IN THE HOT CLAUSTROPHOBIC DARKNESS of his room under the Gentry eaves, Paul Stapleton tossed in his bed. He kept seeing the dead Germans in their blue Union uniforms, killed by the Spencer repeating rifles he had bought in New York. He kept seeing the wounded blacks, murdered at Saltville because they too were wearing Union blue. He kept seeing Jeff Tyler in his grave outside Atlanta, the bloody gray uniform his shroud.
Above all he saw Janet Todd beside him in his bed. His love for her had achieved ultimate crystallization in his soul. The way she clenched her small hands when she disagreed with him, the stubborn way she bowed her dark head when he argued with her, the straight-backed way she sat in chairs and rose with an abrupt decisive motion, the mournful light that filled her blue eyes when she talked of the war, everything stirred overwhelming desire. He had no one to blame but himself, of course. He had cultivated this process; he had submitted eagerly to the growth of this exquisite mixture of pain and pleasure. He had wanted a love that was more intense than ordinary affection. Now it was destroying him.
It was the guns, the mixture of the guns and love, that was ruining his sleep. It was the image of the 15,000 repeating rifles flooding into Kentucky and Indiana. Those linseed-oiled stocks and gleaming rust-blued barrels and seven-shot magazines were transforming this amateur rebellion into a continental-size nightmare.
The ambush of the overconfident Germans was a
graphic glimpse of what Spencers could do. The shootup had been Rogers Jameson’s idea. He had not bothered to tell Gabriel Todd or Paul Stapleton about it. That was the way Jameson operated—with minimal regard for rank or courtesy. Paul suspected Jameson was concealing grandiose ambitions to become the president of the western confederacy, a man who would sit down as an equal with Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis to work out the destiny of North America. He saw himself as a latter-day version of his famous ancestor, George Rogers Clark. Already Jameson talked about the “Revolution of 1864” as if it were his personal invention.
Paul sensed that Gabriel Todd realized he had created a potential monster in Rogers Jameson but did not know what to do about him. Colonel Todd’s mind tended to operate in the abstract. Collisions with reality were difficult for him. More often than not, he retreated to his bottle. Paul had not met the other leaders of the Sons of Liberty, Dr. William Bowles, Judge Joshua Bullitt, and an Indiana lawyer named Lambdin Milligan, but he suspected they were similar to Todd. Abstract thinkers with only minimal ability to lead men.
That was how revolutions developed. The abstract thinkers started them and the men of action finished them. Rogers Jameson was not an elevated example of a man of action. George Washington he was not; nor was he even Andrew Jackson. Jameson’s ego was much larger than his brain. But a large ego can take a man quite a distance, when it was backed by 15,000 repeating rifles in the hands of infuriated young Democrats.
While pretending to ride out with Janet Todd to enjoy her company as a lover, Paul had been doing his duty as Gabriel Todd’s chief of staff. They had visited the colonels of Sons of Liberty regiments along both sides of the Ohio, where their numbers were thickest. All had told him with wide-eyed enthusiasm how the Spencers
had increased the ardor and confidence of their men. Janet would inform these excited gentleman that Colonel Stapleton (his Sons of Liberty rank) had been instrumental in obtaining the rifles.
Paul saw what she was trying to do. Janet wanted to build up him and her father as counterweights to Rogers and Adam Jameson if the western confederacy became embroiled in an internal power struggle. For the moment, that remained secondary to the rising hope that the rebellion would succeed. A coded message from Richmond reassured them that Judge Bullitt was arriving from Canada with a million dollars to pay the troops. That news too brought exultation to the lips of the regimental officers.
A number of the colonels were former Union Army officers who had resigned when Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation. They knew how to handle troops in a battle. They talked confidently of flank attacks and skirmish lines. They nodded knowledgeably when Paul traced their routes of march on a map of Indiana. Meanwhile, the calendar peeled inexorably toward August 28, the night they would gather for the rising the next day.
Other actors were moving into place. Confederate veterans were infiltrating Chicago with suitcases full of Greek fire grenades. Two Sons of Liberty regiments were supposedly inside the city, ready to support them. Chicago would be full of other Democrats, there for the national convention. They could be counted upon to back the Sons when they liberated the Confederate prisoners at Camp Douglas, just outside the city, and took over the metropolis.
At breakfast in the morning, Henry Gentry regarded Paul with a contrite expression. “Major Stapleton,” he said. “I can see you’re not sleeping well. I wonder if Lucy should give you back your bedroom.”
“No thank you,” Paul replied. “I’m perfectly contented with the room. It’s quiet. I’m sure the heat will break soon.”
“I’ve been told this spell is likely to hold until the end of August,” Gentry said. “Unless there’s some sort of big battle in our vicinity. I’ve heard that often brings on a thunderstorm. Has that been your experience, Major?”
“I’ve heard it mentioned by old soldiers. But I haven’t experienced it,” Paul replied.
Gentry’s smile was much too self-satisfied. Paul was sure the colonel knew exactly what he was doing in Kentucky. “How is Mrs. Todd?” Gentry asked.
“She’s much better. Though the family is greatly distressed. All their field hands have run away.”
“What a shame. Have they joined the Union Army?”
“They don’t seem to know where they’ve gone.”
“It must be exasperating. The sort of thing that might drive a man to desperate measures.”
“Like hiring free men and paying them decent wages?” Dorothy Schreiber said. Her experience with Lucy had turned her into something close to an abolitionist.
“That might be a desperate measure if you have to mortgage your property to pay the wages,” Gentry said. “The next time you visit, Major Stapleton, I hope you’ll tell Gabriel Todd I’d be happy to loan him any amount he needs until he readjusts things.”
Paul could easily imagine Gabriel Todd’s reaction to the idea of putting his property in the hands of Henry Gentry’s lawyers. Was the colonel toying with all of them? For a moment Paul’s sense of solidarity with the Todds ignited.
“I’m serious,” Gentry said. “When the war ends, I plan to open a bank here in Keyport. Its sole purpose will be to help friends and relations like the Todds cope with the change from slave to free labor.”
“I think their land should be confiscated and distributed to their slaves in part payment for generations of unpaid labor,” Dorothy said.
“The Emancipation Proclamation doesn’t apply to Kentucky, Dorothy. They haven’t seceded,” Paul said. “What would you say, Colonel Gentry, if the Todds used your money to buy more slaves?”
“Lincoln will abolish slavery throughout the Union soon after the war,” Gentry said. “With victory in his pocket, Abe will be an irresistible political force.”
“I wonder,” Paul said. “He certainly won’t be popular in Kentucky. Or in Indiana, as far as I can see.”
“Well—he hasn’t been reelected yet. And he hasn’t won the war,” Gentry said in his irritating inconclusive way. Paul was again convinced that the colonel was toying with him.
The butler handed Gentry the morning newspapers. He subscribed to a half-dozen, including the anti-Lincoln New York Herald. On its front page was a shocking story. The Herald had gotten its hands on a letter that Henry Raymond, editor of the New York Times and chairman of the Republican National Committee, had written to Lincoln. Gentry read it aloud to the breakfast table:
“Republicans Throw In Towel.
“‘The tide is setting strongly against us,’ writes Republican boss Henry Raymond to President Lincoln. ‘Congressman Washburne tells me that Illinois is certain to go Democratic. Senator Cameron of Pennsylvania predicts a similar verdict for his state. Governor Morton reports that nothing but the most strenuous efforts can carry Indiana. Here in New York, we expect the Republican ticket to lose by more than fifty thousand votes.
“‘Too many voters are complaining of the want of military successes. Others lament that we are not to
have peace in any event during your administration until slavery is abandoned. Nothing but the most resolute and decided action on the part of its friends can save the country from falling into hostile hands.’”
As Gentry finished reading this gloomy prophecy, his mother appeared in the doorway of the dining room. She sat down at the breakfast table and said, “I never had any confidence in that oversized lout Lincoln from the start. He was common as a boy and he’s common as a man.”
“If I was a member of this supposedly revolutionary party I keep hearing about, the Sons of Liberty, I’d put away my guns and wait for the ballot box in November,” Gentry said. “Don’t you agree, Major Stapleton?”
“It sounds reasonable. But people aren’t in a reasonable mood, Colonel Gentry. Not after three years of war and Republican usurpation here in Indiana and across the river in Kentucky.”
“If only someone could talk sense to these people,” Gentry said.
Sure he was being needled, Paul’s reply was curt: “Why don’t you try it, Colonel? Don’t you know who they are?”
“I have a name or two,” Gentry said. “Not enough to make a difference.”
“What a shame. We may have that epic battle yet. At least we can look forward to cooler weather after it.”
“Every cloud has a silver lining,” Gentry said.
That afternoon, Paul departed for Hopemont. There was no military reason to stay in Indiana. Sergeant Schultz and his men could handle the occasional deserter. There was no longer any danger of the Sons of Liberty staging another ambush. Paul had persuaded Gabriel Todd to forbid further experiments along that line.
As Paul mounted his horse on the Kentucky side of the ferry crossing, Moses Washington walked toward him in a well-pressed blue uniform. He looked rested
and healthy. Paul leaned from the saddle and shook hands with him.
“What brings you to Indiana?”
“I got a week leave,” Moses said. “I thought I’d pay that little girl Lucy a visit. I hear she’s had a pretty hard time.”
“Very hard,” Paul said. “I’ve heard you had your troubles, too, up in western Virginia.”
“Yes, sir,” Moses replied. “Sure wish you’d been there, Major. Maybe you could have talked some sense to them officers.”
“I heard about the rebels shooting the wounded,” Paul said.
He did not want to say it. The words spoke themselves.
“Yes sir.”
“I’m glad you got away. Colonel Gentry told me about it. Did your pal Jones make it?”
“No sir. He got it in the belly goin’ up the hill. Died before they could shoot him again.”
“You’ll fight again another day, Moses. Maybe even the score.”
“I sure hope so, Major.”
“Good luck, Moses.”
“Same to you, Major.”
Paul shook hands again and rode on to Hopemont. All the way down the hot dusty road, the conversation reverberated in his brain. You had to say it, his Gettysburg wound mocked.
It didn’t mean anything, Paul replied. It was just two soldiers talking about a battle.
Why doesn’t Janet Todd ever mention it? She’s never said a word about it since the day you told her. What does that mean?
I love her, Paul replied. It doesn’t mean anything.
Dust settled in his throat. He swigged from his canteen. There was not the hint of a breeze. Birds perched disconsolately in the oaks and cottonwoods along the
way, too weary to sing. The road was empty. Only a handful of slaves were in the fields. There were stories in the newspapers about farm hands in Indiana dying of heat prostration.
At Hopemont, Janet met him with a kiss. But that was all he was going to receive. She had made it clear that she no longer relished furtive lovemaking in the middle of the night. She wanted a husband, not a lover, now. A husband who was her partner in victory.
“The last of the rifles have been distributed,” Janet said. “We’re ready to march. Adam Jameson’s men will start down from the mountains tomorrow. They’ll be here in two days.”
“Good,” Paul said.
“Promise me you won’t ask him anything about killing the wounded blacks.”
“I can’t do that,” Paul said. Again, the words spoke themselves. “I promise not to shoot him. But I feel obligated to ask him for an explanation.”
Janet looked more than a little unhappy.
Paul followed her out to the gazebo, where Colonel Todd was sitting with a tall glass of bourbon. The colonel had read the Republican tide-is-setting-against-us letter in one of the Kentucky papers. His optimism was soaring. “I think this is going to be easier than we ever expected. Lincoln seems as good as finished, even without the push we’re going to give him.”
“It looks that way,” Paul said. “Have you thought of waiting him out? Letting events take their course—without launching this attack?”
“Why in the world should we do that?”
“It might be better for everyone if this was settled politically.”
Colonel Todd and Janet were both gazing at Paul with hostile eyes. “After going this far, at so much risk and trouble, that doesn’t make much sense,” the colonel said.
“Politics aside,” Janet added, “we’ve got a moral obligation to the Confederate government. They’ve supplied us with the money and guns. To take all that help and do nothing would amount to betrayal, in my opinion.”
A moral obligation to the Confederate government. The western confederacy, if it came into existence with Gabriel Todd or someone like him as its president, would be a southern satellite. Paul had known that since their visit to Richmond. Why was it troubling him now? Did seeing Moses Washington have something to do with it?
Suddenly Paul was back five months, his Gettysburg wound making him unsure of his balance on a horse, teaching the black troopers how to use a cavalry saber. He saw the excitement, the pride, on their faces when they discovered they could wield this fearsome instrument. He remembered everyone laughing when Jasper Jones confessed, “I was afraid I was gonna cut my own damn head off the first time I swung that thing.” Soldiers. He had made them soldiers and they had made him a soldier again.
Janet suggested a walk before dinner. They strolled down Hopemont’s long curving drive. “Why don’t you want to fight?” she asked. “I thought we were together, heart and soul, in this thing.”
Paul struggled to be honest and persuasive at the same time: “I’ve seen battles, Janet. Seen the dead—and the wounded, who are a lot worse to look at than the dead. A battle should be fought only if it’s absolutely necessary.”
Janet whirled on him. “I’m going to share this battle with you. I’m riding with the troops. Father doesn’t know it. I’ve arranged it with Rogers Jameson. I’m going to cross the Ohio with his men.”
Paul saw what Janet was doing. She was challenging him to match her commitment to the conspiracy. She
was testing his love. That was almost as demoralizing as what she was proposing to do.
“Janet—you can’t. I absolutely forbid it.”
“On what grounds? You have no authority over me, Colonel Stapleton.”
“Surely love gives a man some kind of claim.”
“Not if you abandon the most important part of the compact we made that morning beside the Ohio.”
There it was again, the fatal entanglement of their love and the sacred cause, the dream of victory. Desperately Paul told himself he forgave her. She was like any soldier on the eve of battle. Wildness was rampaging in her soul.
“I can’t protect you,” he said. “No one can protect another person in a battle.”
“I don’t want to be protected,” Janet said. “Once and for all, you must stop treating me as your possession. I’ve shared so much of this business—I want to be there for the victory. I want to see Indianapolis burn—or surrender. I want to hear bullets whistle.”
“They don’t whistle. They hiss—or hum like swarming bees. Sometimes they snap like firecrackers.”
“I want to hear them.”
Did she see what she was doing? What she was forcing him to do? No. In her rising battle fury she thought she could test him and he would obey her. But he had another alternative. He could betray her in the name of love. Even though he knew the betrayal might annihilate love’s future.
Rogers Jameson came to supper. He drank Gabriel Todd’s whiskey and they debated strategy and tactics for the march to Indianapolis. Rogers still resisted anything that sounded like a complicated plan. Paul let Todd do most of the talking. Predictably, they got nowhere.
Afterward, Paul followed Rogers Jameson onto the lawn and stopped him as he was mounting his horse. “General,” he said. “Miss Todd tells me she plans to
cross the river with you and your men. I don’t think it’s practical—or necessary.”
“She’s perfectly welcome as far as I’m concerned,” Jameson said. “I’m sure Adam will greet her with open arms.”
“If you have any hope of deserving the title of general, you’ll retract that remark immediately,” Paul said. “A general’s first responsibility is to resolve conflicts between his ranking officers, not encourage them.”
Contempt mingled with dislike on Jameson’s fleshy face. “Calm down, Colonel,” he said. “I won’t let her go beyond Keyport. That won’t be dangerous. The town’ll surrender without a shot. Them stupid Germans of Gentry’s will run for their lives. We’ll give Colonel One-Arm a taste of Greek fire and send Janet back here ’fore we head for Indianapolis.”
The next morning, one of the German soldiers brought Paul a message from Gentry: Please return. Urgent military problems require your attention. He showed it to Janet and they decided it would be best for him to obey the summons; a refusal might arouse suspicions. They were only twenty-four hours away from the great explosion. “We’ll meet you in Keyport,” Gabriel Todd said.
In his cellar office, Gentry greeted Paul with a cheerful hello. “How are things at Hopemont?” he asked.
“Fine,” Paul said.
“You won’t be able to say that tomorrow night. I’m putting you under arrest, Major.”
At first Paul thought Gentry was joking. But it was clear that he was extremely serious. “I’d like to hear the charges, Colonel,” he said.
“I’ve got a document—and a living witness—that you’re the chief of staff of a rebellious army organized by the Sons of Liberty. But I have a better reason for arresting you now. I don’t want you shot for treason.”
Gentry spun his chair and stared up at the picture of
Lincoln on the wall of his office. “Believe it or not, Major, an old fool like me still believes in love. I’m trying to help you preserve it in spite of how defeat and her father’s disgrace will affect Janet Todd’s feeling for you. It’s your only chance—and mine—to rescue something valuable from this stinking war.”
“If I wanted any romantic advice from you I’d have asked for it!” Paul said.
“This isn’t romance. It’s reality. Tomorrow night, General Burbridge is going to surround Hopemont with a thousand cavalrymen. He’s going to arrest Gabriel Todd, Rogers Jameson, and the colonels of the George Rogers Clark Brigade.”
“I should be there. There may be gunfire. Janet has taken to seeing herself as a soldier—”
Gentry shook his head. “You’re staying here.”
“Like hell I am. I’ll go where I damn please as long as I’ve got this gun in my holster!”
“Sergeant Schultz!” Gentry called. He jerked a string on his desk, and a bell tinkled outside the house.
The storm cellar door clanged open. Boots clumped toward them. Schultz appeared in the office doorway, a pistol in his hand. Behind him loomed three of his biggest men, hefting rifles.
“I’m arresting Major Stapleton for insubordination,” Gentry said. “Take his gun away from him and lock him in your office in the barn until you hear from me.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Paul said as Schultz pulled the pistol from the holster on his hip.
“So do I,” Gentry said.