Chapter 6

April 15, 1867 – April 22, 1867

It was a cool but sunny spring morning as Molly, Bridget, and I walked the tree-lined dirt road toward the country stables owned by Liam Thornton. In my wakefulness in the early hours of the morning I had decided that there was no pressing reason to continue my journey by train. A solitary trip by horse might help heal the wounds that had been inflicted by the tragedies that had overtaken me.

I informed Molly and Michael of my decision before breakfast, and he left early to have his wagon available for one of the numerous projects rebuilding Richmond.

Breakfast was a hearty meal of eggs, ham and potatoes. Since I was the only lodger, I declined breakfast in the small dining room and instead enjoyed the company of Molly and Bridget as we sat at the oak table in the kitchen.

Molly and Bridget had agreed to be my escorts to Sean’s stables, and soon the three of us set off down the shade-dappled lane in the early morning sunshine, our cloaks pulled around us, our breath steaming in the chill. Molly left the household in the care of Maggie Walsh, a young widowed neighbor with a child who helped with the household chores two days per week.

It was probably no more than a three miles distance – an easy walk on a beautiful morning. I very much enjoyed the physical activity and the delightful company. As we set out I tried to recall when I had last enjoyed such an unhurried morning meal. With my responsibilities at the bank increasing with Abner’s illness over the past year, my departure time was well before eight. Elizabeth was rarely awake as I left our bed, and she never joined me for breakfast. Cook despaired for my health as I usually had nothing more than coffee and toast before I hurried to the bank.

When I had returned from the war – that wonderful time when I felt welcome in my home again - Elizabeth spent much time in my company. She had insisted I remain home most mornings and have a leisurely breakfast with her, and then we would walk or ride. Her love was ferocious and she clung to me in bed and during the hours I was home she was never far from my presence. We both hoped for a child. Alas, it was not to be.

What had happened to that loving couple? The couple captured by Mr. Brady in the photograph that graced the corner of my desk was now a painful memory. What had driven such a wedge between us that she would betray me? Was it a gradual erosion of our love coupled with the shock of her father’s death that caused her to cast her lot with her mother and brother?

I had taken little from my office that Friday evening as I left the bank in the company of my friend, Albert Meeker. In his position as Secretary to the Board he had kept the notes, and then promptly resigned his position with the bank at the conclusion of the meeting.

In a leather satchel, I placed some investment documents, records of personal transactions, and the coins and bills I kept in my personal safe. I also took the documents that represented my thirty-five percent ownership of Ross Bank. Over my years with Abner Ross he had made a gift of shares amounting to fifteen percent, and then his bequest had added another twenty, which gave Elizabeth and me a controlling interest. I wondered what Abner would have thought of his daughter’s alliance with Mark and her mother to oust me from my position.

I could not take the Brady photograph since it represented a time of happiness that was now past, but somehow I could not remove Elizabeth’s image from my watch case, even though it caused such hurt each time I opened the case to observe the time. Elizabeth had wanted to replace the silhouette with a photograph but I would not allow it since it was that image that sustained me through the war. Perhaps, I now needed it as a reminder of her perfidy, and it would cause me pause before trusting any woman again.

Elizabeth would not speak to me that fateful Friday evening, seemingly dismissing me as a servant who had the temerity to interrupt her merriment. Looking back upon the late hour of her arrival, the question arose again. Was her evening of gaiety, dining with friends, and the enjoying the theater a celebration of my downfall? What had caused her love to change to such hatred? My questions would now forever go unanswered.

I had waited until that late hour for her return to confront her and barely suppressed anger boiled within me. I had never raised a hand to a woman, but that night it was fortunate for both of us that after her acid comments she had hardly paused before mounting the stairs. I would have had a very difficult time keeping my emotions in check had she stayed. Her late hour dismissal had only hastened my plans for an early departure. I would not face her scorn a day longer. Apparently she thought so little of me, and my efforts on behalf of the Ross family that she would side with them.

Was she blind? How could anything good come from control of the Ross Bank reverting to the three family members? Elizabeth had often commented on her worries about her brother’s irresponsible ways. She knew him to be a wastrel and must realize his involvement meant ruin for the bank. She was also well aware of her father’s written dying wishes. Perhaps, she saw herself as the real power and would control Mark as a puppeteer controls a marionette? Had I so misjudged her? Apparently so. It was maddening.

My black thoughts were interrupted by Molly. “Jonathon, you are welcome to stay as long as you like.” She watched me closely gauging me, discerning my distress.

I looked at Molly’s sweet face as she walked at my side and then looked away trying to hide my emotions. My eyes followed Bridget who had run ahead. Her actions brought back memories of infantry commanders ordering skirmishers to the front – skirmishers to flush the rebel soldiers. If they survived the first few encounters they learned quickly to detect the signs of ambush or hidden fortifications which would otherwise spell death for their fellow soldiers.

I pushed these disturbing images from my mind. The war was over and our diminutive skirmisher skipped along the road in front of us with no cares. I calmed myself and turned back to her.

“Thank you Molly. Perhaps a few more days ... while I find a horse and gather provisions.”

I tried to smile at her and jested, “I mustn’t stay too long. I fear I’d become too accustomed to your hospitality, and never want to depart.”

She averted her eyes and blushed prettily.

After a few steps she smiled and looked up at me, “Mr. Carter ... Jonathon ... For a man with an English name, I’m quite sure there must be an Irishman in your family somewhere!”

We both laughed, the mood considerably lightened.

Midway through our march we paused and came to be seated on a large hardwood log beside a wide flowing waterway. Bridget wandered the banks, searching out the minnows and pollywogs of spring. Across the river I saw trees had been felled and observed remnants of one of our Union Army pontoon bridges. The pontoons, large foldable canvas boats which the engineers could assemble in a very short time, were half submerged in the shallows, their canvas now in taters and their wooden frames, poking up like the skeletons of some large creature that had met misfortune in this beautiful and quiet spot.

I had crossed innumerable pontoon bridges like the one across the way as we campaigned our destructive path from Tennessee, across Georgia into the Carolinas, and finally into Virginia. Some of the crossings had been vigorously opposed and the artillery on our side of the water would duel with the rebel artillery as it tried to stop our inexorable progress. On occasion, we would be forced to cross at a near gallop to clear away the threat to our bridge and progress, and the rebels would take advantage of our brief vulnerability. The heavy planks that made up the surface of the bridges were not meant for speedy crossing, but we made the best of it, pushing our mounts as quickly as possible to exit the exposed bridge deck.

Suddenly, I was back at the bridge across the Chattahoochee west of Atlanta in late Eighteen Sixty-Four. It was a particularly fierce skirmish, but thankfully brief. The musket fire was very heavy as the rebels tried to impede us. Our infantry had battered away at the stubborn Confederates who had formed a hasty defense on the other side but to no avail. Fortunately they had not had a chance to throw up breastworks, nor had they had time to emplace more than a battery of artillery, but they did command the high ground.

Impatiently, Brigadier Keith ordered, “Colonel Carter ... Take your troopers across and move those damn rebs aside!”

I could remember it all again, the dark water swollen by autumn rains, the gray skies and chilling wind, the smell of the acrid powder smoke. I could hear the screams of the horses and men as some were cut down as we crossed the river and charged through our lines of infantry on the opposite side to send the rebels fleeing. Men I had been appointed to lead and care for had died that day or been maimed and they lay mixed among their fallen foes. I failed far too many of them in my tenure as commander. My mount, a steady chestnut stallion, and I both received wounds that day; unfortunately his were fatal.

I watched the slow moving water, Molly sitting quietly at my side, and remembered standing on that wind-swept hillside on that raw and sunless day looking down at the pontoon bridge as our troops safely crossed, the rebel forces vanquished for now. I winced with the memory of removing my revolver from its holster and ending the misery of my dying horse. My second in command, Major Wheatley stood a short distance away, waiting to convey new orders and brief me on our losses. Too much destruction and too much death was the order of the day. We had preserved the Union, but at what cost? Some days it seemed too much to bear.

My thoughts back in the present, I looked across the river and wondered what had caused the abandonment of these necessary pieces of equipment those years ago? Perhaps a rebel column had appeared and interrupted the disassembly. The Army engineers never simply abandoned their pontoon boats, they were essential to the steady progress of an invading army, and they would fight hard to preserve them. Perhaps a bridge had been left after the surrender to provide a crossing here, but the spot seemed unlikely. I wondered, as I often did, how long before the scars of the war would disappear. Would some relic of the war always haunt us, until the graves of the last of us remain the only reminder of the terrible tragedy that had befallen our country?

My mind traveled to that place near Savannah I was determined to revisit. What remained of that stately manor I had ordered burned on that cold afternoon in December, Eighteen Sixty-Four? Did she gaze upon its ruins hating me? Even after two and a half years I could see her clearly, and couldn’t shake the memory of the pain in her eyes as their family home was put to the torch. Could I ever make amends for that terrible transgression?

Startled, I jumped as I felt a gentle touch on my hand.

Molly must have followed my gaze and most likely perceived my thoughts had turned backward to the days of the conflict. She had most assuredly seen it enough with Michael to recognize the gaze that turned inward with memories.

I looked at her reassuring smile as my heart resumed its normal beating.

We were quiet for a few moments, and then she spoke. “Jonathan, did victory for the Union bring with it what you hoped?”

How could I answer her?

I knew the cause to preserve the Union was a noble one and I had gone to war with the other volunteers of my regiment convinced of the righteousness of our cause, but in the days and months and years that the war dragged on with its unceasing barbarity we lost sight of that. We veterans who had been with the regiment since the night we left the station in New York had become hardened. It was not noble, it was war and we only saw the coarseness of it and we ourselves became coarse in our survival. We were no longer civilians who volunteered. No, we were soldiers. Soldiers who could kill without a second thought, and so we put on a mantle of hardness that saw many of us through the skirmishes and battles. We were General Sherman’s Army and we were hardened, at least on the outside. But that hardness came with a price.

I realized that Molly still waited for my answer.

I looked down at my hat - that battered piece of felt that had seen a lot of campaigning and slowly shook my head and spoke softly, “The final day at Appomattox brought mostly a feeling of relief – our joy muted with the memories of the cost we paid to be where we were at that moment. I remember leading my horse back to our bivouac after Generals Grant and Lee announced the surrender of the Army of Virginia, feeling an odd sensation of confusion. What would I do tomorrow? The idea that I had survived seemed foreign, and the idea that I would within weeks resume my old life was impossible to comprehend.

That night I walked the lines. We still had sentries since the war was not yet officially over, but it seemed an unnecessary precaution since we were guarding against a defeated army whose numbers had begun to dwindle that very day. Had our opponents not been reliant on our largesse for supplies we might have awakened to a dawn devoid of gray-uniformed soldiers. As I walked along the sentry line, I noticed the lack of levity among my troopers. They went about their duties out of habit instilled by adversity; some walked about like me, perhaps realizing this would be the last encampment, the last time many of us would be together, these too brief days before we would return home. Even in our exhaustion I didn’t see many asleep. The camp fires burned long into the night, kept up by groups of soldiers with the low voices of men who had come to realize we had survived. We were victorious but not victors.”

I paused.

“The next day my regiment helped distribute rations to what was left of the Rebel Army.”

I looked at her. “Michael might even have been among them.”

She said nothing, but her sadness was obvious.

“That day while we were among those defeated men, who quietly lined up to receive rations, there were no taunts or crowing over the defeat of the Confederacy. These prematurely old men looked at us with hollow eyes, their uniforms in tatters, many without shoes, some still in uniform despite terrible wounds and missing limbs – pressed into service at the end. We were like these men – soldiers who fought until we were used up. They were no longer rebels, they were part of our country again and like us they were going to have to return home. Many, because of the war, would not have a home.”

Molly’s eyes shimmered with unspent tears, understanding a little of what Michael must have experienced. “He has never spoken to me about those final days.”

I nodded, knowing I had never told Elizabeth any of these things.

“I returned to a world in New York that was very different, and to a country that had changed as I had. It saddens me to say that it was that class of people who had shirked their duties and took no part in the conflict who demanded the harshest punishments for the secessionist states – as if the destruction we had heaped upon them wasn’t enough. I was proud of the fact that we had prevailed, but took no pride in the thirst for revenge on men and women who had already suffered enough.”

I could see the effect of my words on her. She had experienced the terribleness of war herself.

“I am certain had Mr. Lincoln survived, the path we have taken these past two years would have been very different.”

Molly leaned against my shoulder and tried unsuccessfully to stanch the flow of tears with her neatly embroidered handkerchief.

“I’m sorry Jonathan, I should not have asked. You are a good man, a man with a conscience. We have been through a terrible ordeal. I feared for so long that Michael would never come home, and prayed to the Blessed Virgin each day for his safe return, and when he did, he was injured and a shadow of himself. Those were terrible times. I recall watching the flames from my porch as most of Richmond burned to the ground. I held my baby fearful that our home would be next and despairing we would ever again have a home or enough to eat.”

I took her hand as she cried, feeling the sorrow and fear she must have experienced.

We sat like that for several minutes, each lost in the remembrances of those terrible days past. Finally, she dried her tears and looked up at me, “Jonathan, thank you.”

She saw my uncomprehending expression. “Thank you for your honesty and for telling me these things, and for listening to a silly girl.”

“Molly, you are far from a silly girl. You are a strong woman who has survived a terrible ordeal, helped your husband heal, and you have raised a beautiful daughter.”

She smiled.

“No small feat I would say.” I returned her smile.

She giggled, patted my hand, and then unaided, got to her feet, and went to fetch Bridget, who was playing not far away on the river bank.

During the remainder of our walk the topics were in a much lighter vein, and for awhile I carried Bridget, who peppered me with questions about my family and about New York City.

At mid-morning we arrived at a small whitewashed farmhouse. A few paces away were a large red barn with an attached wood-fenced enclosure. Just beyond the barn I could see a pasture which contained about a dozen good looking horses. They were cropping the new green grass of spring. As we came up the drive Bridget was well ahead and ran across the hard packed earth and up onto the wooden porch and quickly disappeared into the house through the open front door.

When we reached the yard a large smiling dark-haired man emerged from the house holding Bridget in his arms. She was giggling. He appeared not much older than thirty. Just behind him was a slim, pretty woman who looked to be a few years older than Molly. She, like Molly was dressed in gray homespun. The front of her dress was covered with a gingham apron.

Molly stepped forward.

The dark haired man gave me a glance but smiled at her, as he set Bridget down in front of her mother.

“Molly, how are you this beautiful morning?”

“Just fine, Liam. I’ve brought a customer. He’s in need of one of your fine steeds.”

He looked at me sizing me up. Perhaps my purse too?

“Liam, this is Mister Jonathan Carter. For some reason he has abandoned the comforts of train travel and has decided he needs to have a horse to take him to Savannah.”