Talons of Eagles Page 3

  Jamie noticed that Lee’s eyes held the same sadness and sorrow that he had seen in President Lincoln’s eyes. Nobody in power really wants this war, Jamie thought—oh, a few fanatics on either side, but not thinking, caring men.

  “Some supper, Mister MacCallister?” Lee questioned.

  “That would be nice, General. It’s been a long day, and I missed the nooning.”

  Captain Woodville hopped up and walked to the door, ordering food to be sent in. He returned to his chair and sat silent.

  Lee smiled, and for a moment, his eyes held a sparkle. “I don’t suppose Abe Lincoln told you about any up-coming battle plans, did he, Mister MacCallister?”

  Jamie laughed. “No. He just wanted me to take over as chief of scouts for the Union army. I promised him I’d think about it. But I believe he knows that I will not accept the position.”

  Lee smiled.

  Cort said, “Then throw your lot in with us, sir. If you don’t, you’ll be missing a grand fight. Of course, it will be a short one.”

  Lee’s smile faded, and in an emotion-filled voice, he said, “It will be a long and bloody war, Captain Woodville. It will be brother against brother, father against son. Its duration and human cost will make the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812 pale in comparison. But sadly, it is a war that has to be.”

  “Explain that to me, General Lee,” Jamie asked. “ ‘A war that has to be.’ ”

  Lee picked at his food for a while, then pushed the plate from him. He was silent for a moment. “If the Yankees win this war, MacCallister, it will signal the beginning of the end of many personal rights and liberties that will affect every citizen of the United States. Government is a dangerous thing, Jamie MacCallister. Compare it to fire: a useful servant; a fearsome master. If we allow the North to win, it will be the end to states’ rights. The citizens of any state will no longer rule their lives—the Federal government will. Governors will be figureheads only. They will be allowed to make very minor decisions, but the major ones will have to have the blessings of the Federal government. And that is no way for good, decent free men and women to live.”

  “Slavery?” Jamie questioned.

  “Over. It should have ended a long time ago. Should never have started. I am on record as being a disbeliever in slavery and secession. A hundred years from now, historians will still be writing that this bloody conflict was about slavery. They will be wrong in doing that.”

  Jamie ate in silence for a time, and Lee and Woodville also returned to their food with a bit more enthusiasm. They both stopped eating when Jamie asked, “How could I be of service to you, General Lee?”

  Lee smiled. “I feel confident that we could find a place for you, Mister MacCallister.”

  * * *

  At the time of the meeting with Jamie, Lee was not commander of the entire Confederate army: he was commander of the Army of Virginia. General Joseph Johnston was the overall commander. Lee asked Jamie to ride with Captain Cort Woodville’s scouts for a time, to get acquainted. Jamie, still in buckskins, obliged.

  It was early June, 1861. The final day of peace had passed on April 11. On the 12th, Confederate forces had fired on Fort Sumter. At that time, the stars in the Confederate flag formed a circle of seven on a blue background, for only seven states had seceded up to that point. The other four states would quickly follow. The war would really begin on May 24, when Union troops, eleven regiments strong, crossed the Potomac to secure a safe zone for the nation’s capital. The next four years would be the bloodiest period in American history.

  Matthew and Jamie Ian had left MacCallister’s Valley to join with the Union forces. Falcon MacCallister was now a lieutenant leading a band of Texas Raiders in waging a guerrilla war against the Union forces. Two of Juan Nunez’ sons had joined the Confederacy in Texas. Wells and Robert had joined the Union’s Negro army, now being formed and training in New Jersey. Swede and Hannah’s oldest son and Sam and Sarah’s son had joined the Union forces of Iowa. The citizens of MacCallister’s Valley were quickly choosing sides.

  “I don’t think the Yankees will ever get as far as Richmond,” Cort said to Jamie as they rode south one warm day in middle May. “I think we’ll stop them cold long before then. But Lee wants you to see the country. So I’ll take this time to show you Ravenswood and introduce you to my wife. We’ll have some real home cookin’ and sleep in a warm bed this evenin’.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Jamie said. “You have children, Cort?”

  “One. A daughter. Page. She might not be at the plantation, though. Her mother is sending her to a finishing school. I know you have children, Jamie.”

  “Nine living. Karen was killed by bounty hunters in the Big Thicket country of Texas in ’29.”

  The men rode in silence for a mile or so, and then Cort waved a hand. “Ravenswood begins here, Jamie. For as far as you can see in any direction. I have slaves, but they are not mistreated. I won’t allow that and neither would my father. They work hard, if they’re able, but they are well fed, housed adequately, and receive some medical care.”

  Actually, the slaves lived in poorly heated shacks, were fed mostly fatback, cabbage, greens and cornbread, worked from sunup to sundown (can to cain’t, as the saying went), and most had never even seen a doctor. But Cort was correct in saying that his slaves fared better than many others. Many Southerners (and Northerners, too, if the truth shall be told) viewed the Negro as just a cut above an animal, strange, savage beings that occasionally had to be whipped into obedience.

  “My wife and I had a parting of the ways some time back, Jamie,” Cort said. “But both of us chose to not seek a divorce.”

  “I see,” Jamie said. Actually, he didn’t see at all, but what the hell was he supposed to say?

  The men rode on, and Jamie marveled at the size of the well-tended plantation. He guessed, and guessed accurately, that Ravenswood was completely self-sufficient: everything in the way of food was grown or raised on the sprawling grounds.

  “Tell me more about your valley in Colorado, Jamie,” Cort said. “Did you have to tame the savages?”

  “No,” Jamie said with a smile. “I attempted to tame no one. I got along with most and fought the others.”

  How to explain the vast West to a person who had never seen it? There had been many reporters from Eastern newspapers who had traveled in the West and written about it, but their views were mostly romanticized ones. They wrote about the ignorant red man; but the Indian was far from being ignorant. He did not have schools and colleges, newspapers and books, or a written language, but he certainly was not ignorant. The Indian’s way was savage when compared to the white man’s, but unlike the white man, the Indian was one with the land he lived on. The Indian did not own land like the white man; but he did claim land, and that would be something that neither side would ever fully understand about the other.

  “Ravenswood,” Cort broke into Jamie’s thoughts, pointing to a huge mansion off to their left.

  Jamie had grown used to seeing great mansions in the South. They never ceased to amaze him. He finally had to ask, “What do you do with all the rooms?”

  Cort laughed. “I suppose it is a bit much. Tell you the truth, we rattle around in them quite a lot.”

  * * *

  Anne Woodville almost died when she looked out the window of her upstairs sitting room and saw Jamie MacCallister riding up with Cort. Although it had been many years since she and her brother had left the valley in Colorado and changed their names, there was no mistaking Jamie. Thank God Page was in Richmond.

  She wondered if Jamie would spill the beans when they confronted each other? Not that there were that many beans left to spill to Cort. Cort knew much of the sordid story, having learned some of it from Anne’s brother, the rest from Anne herself.3

  To make matters worse, during the past year, her brother had fathered a child, during one of his rare couplings with a woman in Richmond. Worse still, the woman was a lady of quality, from an old Virg
inia family. But her brother had done the right thing and married the woman, although his sexual leanings certainly went the other way. Now there were two more unhappy people added to the list, and a child that was quarter Negro but looked white.

  Anne felt there could be no hell after life. This was hell right here on earth.

  Being a gracious lady of the South (although if her back-ground were really known, the good ladies of Richmond society would all suddenly develop the vapors and fall over in a dead faint), Anne walked down the curving steps of the mansion and out onto the porch to greet her husband and his guest.

  Jamie recognized Anne immediately. But he never so much as blinked an eye in recognition.

  “Darling!” Anne greeted her husband, kissing him on the cheek. “What a delightful surprise.”

  She turned to Jamie, and he bowed slightly. “Mrs. Woodville,” he said. “Your husband said you were lovely, but his words did not do you justice.”

  “Why, sir!” Anne simpered. “You are just too kind.”

  You always did like intrigue and dangerous games, Jamie thought, wondering where Anne’s brother was. Close by, he was certain. He had learned that they had been actors and singers for years, and then dropped out of sight. Right into the lap of luxury, he mentally added.

  Cort chatted with Anne for a time, then ordered a man to change his saddle to a fresh horse. To Jamie, “I must go into town for a few hours. You will, of course, stay here. I’ll be back in time for drinks and supper.” Then he was gone, leaving Anne and Jamie on the porch, looking at each other.

  “A drink, Mister MacCallister?” Anne asked, mischief dancing in her eyes. She had fully recovered from her shock and was once more her old self, playing the part to perfection.

  “Water would be nice, Mrs. Woodville,” Jamie said, thinking, You really must have been a fine actress. Then he put that into words after looking around to be certain they were alone.

  “Oh, I was,” she said, after sitting down and arranging her skirts.

  A servant brought a pitcher of water and glasses.

  “Leave us for a time,” Anne told the woman. “I’ll ring if I need you.”

  “Yessum.”

  Anne made certain the servant had gone. “You’re a fine actor yourself. That was quite a performance you just put on.”

  “I’m not here to interfere in your life, Anne. I did not know you were Cort’s wife.”

  “Thank you. But there are no secrets left between us. Cort knows all about me. I made sure of that. Well, he doesn’t know that I know you and Kate. Oh, he wouldn’t dare divorce me; I could ruin his reputation. Besides, he and my brother are lovers.”

  Jamie dropped his glass to the porch floor, where it broke with a crash and splash of just pulled, cool well water, and stared at the woman in amazement and disbelief. “I don’t believe that.” He finally found his voice.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Why would I lie? I don’t mean to impugn his bravery, for Cort is a very brave man. One of the first to volunteer for the Gray. It’s just . . . well, these things happen.”

  “Does he know that you . . . ah ... ?”

  “That I know? Certainly. What it means is that neither of us shall ever ask the other for a divorce. He will be discreet and so will I.”

  “With your, ah . . .”

  She laughed at the expression on his face. “Our lovers? Yes.”

  “Just the one child, Anne?”

  “No.” Anne knew Jamie MacCallister and knew him to be a man of honor. He would keep his silence; although, she felt he might tell his wife. That was all right, for Anne trusted Kate as much as Jamie. Kate had always treated her well. “No,” she repeated with a long sigh. “Page has a twin brother.” She laughed sourly. “With good hair,” she said bitterly, remembering the words of Selma, her personal maid, that terrible stormy night the twins were born. “He isn’t black, but neither is he white. But he is Negro. That is very plain. I never held him. He was given to a woman in the slave quarters who lost a child, and some years later, when he was, oh, I don’t know. Time goes by so swiftly. Anyway, he was sent north on the Underground Railroad. I don’t know where he is or what he looks like or even if he made it across the line to freedom.”

  “You ever think about him?” Jamie asked softly.

  Anne smiled sadly. “Yes. Not as often now as I used to, but yes, I do think about him.” She sighed and straightened up in her chair, squaring her shoulders. “I should write my memoirs and have them published. I could make a fortune, but then, I’m already worth several fortunes.”

  “You’d better invest in something outside of the South, Anne,” Jamie warned.

  She smiled. “Oh, but I have. I have this clever little man in Richmond who has been secretly investing sums of my money in factories up north. I own a factory that makes uniforms, another that makes guns, and yet another that manufactures boots and shoes. And I own bits and pieces of several other factories . . . all located far above the Mason-Dixon line.” She gave Jamie a strange look. “You believe the South will lose this war, Jamie?”

  “Yes. After several long and bloody years. The North has the manpower, the money, and the factories.”

  “And the South has . . . ?”

  Jamie poured another glass of water. He drank it down and set the glass carefully back on the wicker table that was between him and the woman. “Slavery is wrong, Anne. No man has the right to own another human being in bondage. But the Federal government does not have the right to tell individual states what they can or cannot do. That is really what this war is all about: central control of our lives. Total control of our lives. If I obey the laws of God, and observe a moral code here on earth, the government has no business interfering in my life. That is why I chose the side of the Gray.”

  “And your sons?” Anne asked gently.

  “Falcon is fighting for the Gray in Texas. I suspect Jamie Ian will choose the side of the Blue and so will Matthew.”

  “Father against son,” Anne murmured.

  “And brother against brother,” Jamie added. “This war will cut deep across the country, Anne. It will leave bitter scars that will last for many, many years, perhaps forever. But a person must always do what they think is right.”

  “No matter what the consequences?”

  “No matter what the consequences.”

  4

  Oddly enough, there was no tension at supper that evening. Cort and Anne were more than cordial toward each other, and Jamie could sense a real feeling of affection between them. Anne was a beautiful woman and Cort a handsome man. After supper, Jamie left them to chat while he took a walk around the grounds. He strolled down into the slave quarters and, whenever possible, listened to the slaves talk, some of the older ones in their native tongues. Usually though, the slaves fell silent at his approach. A lot of the homes were no more than shacks, but Jamie suspected that for many, had they wanted a better place to live, they could have fixed up the shacks, for there was lumber stacked all over the place.

  But that still did not excuse slavery.

  On the walk back to the mansion, Jamie muttered to the night, “What am I doing here? I live in the West. This isn’t my fight.”

  He walked and thought for over an hour. Back at the mansion, he found that Cort had already gone to bed, and Anne to her room. Jamie was shown to his room and elected to read from the stack of newspapers he’d found in the downstairs. Many were several months old, but much of what they contained was still news to Jamie.

  Jamie read that just after the fall of Fort Sumter, a mob of angry New Yorkers had stormed the offices of the pro-Southern New York Herald and threatened to smash and destroy everything in sight if the publisher did not display the stars and stripes.

  Jamie learned that Jefferson Davis, the president of the Confederacy, had stated that war was not necessary if the North would just leave the South alone.

  Lincoln had then issued a call for seventy-five thousand men to suppress the South . . . he bel
ieved then that he could do that in three months.

  Jefferson Davis called for a hundred thousand volunteers. And they answered the call in droves. The upcoming war took on an almost mystical aura.

  Kentucky, Maryland, and Missouri refused to send men to aid Lincoln, but neither would the governors of those states openly support the South.

  Confederate troops had seized the Gosport Naval Yard at Norfolk and managed to salvage the burned-out hulk of the USS Merrimack and refit it, naming it the CSS Virginia. The Confederates also seized eleven hundred heavy naval guns.

  Slowly, the battle lines were being drawn. In Florida, Fort Pickens held and beat back Rebel attacks.

  On May 20, 1861, when North Carolina finally seceded from the Union, the eleven state confederacy was complete and both sides were ready for war . . . just about.

  The Union forces at that time numbered just slightly more than thirteen thousand regular army troops. Thousands and thousands more were undergoing training at a fever pitch, but they were not yet ready for combat. Federal militias were being activated, and were on the march, such as the elite Seventh New York Militia, the Sixth Massachusetts, the Vermont Volunteers, the Guthrie Grays from Ohio, the Michigan Volunteers, the Twelfth New York Militia, and dozens of other local militia units, large and small.

  But the South had their local units as well, such as the Louisiana Zouaves, a mostly French-speaking unit, who patterned their uniforms after the famous French Zouave regiments who fought in North Africa. A few of the many others included Virginia’s Old Dominion Rifles, Sussex Light Dragoons, the red-shirted Wheat’s Tigers—another Louisiana based unit led by six-foot, four-inch, three-hundred-pound Major Roberdeau Wheat—and the South Carolina Volunteers.

  Jamie laid aside his papers and magazines and went to bed. So far there had been a lot of hot air coming from both sides, and damn little action.

  All that was about to change.

  As he was drifting off to sleep, Jamie wondered why Cort had worn such a secret smile all during and after dinner. He woke up around midnight at the sounds of a galloping horse, followed by muted conversation on the front porch. The rider soon rode off, and the great house grew dark. Sensing no danger, Jamie turned over in the feather tick and went back to sleep.