Stephen ducked to enter the tent. “At ease, Sergeant. I’m here about some of your men who stepped seriously out of line last night.”
“Zip, this here’s a private talk.” The dismissal sent the colored boy scuttling. Winks swiped a hand across his forehead, though how anyone could sweat in this cold, Stephen couldn’t imagine. Winks stood two or three inches taller than Stephen, and looked down at him, but with due deference. “Um, which men might those be, sir?”
“Their names are Marcus, Pence, and Spiker.”
“Oh, Jehoshaphat. My rotten apples. I been fixing to ask the colonel to get rid of them and sign me up a new crew if we’re to forage over in Carolina.”
“You may do more than replace them when you hear about their treatment of helpless women. Sit down, I’ll tell you the story. Then you can decide who else hears it, and what punishment those men deserve.”
Winks hunkered in the center of the tent; his gesture invited Stephen to take the stool, which he did. “I seen all three of those boys in camp this morning.”
“I should hope so. Last night I sent them back with strict orders to stay put. I promised they’d be pursued and driven to ground if they ran. I encountered Pence a few minutes ago. Evidently they believed me.”
“Or they figured what they did wasn’t all that serious?” Winks fished in the pocket of his blouse, found an unsmoked cigar, which he offered to the visitor.
Stephen took it. “Thanks.”
Winks struck a wooden match on his boot and lit the cigar, then a stub for himself. The two men sat in the midst of turgid blue smoke. The wind had died; the calm sharpened the constant noise of the camp.
“You decide whether it’s serious,” Stephen said in a way that clearly indicated he’d already rendered his verdict. Beginning with his arrival outside Miss Rohrschamp’s, he described subsequent events. Winks’s wind-reddened face showed attentiveness, then astonishment, and lastly anger.
“Those blasted rotten no-goods.”
“It seems to me that you were tolerating that sort of behavior the first time our paths crossed, Sergeant.”
“I admit it, sir. I’ve changed some since then. You meet an’ talk with enough starving folks, things look different. I’ll take care of those boys, Marcus first—he’s the ringleader.”
“Don’t you want to turn it over to your commanding officer?”
“Not till I take steps on my own.”
“Then I leave it in your hands.”
Winks bit down hard on his cigar. “You didn’t say much about them ladies you rescued.”
“There were three, starting with a piano teacher, Miss Rohrschamp. She owns the house. Her guests are a widow named Lester and the widow’s daughter, eleven or twelve. I don’t mind saying I was quite taken with the widow.”
“That so?”
“Lot of good it did me. The widow’s husband died in the war, which would account for her reaction to this uniform. Also, I’m from New York.”
“I thought you talked funny—no offense meant.”
“Nor taken. The widow lady was cool as the polar ice cap. A mighty disappointment.”
“Daughter feel the same?”
“If anything, more so. At least the widow was polite. The child, Kitty or Letty or Hattie or something like that, was distinctly unfriendly.”
When Stephen pressed a bit, Winks was evasive about the exact steps he’d take to discipline his men, probably because he was still working it out. Stephen rose to go.
“Who’s the colored boy wanting to bake an oyster pie?”
“A pest name of Zip. I pulled him out of Ebenezer Creek ’cause he couldn’t swim. I should’ve throwed him right back. He trails after me like a pet dog. Drives me out of my mind practicing fancy birdcalls all the time.”
“Well, whatever his faults, don’t be too quick to reject his offer. Oyster pie can be tasty. You might find you like it.”
“I might,” Winks said, clearly meaning I won’t.
Stephen returned Winks’s salute and left.
Stephen rode back to town on faithful Ambrose. Although the morning was scarcely half gone, much had changed since he left his bivouac in search of the looters. Armed pickets patrolled the streets. In the squares, soldiers with mauls were nailing up shanties and pegging down tents in scenes reminiscent of the Confederate occupation. General Geary had taken charge; a nightly curfew, 9 p.m., was already posted.
Outside the Pulaski House he expected to see horses with regulation army saddles. He saw none. The desk clerk said the general and his retinue had arrived earlier, having boated up the Ogeechee to King’s Bridge and then traveled overland on horseback. The prophecy of Mr. Davis of Harper’s had been fulfilled: The landlord of Savannah’s best hotel wanted payment for room and board. Sherman curtly refused. While the general and his staff withdrew to ponder their options, a colored boy brought a letter of invitation from the English cotton factor, Mr. Green.
“He offered his house to Sherman, no charge, and the whole party rode off. You all should find Union headquarters down there.”
So Stephen mounted up again and jogged south to Madison Square, where Charles Green’s opulent home graced the northwest corner, facing West Macon Street. The mansion was a two-story masterpiece of tawny yellow stucco with elaborate cast-iron filigree ornamenting the veranda and fancy oriel windows jutting from the second floor.
Outside the new headquarters Stephen found the usual to-and-fro of officers passing in and out, as well as an unexpected throng of black men, women, and children craning for a glimpse of their liberator. A woman with a bright head scarf stopped Stephen. “Sir, will you be seeing Mr. Sherman?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“When you come out, will you tell us what he’s like?”
He promised he would, and they let him through.
His credentials got him past the two guards whose bayonets barred interlopers. His boots clattered on the fine foyer tiles. Within Mr. Green’s house he discovered crystal chandeliers, marble fireplaces, a lavish display of fine art—luxury and ornamentation worthy of Fifth Avenue. Field desks filled a spacious parlor where Stephen observed heavy double doors that evidently closed off a second, similar room. A lieutenant directed him to the rear veranda overlooking the paths and plantings of a parterre garden. There, Major Hitchcock sat busily sifting through voluminous paperwork. As Stephen presented himself, bells rang in the steeple of a handsome church adjoining the garden.
“Ah, Hopewell. What brings you here?”
“Requesting permission to interview the general, sir.”
“Sorry, it’s impossible. General Sherman’s closeted in the inner parlor with Mr. Green and his partner, Mr. Low.”
“Later this afternoon, perhaps?”
“No, a delegation of colored pastors is scheduled to call, then relatives of Generals Hardee and Gustavus Smith seeking special protection. We also expect some schoolchildren—the general’s door is always open to youngsters. Enemy or no, he’s a famous person. As soon as he’s finished here, he’ll inspect the city.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“I wouldn’t stake my life on it. You know how he feels about you fellows from the press.”
Stephen stifled his annoyance; it wasn’t Hitchcock’s fault, after all. He saluted and, outside again, told the disappointed Negroes that he’d been unable to see their hero in person. He then rejoined Ambrose, who was tied to Mr. Green’s cast-iron fence. He stroked the mule’s warm muzzle.
“Turned me down.”
Ambrose peeled back his lip and brayed to express sympathy.
“I overstepped. I transgressed. In a word, I erred, profoundly.”
The speaker was a gregarious and portly Treasury agent who’d introduced himself as A. G. Browne. A half dozen listeners pressed around him, Stephen among them. He was trying to ease his frustration in the Pulaski House saloon bar at four in the afternoon. Officers were permitted to drink when and where they pleased; typically they
sought private establishments and avoided the whiskey sold by the commissary, when available, for thirty cents a gallon.
A cavalry colonel with Burnside whiskers finished a drink and whacked his glass down to command the barkeep’s attention. “Phew, what’s in that jug, laddie? Tar water? Turpentine? Lamp oil?”
The barkeep stuck out his chin. “The best whiskey we can get through your blockade.”
“Pour me another and let’s hope I survive till sunset.” He addressed the civilian. “Pray continue, sir.”
“Thank you, sir. To say that the general lost his temper would be an understatement. He erupted like Vesuvius.”
Stephen said, “You’re referring to Uncle Billy.”
“None other. It was not pleasant to experience.”
Stephen had difficulty understanding Browne’s good humor in the wake of Sherman’s wrath. “Why did he go up the spout?”
“Because I informed him that I’d come here from the garrison at Hilton Head to take possession of all the rebel cotton on behalf of the Department of the Treasury. He insisted it belonged to the army and he, not I, would dispose of it. Well, sir, I could tell from his face—red as his hair, it was—not to mention his numerous expletives, that I couldn’t win the argument. Assuming I might need favors later, I knew I must get back in his good graces. I recalled President Lincoln’s dark moods after long years with incompetent generals who brought our side little success, and I thought, Here’s a monumental success worth reporting, in the spirit of the season. I suggested that General Sherman send a telegraph to Washington. In fact I suggested the exact wording. He responded favorably.”
“He sent it?” someone else asked.
“He will by this evening, on a fast packet up to Fortress Monroe, then over the wires to the War Department.”
“The words, laddie, the words,” the colonel demanded.
Browne cleared his throat, poised a finger in the air. “‘I beg to present you as a Christmas gift, the city of Savannah, with one hundred fifty heavy guns and plenty of ammunition, and also about twenty-five thousand bales of cotton.’”
He paused for the expected applause, received it, then continued. “The general edited my original figure on the cotton. I think you’ll find something like forty thousand bales when you total what’s on the riverfront and in warehouses.”
Stephen whipped out pad and pencil. “I wonder if I might have a few more details, for a dispatch to the New York Eye? Let’s retire to that corner table. Quieter.”
The flattered civilian went where directed.
Stephen left the Pulaski House thirty minutes later in a buzzy-headed state of inebriation. He had material for his dispatch, though he didn’t feel good after three big slugs of the hotel’s private stock. Ardent spirits were no solution to a man’s frustrations, of which he seemed to have plenty.
A curious array of pictures and sounds mingled in his head. Sara Lester’s fetching smile blended with the robust and thrilling notes of “Rock of Ages” as he imagined them played on Miss Rohrschamp’s upright, which of course he couldn’t get near, any more than he could get near Gen. W. T. Sherman.
Hattie felt fretful and hostile. She didn’t like herself for it but couldn’t banish the feeling.
Although she’d always been outspoken—Sara encouraged independence, more liberally after Ladson Lester’s passing—Hattie’s pertness seldom erupted into anger. She was close to it now. Amelia had received a tongue-lashing for tracking mud into Vee’s kitchen. Sara tartly observed that Hattie was ten times more exercised than the owner of the house.
Perhaps she felt angry because that awful Sherman’s capture of Savannah brought home the final, inevitable end of the Confederacy. Perhaps it was all those blue uniforms, all the racket from soldiers once again despoiling Wright Square with their hammering and singing and reeling about.
Perhaps it was Christmas too—rather, the lack of anything resembling Christmas. Hattie was too old to crave presents for herself, especially in current circumstances. She no longer believed in a jolly fat man who squeezed down every chimney in the world in a single night. She missed the festivity of Christmas; the carols, the kindness. She missed amply laid tables and brimming punch bowls.
To feel she was accomplishing something, however little, she’d gone that morning to the City Hotel and fetched Legrand for a session of refurbishing any toys that could be salvaged. Now, Thursday afternoon, the winter light outside was dimming. In the parlor, the scrawny Christmas tree had been righted, sans General Lee’s portrait. All but a single deep scratch on the Chickering’s case had been obliterated by Vee’s vigorous attentions. Hattie and Legrand sat cross-legged with scissors and another bowl of thin flour paste, some rusty tacks and a few walnuts that had escaped the looters. They gamely pushed ahead with their repair of dolls and jumping jacks, saying little except when one or the other needed something passed. Sara had gone to the public market alone despite warnings from Miss Vee, who was pottering in the kitchen. At that moment an apparition tapped at the front door.
Or Hattie thought it was an apparition until she spied the visitor’s blue sack coat partially hidden by a cape made of carpet. Instead of a forage cap, the young man wore an old silk hat ornamented with drooping artificial flowers. He peered in and knocked again. Hattie noted a young Negro out beyond the gate holding the bridle of a swaybacked horse. She ran to fetch Vee.
“Someone’s at the door. A soldier.”
“Heaven protect us from his base appetites.” Hattie offered to tell the stranger to go away. “No, no, I will do it. You and Legrand get ready to run.” Hattie couldn’t understand why, if Vee was so frightened, she rushed to the parlor with her cheeks aglow.
Vee unbolted the door, opened it five inches, and leaned her considerable self against it to prevent further progress. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Sergeant Alpheus Winks, ma’am. Eighty-first Indiana Mounted Rifles. Some of my men disturbed you last night.”
“Disturbed hardly covers it, sir.”
“Yes, I know they did bad things. I come to apologize. Would you let me step in?”
Vee darted looks at the children; Legrand was already armed with the poker. Vee stepped back. The Yankee entered and removed his peculiar hat. He exuded a powerful odor of tobacco.
“Ma’am, are you Mrs. Lester or the lady of the house?”
“The latter. Miss Rohrschamp.”
Winks indicated the toys under repair. “Those the things my men busted?”
“That’s not all,” Hattie said. “They threatened to barbecue my pig. One of them danced on top of the piano. See the mark?”
“I’m mighty sorry.”
Vee’s face was purple with excitement. For someone in mortal fear, she stood rather close to the newcomer. “I trust the vandals have been arrested and punished.”
“Uh, not quite yet. I figure to speak to the leader of the pack before the day’s over, but the matter of punishment’s—well, you might say it’s loose. One man causes trouble, he gets a few days of confinement or extra guard duty. Another man, same offense, he may be bucked and gagged.”
“I have no idea what that means, but it sounds revolting.”
The sergeant did his best to explain the technique of rendering a prisoner extremely uncomfortable with ropes and a stick. “Wouldn’t expect my men to get a dishonorable discharge—they’d probably be grateful for it. The colonel will sort it out soon as he can. Meantime, I do offer apologies. Even if it takes a while, we’ll settle the hash of those boys.”
“And—that’s all that prompted your visit?”
“Yes, ma’am, though I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. This is a fine house. Is this handsome child Letty or Kitty?”
“Hattie,” said the child in question. “Who’s that colored boy outside, your slave?”
“We don’t practice slavery in Indiana. He’s just some boy I fished out of a creek, name of Zip. He follows me around and I wish he wouldn’t. He wants to be
a regular soldier but Uncle Billy has different ideas. Zip’s situation is, you might say, holding. Like the punishments. Christmas and all.”
Vee huffed. “It’s hardly Christmas for us. We are a conquered people, lying supine and submissive before the ravening hordes.”
Round and round in his rough hands he turned the brim of his tall hat. “I suppose that’s true, though I don’t know how many of us is ravening just now. There’s lots of boys who wish this blasted war was over and done with. Wish we’d never fought it.”
Legrand spoke for the first time. “You aren’t aching to burn Savannah or Charleston to the ground?”
“Mebbe Uncle Billy is. Not me.”
Vee said, “You don’t blame the South for all the carnage?”
“Well, sure, you folks put all those nigra men and women in a state of servitude and tolerated it too long. But the way I look at it, if we didn’t have the colored on these shores in the first place, wouldn’t have been any argument, or any war. It’s the black folks caused all the trouble. It’s them who took Abner and Ansel away.”
“Relatives?”
“My dear departed brothers. Both volunteers, like myself.”
“My sincere condolences. Did they die bravely, in battle?”
“No, ma’am, they did not. Ansel perished at Shiloh Church with a ball in his back. His regiment was in retreat. Abner was serving in Kentucky. He—I’m not sure I should say.”
“Of course you should. What caused his passing?”
“An attack of—pshaw, I can’t. Just say he drank some bad water and nature took its course. Both were fine upstanding boys. Mama grieved something fierce, I was informed.”
The odd byplay between the piano teacher and the Yankee puzzled Hattie. Vee seemed to be running toward and away from the sergeant at the same time. Hattie sidled close to Legrand. “Time to exercise Amelia.”
A large lace handkerchief popped into Vee’s hand from somewhere, like a magician’s prop. She waved and waved it, trilling, “Go on, children, go on. Hattie, be sure to put on your shawl. Don’t forget Amelia’s muffler. The temperature is dropping. Go on, enjoy yourselves. I’m perfectly safe.”