Chapter 3

April 14, 1867

“Richmond! Next stop Richmond!”

As the conductor made his way down the aisle, I peered out the soot streaked windows. It was late afternoon, but I was in no hurry. The next train for Savannah wasn’t until tomorrow morning. I gathered my cloth satchel, my leather bag, and my bedroll and walked to the end of the coach, my legs stiff from the long ride and the hard seat.

My left leg gave a painful twinge. I suddenly saw the face of the beautiful gracious woman who treated my wound that day in December over two and a half years ago. Guilt washed over me as I thought of the last time I saw her, tears in her eyes and the refection of the flames that consumed her home which had been done on my orders. What would she say if I suddenly reappeared?

I stepped onto the platform to a bright, but cool late afternoon spring sunshine and the smell of new-milled wood. I knew that, if it was not the Sabbath, there would be a cacophony of construction sounds. Richmond was rebuilding. It was quite a contrast to when I had ridden a military train through in the late spring of 1865 heading north.

By the time I retrieved my saddle from the baggage car, the platform was empty and there was hardly a soul in sight, and there were no cabs. I guessed there would be a hotel of some kind within walking distance. I bent to pick up my belongings, hoping I wouldn’t have to walk far, especially with the saddle, when a voice called out. “Sir ... Sir!”

I turned and saw below the platform on the cobble street, a tall slim, red-haired man sitting on the bench seat of a large weathered wagon pulled by a fine looking black and white draft horse. He wore gray Confederate Army trousers and a short wool jacket over a white shirt. He had a crumpled cloth cap on his head.

I paused.

He said in a broad Irish brogue, “Looks like you might be in need of a horse. My brother has a stable full and would give you a good price.”

I straightened up and looked at him, and then shook my head. “A hotel or rooming house is what I need.”

“I know just the place, clean and reasonable.”

He jumped down from the high seat and in a few strides made it up the steps to the platform. Even with a noticeable limp he quickly had my bags in hand. I followed, carrying the saddle. His slight frame belied his strength. He climbed into the bed of the wagon and put the bags near the front and then I handed him my saddle over the high side boards where it joined the bags.

When we were seated he turned to me and stuck out his hand. I’m Michael Thornton, pleased to meet you.”

“Jonathan Carter.”

“Will you be staying long?”

“No, just the night.

“Pity. Lots to see and do in Richmond, even these days.”

“I’ve been here before.”

He sized me up, maybe for the first time taking a good look at my faded blue cloak and battered black cavalry hat, now devoid of badges of unit or rank. His eyes lingered on the scar on my face. Even after three years it hadn’t faded much.

“A soldier eh?”

“Once.”

“As was I.”

I nodded.

He clicked his tongue and gently snapped the reins and the large horse pulled us away from the station.

“Molly, my wife, will have a room and supper if you have a mind.”

He pulled out a penny clay pipe and lit it with a match scraped along the side of the seat.

Should I have been worried I was going to be robbed or killed, taking a ride on this wagon with a stranger as the daylight faded? I didn’t think so. He seemed to be just what he purported to be, a former soldier trying to keep a roof over his family’s head. I did have my Colt pocket revolver in a special pocket inside my cloak if something untoward happened. I also had a knife in my boot. My Colt revolvers were in my leather satchel but out of reach.

We rode in silence for a few minutes.

“What brings you south?”

It was a nosy question but there was no reason not to answer. He knew I had arrived on the train from the Capitol. Perhaps he thought I was one of the carpetbaggers who flooded the South with their shady deals and shadier politics.

Did I have a good answer? How could I explain to this man about heartbreak and sorrow and loss, and an ill-defined mission to make amends to a woman and family I met years ago? But he was a soldier and a husband, and perhaps a father. He most likely had experienced them all.

“I need to make a new start ... find a new life.”

He just watched me and puffed on his pipe.

I lived, and worked in New York. I didn’t fit in, not before, and especially not after the war.

He took his pipe from his mouth and looked across at me, his eyes far away. “I was with the Stonewall Brigade.”

I nodded my understanding. “I was in the West with Grant and then later with Sherman.”

For a moment I saw his conflicted feelings as he realized what that meant. They were quickly masked and replaced with a look of understanding. Then he shrugged and smiled, a slight wistful smile. “All long ago - beginning to seem like it was someone else.”

I agreed with a nod.

We didn’t speak again until we came to a halt in front of a neatly kept cottage on the outskirts of the city. It was in an area that had been spared the fire that had destroyed almost half of Richmond in the spring of ‘65 when the Confederate forces fled the city. The trees along the gravel lane were budding in the springtime warmth.

A red-haired girl of about five or six flew out the door and down the steps. “Daddy!”

Michael slowed the wagon and we got down. He pulled the girl up into his arms. “How’s my beautiful girl today?”

“We went to the market today, and we met Aunt Rose, and then we went to see the horses!”

“Did Uncle Sean let you ride Tulip?”

She nodded, and then looked very serious. “He showed me the new horse. We couldn’t get too close. He’s very angry and kicks the stall. He has to stay in the barn.”

“Well, I’m very happy you didn’t get too close then.”

About that time she noticed me.

“Mr. Carter, this is my daughter Bridget.”

I took off my hat. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Bridget.”

She looked me over in that way a child does when confronted with a stranger. “You’re a Yankee aren’t you?”

It wasn’t an accusation, just an observation.

“That’s right, a Yankee!” I laughed.

She smiled. “I’m pleased to meet you too, Mr. Carter.”

Her father set her down, and she ran back down the walk and into the house. I could hear her calling her mother.

He looked at me. “Sorry, no offense meant.”

“None taken and, I’ve been called much worse.”

He nodded, “Yes I expect so. I’ll put the wagon away and put your saddle in the barn. It’ll be safe there. You just go up to the door and see Molly. Bridget has already let her know to expect company.” He smiled as he said it.

Molly was an adult version of Bridget, but not much more than a girl herself and probably not more than twenty one or twenty two. Despite the war and caring for a child and husband, she was still a slim beauty. Her red hair was tied in a neat bun and her long gray homespun cotton dress was well-worn but as clean and pressed as could be. I noticed a gingham apron draped on the rocker near the door

“Welcome to our home, Mr. Carter. I hope you will be comfortable here.”

She gave me the same appraising look as her daughter. “How long will you be staying?”

“Just overnight. I have a train in the morning.”

“That will be three dollars please, if you want supper and breakfast.”

I could see Molly was the business woman. Michael had not even mentioned the price of the wagon ride or the cost of the room. Perhaps, she had forbidden it, or more likely letting of the room represented her money.

I smiled at her as I counted out three silver dollars. I could see she was relieved that I had paid with silver instead of paper currency. As a banker I had many customers who would rather carry a purse full of heavy coins than the much lighter paper currency. They had seen their share of failures and there was nothing quite as secure feeling as a heavy purse full of gold and silver.

I had more than enough money to get me to Atlanta and I also carried a letter of credit from a New York bank that I could present to a bank there.

She thanked me and went to a roll top desk in the parlor where she unlocked a drawer and deposited the coins. Then she showed me to my room.

The small room in the back was as immaculately kept as was what I could see of the rest of the house. It contained a four-poster bed, a dresser, and a wash stand. The bed was covered with a faded patchwork quilt that would have been at home at my parents’ home in Pennsylvania.

“Mr. Carter, I’ll leave you to get settled. The privy is out the back door behind the wagon shed. Supper is at seven.”

Suddenly I was weary from the travel. The bed beckoned and it was still an hour until we would eat. I took off my cloak and boots and found the bed surprisingly comfortable.

I thought about the previous night when I had stayed at the Willard Hotel in Washington. It was very crowded and I was fortunate that I had sent a wire ahead to reserve a room. The dining room was also crowded and filled with cigar smoke. I considered waiting in the bar and headed that way when over the din I heard my name.

“Colonel Carter ... Colonel Carter!”

I looked around and there at a table in the corner was General Grant. He waved and motioned me to come near.

I had the opportunity to meet General Grant a few times during the war, but I did not know him well. Toward the end, I was one of his officers, actually one of General Sheridan’s officers, commanding a cavalry unit – or what was left of one. It was a far cry from the proud unit that had left New York in the spring of 1863. My relationship with General Grant could best be described as senior and subordinate. I knew I was one of the first faces he saw as he left the wide porch of the McLean home at Appomattox Courthouse after his meeting with General Lee on April 9^th, 1865.

On that day I was standing in the front yard near the porch having what I thought was a fairly interesting conversation with one of Lee’s cavalry officers.

I pictured him, and even after two years I could see him clearly. We were discussing repeating carbines and the new rimfire cartridges, and, as I recall, the new Colt revolvers. We could have been any two business men discussing our occupations, a New York banker, and a small town lawyer, except our current business was a bloody one. It was a far cry from the art of war. I could never see how anyone could use that phrase for the butchery that is war, but there we were talking like these weapons were farm implements, instead of tools for the grim reaper.