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Shortly thereafter, the train came puffing up to the station. Sam was waiting for one of the passengers, so we made our goodbyes and I boarded the coach. The train wasn’t very crowded, and I had a bench to myself. The back was upholstered in green leather, but the seat was plain wood and not very comfortable. Clearly, the railroad wasn’t putting much into passenger consideration in the day coaches.
We pulled out of the station with a cloud of steam and two blasts on the whistle. I looked out the window, trying to see Sam, but he had moved out of sight so I settled into the bench, trying to get comfortable; as I did so, I made eye contact with a man who looked vaguely familiar. He came over to where I was seated, taking the bench on the opposite side of the aisle. The man looked to be about my father's age, with plump features and an ample waistline. He smiled and introduced himself. “Pardon the intrusion, but aren’t you Marcus Glenn’s son? I’m one of his partners, Miller’s the name, Martin Miller.”
I nodded, “How do you do Mr. Miller, yes, I’m his son Matthew.”
Miller beamed, “I thought I recognized you- there’s a portrait of you in uniform at the house, I’ve seen it once or twice when I’ve been out there, but you’re younger in it. At West Point, I think it was...it’s been a while now- how long exactly, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Just under ten years, I believe. The painting was done about five years ago.”
He nodded, “Yes, that seems about right- you don’t look much different from the painting though, a bit more maturity to your face, that’s about it. Well, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I’m glad to see you’ve returned home to take your place in Virginia’s defense!” Suddenly unsure of himself, he paused. “That is why you returned, I take it?” He relaxed as I nodded. “Good! Seems like everywhere you look our youth are sorting themselves into companies and forming regiments, everyone stepping up like a good Virginian should. But where are you off to? You’re not staying in the Valley?”
“No, I’m headed to Richmond, I’ve business there.” Unlike Sam, Miller didn’t get the whole story. I didn’t really know the man, just that he was one of the men my father did business with and had loaned money to- thus buying part of the business. No doubt he had seen my portrait on a visit to discuss a matter affecting their venture, as my father had few close friends- and this man wasn’t among them.
“Oh? We heard- that is,” he paused, nervous now, “some of us had heard tell that you were joining the army here, to defend your home.” He licked his lips nervously. “We hoped you’d have more sense than your Pa...” He let the words hang in the air, the accusation unspoken but real nevertheless.
“Mr. Miller,” I started, trying to restrain myself. These people had no right to force their opinions on anyone else. The state voted to secede and that was how the system worked- everyone had a say, everyone made their case, and then the people- or their representatives- voted. Once it was decided, we all were supposed to pull together. The last thing Virginia needed was to turn on herself, have neighbors fighting neighbors- or parents and children at each others’ throats. Certainly, it would be nice if everyone supported secession, but it wasn’t a requirement any more than every Virginian had to support the old Union; that was why we seceded, after all- we couldn’t in good conscience aid one part of the country in attacking and suppressing another part of the country. People in the North should’ve understood that, and accepted it; now, we were headed toward a war unless some restraint could be exercised. But the same factors were at play in Virginia, apparently, with anti-secessionists being forced to accommodate the wishes and opinions of pro-secessionists. This struck me as ill-advised and contrary to our ideals. I needed to explain this to Miller.
“Mr. Miller,” I began again. “Virginia left the Union because she didn’t feel it was right to be ordered to attack her southern sisters. She followed her conscience into the Confederacy. My father, and others like him, are following their consciences as well, and as long as they remain citizens of Virginia they have that right. And as a soldier in service to Virginia, I will defend their right to do so. We do not command people to support us blindly, we do not dictate how they should believe, or act- we fought Washington for that, and I fail to see how we are any better if we do the same thing here.”
“I hope my father, and others of the same opinions, will eventually see their way clear to joining us wholeheartedly. I believe they will, given time. But until they make up their minds to do so, we gain nothing by threatening them or harassing them- we serve only to drive them to our enemies, as Lincoln did with Virginia by demanding we give him troops.” I paused to see the effect I was having- Miller was transfixed. “And Mr. Miller, you may rest assured I will be defending Virginia as best I can, with my life if necessary, wherever my duty takes me. But make no mistake- I will return home to protect my family.”
Miller raised his hands in placation. “Not to worry, not to worry, there’s nothing to fear. Please understand though, I have duties to perform now which may lead to conflict-“
I cut him off. “Duties? What duties?”
“I’m in charge of verifying muster quotas for the county,” he spluttered.
“Muster quotas for the county? What does that mean?”
Miller sat up straighter, on firmer ground. “Each county has to make sure it raises the requested number of militia companies in order to fill regiments. Some counties are just recruiting directly into regiments, but we’re forming companies first and then grouping them into regiments so the smaller counties don’t get lost in with the bigger ones. Some folks opted to run out of their militia call-ups, and others haven’t shown up yet- my job is to verify everyone’s been contacted in the county and made aware of their duties.”
“I see. And being made aware of their duties involves pressuring people to join?”
He waved his hands in front of him. “No, no- not at all. I’m just asking them if they intend to join up, and giving advice. But some folks, like your pa, want to argue about it. That’s when it gets heated up.”
“Indeed. Well, Mr. Miller, I’ve made myself plain- I’m signing up, so no need to further discuss the matter with my father, don’t you agree?” I raised one eyebrow in question.
“Certainly, absolutely, no need to trouble him at all.” He stood up abruptly. “Well Mr. Glenn, a pleasure seeing you again and bless you for returning to defend our fair land. I must be off, meeting someone in another car,” and with that he was off, before I even had a chance to return his goodbye. I sighed with frustration- why did everything have to be so difficult? My country at war with itself, my state at war with itself, and my family at war with me. Plus, the seat was uncomfortable.
I shifted around as best I could and tried to make myself at ease. Outside the window, the green countryside of Virginia displayed itself to my gaze, the rolling hills with their sleepy farms giving way to small towns and hamlets. Soon, I would be in Richmond and could begin my journey. With that thought in my head, I drifted off in a restless sleep.
Arriving in Richmond, I took a room in the first available hotel I could find. The city was full of men now, coming and going on the urgent business of establishing, and defending, a new nation. I had decided to check in and get cleaned up and properly dressed before presenting myself at the War Department, but a commotion at the front desk gave me pause.
“Yankee?! Just who are you calling Yankee?” came a voice with a deep drawl- definitely not a Virginian, I thought. “I’ll have you know I come from the heart of this Confederacy, the great state of South Carolina, and damned be the cur who calls me Yankee!” This was accompanied by a great show of reaching for the pistol the speaker wore about his waist. I smiled in spite of myself, as the figure before me, so splendidly defending his Southern credentials, was clad in Federal blue and sported the yellow shoulder straps of a cavalry officer. Under the circumstances, the clerk’s confusion was perhaps understandable. Hoping to defuse the situation before anything unfortunate happened, I approached the trooper and stood to attention. “Begging the Captain’s pardon, perhaps I may be of service?” I offered.
The trooper glared at me, but noticing my bearing and manner of address, he softened his stance. “And who might you be, Sir?” The drawl transformed Sir into Suh. He looked down at my bags, then back up at me. “Are you a soldier, then? Militia? Army?”
I introduced myself. “Captain Matthew Glenn, ex-United States Army, currently between assignments.” I offered him my hand. “On my way to the War Department in the morning.”
He took my hand reflexively. “Captain Joshua Gordon, likewise ex-US Army. Cavalry,” he added unnecessarily. “Late of West Point, where I was assigned as an instructor. I’ve been trying to get home for some time, but keep getting delayed, diverted...and it’s not as though I can ask for help.” He switched to an exaggerated drawl, “excuse me, mah good suh, but ah’m tryin’ t’get back to mah de-ah home in South Carolina for to jine th’Confed’racy.” In spite of myself, I laughed- he had a sense of humor, that was certain. At my laughter, he relaxed a bit more. “Finally, I made it through Washington without getting ‘detained’ they call it- arrest I call it- and into Virginia. I tried to check into this hotel to rest before resuming my journey, when this scoundrel,” he jerked his thumb toward the hapless clerk, “accused me of being a Yankee!”
I became aware that the clerk was trying to splutter out a combination of apology and explanation, and failing at both. I invited my new friend to join me in my room, as it had two beds. With a final glare at the clerk, he followed me up the stairs, yelling over his shoulder, “Fetch my bags, and be quick about it, before I forget my manners in front of these good people.” Catching my eye, he grinned at the clerk’s panicked response.
Arriving in the room, we settled into two chairs on the balcony overlooking the street. Everywhere there were troops in grey- some were pre-war Federal issue, some were State militia, and some were the newly-designed Confederate style. Occasionally I saw a Federal blue uniform, but those were always in the company of a companion in grey; given the clerk’s reaction, such precautions made sense. “I wish I had a militia uniform,” I said wistfully.
“Agreed,” said Gordon, “but all I have is this one- I told the Provosts I was a courier delivering orders to the Navy Yard, then slipped into Virginia. Didn’t think I’d have problems here.” He gazed out sadly at the streets. I looked at him for a long second, then followed his gaze. He was right- it shouldn’t be this way. We should’ve been able to go our own way without interference. But once the Federals decided to fight, well that changed things. Still, the hostility towards anyone in a Federal uniform seemed misplaced, wrong. We didn’t hate the Yankees, we just desired to live independent from them. We should still maintain cordial relations with them, at least as long as we could. One Yankee soldier in Richmond wasn’t a threat to our new nation, and might even be a fellow Confederate, as Captain Gordon proved to be. Shaking my head, I felt a sense of foreboding- if this is how the common folk felt, while we still coexisted in an uneasy peace, what would it be like during a shooting war? What would the border look like when we won our independence? Would there be constant raids and harassment, like out West with the Indians? Would we station troops along it, as we did with Canada? I couldn’t shake the thought that it didn’t have to be this way- that we could negotiate out of the Union and go our separate way. Even after Fort Sumter and Lincoln’s call for troops to ‘suppress rebellion’, I still thought we could achieve our aims without bloodshed. After all, Fort Sumter had fallen without loss of life, Federal honor had been satisfied by its defense, and we had established our intent to defend our independence. For all of the rhetoric about militia and troops to invade the South, surely there would still be negotiations, discussions...wasn’t this all just the customary saber-rattling which prefaced a mutually-satisfying agreement?
As if sensing my thoughts, Gordon spoke up. “They won’t let us go. Not that easily.”
“I beg your pardon?” I replied.
He swiveled his chair toward me. “The North. They won’t let us go. The clerk senses it, the people in the street sense it. They know the North wants a fight, and they’re scared. They know the Federal armies will start their invasion right here, in Virginia. The blow will fall first, here,” he said, thumping the table gently with his fist. I thought about this for a moment. It made sense- the Federals would have to transport their armies either by ship down the coast, by steamer down the rivers, or by a march overland to reach whatever objectives they set for themselves. Of these options, marching overland was the most practical. It also meant that the lowlands of Virginia would be the ideal place to begin such a march.
“Do you think it will come to that?” I asked.
He paused for a moment. “Yes,” he said slowly and deliberately, “I do. I think they’ve worked themselves up to a point where they can’t just let us go. They have to ‘restore the honor’ they feel they’ve lost. So there will be a fight. But Yankees have no stomach for a fight, not the New England Yankees anyway. The Western boys, they’ll fight- but I reckon they’ll sit this one out. Nothing in it for them. So it’s us against New England, and we can whip them.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. Excusing myself, I went back into the room to answer it. The front desk clerk stood there, accompanied by a tall, dark-haired man clothed in the cadet grey uniform of a Confederate officer. Saluting, he offered his compliments and asked if could come in.
Closing the door, I turned to face my new guest. He stood well over 6 feet tall, trim, with a full black beard. His coat was trimmed in the light blue of the infantry, and his collar had the two stars of a Lieutenant Colonel. His face was very young, no more than mid-thirties I guessed. Not much older than me. And he was already a lieutenant colonel.
Interpreting my look correctly, he cleared his throat. “Colonel James Davenport, at your service. I was previously a captain in the old Army, fought in the Seminole War. When Virginia seceded, I resigned and offered my services to the state. The governor appointed me as a Lt. Colonel for one of the new regiments. I’d hoped to command my own, seemed there were enough billets available, but there were some,” he paused delicately, “political considerations at work, so many of the commands went to appointees, with regular officers beneath them.” I noticed a faint, yet distinct, change in his tone as he said “beneath”; clearly, he wasn’t happy with the way assignments were being doled out. “I was notified by friends of mine that there was a Yankee officer here, and I came to investigate. The clerk was kind enough to explain the situation to me. I apologize for the intrusion.”
“No apology necessary, Colonel, and no intrusion, I assure you. Captain Matthew Glenn, ex-US Army, at your service. If you would accompany me, I will introduce you to my associate. He’s right this way...” I turned to lead my new guest out to the balcony, where Gordon was sitting, but he remained standing awkwardly in the foyer. “Is something the matter?” I asked.
“If you don’t mind, could you ask the officer to join us in here? I have...” he paused. “I’d prefer not to be seen associating with a Yankee, or anyone who dresses the part.” His face showed distaste, as though he’d encountered a foul odor. Puzzled, I nodded and left the room to find Gordon.
He was still seated on the balcony where I had left him, but had swiveled his chair so as to hear the discussion in the room. When I rejoined him, he looked at me with a mix of astonishment and outrage. I could imagine his feelings at being called a Yankee, and frankly was surprised he was this calm about it. “Am I correct, then, that you don’t need a summary of the conversation in there?” I asked in a low tone, so as not to provide Colonel Davenport the same opportunity to eavesdrop.
“You are, and to be honest I’m not at all sure I wish to be introduced to that gentleman. I don’t care for his attitude, nor am I impressed by his credentials. Expected a colonelcy because he fought some swamp Indians? The real fighting was out west, out in Texas. Why I could tell you-” I held up my hand to stop him. “Very well then, let’s go meet this ‘Colonel’ Davenport and see what it is he wants.” With that, he jumped to his feet and stomped down the hallway; with a heavy sigh, I turned to follow.
I led Gordon back to the parlor, where Colonel Davenport was waiting. “Colonel Davenport, may I introduce Captain Joshua Gordon, recently of the United States Army, here now to serve his state and our cause?”
Gordon nodded politely. “At your service, Sir. I had hoped to make my way to my home state and offer my services there, but have had little success in my endeavors. I would be most grateful for any assistance you might be able to provide.”
Davenport made a brief gesture of acknowledgement toward Gordon, while he examined him more closely. Presently, he looked at me and said “Captain Glenn, if there is some place we may sit I should like to discuss a few things with you. Captain Gordon, you are welcome to join us, as this will affect you as well.”
I gestured back toward the balcony. “Sir, we have a nice spot outside, if you don’t mind. There’s enough room for us and it’s quite comfortable.” Davenport made no reply beyond a brief nod, then started for the balcony. Gordon looked at me with a confused expression as he turned to follow, an expression I certainly shared. Colonel Davenport’s manner was vague and aloof, and he carried himself with a hint of mystery. I could only imagine what he wished to discuss, considering that his errand to meet us was pure happenstance.