Anything But Civil (4 page)

“I’d like a glass of water before I go up, if you don’t mind,” Mrs. Triggs said. William dropped the bags with a thud.

“One moment, please.” William disappeared down the hall. Mrs. Triggs gave me a pained smile, then walked over to the Albert Bierstadt painting
Forest Stream
hanging on the wall. She studied the large, tumbled moss-covered boulders beside the still pool in silence for several moments.

“Oh, how I envy you, Miss Davish,” she said, without turning around.

I was taken by surprise and didn’t know what to say. I waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. William returned with the glass of water. She turned, drank the entire contents of the glass without taking a breath, and then handed it back to the butler.

“Thank you,” she said, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward her. I stiffened at her familiarity. She leaned into me and said, “I know we’ll get along just fine, Miss Davish. Morgan has nothing but praise for you.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said. William and I exchanged puzzled glances.

“Oh, do call me Priscilla,” she said. “And I’ll call you Hattie.” She squeezed my arm to punctuate our new acquaintance.

“If you’d follow me now, ma’am,” William said. We started up the staircase. Priscilla walked beside me, with her hand on my arm, almost as if climbing the stairs took too much effort and she needed my support. We approached her room in silence. William opened the door, showed her in, and set up her suitcases.

“The maid can assist you in unpacking if you’d like,” the butler said. “Dinner will be served at seven. If that will be all, ma’am?”

“Yes, thank you,” Mrs. Triggs said.

“Is there anything you need, Mrs. Triggs, I mean Priscilla?” I said. I resented Sir Arthur offering my services first as hostess, now as a housekeeper or maid, but both my loyalty to him and the familiarity this woman imposed upon me compelled me to inquire.

“No, it’s too late for me, Hattie,” she said, pulling the drape back from the window. A delivery wagon laden down with pine trees piled several feet high rumbled past in the street below. “It’s just too late.” I glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was only half past five.

What does she mean by that?
I wondered as I slipped out the door and hastily closed it behind me.

“I
t was the greatest adventure of our lives,” a man with only one leg and a long, flowing white beard said. Every head in the room, with the exception of mine and Sir Arthur’s, nodded in solemn agreement.

“I’ll never forget the time I got up to water the trees in the middle of a moonless night,” the one-legged man said. “Just as I finished up and turned around, I bumped right into a rebel, I did. Must of been a scout or something. Well, I be damned if I didn’t pull up my britches and run as fast as I could go. I looked back once, trying not to get shot, and wouldn’t you know, the damn reb was running the other way!” He slapped his one knee and let out a loud guffaw, spreading laughter through the room.

What was Sir Arthur thinking, bringing me here?
I wondered.

When Sir Arthur, Lieutenant Morgan Triggs, and I had arrived at the monthly meeting of the #502 Edward D. Kittoe Post of the Grand Army of the Republic, otherwise known as the G.A.R., heads weren’t nodding, but beards were wagging and eyes were raised. Women were not allowed at the meetings and my presence set the men, mostly feeble old men, into passionate complaints. But Sir Arthur had been asked to attend as a special guest, and with General Starrett’s assurances, for he was the Senior Vice Commander of the post, I was allowed to stay and take notes as long as I sat in the shadowed corner and didn’t speak. As the one-legged man’s tale attested, the men quickly forgot I was in the room at all. At least most of the men. In an attempt to shield myself from the coarse men, I vainly buried myself in my shorthand. It didn’t work.

“Who can forget the ‘horizontal entertainment’? ” another man added, chuckling.

Horizontal entertainment?
I wondered as several men shouted, “Hear, hear!”

One of the men, with a scruffy gray mustache and several moles on his cheek, looked directly at me and winked. I dropped my gaze, tugged my hat down as far as it would go, and pressed my back against the wall. A moth landed on my tablet, methodically searching the paper for food. When I shooed it away, the man with the moles was still staring at me. I didn’t look up again.

After taking roll call, which I had dutifully captured in my notebook, the Post Commander, Lieutenant Colonel Issac Holbrook, a tall, elderly man with thick white hair that protruded from his head and ran in various directions, read the minutes of the last meeting, including a description of the “sham battle” the men put on for the town. He then reminded everybody of the “Great Men of Galena” house tour scheduled for tomorrow that was organized by the G.A.R. specifically for Sir Arthur, though everyone was invited to attend. Then General Starrett officially introduced Sir Arthur, who in turn introduced his guest, Lieutenant Triggs. The general had allowed Sir Arthur a few minutes to speak to the group. Sir Arthur described his purpose for moving to Galena and then asked if anyone was willing to tell their impression of the war. Contrary to his normal dominating personality, Sir Arthur never passed on the chance to live vicariously through men who had actually fought in the war.

“We had to walk fifteen to twenty miles a day, share our short rations of rancid bacon and hardtack with the worms, use our rifle butts to crush coffee beans, sleep out in the rain with only our coats to cover us, and yet we enjoyed ourselves capitally,” the old one-legged, bearded soldier said.

“Damn near got myself killed three times over,” another said, “but I’d have to agree with Rufus here. I had one hell of a time!” Unlike the other veterans, Lieutenant Triggs did not smile nor did he nod his head in response.

“But you were at war,” Sir Arthur said. “How could you describe your experiences with such joy?”

“I didn’t say it weren’t hell, Mr. Englishman,” the old soldier named Rufus replied. “A man’s not supposed to see his own leg tossed onto a pile of severed limbs like so much refuse or whittle away his hours between battles betting on how long a tick can crawl on a man before it bites him. No, it was war all right but if you’ve never lived through it, you have no idea what we here are talking about.” Sir Arthur flinched. The old soldier didn’t realize it, but he cut right to Sir Arthur’s one known vulnerability. He would’ve given his title and lands for a chance to experience the war as these men had.

“There’s a pride in it, sir,” a small, round-faced, spectacled man said in response to Sir Arthur’s open expression of bewilderment, suspicion, and hurt pride. “I know you are interested mostly in the big men that came from here, like General Grant or Dr. Kittoe, but for us ordinary folk, who never traveled more than twenty miles from home before the war, there’s a pride and a sense of importance in being a part of beating the rebs and keeping this country together.” A preponderance of head wagging followed.

“Yeah, we Union men stuck together, fought together, and lots of us died together. But those of us who lived, we can hold our heads up higher than before because we did what was right.”

“Unlike those Southern-loving rich folk!” one man cried.

“Or those lousy Southern-loving copperheads,” someone else added.

“I’d heard a certain segment of Galena society had ties to the South, especially those relying on the Mississippi River trade,” Sir Arthur said. “But I didn’t know there were copperheads.”

I’d learned about the Copperhead Movement while helping Sir Arthur with his first book. A Northern faction of the Democratic Party, they were called by President Lincoln “the fire in the rear” and by their enemies who hoped to stigmatize them like venomous snakes “copperheads.” Among other things, they believed the Union could never be restored by war and demanded peace at any cost. To undermine the war effort they were known to fight the draft, encourage desertion, talk of helping rebel prisoners of war escape, and take money from the Confederacy. Even unsuccessful efforts to organize violent resistance occurred. When the Union suffered losses, the movement had strong support. After Sherman’s victory in Atlanta, support for the movement waned and some movement leaders were tried for treason. Copperheads in Galena could’ve split the town apart.

“It sounds like living in Galena during the war was . . . complicated,” Sir Arthur said, in what I took to be a vast understatement.

“Oh, no, sir,” the round-faced man said. “Like General Grant once said, ‘There are but two parties now, traitors and patriots.’ ”

“Hear, hear, Charlie!” Rowdy applause erupted and several men slapped the round-faced man named Charlie on the back. Before the clamor settled down and Sir Arthur could ask another question, the door swung open.

“Who’s a traitor and who’s a patriot?”

“Henry!” a simultaneous cry went up as Henry Starrett was welcomed heartily into the room. Sir Arthur scowled. Lieutenant Triggs stared at the newcomer with an unreadable expression.

“You old rascal!” someone said.

“We heard that you were back.”

“Break any hearts lately?”

“Sink any ships lately?”

Men clambered over to shake Henry Starrett’s hand. I couldn’t shake the impression of ancient boys vying for Santa Claus’s attention.

“Now what’s this about a copperhead I’m hearing?” Henry Starrett said.

“The men were graciously answering questions for my book, Captain Starrett,” Sir Arthur said. “We weren’t talking about ‘a copperhead.’ ”

“No, actually, he’s right, mister,” Charlie said. “That’s one of the reasons your questions got us so fired up. There’s talk that Enoch Jamison is back in town, visiting his ailing mother for the holidays.”

“And who is Enoch Jamison?” Sir Arthur said, knowing full well he was the same man we witnessed being beaten.

“One of the most vile creatures to walk the earth, Sir Arthur,” Henry Starrett said. “Am I right?” The men began grumbling among themselves. “Am I right?” he said again.

“Oh, Henry,” General Starrett said. “Don’t be ridiculous. It was over twenty-five years ago.”

“Again, I ask,” Sir Arthur said, getting annoyed at his time being wasted. “Who is Enoch Jamison?”

“One of Galena’s most notorious copperheads,” the man with the moles on his cheek said. “He spent time at Fort Delaware for treason.”

“I believe he was honorably discharged, Mr. Groat,” General Starrett said.

“That was a mistake, sir,” Mr. Groat, the man with the moles, said.

“Yeah, some say he should’ve hanged,” Charlie added.

“Which is why he has some nerve showing his face around here again,” Henry Starrett said.

“Yeah,” a few men said in vague agreement as a middle-aged man with brown hair, a large, floppy mustache, broad shoulders, and big, muscular arms stood and made for the door. He shook a fist at Henry Starrett. In India ink,
O.C.K.
was marked on the back of his left hand. He was clearly angry.
But why?

“Speaking of copperheads,” Henry said, glancing at the man in the doorway.

“Damn you, Starrett!” the man shouted before slamming the door behind him. More grumbling came from the group. Henry either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

“I think something should be done about it,” he said.

“Like pull the man from his buggy and give him a lashing in the street, Captain Starrett?” Sir Arthur said calmly. The room fell silent and all eyes were on Captain Starrett.

“That’s right, by God!” he said, slapping the back of the man nearest him. Chaos erupted. Several men jumped up and shook Henry’s hand while everyone spoke at once.

“Pulled him from his buggy?”

“Doesn’t he have a sick mother to tend?”

“Did you kill him?”

“Henry, you are a madman,” one man yelled, “but I’m sure Jamison deserved it!”

“Damn right he did,” Henry said, “and more if I have anything to do with it. I’ll have him regretting he ever came back to town.”

“Hear, hear!” several men shouted in approval.

“If I may,” Sir Arthur said, ignoring the growing tension in the room, “I have a few more questions for you gentlemen.”

No one seemed to hear Sir Arthur as the men all talked, almost shouting, among themselves, gesturing with their hands and canes.

“Order, order!” Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook shouted about the din. “We still have the newly purposed charity works to discuss.”

I quickly gathered my things and, being careful to stay out of arm’s reach of Mr. Groat, followed as Sir Arthur stomped toward the door. Lieutenant Triggs scrambled through the crowd to catch up with us.

“Order, order!” Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook shouted again. “Please, gentlemen.”

“Oh, where’s your fighting spirit, Holbrook? Let the old codgers have some fun.” Henry Starrett pointed to two men who were red faced and arguing over something I couldn’t hear. One minute the room had been filled with reminiscing old men and now it was filled with angry ex-soldiers who were eager for one last battle. How had Henry Starrett’s surprise appearance turned a routine meeting into a mob scene?

“Sir Arthur, please don’t leave!” Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook shouted. Sir Arthur, knowing he wouldn’t be heard without shouting back, and Sir Arthur never stoops to shouting, shook his head and waved. Lieutenant Triggs hesitated slightly and looked back once before leaving.

“Don’t forget. The tour starts at eleven,” was the last coherent statement I heard as I gladly followed Sir Arthur and the lieutenant out the door.

The house shook and I heard Mrs. Monday downstairs scream. The explosion was still ringing in my ears as I raced down the stairs and found the entire household congregating in the foyer. Sir Arthur was still dressed, but the Triggses, William Finch, and Mrs. Monday, a reed of a woman in her mid-sixties, were still in their robes, having been startled awake.

“What the devil was that?” Sir Arthur said. Sweat ran down Lieutenant Triggs’s face and he was shaking. He shook his head as his wife clung to his arm.

We followed Sir Arthur out the front door and looked toward a plume of smoke rising above Grant Park across the river. The street was filling with people as they poured out of their homes, most still in their dressing gowns and robes. I was happy that I’d been working late and like Sir Arthur was still modestly attired.

When Sir Arthur dismissed me after the G.A.R. meeting, I’d headed straight to my room to type up the meeting notes; I was too distressed to sleep. With that done, I had further tried to distract myself from the unpleasantries of the evening by starting a list of everything I could think of that needed doing before Christmas. I sat at my typewriter for an hour trying to recall everything I’d ever seen in magazines or read about in books, because that was the only place I’d seen the Christmas finery that Sir Arthur expected.