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AURA LEE - PART 17 1/16/2010 3:11:18 PM
AURA LEE – PART 17
“May I show you something, ma’m? Something very, very nice?”
Thomas Jackson was a chameleon, a different man in the presence of a woman, especially if the woman had qualities of comeliness and spirit that overshadowed tenebrous inclinations and allowed her to exhibit the qualities of a lady. Such women reminded him of his beloved wife, Mary Anna, by whose persona he measured all women, and he intuitively, in their presence, reverted to his basic demeanor as a “Southern gentleman.” Nowhere on any continent, nor in any culture, as has often been noted by the most prominent elitists, was there a more genteel or more gallant creature than a true son of the Confederacy.
The peculiar female now before him would not, at first glance, seem the lady he discerned was hidden somewhere beneath the close-cropped hair and dirty and baggy remnants of a uniform; but Jackson sensed she was there. Perhaps it was her delicate deportment and modest movements as she entered the tent with Captain Jameson that made him believe that somewhere within her smarmy structure was housed a quondam owner of grace and beauty.
The Rebel officer presented her to the general in a rather brusque manner. “General, what we have here,” Jameson said, “is this woman posing as a teenage male soldier who claims to be from North Carolina and says she and her husband were captured by the Yankees while bartering food and clothing across the river. Now she says she has a letter for you from General Hooker that she’s supposed to deliver into your hands. And then she wants to scurry back to the Union lines and report you have the so-called letter, or else they’re going to execute her husband as a spy.”
“That’s true,” Melissa said, quietly.
“I don’t believe any of it,” Jameson cut in. “She’s out and out lying. Sir.”
Jackson regarded his officer in a curious light. Why, he thought simply, would she be lying? What was to be gained by lying, when, after delivering the as yet unrevealed letter, why would she want to return to the federal camp and become a prisoner of war if saving her husband were not her only purpose? Any alternative plan made no sense to Stonewall Jackson.
“Sit down, ma’m,” the general offered, gesturing toward a chair beside his campaign desk. “Captain.” He turned to Jameson. “With your permission, sir, I’d like a few words with our—unusual visitor. Would you excuse us?”
Jameson eyes literally popped wider. “Sir, I don’t think—“
“Thank you, Captain.” Jackson looked directly at the tent’s flap. “Don’t wander too far; I may need you to assist this lady through the Wilderness, back to the Rappahannock.”
It was an effort, but Jameson saluted smartly, spun on his heel, and left the tent, his face a burning bush.
When he was gone, Jackson addressed Melissa most solicitously. “Forgive my young officer,” he said. “Despite his fine education, he has had little discourse with gentle women. Would you like something to eat, something refreshing to drink? Iced tea, perhaps, or lemonade?” He nearly added offering half a lemon, but he thought better of it.
Melissa shook her head. “No, thanking you, Gen’ral Jackson. I jess wanna give you my letters an’ git back with my husband.”
“Letters? You have more than one?”
“I do, Gen’rel sir. They give me two, an’ the one I let the captain see the envelop for is jess a decoy.” She reached inside her shirt and produced the bogus letter, handing it up to Jackson.
Old Blue Light took it, lifting it up and examining it against the fading sun slipping into the tent from the front flap. “Shall I open it?” he asked.
“Guess so,” Melissa offered, with a slight shrug.
An ornate letter-opener, a miniature dress sword with VMI in bas-relief on the handle, slit the top in a deft movement, and Jackson withdrew the folded parchment. He scanned the entire page in less than fifteen seconds, and seeing nothing of a proprietary nature, read the letter aloud:
“ ‘My dear, most honorable and respected General, Thomas J. Jackson—I take this rare and exciting opportunity to address you as much admired and feared by your erstwhile adversaries, as I am one, have no doubt—but I am obliged to write and wish you God speed in your endeavors if they may be so subscribed to the conclusion of this madness of war that has beset us and ripped us asunder.’ ”
Jackson lowered the paper slightly and glanced over at Melissa. “Presents a quaint turn of phrase, doesn’t he?” She was listening and looking at him, but the oneiric impassivity of her countenance showed no grasp of what she was hearing. Jackson continued:
“ ‘The bearer of these humble words will, in all likelihood, be abundantly anxious to depart and return to my presence with word that you are well, in good spirits, and in splendid regard of all alumni of that great fortress atop the Hudson. When these hostilities have ceased, I shall look forward to having your eminent person grace my table, while allowing our precious and esteemed wives an hour of domestic conference, as we and our peers exchange histories and views of these trying times. Until then, I remain, most cordially and with sincerest admiration, your concerned servant, Joseph F. Hooker, General and Commandant of the Army of the Potomac.’ ”
Stonewall Jackson placed the letter on the desk and again looked at Melissa. “That’s it?” he asked. “That’s what he sent you this distance for; what he holds your husband as hostage to deliver? Ha!” And the general threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “Ha! Ha! What drivel! What insane – adolescent, abecedarian drivel!”
Because laughter, especially from one of such high rank, sobriety and prominence, is infectious, Melissa found herself giggling with no clue as to why.
“Well, sir, I gotta admit,” she said, after a moment, “I ain’t got a slick book on what you jess read there, but I doan think it matters none.”
“Why’s that?”
“Cause that there letter is jess a decoy, like I tole the cap’in. I got a real letter from the Yankee gen’ral.”
“May I have it then?”
“Sure thing, sir. But . . .”
“But what?”
“But . . . uh . . . y’all gonna have to leave the tent, Gen’ral, while I . . . uh . . . git it out for y’all.”
* * *
The city of Richmond, depending on the time of day and the nature of communiqués from the field, was suspended somewhere between a ghost town and a bustling wartime capital. The sleepy, hot and stifling tobacco town was nearly intolerable in summer and early fall; wet and dank, landlocked but for the muddy James River, and often windswept and malodorous in winter. Spring, however, was a brilliant phenomenon: the city seemed to explode with the color of many blooms and radiant blossoms, the skies turned almost cobalt, and the air was clean and invigorating. It must have been in the spring when Thomas Jefferson first envisioned Maison Carree, the Roman temple at Nimes, which inspired him to recreate it in his designs for Virginia’s capitol. Richmond was then, and today, an enigma.
John Wilkes Booth sat in a comfortable anteroom, outside Jefferson Davis’ cluttered office, and the two men stared at each other across an ornate mahogany desk.
Davis spoke first. “Your ride through lines was without incident, Mr. Booth?”
“Not entirely, sir. After I left General Hooker, I circumvented nearly every area of conflict by moving in a wide arc around what they call ‘the Wilderness,’ and I didn’t cross the Rappahannock until I was well east of Fredericksburg. I may have sacrificed a day or two, but it was apparently worth it: I’m here.”
“Yes,” affirmed the President of the Confederacy, “you most certainly are.”
Jefferson Davis seemed, to Booth, even thinner than he remembered him from his days in Washington as a U.S. senator. Thin, to the point of gaunt; his skin sallow, a shade of gray more pale than his sparse hair that hung loosely over his ears and curled above his tight collar. His bad left eye was glazed over with a rheumy film disguising whatever color was left to match his good brown one, and it was obvious he was nearly, if not completely, blind in that diseased orb. When speaking, his head turned automatically to the left so that eye contact could be made with his right.
“Was there any opportunity,” he inquired, “that you might have called upon General Lee?”
Booth shook his head slowly. “No, none, sir. I thought foremost, however, that if a chance presented itself, I would seek out Stonewall Jackson, as I have reason to believe Hooker and he are on the verge of some sort of assignation.”
“Really . . .” Davis leaned forward toward his young guest, his attention locked.
“Yes, sir. I think Hooker has some idea he can persuade Jackson to persuade Lee to, somehow, persuade you to look at a plan for a truce, or armistice. Or else—something else.”
“Something else?”
“Yes. I think—I have reason to believe Abraham Lincoln has a plot unfolding by means of giving Hooker a more level opportunity to achieve a more deliberate equanimity on the field of battle.”
Davis shifted uneasily in his chair and gazed quizzically at his guest. . “I don’t think I follow your thought, Mr. Booth.”
The actor emulated the president and moved similarly. “In all honesty, sir, I’m not entirely certain I follow, myself.”
Unexpectedly, Davis gestured with his palms open and changed the subject. “Well, then, for now, tell me the news from Washington.”
Booth wondered at this sudden change in the flow of conversation and found himself drawing back and thinking, before speaking, a more cautious and conservative mode. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, with quiet circumspection, “I of late have found myself more or less removed from the normal social circles that would qualify me as any sort of quidnunc-at-large. News, however, from the Yankee cave is always, lately it seems, of a negative and uncertain tenor. Lincoln holds a hard whip over the press—but they adore him (when they are not crucifying him) and his infernal stories and anecdotes. The social magpies have dubbed Lincoln’s wife, the redoubtable Mary Todd Lincoln, as ‘the First Lady of the Land,’ a neoteric and laughable appellation of hyperbole. The White House offers little in active hope that the war shows signs of running out, and they only begrudgingly admit (suggest, really) that Southern victories are increasing, especially in major battles. The casualty numbers are known by all to be inaccurate; the Yankees reflect statistics that cannot be ascertained. They are, in fact, incredible. Incredibly absurd. Both sides are suffering horribly incalculable losses.”
Davis nodded, hoping to hear more from his guest than the generalities of uninformed gossip.
“What of Lincoln himself?” Davis asked. “It now seems preposterous, but I never met the man, never shook his hand or so much as exchanged the pleasantries of the day, despite our common birth heritages. How fares he with society and the intellectual dandies and political charlatans who I’m certain parade constantly through the White House?”
Booth paused, trying to think of an incident worth reporting, but none came to mind. “Aside from the vandals who call invited and uninvited and roam freely about the mansion stealing mementoes and even clipping chunks of fabric from the draperies, I don’t think the people in that government are fully cognizant of the intestine circumstances or have as much regard for the old baboon as the newspapers would have us believe. I perceive there is great tension in his cabinet. I suspect Edwin Stanton and Salmon Chase cannot wait . . . for the day . . . much longer . . .”
Davis also waited. “Yes? For the day? What day?”
Booth shifted uneasily and folded his hands in his lap. “Sir, there are many in Washington, and elsewhere, who do not believe Abraham Lincoln will find history benevolent with unlimited time. His war department, his staff and cabinet— s’wounds!—even his military advisors, his generals—even his own family can no longer abide the madness that nourishes the continuation of the slaughter that is draining our country of its most precious resources—human life, and commercial intercourse, and spiritual manna.”
The dramatic force and theatrical pitch of Booth’s sudden tiracle brought a smile to Davis’ lips. “It would appear, young sir, that you have perpended quite thoroughly on this predicament, and I almost instinctively perceive we have a mutual solution at hand that needs discussing. And I expect with little convincing there will be a great deal of money changing ownership. Can you offer the invoice of a plan?”
Booth leaned back in his chair, not slumping but rather taking on a resigned slouch as if sudden fatigue had overwhelmed him. He glanced down and noticed his clothes were dusty and badly wrinkled from the long ride; his boots were sans the usual blinding shine in which his finical nature took almost feminine gust.
“I apologize,” he muttered, “for my ragged appearance. I should perhaps have come tomorrow—after a bath and brief repose.”
“Nonsense.” The president turned his head and smiled broadly, and it occurred to Booth that Davis, when he actually smiled with sincerity, was not the unattractive, slithering, colubrine politician Yankee cartoonists delighted in depicting. “We need to conclude this interview and settle what business we can while we can. I have two meetings I must oversee in the next hours, and, meaning no disrespect, I would prefer that your presence here be as brief and unnoticed as possible. However . . .
“In light of what we have just discussed and revealed, I have another more pressing assignment for you.”
“Then, sir— ”
“No, let me finish. I think it best that when you leave here, you alter your route to Washington just enough that you again call upon General Hooker; I think he and I both want you present—if not in actual attendance but in proximity—at this meeting to which you have alluded between Hooker and Jackson. I need partisan ears at that venue, and you are the most viable candidate. I need to know the purpose and outcome of this curious tryst, if it is to take place, and I will expect you to get word to me post haste.
“On the other matter, I have read thoroughly all directives from certain persons both in and out of government in Washington and elsewhere, and I want you to leave here with two things: first and foremost, my assurance that I am in complete accord with your purposes. But I do not want even the sheerest scenario discussed in my presence. I elect to remain in total nescience. How and when you achieve the goal that has been set for you is something I would prefer to hear second or even third hand; I prefer to read about it post facto, and I warrant my surprise and disgust will be genuine.
“Secondly, you have my word as a gentleman that all terms of the agreement you have entered into with those aforementioned Washington persons and others will be honored to the letter. In fact, as we speak, a trench is being dug in the rich, fertile soil under a barn floor in our most beautiful of states, into which will be placed nine hundred fifty thousand dollars in gold bullion locked safely in two steamer trunks. Upon your return to Washington you will be contacted by a man named David Herold—he will contact you; it would not be prudent for someone of your notoriety to appear searching all over the District for ostensibly a nobody. You will be contacted by this Herold at your hotel—he is a pharmacist, I believe— and he and his accomplices—some of whom you already know—will arrange for you to receive fifty thousand in gold to begin the, uh, process.”
Booth nodded perfunctorily, not entirely sure this plan was to his liking or what he’d been led to expect. “Sir, if I am not to receive some retainer now, may I ask why I came all this distance through perilous enemy lines to keep what I now perceive as a curious rendezvous?”
Davis gazed upon his young conspirator and wondered, fleetingly, if this was really the man so many toiling in the cause felt was the single hope left to succeed with such a great necessity. “Why indeed,” he wondered aloud. “Perhaps I merely wanted to meet you. . . Would that be reason enough?”
Booth sighed and lowered his dark head, his chin resting in contemplation on his chest.
Davis, sensing sullen disappointment, inquired, “Did anyone consider the risk of your traveling back to Washington with your steed buckling under saddle bags filled with gold? I daresay you would not survive the interrogation of the first pickets. And now, in view of my request you again pay your respects to General Hooker . . .” His voice trailed off with, in his mind, no further explanation needed.
The actor looked up and nodded, realizing that Davis was right.
“How will I know this Mr. David Herold?” he asked.
“You may already, though it doesn’t matter. He will know you. A few weeks ago he waited on you at Thompson’s Pharmacy where he filled a prescription for a balm you required for some carbuncle on your neck. Do you recall the occurrence?”
Booth thought back. “I recall the carbuncle most certainly, but I rarely retain mental images of store clerks.”
“No matter. He will find you. Be sure you keep your lodgings at the National Hotel.”
“But how can I be sure . . . ?”
“He will say to you—let me see . . . he will say, ‘Now you can be sure.’ That will be the sign, the identity code, and he will give you all that you will need, and then, when it’s time, he will assist you in all ways possible and take you to that Virginia barn and help you retrieve your money.”
Booth slid upright on the chair; now he knew what he disliked about this plan. “I cannot, sir—I will not—share so much as a penny with this or any other stranger, no matter how valuable his—or their—assistance may be.”
That made Davis smile again, only this time it was accompanied by a small chuckle. “My dear Mr. Booth, I assure you Mr. Herold and his people—and many others—will have been well compensated for their time and efforts even before you meet him or them face-to-face. He is, in fact they all are, in my opinion, true patriots who would fly to the task themselves had they the entrée to make a presence appropriate to the right place and the right time. Keep in mind; we have a timeframe that must be adhered to. You will be required to log your place in history no later than the fourth of July, 1865—whether the war is over or not—and the sooner the better.”
Jefferson Davis glanced at the huge grandfather’s clock across the room and stood up, extending his hand to John Wilkes Booth.
“Please go now,” he commanded. “And take that tired look of abject
concern with you.”
Booth rose and grasped the president’s hand. “I will not fail you,” he said, in a practiced stage whisper that boiled over with dramatic inflection. “And, sir, I will never forget this moment.”
Davis slid his hand away. “Yes, well, I most certainly will. I do not know you, sir, and for the sake of history, this meeting never took place. Goodbye and God speed.”
