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Authors: Thomas Fleming

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“Major Stapleton, I resent your imputation of cowardice. I resent it deeply!” Otis cried.
Dorothy Gentry was breathless with anticipation. “Are they going to fight a duel?” she asked.
“I'm not imputing cowardice to you, Captain,” Paul
said. “On the contrary, I'm paying you the compliment of suggesting that beneath your fanaticism, there exists a fragmentary common sense.”
He was chewing chicken and potato salad, drinking cider. He was alive and Jeff Tyler was dead. Killed by northern bullets, fired by men from Indiana, perhaps. Men who had no quarrel with southerners, unlike the maniacs from New England who had started this war by poisoning the country's mind against the South.
“Men with no principles, Major,” Otis said, “are quick to call a man a fanatic because he stands for something.”
“My test of a fanatic is simple, Major. If his so-called principles lead to bloodshed on a colossal scale and he doesn't recoil, doesn't even show a shiver of regret, that man is a fanatic.”
Paul realized he had been aching to say this to Otis for a long time. Was Jeff Tyler's spirit speaking for him? Otis's mouth worked convulsively. “How can a man wearing the uniform of the United States Army say such things?” he said.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Henry Gentry said. “Remember we must work together.”
“You're right, Colonel. Have you told Captain Otis of the likely fate of Sergeant Washington?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think of it?”
“I regret to say he deserves a court-martial and severe punishment,” Otis said. “We can't tolerate blacks attacking civilians, for any reason. If we ever hope to civilize these people, they've got to learn respect and obedience.”
“Is that how you're going to treat them when they come to Massachusetts? Sounds like it won't be much different from slavery,” Paul said.
It was not the first time Otis had betrayed a visceral
dislike of blacks. Colonel Gentry, who had gone to Harvard, had told Paul the attitude was not unusual among the Yankees.
“You don't want to protest? Write to your favorite Republican senator or congressman on Washington's behalf? Or maybe to Harriet Belcher Stovepipe suggesting she produce a novel about him?”
“I have very little political influence,” Otis said in a dwindling voice. “I'm not acquainted with Mrs. Stowe.”
“Well, at least you're on your feet again. You'll have to command the troop for a few days. I'm going to Kentucky to hear Janet Todd sing ‘Dixie.' I trust I have your permission, Colonel Gentry?”
“I don't think the captain is well enough to mount a horse,” Gentry said. “But we'll manage.”
Paul gulped the rest of his cider, excused himself, and retreated to his room. He took Jim Kinkaid's letter out of his shirt pocket and read it again.
Doesn't this prove something?
a voice whispered. It was not his Gettysburg wound. It was outside his aching head, somewhere in the hot still room.
Jeff Tyler was sitting on his bed, his face a battered mess. He had just fought a bout with hooknosed burly Duane Brainerd of Connecticut, one of the most outspoken abolitionists in their class. Brainerd had remarked that owning slaves was impossible for a man of honor. Jeff regarded it as a personal insult and challenged him to a midnight meeting.
The stairwell and corridors were crammed with cadets in various states of undress. In Brainerd's room, they had moved out all the furniture. He was waiting with his second in a candlelit corner. Paul, as Jeff's second, took up a position in the opposite corner.
Brainerd attacked with a bludgeoning flailing rush. Jeff kept him at bay with jabs and quick combinations.
He bloodied the big Yankee's nose and blackened one of his eyes. But it soon became clear that Jeff lacked the strength to knock Brainerd down or out.
Eventually Brainerd got Jeff in a corner where his boxing skills and his courage did him little good. A terrific blow to the side of his head sent him crashing into the wall. From there the fight became a nightmare. Brainerd knocked Jeff down repeatedly. A final roundhouse right smashed him to the floor and Paul flung a towel into the center of the room, signifying defeat.
Paul lifted Jeff to his feet and he held out his hand to Brainerd. “You've beaten me, Brainerd. But I hope I've shown you I'm no coward,” he said.
“You've only shown me you're mentally degenerate,” Brainerd said. “I have no interest in shaking hands with you.”
“Mr. Brainerd,” Paul said. “Either you shake hands with Mr. Tyler immediately, or I'll be forced to fight you.”
“When do you want to fight, Stapleton?” Brainerd asked.
Paul stripped off his tunic and shirt and stalked to the center of the room. He was taller than Brainerd and about the same weight. His brother Charlie had taught him to box at an early age. When Brainerd rushed him, Paul dropped into a crouch, stiffened him with a left jab, and demolished him with a right hook. Brainerd staggered to his feet only to find himself on the floor again seconds later. Three more knockdowns and his second threw in the towel. This time the groggy Yankee agreed to shake hands with Jeff Tyler.
Back in their room, Paul applied ice to Jeff's swollen face. “Doesn't this prove something?” Jeff asked, smiling up at him. “Doesn't it prove if the right people in the North stand with the South, we can defeat these fanatics?”
Major Stapleton looked dazedly around his Indiana bedroom. Thick tears slid down his face. He licked their salt taste on his lips.
Doesn't this prove something?
the voice whispered.
Dear Henry:
Your letter hit me hard in my tired spot. By the time I finished reading it, I was ready to announce I've decided not to run for reelection. Then I rallied a little and thought: maybe this is what God (or the doctor) ordered for me. I was about ready to give up on myself before I got your epistle of doom. I started thinking of answers to your lamentation. The next thing you know I was almost cheerful, in spite of getting handed Grant's latest casualty list. My God how that fellow devours men! But he's killing almost as many rebels—and we've got a big edge on them in the manpower department.
Grant's got the basic idea of this war down pat. You can't win it without killing people. All the other generals wanted to win without spilling too much blood. I freely admit I started out the same way. But now that the war's killed a half million. I've stopped. Maybe I'm turning into Genghis Khan. But I don't think so. I've just stopped hoping to save lives. It's out of our hands, Henry. This whole thing has been out of our hands for a long time. God is running this colossal show. He's placed a terrible curse on this once happy country. I can't think of any other reason for it but slavery. It must have been an abomination in His eyes for a long time.
I know you'll tell me that argument don't scour. There are slaves in the Bible. I can see us getting
into one of our old fashioned brain wrestles, with you ending up calling me the slipperiest animal since God invented a greased hog. You were the believer, Henry, at least until you went to Harvard, and I was the skeptic who couldn't swallow God's goodness when we had so much death and desolation in our lives. My mother's death, for instance. Remember how long I took to get over that? Then came my sister's death for no reason any mortal could discern. But now that I've seen death on a scale beyond our wildest boyhood imaginings, I've developed a whole new theology.
I've been humbled, Henry. I've finally perceived the vastness, the inscrutability of God in his dealings with individual lives. We can't hope to grasp his purposes or his reasons. We can only glimpse the great wheeling deployments of his dark determinings. But we can glimpse them, Henry. In this job, where I make decisions almost big enough to imagine myself God's coadjutor, I've come to recognize my utter dependence on Him. Now I'm the believer and you're the naysayer. A funny turnaround. I guess I'm telling you that from here to the end of this war, we've got to march on faith, Henry, not reason.
If you want any hope of ending hatred in the heartland—and in the rest of the country—we have to win this war, Henry. If it ends in a stalemate, some sort of armed truce, then you'll see hatred fester on both sides to hitherto unparalleled proportions. In the North, South, West, all those who have lost sons and husbands and brothers will elect demagogues who'll bellow for revenge. In ten or twenty years we'll have another war and it will be a true holocaust.
That's why I've resolved to stop at nothing to win, Henry. Victory is America's only hope. In victory we can be magnanimous, we can restore not
only the geographical union but the union of hearts and minds that once bound us together. As for the blacks, I have no intention of giving the abolitionists an inch on their future. The Emancipation Proclamation was a promise I made to God before the battle of Antietam. If we won that battle, I promised to free the rebels' slaves. We won and I could not break that promise, no matter what people said. It was my first glimpse of God's purpose in this thing, Henry. There were some practical considerations to it, but placating New England was not one of them, I assure you. Let's not worry about the blacks now. We can deal with them after the war too. Strictly speaking we owe them nothing. A half million white men have already died to free them.
Victory, Henry, that's the only thing I want you to think about, to struggle toward. Anything you or I have to do to win this war is justified by victory's transcendent promise. Our reputations, our peace of mind, yes, even the salvation of our miserable souls, are mere tinsel in history's hurricane, compared to victory.
Your old and eternal friend.
Abe Lincoln
Henry Gentry sat in his cellar office, remembering young Abraham Lincoln. Especially remembering the way he confronted the large thoughts about God and destiny and human purpose that challenged his analytical mind. He wrestled with them exactly the way he wrestled with an opponent at a husking bee or house-raising or Fourth of July party.
Men came from Kentucky and a half-dozen surrounding Indiana counties to Keyport to see if they could throw Abe Lincoln. No one ever did. Afterward, no matter how dirty the man had fought, Abe would buy him a
drink and they would part friends. Could he do the same thing with the rebellious South? For a moment Abe swelled to mythic proportions, those long sinewy arms seizing the seceded states, from the southern border of Kentucky to the Gulf of Mexico, from the eastern border of Kentucky to the Atlantic. His even longer legs were planted like stupendous trees in the midwest earth. He towered against the northern horizon like a creature from folklore—or a nightmare.
“Henry … can I interrupt you?”
It was Colonel Lawson Schreiber, the man who had replaced Gentry as commander of Lincoln's Own. He sank into the chair in front of Henry Gentry's desk. Although it was around noon, in the cellar's dim light Schreiber looked spectral. He was close to being a usedup soldier. Gentry poured him two fingers of bourbon and limited himself to one.
“You look like a man with bad news.”
“We've only recruited ten men. I guess we'll have to take draftees. When's the next call?”
“In a week or so.”
“A drafted man's as good as useless in a fight. He looks for the nearest hole to hide in.”
“I guess you'll have to convince them there's no place to hide, Lawson.”
“I can't do that, Henry. I can't shoot runaways. I know their fathers and mothers—”
“I understand. I'll wire Indianapolis to increase our quota.”
A good man, Lawson Schreiber. He had married Amelia Conway Jameson's sister, Pauline. She had been almost as beautiful as Amelia. Pauline had died last year, some say of worry about her husband. Gentry had taken their daughter, Dorothy, into his house.
“How do things look from the front lines, Lawson?”
“It's become a test of whose devotion to the dead is stronger,” Schreiber said. “It's their dead against our
dead. But they don't have enemies slandering their dead the way we do. I think you should take a tougher line toward the Democrats, Henry.”
“They're my friends and neighbors too, Lawson.”
“I don't mean kill them. Just scare them enough to shut them up.”
“People like Rogers Jameson don't scare easily.”
“I'm glad that sergeant slugged him.”
“Speaking of the sergeant, would you consider taking him and his men into your regiment? I think I could arrange it with Indianapolis. It would seem sort of fitting for a regiment called Lincoln's Own—”
Schreiber shook his head. “The men won't fight beside blacks.”
“Why not? They're fighting to free them now.”
“The sight of a black in a blue uniform drives the Rebs crazy. They come after them like they want to drink their blood. Nobody wants to be near them on a battlefield. They consider them hoodoos.”
“I just thought I'd ask, Lawson.”
“What the hell is Abe going to do with them after the war? Has he given you a clue?”
“I don't think he has a clue,” Gentry said. “He's feeling his way in this thing, Lawson. It's between him and God, a lot of the time.”
“God?” Lawson said. “I seem to remember Abe didn't have much good to say about Him—”
“The war's changed that, like it's changed almost everything,” Gentry said.
“God,” Lawson said. He had once been very devout. Something about the way he said the divine name made Gentry suspect that the war had changed Lawson Schreiber's idea of God.
“Now Abe says we can't begin to understand His ways,” Gentry said.
“How true,” Colonel Schreiber said. “Let me know when we can expect the draftees.”
Schreiber's footsteps thudded up the stairs. Gentry began composing a telegram to the man in charge of the state's draft in Indianapolis. He was interrupted by a softer set of footsteps descending the stairs. A woman's voice said, “Henry—”
Amelia Conway Jameson emerged from the dim center of the cellar. She was wearing a green riding dress, with a mannish hat and a brass-buttoned coat over the flowing skirt. “Amelia,” Gentry said. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“I want to talk to you about something that must remain utterly confidential, Henry.”
“Of course.”
She settled uneasily in the chair in front of the desk. Anxiety clouded her hazel eyes as Gentry lit another oil lamp. He wanted to see her as distinctly as possible. She was still beautiful. The soft supple mouth had the same Cupid's bow curl in the upper lip. Her brow was still as high, as white, as on her wedding day. The only traces of age were lines of care around her eyes and a single wrinkle on her right cheek.
“It's about my son Robert, the one I call Robin,” she said. “He was twenty last week. That means he can be drafted.”
“His name will probably come up.”
“Robin's not a soldier. He's a dreamer, a poet. He's more my son than Rogers'.”
“I've sensed that, the few times I've seen him. But there's no need to fret about his safety. Under the law, you can hire a substitute for three hundred dollars.”
“Rogers says he won't spend the money. He says soldiering will make a man of Robin, like his brother Adam. I'm certain it will kill him. Robin's not a man's man like Adam. He doesn't get along well with most men his age. They call him vile names like Mary Jane because he prefers to read a book rather than shoot squirrels or drink whiskey—”
She struggled for self-control. “Rogers dislikes Robin because he's taken my part more than once when his father's abused me. I honestly think he'd like to see him dead.”
Gentry heard decades of regret in those mournful words. He struggled to keep his mind focused on Robin Jameson. “I'll gladly loan you the money,” he said.
“That would lead to more abuse—for both Robin and me. Rogers hates you more than ever now, Henry. He thinks you set that Negro sergeant on him.”
“What can I do?” Gentry asked.
“You have some influence in Washington, thanks to your friendship with Lincoln. Can't you persuade someone to take Robin's name off the draft list?”
“My influence is regrettably slight,” Gentry said. “Lincoln treats my letters as the ravings of a maniac most of the time. Anyway, the draft is run by the individual states. I don't think anyone from Washington would interfere.”
“Please, Henry! There must be something you can do. If he's drafted can't you get him assigned to duty as your aide—or someone else's aide, behind the lines?”
“There's only one way to do that,” Gentry said. “You'd have to give the government something valuable enough to persuade them to return the favor.”
Amelia looked bewildered. “What could that be?”
“You'd have to become an informer. On your husband. I know he's heavily involved in the Sons of Liberty. We'd want to know everything you can find out—by reading his mail, eavesdropping behind closed doors. In a word—betraying him.”
“Are you planting spies in other families this way, Henry?”
“Whenever I get a chance,” Gentry said. He could not believe the character he was assuming. The flinty-hearted spymaster, without an iota of compassion in his soul. Should he read her Lincoln's letter? That would be
a waste of breath. It was bad enough that he had Lincoln on the wall, gazing at them from the shadows.
“I have another son I love for his own virtues,” Amelia said. “He's heart and soul with my husband in this thing. If Adam found out I betrayed them, what would he think of me—of life itself?”
“When you start a war that kills a half-million people, you have to expect some retribution.”
“We didn't start this war. It invaded our lives without any consent on our part. Your friend Lincoln started it, if anyone did.”
“Adam will never know anything about it,” Gentry said. “You have my solemn promise on that.”
“But you'll have to tell someone in Washington or Kentucky to persuade them to help Robin.”
“I'll do my best to mask your identity. I'll name someone else in the family—perhaps Robin—if they insist on a source.”

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