intend to do it, Bish?” Steele asked, without provocation in either voice or gesture.

“You know my feeling for the law,” the deputy answered. “It's more important than friendship. But I don't feel too bad about putting you under arrest, Adam. You'll get acquitted, sure as the sun comes up every morning.”

Steele responded to the comment with a slight nod, then turned away. “Before I do anything else, Bish, I have to bury him.”

Bishop started down the steps. “Sure, Adam, you got to do that,” he agreed.

Steele led the way around the massive heap of burned out rubble and then angled away, towards the charred stump of what had once been a thousand-year-old shade oak tree. There was a mound close by, which had once been covered by close-clipped grass. Now it was just a hump of blackened earth. The picket fence around it and the cross which had marked it had been reduced to ashes. A spade, the handle charred but still serviceable, leaned against the tree stump.

Steele set down the body gently and eyed Bishop, who shrugged, somewhat embarrassed.

“Like I said, I figured you'd bring him home to bury him. I'd have started, but I thought you might have a special place in mind.”

Steele crossed and picked up the shovel. “I'm grateful to you, Bish,” he said. “Alongside Ma would be right, wouldn't it?”

“I reckon,” Bishop said.

Steele struck the ground hard with the spade and the powdery embers rose to release an acrid odor. But soon he had cut out a shallow trench and the clean smell of good earth was rising from the fresh grave. He worked hard and without rest until Bishop stepped forward and took the spade from his gloved hands. But the deputy was not allowed to continue for long before Steele reached out mutely for the tool. There was only one short exchange of words, and that as the sweating Steele ceased digging and looked up from the grave which was almost as deep as he was tall.

“Down enough, you think?”

“I reckon,” Bishop replied, squinting into the sun, which had risen well clear of the horizon, growing brighter and hotter by the minute. “Want me to hand him down?”

“I'd be grateful,” Steele replied.

Bishop wondered momentarily if he should have offered to try to make up a coffin from burned house timber while Steele was digging. But it was too late now. He lowered the stiff body of the old man down into the arms of Steele and the son arranged his father reverently on the bare earth. He had to use a great deal of strength to bend the arms at the elbows so that the dead man's hands formed a cross on his chest.

Then Steele gripped Bishop's extended hand and hoisted himself out of the grave. He avoided looking down into the trench until the body was completely covered by soil. Then he worked furiously to shovel the remainder of the earth into the grave, and formed a small mound on top with that which had been displaced by the body. He neither asked for nor seemed to expect help in the easier work of filling in.

“You want to put some kind of marker on him, Adam?” the young lawman asked as Steele hurled away the spade and surveyed the result of his labor.

“You think they'd leave it in place?” Steele asked.

“Guess not,” Bishop replied sadly.

“But I'll say a prayer for him,” Steele said.

Bishop nodded and took off his hat as he moved to the other side of the grave. Steele kept his on as he sank to his knees, beside the low pile of fresh earth. He searched for something in his pockets, seemed not to find it and then bowed his head over clasped hands. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. For some time he kept his eyes tight closed, but then he cracked them to maintain a furtive watch on his childhood friend. Bishop saw the shimmer of sunlight on tears through the cracked lids and sensed a sudden tension in Steele's kneeling body. He let go of his hat with one hand and splayed his fingers towards the butt of the Colt on his right hip.

“Don't try it, Bish,” Steele warned coldly.

His left hand remained in an attitude of prayer. His right swiveled forward and became formed into a fist, fingers curled around the butt and trigger of the derringer.

“I've got my duty to perform, Adam!” Bishop rasped angrily, hurt rather than frightened.

Steele nodded. “So have I,” he replied, easing to his feet, ever watchful of the man on the other side of the mound. “One down and four to go. Don't make me make it five.”

Bishop tried to sound nonchalant, but kept his hand well clear of his gun. “You won't kill me, Adam. We been friends since we swum in the creek together before we could walk.”

“You know what they say about blood being thicker than water, Bish. It goes even for old blood and old water.”

Bishop put on his hat and a mixture of resignation and sadness showed on his open face. “You light out, Adam, I'll catch up with you,” he said.

“I guess we're both experienced grave-diggers, Bish,” Steele allowed. “But one a day is enough for any man. Drop the gunbelt. Another time and another place, uh?”  

The deputy's movements we're slow and careful as he unbuckled his belt and allowed it to drop heavily to the ground. “Any time, any place,” he promised.

“Round to the front,” Steele instructed, motioning with the gun for Bishop to lead the way back to the stoop.

The sun was nearing its noon peak and was very hot as Steele finished tying Bishop to the rocker, using the rope which had held his father's body on the gelding. He hooked the deputy's gunbelt over a charred upright. Then the two men surveyed each other with an almost complete lack of emotion: but in each pair of eyes there was room for a small degree of remorse.

“Wasn't much saved, Adam,” Bishop said, breaking the long silence which had held since the last word spoken at the graveside. “But I found something while I was poking around – waiting for you.”

Steele looked at him quizzically and saw him nod towards one end of the stoop. He moved slowly in the direction indicated and stopped short when he saw the rifle resting against a piece of fallen masonry. He looked back towards the figure bound to the chair.”

“Guess your dad was proud of it,” Bishop called. “You might not be.”

Steele picked it up. It was an unusual weapon - a Colt Hartford 36 sporting model: a six-shot revolving percussion rifle, .44 caliber. The barrel was covered with soot and the rosewood stock was slightly charred, but the action worked smoothly. It was fully loaded. As Steele ran a gloved hand over the stock, he wiped soot from a narrow gold plate screwed to the wood. The inscription was in a flowing script: To BENJAMIN P. STEELE, WITH GRATITUDE - ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.

“Thanks,” Steele said as he turned and strode towards his horse. He slid the rifle into the boot. “It's a nice gun, no matter who bought it.” He swung up into the saddle.

Bishop squinted into the sun. “I could die out here like this.”

“I'll shoot you if you like, Bish,” Steele offered. “But I haven't got the time to bury you.”

The deputy stared hard at the impassive sweat and dirt streaked face of the man on the horse and realized he meant what he said. He swallowed hard. “I'll take my chances.”

Steele nodded. “Where there's life, there’s hope, uh!”

“For me, Adam,” Bishop replied sourly. “But not for you. I got my orders to bring you in. And I aim to carry them out. The law's the law. You're making a mistake, Adam. As bad as the men who lynched your dad. Law's got to be carried out by duly-elected officers else it ain't no law at all.”

Steele didn't seem to be listening to Bishop. “I'm grateful for the gun,” he said as he kneed his horse away from the stoop, facing him towards the south-west.

“No matter where you go, I'll be in back of you,” Bishop promised.

Steele nodded. “That's good, Bish,” he said softly. “When a man's got troubles, he needs a friend to stick by him.”

Bishop's expression showed hate and his voice quivered with soft venom. “Our friendship ended when you pulled that gun on me.”

Again, Steele was not listening. He heeled the gelding into a walk, then into a canter. He looked back only once, and this towards the two graves, one old and one new. Soot and dust billowed higher as he drove the horse into a full gallop across the burned-out fields of the plantation.

Bishop craned his neck and watched the rider until he was out of sight, the clearly-marked tracks pointing out the direction of his flight with the clarity of marker arrows. Then the deputy glanced sourly at the broiling sun before staring into the heat shimmer behind which lay the town. Sweat beads oozed from his pores and he wondered how long the sheriff would wait before sending out to see what had happened to him.