Judah P. Benjamin smiled wryly and shook his head. “And there, as the bard said, is the rub. Too many in the South do not want to change their moral values and they yearn for the old and simplistic values, with the few governing the many and the Negro at the very bottom, enslaved and helpless.”
Mill nodded, then sighed. “You are indeed correct, sir. But as physical values are changed, you will find that moral values change with them. A man freed from slavery will fight to keep that freedom. A man receiving a decent wage will not go back to penury without a battle. You are going through the period of transition now and I do not envy you your labors — or those of the Freedmen’s Bureau. Your reformation will be a painful one for some. But as the majority who enjoys its benefits grows larger you will find that the minority will be forced to join the others.”
“I pray that you are right, sir. Pray to God that this country will survive the strife and change and emerge triumphant, strong and united.”
“A prayer we all share,” Lincoln said, the strength of conviction in his voice.
Shortly thereafter Mill made his apologies and he and his daughter left. Benjamin stood then as well and gathered up his papers. “I have taken up too much of your time,” he said.
“Quite the opposite,” Lincoln said. “We are in this battle together and must stand united. But tell me — what of Jefferson Davis?”
“His bullet wound has almost healed, and the doctor says that the worst is past. Of course he has lost a good deal of weight and is very weak. But the doctor tells me that he improves daily. He now walks from the bedroom to the parlor where he sits up part of the day. And his morale seems much better. When the weather improves he hopes to be fit enough to ride again. He was always the great one for riding and misses it sorely.”
“That is the very best news. When you see him next give him my very fondest regards and my sincere hopes for a speedy recovery.”
“I shall do that, sir, I certainly shall.”
“Tell him also how well your work is going. That you are creating the new South — and all of us are cheered by the expansion and advances made in this new United States that he worked so hard to found.”
Cheered somewhat by the President’s encouragement, Judah P. Benjamin walked the few blocks to the house he was renting while he was in Washington City. It was growing dark and the first lamps were being lit. When he turned the corner into his street he saw a small crowd ahead. They appeared to be in front of his house, of all things. One of them seemed to be holding a flickering torch, or at least it looked that way. Benjamin pushed through the crowd of onlookers and stopped. No torch this.
Planted in the lawn by his front gate was a wooden cross. It must have been drenched in kerosene and set alight for it was burning vigorously.
A burning cross? What could it possibly mean?
General William Tecumseh Sherman was at his desk in the War Department soon after dawn. It was still dark when the surprised sentry had sent for the officer of the day to unlock the big front door. The past days had been busy ones, arranging first for the rifles and ammunition to be assembled, then to arrange for it to be shipped west. At the same time they were gathering all of the field guns that could be mustered to follow after the rifles. Batteries from both the North and the South mingled together; so far there had been no complaints and both sides had worked together as one. While Sherman had been doing this all of his other work as commander of the Armies had been neglected. Now there seemed to be no end to the paperwork that accumulated on his desk — and no end as well to his efforts to reduce it.
At seven o’clock Sherman’s aide, Colonel Roberts, slammed through the door, whistling shrilly as he came. He stopped abruptly when he saw his commanding officer already at work.
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t know you were here.”
“I’m just as sorry as you are, Sam. I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about the list of acquisitions we have to send to the Congressional committee — and I couldn’t get back to sleep. Figured I could work on it here better than I could in bed. And the guns as well. I am stripping our artillery of all the smooth-bore, unrifled cannon that can be found. They are going to Mexico where they will do good service in an army that has not been trained in the use of more modern rifled guns. And they will be easier to supply with munitions. Yet we must not be left defenseless. Parrott and all of the other foundries must step up production. I don’t care if they work twenty-fours a day. We need those guns.”
“I shall get onto that matter at once. But first — can I get some coffee, General?”
“If you don’t I’ll court-martial you. And if you do I’ll put you in for light colonel.”
“On the way, sir!”
Sherman stretched his legs out and sipped gratefully at the hot coffee. He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk.
“We’re losing another regiment. The 14th New York’s enlistment is about up. At this rate we’re not going to have much of an army left soon.”
“What we need is another good war.”
“We may just be having that. Did you read the report from Room 313?”
“No. Was I supposed to?”
“Not officially — but I want my staff to know everything that I know. It’s early days yet there. The British troops have landed in Mexico, but they don’t seem to be going anywhere yet. Although they are laboring away at building a road through the jungle. But there is more in the report. There is the matter of the Mexican irregulars. A confidential report about the plan we are making with Juarez to let his people in the Oaxaca mountains take care of the British troops all by themselves.”
“I didn’t see that,” Roberts said.
“You wouldn’t — there’s just the single copy addressed to me, for my eyes only. So don’t let on that you know about it just yet. There is a lot of secrecy in the workings of Room 313, and I am sure that there is good need for it. But I want my staff to know everything that I know, no matter what Room 313 thinks. It would be impossible for us to work efficiently if I am forced to keep vital facts from you.”
There was a knock on the door and Roberts went to open it; took the message form from the sergeant.
“I think this is what you have been waiting for, General. Word from the ground range at Suitland. They’re doing a test firing of the gun today and they wonder if you want to be there.”
“Damn right I do. It will also be my greatest pleasure to get away from the paperwork for a bit.” Sherman pushed his chair back and climbed to his feet. “Get our horses saddled. Spring is here and this is a fine day to be out of the office.”
They trotted down Pennsylvania Avenue on the bright, sunny morning. General Sherman returned the salute of a passing troop of cavalry and almost seemed to be enjoying himself.
But it was all too brief a ride to the artillery range at Suitland. The guards at the gate of the ground range presented arms as they rode in. General Ramsay must have been waiting for them, for he came out of the office and stood by the hitching post as they rode up.