Pemberley Ranch - Jack Caldwell [5]
Sherman puffed his cigar. “I told you, Grant, that if you stayed in the army, some happy accident might restore you to favor and your true place. Well, when news of this victory reaches Washington, you’ll be the toast of the nation.”
“Perhaps, perhaps. You did give me good counsel, though.”
“Hah!” Sherman gulped down a bit of his drink. “You stood by me when they all thought I was crazy before Shiloh, and I stood by you when they all said you were a drunkard!”
Grant eyed him. “I was not a drunkard.”
Before Sherman could respond to that, an aide came in with a message for Grant. The weary-looking bearded man scanned the two-page dispatch while Sherman refilled his glass. He looked up as a curse escaped Grant’s lips. “Trouble?”
The general tossed the notes upon his field desk. “Yes! Some fool is demanding that a Rebel doctor and one of his patients be arrested for insubordination, assault, and violation of the surrender.”
“So?”
“Well, there is also an affidavit from the doctor stating that Union soldiers were stealing from the patients, and he demands I take action against them!”
Sherman sat back. “It happens, no matter how many orders we issue or men we arrest. If it gets too bad, we put a few in the stockade. Is there something else?”
“The officer involved is a George Whitehead, attached to XIII Corps. Made captain because his father is the postmaster back in Illinois and active in the Republican Party. I’ve had complaints before about this fellow, but McClemand always stood by him.”
“You think Whitehead is guilty?”
“I’ve no reason to trust the man.”
Sherman grunted. Both the Union and Confederate armies were filled with political officers—men who received their rank not because of military training or experience in battle but because of their civilian connections. They were usually incompetent troublemakers for their professional brethren, but they had friends in high places, and it was detrimental to one’s career to oppose these men without being very careful. The former XIII Corps commander, Major General John A. McClemand, had been just such a man, and it had taken Grant months to orchestrate his removal.
Grant pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “I finally got rid of McClemand, and now I must divest myself of another political officer. Damnation! I’ve a war to fight!”
“That was good work, shipping out that vainglorious fool,” Sherman said as he took a sip of his whiskey. “Why not do the same with this bastard? Kill two birds with one stone.”
“Eh? What’s that?”
“Whitehead. Have him escort his precious prisoners to prison camp with a letter requesting transfer. Let him be someone else’s problem. Meanwhile, you don’t have to try both Whitehead and those Rebels.”
Grant sat back. “Sherman, I knew there was a reason I let you drink my whiskey.”
Jackson, Mississippi—1865
It was the end of the line, and Darcy and Bingley climbed off the train in the early evening with scores of other veterans of the late war. All about the Jackson station was damage and disarray, evidence of the five-year cataclysm from which the country was now trying to recover. The two needed a place for the night but were not surprised to learn from the station master that all the available rooms were taken. Once again, they had to face a night on the cold, hard earth, and they began their search for a spot, relatively safe from thieves, when they came upon a campfire.
“Hello!” Bingley cried to the lone figure next to the flame. “May we share your fire for a while?”
The man looked up from under the broad brim of his hat, which sported a silver hat band. He wore the uniform of a major of Rebel cavalry, a Sharpe carbine rifle close to his hand. The light from the fire was reflected in his dark eyes. “Come on in, Georgia, you and your companion, an’ set a spell.”
Bingley and Darcy sat on the opposite side of the fire, and the doctor continued to speak. “Thank you kindly, sir. But how did you know I