Mexico: A Novel Part 33

The Clays sat silent and brooding. When the sun rose, she coughed before starting anew. "Did the men think a war, if it happened, might reach down here?"

"We didn't discuss that. Didn't even mention it."

"Let's think about it. Could the war reach down here?"

"In Mexico I learned one thing. If General Santa Anna starts his war in Texas he must consider the possibility that it will end up in his capital at Mexico City, six hundred and fifty miles farther south."

"Our troops would never let them reach as far as Richmond, surely not."

"Our troops won't want them to reach that far, just as their troops would not expect us to reach New York. But once you cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war you cannot predict at whose house they will bay."

"Oh, Jubal, that's too horrible to contemplate."

"But we are contemplating it, and I see this as our probable future. There will be a war. Those Northerners will insist on it. I shall volunteer, maybe within the week, and then we're in till the end. You've already proved you can run Newfields, so long as the slaves do not take this as an opportunity to rebel. In due course Noah and Paul will be in uniform, which means that you and Grace-she'll be old enough to help-must hold our little kingdom together. And when the war ends, we rea.s.semble in peace and do our best to make up for the time we've lost." After a moment's silence he said: "The fields will need clearing of brush. It does sneak in, you know, if left untended for a while."

The war did come as Jubal Clay had foreseen, but to his surprise it was triggered not by some insolent act of the North but by Southern hotheads firing on a United States fort in Charleston, South Carolina. From that moment there were two flags, the Stars and Bars and the Stars and Stripes; two names, the Confederacy and the Union; and two groups of fighting men, Johnny Reb and Yank.

As expected, Jubal Clay reported for duty as a major in the Virginia Third and quickly became what I called in my wars a light colonel. During the early years of the war he seemed to be fighting incessantly, but since most of the fighting occurred in what was called the Peninsula Campaign, he was often engaged in fights defending Richmond, so that he was on familiar terrain in areas like Mechanicsville and Gaines' Mill. This meant that he sometimes arranged to sneak home to see Zephania and the children. On such trips he repeatedly said: "It's going to be a long war. We're outnumbered badly, but one of our men trained in country shooting is worth six of their raw recruits straight from some overcrowded city, so in the end we have a chance to win."

As he had antic.i.p.ated, by the end of the second year both his sons had been called to duty. At a trivial skirmish, a.s.sociated with the great Confederate victory at Chancellorsville, of which the official report said: "We repulsed the Union forces while suffering only minor losses," a loss that was not minor to the Clays was the death of Noah. At another Confederate victory, about which the commanding general said: "Our losses were at the acceptable level," the Clay's younger son, Paul, was among those slain.

Now when Jubal managed a few days at the plantation his task was to console Zephania over the loss of her sons, but she would talk only about the problems of life on the plantation: "The Northern warships blockade our ports so fiercely that no cotton can be shipped to Europe. Slaves run away to join the Northern armies. Grace's school has closed." Never would she speak of her lost sons, and the loving communication that had always existed between husband and wife perished with the war.

In early May 1864 it was clear that Butcher Grant, as many Confederates called him, intended muscling his way by brute force straight down the peninsula from the Potomac River south of Washington, fording the Pamunkey and Chicka-hominy rivers and stabbing the heart of the Confederacy by capturing Richmond. If he followed that route his troops would pa.s.s close to the Clay plantation but, more important, would then try to penetrate the Wilderness. When Clay heard that and visualized the impenetrable Wilderness he knew, he cried: 'That would be insane. Impossible to march an army through there. Scouts couldn't make it," but when he tried to a.s.sure the Confederate command that they must have misinterpreted Grant's intentions, they told him: "Maybe we did, but here he comes, straight for the Wilderness." And when they showed him their maps, he understood their next orders: "You know the area, Colonel Clay. Take all your men, get the best engineers you can find, muster the backwoodsmen and make this vital crossroads impossible to attack," and a big forefinger jabbed at a spot Clay knew well, less than eight miles from his home, the insignificant inland settlement with the curious name of Cold Harbor, only ten miles from Richmond and guarding the entrance to that capital.

Clay and a cadre of officers who had hunted the Wilderness as boys and young men borrowed from other units any soldiers who knew the area, and they in turn conscripted woodsmen in their fifties and sixties to help them erect around Cold Harbor a defensive network that could be breached only by piling dead Union soldiers six deep and marching over them. And even when that was accomplished, the surviving invaders would still have to fight hand to hand from below as they looked up into the faces of thousands of Confederate troops armed with the weapons they knew best: rifles, pistols and long knives. If Grant attacked Cold Harbor, he would be sending his men into certain annihilation.

But that was still not enough margin for Clay, so when he judged his ground defenses to be truly impenetrable, he wheeled into position as many cannon as he could muster and placed each one so that it commanded a different approach to the final line of breastwork trenches. No Union soldier would approach Cold Harbor without facing cannon fire from at least three angles, and the cannon would be firing explosive sh.e.l.ls filled with a lethal mixture of rusty bolts, bits of iron, lengths of chain, lead pellets and even shards of broken gla.s.s.

When I say "impenetrable" I am not referring to these mechanical horrors. I mean that the Wilderness woodsmen, without orders from Clay, had converted the entire area that would have to be traversed into a natural death trap, an abatis, a French word my grandfather did not know, nor did I when I first heard it. An abatis, devised by European peasants to obstruct the lord's cavalry, consisting of bending strong saplings forward into a woven impediment and then with a sharp ax slashing each sapling so that it presented a daggerlike point that could pierce a man through his belly or a horse in one of his four legs.

At twilight on Thursday, June 2, 1864, Colonel Clay, in surveying the defensive works for which he had been responsible, noted with grim satisfaction that all was ready. There were the nine cannon to rake the approaches, each field of fire interlocked with the others. There were the riflemen with their deadly fire. In front were the buried bombs that would explode if a foot touched them, and in front of all that was the abatis, its sharp spikes, hundreds of them, pointing straight at the invaders' bellies. And beyond, to the north along the route the Yankees would have to take if they wanted to march on their way to Richmond, lurked the Wilderness itself-its swamps, its mud, its tangled trees, its miasma, its oppressive June heat, its confusing trails that led back upon themselves. It was to this a.s.signment that General Grant had sent his men with clear, crisp orders that allowed no hesitancy or misinterpretation: "At 0430 on the morning of Friday, 3 June inst. you will a.s.sault the defenses at Cold Harbor and secure it for the pa.s.sage of our troops to Richmond."

In Confederate headquarters at a rough farmhouse behind the crossroads, Colonel Clay said as he lay down for a brief rest at three in the morning of June 3: "Not even Butcher Grant would dare try a frontal a.s.sault on what we have here. I pray that our flanks are prepared, because I'm sure he intends driving right at us to make us commit our troops, and then slipping off to the easier terrain on our left." As he said this he looked to the east, where he supposed Grant would veer, and uttered a short prayer: "Dear G.o.d, protect our men over there. They may have a very rough day." He had barely concluded this prayer when woodsmen who had been hiding in the Wilderness as scouts rushed into Cold Harbor by a hidden trail they had preserved for this purpose: "My G.o.d! They're marching straight at us!" and when Clay shinned partway up a tree to see whether this could possibly be true, he saw to his horror that Grant's troops, in gallant battle formation, were heading directly for the abatis and the interlocking fire of the nine great cannon.

In the first eight minutes of that June morning, three thousand Yankees died. In the next half hour, when the second wave pushed forward over the dead bodies of their comrades, five thousand more died, with not one of Colonel Clay's Confederates dead. Four hours later, at nine in the morning, Butcher Grant issued new orders: "The entire front to resume the attack," but when these insane words reached the line commanders they refused to accept them, even at the risk of suffering grave personal penalties.

Clay, barely a hundred yards from the Yankee lines, heard an enthusiastic Yankee blow his bugle for a ma.s.sive charge right at the Confederate guns. "Dear Jesus!" Clay cried. "Don't let them!" and when no Yankees left their improvised trenches he wept.

It is generally held that one of the best accounts of Cold Harbor is the one my grandfather wrote when he was called back to Richmond to receive a decoration for his tremendous defense of Cold Harbor and I can do no better than to cite it here: Richmond, 19 June 1864 My Darling Zeph: I can scarcely believe that the horrifying events of the last few days took place only a few miles from where you and Grace were residing peacefully at Newfields. If my hand trembles in writing it's because I've not slept properly for six days nor washed for five. By the time this reaches you, you'll already know that we've handed the enemy a crushing defeat. Butcher Grant who boasted that he would ride roughshod over us has been knocked back with losses that must make even his savage brain stop and wonder.

When it became apparent that a significant battle might be shaping up about the insignificant crossroads you know so well, Cold Harbor in the Wilderness, General Lee gave me the task of seeing that our batteries were in position to rake a murderous cross fire through every approach, and I used the Alabamans and Colonel Butler's Virginians to that purpose. ...

Clay went on to tell his wife about the preparations he had supervised for the protection of the Confederate positions and the carnage they exacted. It's what Grandfather reported in his next paragraphs that has commanded the attention of historians and biographers: Since the Union charge started at 0430 and lasted only half an hour, it must be clear that the destruction of the enemy troops occurred just before sunrise, which was fortunate timing, since that would allow the Union commanders to appeal for a truce, and this would allow them to leave their lines, come onto the battlefield and take back their dead and wounded, of which there were, lying about the field of fire, not less than a thousand, and my adjutant said, "More like two." If they were to be left out there when the blistering sun rose to bake and scorch them, their pain would quickly grow to agony.

I therefore ordered my men: "Hold your fire when the rescue teams appear," and they were more than ready to obey, because the slaughter they had perpetrated at point-blank range was permissible under the circ.u.mstances, and by that I mean I agreed with one of my men who said: "If they was stupid enough to march right into our bullets with no chance of firing back, they deserved to die," but none on our side wanted to continue this awful killing. So we waited for the Union stretcher-bearers to come out and rescue their wounded. None came.

By ten in the morning the sun was beginning to beat down with great force and men were beginning to cry out for water, and medicine, and stretcher-bearers, but none came. By noon the heat was quite unbearable, even for those of us under cover, and you must understand, Zeph, that the wounded men between the lines lay so close to our lines that I could tell whether a fallen man with no cap was either blond or brunet, and had I known their names I could have called to them. It was they who called to me: "Please! Water! Help!" but there was nothing I could do.

I must explain why I was powerless to help these poor men. The battle was still under way. No Union general had applied for a truce, nor was he likely to, because that would be admitting we had won, and this Grant refused to do. So as the sun went down on Friday the third, a date that will be remembered for our great victory, the wounded out in the field between the lines at last had some relief from the blazing sun. But now, in the cool of the evening when they had time to think, the dreadfulness of their condition became clear. They were to spend the night out on the ground that would gradually become cold, and damp with dew, and miserable, so they began pleading with both their companions to the east and their enemies to the west: "Water! For G.o.d's sake, water!" And all that night we heard their cries for the mercy we were powerless to provide.

Zeph, tears fill my eyes and I cannot describe the three days-Sat.u.r.day, Sunday, Monday-with the sun hotter each long day, the ground more miserable at night and that incessant screaming of the Union men for help. One of my men, a farm boy from near Frederick, was so distraught by the cries-Zeph, they were only ten or fifteen yards away-that he disobeyed my orders and went into the field with a pail of water, but the Union sharpshooters fired at him. I think they intended to miss, for he scrambled back to our lines.

After that, our men shot at them if they tried to work in the field. And still Grant refused to sue for a truce.

On Monday night when the screaming became intolerable, we heard gunfire, and when I inspected with a throw-lantern I saw a Union soldier crawling from one fallen body to another and shooting the men whose badly wounded bodies were beginning to produce blood poisoning and horribly distended bellies. I did a terrible thing in throwing my light upon him, for when one of our men saw what he was doing, shooting his own companions, my man took aim and shot the Samaritan.... I can't go on.

Zeph, I'm writing later. Tuesday morning, after four days of this horror, Grant finally conformed to battle rules and asked for a truce, but even then he delayed action and it was past noon on a blistering day before the white flags appeared and the medical teams came out from the Union trenches to rescue the few who remained alive. I calculate that Grant's obstinacy in this affair accounted for an additional nine hundred deaths. And I hope there is a special h.e.l.l for such a man, one with great heat and no water.

With all my love, Jubal The name Jubal at the end of the letter I've just quoted prepares the way for an amazing coincidence that would, in years to come, account for perhaps the most dramatic event in my grandfather's life. The Confederate general in command of Lee's left wing in this gruesome battle was Jubal Early, a crusty forty-eight-year-old professional soldier from the Western backwoods section of Virginia. A skilled cavalryman, a veteran of many batdes, most of them victories, he had watched his namesake Jubal Clay perform superbly at Cold Harbor, and after the battie sought out the younger man, who was flattered to have attracted the attention of such a grizzled veteran.

'They tell me," General Early said as he dismounted at Clay's temporary headquarters, "that I'm about to set forth on an undertakin' of some magnitude, and I would feel more secure if I could have as one of my adjutants a man like you." Before Clay could respond, Early added: "You havin' that sizable plantation out there, I presume you know how to ride."

"Yes, sir."

"Would you take it kindly if I were to ask General Lee to transfer you to my command?"

"Any Virginian would be proud to ride with you, sir-I especially. I've some scores to settle with Butcher Grant."

"You're the man I want," the general said, and in that informal way Jubal Clay was seconded to Jubal Early. Together they set forth on one of the great adventures of the Civil War, nothing less than an attempt to swing over into the Shenandoah Valley far to the west, gallop up that natural highway, reach almost to the Pennsylvania border, capture Harper's Ferry, and then swing sharply southeast in a mad attempt to capture Washington itself. Seven days after General Grant retreated from Cold Harbor, his tail between his legs, Clay was riding north with General Early to catch a train that would carry them to a pa.s.s through the low Virginia mountains. There they would dismount, ride through the hills and reach the Shenandoah, where large units of Confederate cavalry were waiting to start their daring dash north.

Then came the days of glory! Following the tracks of the great Stonewall Jackson, who in 1862 had rampaged up and down this valley, confounding the Union forces sent to destroy him, Early's troops marched into historic Winchester, capital of the Shenandoah, in majestic style one sunny afternoon when the entire population came out to cheer. In front, leading trim ranks of cavalry-"Handsome men in handsome uniforms riding handsome horses," one country editor wrote-came General Early, astride a white horse and resplendent in a uniform famous throughout the South: huge white felt hat adorned with a long snow-white turkey feather, a white coat made of a heavy imported fabric that reached to his ankles, fine boots, highly polished, and a natty gray uniform decorated with medals.

His foot soldiers were presentable, for although their uniforms were nondescript and some were tattered, they were clean from the washing given them by the women who followed such large troop movements, but as they marched, the people of Winchester unhappily noticed that many of the soldiers were boys not much past fifteen, and that an appalling number were barefoot.

The armed might of the parade left such a powerful impression on the watchers that a newspaper reported: 'That army could proudly march through the Pearly Gates or storm the portals of h.e.l.l," but when the troops bivouacked at dusk, women from Winchester came bringing shoes they had taken from their menfolk.

North of Winchester, Colonel Clay was given the job of leading a work force to dynamite and otherwise destroy the track and bridges of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, a line so helpful to Northern troops moving back and forth that it was known as "Grant's cavalry." With cheers and poundings on the back, the Confederates watched as one bridge after another of the hated line twisted upward and fell back in ruins.

As the men tramped over the ground that Stonewall's men had traversed, sucking up vitality from each memorable step they took, they did more. They roared far north of Washington, captured Harper's Ferry and swung east to do batde with the Union general, Lew Wallace, whom they defeated roundly. On July 10, a month after Cold Harbor, the two Jubals, victorious in a score of battles and skirmishes, actually invaded Washington itself. True, it had been done through the backdoor, the extreme northwest corner, but it was a foothold and Clay went to bed believing that when they marched out of the city they would be taking Abraham Lincoln with them as prisoner and that the war would be over. The vision was not extreme, for earlier that afternoon when Clay had directed his sharpshooters to knock off Union troops manning a fort near the Confederate lines, his men had focused their attention and their sights on the Union soldiers, ignoring the tall civilian who stood with them. It had been President Lincoln, come to see personally whether or not his troops could hold off this bold thrust of General Early. Clay and Lincoln had been no more than thirty yards apart.

But die Union generals reacted too swiftly, and threw into the defense of Washington too many fresh troops for even Jubal Early to think of actually capturing the city. He had to withdraw lest he lose his cavalry and from the first encampment on the retreat, Clay wrote to his wife: Darling Zeph, We've had an unbroken chain of victories. You'd have been proud of me on horseback with General Early. We reached Washington and threw a fearful scare into the Union government, and then I led an excursion into Pennsylvania, where I invested the important town of Chambersburg. I warned them that they must pay indemnity for the savage manner in which they burned the homes of peaceful citizens favorable to our cause. I demanded $25,000 of them, and when they insolently refused to pay, I burned the town.

His wife never received the letter, for when he left his command at Cold Harbor to ride with General Early, word pa.s.sed among the Union solders: "Clay was responsible for those sh.e.l.ls filled with chain and pointed stakes that wounded so many of our men." They said also: "And who shot at us when we tried to rescue our dying men? Clay." As they withdrew from the field where they had lost so many in so few minutes, a rage consumed them and when someone learned that Clay owned the plantation they were pa.s.sing, infuriated soldiers, ignoring commands from their own officers, dashed down the line and torched it.

Zephania and her fourteen-year-old daughter were in the house when the Union men fired through the windows. The girl ran out of the house as soon as the flames started, but her mother stubbornly refused to do so, remaining behind to gather precious bits she could not bear to lose. Disoriented, she even tried to move the piano to protect it from the spreading fire, so that when she finally did run for the door, there was no escape route and she perished.

Her husband, now retreating from his foray into Washington and his burning of Chambersburg, had to be constantly on the move, so that no mail reached him with news from home. The cause of this haste was the arrival in the Shenandoah of a brilliant young cavalryman as commander of the Union forces. Phil Sheridan's rise from volunteer to general had been spectacular, and his great good luck in battle was proverbial. One of his first acts in the Valley was to pin Early's army down in Winchester, the city that had welcomed the Confederates only a few weeks before. At that time Early had been on his way north to stunning victories: now he was in retreat, seeking to preserve the life of his army and of himself.

Sheridan proved relentless, a determined, dogged killer, and when the fierce battle ended, Early had lost 40 percent of his army; Union losses had been heavy, too, but there was this profound difference: The Northern states could provide an endless supply of new recruits; the South had been drained. And Northern troops marched in bright new shoes designed especially for military use; many of Jubal Early's fifteen-and sixteen-year-old soldiers marched barefoot.

Then in quick succession came a chain of crushing defeats, with Phil Sheridan outsmarting Early repeatedly. The retreat ended one night with the two Jubals eating meager uncooked rations in the deserted schoolhouse of a small village where they could not escape reviewing the bleak situation of their beloved Confederacy. The general said: "We can still win. If we can move our troops down to help Lee defend Richmond, we can exhaust Grant. He's not much of a general, stand and punch." And Clay, his hatred for Grant intensifying with each battle lost, cried: "Isn't there some way we can strike at him direct?" and Early said grimly: "If we can make him come at us, as we did at Cold Harbor, we can wear him down." Clenching his fist, he repeated: "Wear him down! Wear him down!" But each man knew that it was their armies that were being worn down, although neither would admit it.

As they sat in near darkness, an aide delivered a batch of mail to the two officers, and when Clay sorted he found to his surprise that Zephania had not written, but one of the other letters from a neighbor explained why: "It is my sad duty to inform you that Union renegades burned Newfields to the ground. Zephania died in this blaze, but not your daughter, Grace, who is safe with us."

Dumbly he pa.s.sed the letter along to the general, who read it in silence. Early had never married and believed that men fought best when not enc.u.mbered with wives. Repeatedly he refused his officers permission to leave ranks long enough to marry: "Do that when peace comes and your wife can stay with you," but out of respect for Clay's feelings he did not voice this opinion now.

"I've lost it all," Clay said more to himself than to Early. "My sons, my wife, my plantation." Such shattering loss was too much: "Oh, G.o.d!" he cried, beating his forehead with both hands. 'This is unfair! Where is there reason in such acc.u.mulation of sorrows?"

It was this conviction that an unreasonable G.o.d had punished him too much and too unfairly that drove Jubal Clay into an intimate friendship with General Jubal Early when the latter was similarly abused in a crushing letter from Robert E. Lee informing him that Early's army was being taken from him and given to a subordinate. The letter, dated 30 March 1865, when the world was falling apart, contained phrases that scalded the grizzled fighter.

I deem a change of commanders in your department necessary. ... Your reverses in the Valley have, I fear, impaired your influence, both with the people and the soldiers.... I have felt that I could not oppose what seems to be the current of opinion.... I must find a commander who would be more likely to inspire the soldiers with confidence . . . thanking you for the courage and devotion you have ever manifested, I am your obedient servant, R. E. Lee, General

The disconsolate pair, united by their hatred for General Grant and their determination to see the Northern forces humbled, staggered toward Richmond for a final defiance. General Early, no longer displaying his white hat with its turkey feather and his long coat, received a minor appointment to which Clay also reported so as to remain close to a man he increasingly admired. Jubal Early was a fighter, a man of honor, and for him to be abused by his own government because the North had the capacity to throw hordes of fresh troops against him was unfair and scandalous.

But Clay also clung to his general for a more personal reason. The linchpins of his life had shattered: He had lost his beloved wife, his stalwart sons, his home and now his national cause. All had vanished, except his daughter, who was adrift, and he had nothing except his honor and his determination to help Jubal Early fight somewhere, somehow. But he was relying upon a weak support, for Early was as bereft as he. But the general still retained an indestructible loyalty to the cause, for when General Lee surrendered the Confederate cause at Appomattox in April of 1865, Early and Clay refused to concede that the war was over. Rejecting the generous"offer of parole that the North extended to Southern officers, they said bold and loud: "We're still at war. We'll never surrender to Butcher Grant," and when they refused to take the pledge of allegiance to what they called the Northern government, they became hunted fugitives. In the garb of petty farmers they sneaked out of Virginia and, wandering the backroads and living off the charity of Southern patriots, they crept down through the Carolinas and Georgia and westward through Alabama and Mississippi and into Louisiana, where they hoped to join the army of Confederate general Kirby Smith, who was still fighting. But as they entered the state they heard the sad news: "The general, he held out as long as possible, last one in the field. But when the North threw an entire army in to catch him, he had to surrender. War's over, but we gave 'em a good fight for it, didn't we?" and Early grunted: "We did."

When the men asked: "Where you soldiers goin' now?" Early said: 'Texas. They know how to fight down there," but the Louisiana men said: "War's over there, too. It's over all through the South. You'd better go home. Where is it?"

"We got no home," Early said. "Used to be Virginia, but it's gone," and the two Jubals drifted into Texas. One evening as they camped along the Brazos River a local doctor who had acquired one of the newfangled cameras asked permission to take their pictures: "You're Confederate exiles, aren't you?" When Early said: "I guess you could call us that," the doctor posed them against the trunk of a Southern oak. The photograph found its way into a Texas historical society's collection and in the 1930s when someone was looking through the photos, now brown along the edges, he cried to the librarian: "This has got to be Jubal Early! He came through here," and there the fugitive stood: fifty years old, bearded, flowing cap gone, small one in place atop his balding head, Mexican-type cotton pants held up with a rope, cotton shirt, linen duster as a coat, and in his right hand a long white walking stick to aid him with his rheumatism. Beside him, in similar garb minus the linen duster and the little hat, stood Jubal Clay, lower jaw thrust out as if he dared General Grant to intrude. It's the only photograph of the two Jubals during their self-enforced exile, and it had, as court papers prove, an unintended consequence.

The doctor, proud of the fine work done by his new camera, posted the photograph on the wall of his waiting room, where it was seen by a man with a sharp eye: "h.e.l.lo! They could be the fugitives that Northern officer is looking for," and when the man from Vermont who had the job of bringing federal law into the State of Texas-a carpetbagger, if you will-saw the photograph of General Early he cried: "That's them!" Eager to grab the reward that had been posted for the fugitives, he called upon the commanding officer of the Northern troops occupying that part of Texas and urged him to capture the Confederates.

The two Jubals would have been taken had not a Negro working as cleaner for the soldiers heard the orders and scurried out the back to the shack in which the two men were hiding. He knew they were Confederates, and he also suspected that they had come from his home state of Virginia, so he did not wish to see them taken by Northerners: "You best be headin' outa here, elsen they cotch you." By the time the Federals reached the area where the photograph had been taken, the two men were on their way to the port of Galveston, where they caught a steamer that smuggled them out of the United States to the Bahamas, the Virgin Islands and finally Cuba, where Early heard exciting news: "Mexico is in turmoil. Emperor Maximilian needs all the help he can get. He'd welcome a trained soldier like you, a general to boot." Early made a snap decision: "Clay, off we go to Mexico. Sooner or later they'll have to fight the United States again, and I want to help them when they do." Using what skimpy funds remained from gifts sympathetic Southerners had given him, he bought a big broad-brimmed hat and had a tailor make him a copy of his famous ankle-length white coat: "I will land in Mexico as a real general." But he was not able to persuade his partner to join him.

"I like Mexico," Clay said. "I see it as a country with a glowing future, but I have a daughter somewhere near Richmond, and I must care for her," so the two Jubals parted at shipside in a Cuban port, the general heading for Mexico, the colonel back to the risk of capture in the States. Theirs had been an adventure in Southern patriotism, and they made their farewells with dignity and mutual respect.

But General Early's invitation to Clay that he join him in Mexico had a mesmerizing effect on the Virginian, for as he worked his way carefully north from Texas to avoid capture, he began to have visions of that silver mine in Toledo, and the lonelier he became, a fugitive hunted on all sides, the more the mine became an obsession: "A man could find refuge there..." And: "If a man found himself without a home, he could work in a mine and build himself a life." But he took no steps to convert that dream into reality, for Virginia called powerfully to him.

Clay's experiences in his defeated Southland were not pleasant. Landing at Savannah, he made his way quietly and in disguise through Georgia and the Carolinas and into Virginia, at whose threshold he bowed his head in sorrow. As one who had obviously been a soldier who had helped defend the Confederacy, no questions were asked and he was helped by all who met him. In time he was back at Cold Harbor, where he surveyed the battlefield on which he had once played a significant role. Then he trudged the distance to where Newfields plantation had once stood, and there in grief, which swept over him like the fever of an ague, he could see in the ruins his wife, Zephania, as she went about her duties; he could hear the boys at play; he could visualize his daughter in a pinafore, and the house slaves at their ch.o.r.es. All gone, a way of life never to be recovered. From that moment of utter despair, Jubal Clay became a new human being, no longer a Southern planter, no longer a Confederate colonel.. Instead, at forty-three, he became a man with ties only to his daughter-and even that cord would soon be brutally cut.

Making his way back to Richmond, he slipped undetected into his club, now fallen on hard times but still populated by his old business and military friends, who gave him a robust welcome when they discovered who he was: 'Tell us about Cold Harbor and the defeat you slapped on Grant. How about General Early's gallant campaign up the Shenandoah? What happened to Early when he went into hiding after Appomattox?" They were surprised and pleased to learn that Clay had remained loyal to Early until the general had escaped to Mexico.

Hearing of Early's latest action, all the members wanted to speak, for each had known some planter friend who had refused to remain in the new United States, where they were forbidden to own slaves and where their gracious way of life had been destroyed. A few had fled to Canada, but most had gone south to Mexico, which they called "a land where freedom is still respected."

"Did you hear that Jake Tomlin has decided to take the jump south?"

"I can believe it. His friend Adams sent back a heartening letter. Land for almost nothing. And thousands of Indians eager to work for almost nothing."

"Did you know that Henry Bailey has moved his cotton handling office to Veracruz? Shipping to the same customers in Liverpool, but now it's Mexican cotton."

"Jubal, I remember that you served with General Scott in Mexico. How did you find it?"

With unexpected vitality, memories of those years in '47 and '48 came tumbling back: "It was a real country, not at all like we used to think. Some of its cities, away from the war, were quite habitable."

"Did you have a chance to see any of them?"

He started to tell of his visit to Toledo but judged it would be tedious to explain why he had been investigating a silver mine.

A man asked: "Would you consider emigrating there? Like the others?"

"I had a chance to go with General Early. I love Virginia. When 1 get my name cleared, I'd want to work here-- rebuild--get things going again."

"You should, Clay," one of the members said. "You're a real hero and we need you." Then he repeated: "A real hero. You must be amazed at what's happened with your daughter."

Clay leaned forward: "What did? I've been looking for her."

"After the fire ... some of us buried your wife, Jubal . .. the girl came here to a family in Richmond, where I saw her often, a true Southern belle, an honor to our people, and to you, Clay."

"What happened?"

"When the North took over our government they sent down a handsome young man from West Point, a lieutenant, and he worked in the governor's office, that is, their government, not ours. He was a bright fellow, good manners, treated us with respect while some of his seniors from the North were real b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

"And then?" Clay asked, afraid to hear the answer.

"Yes, they fell in love. He was invited to all the parties, such as we could afford, and he was widely liked. An excellent young man, except his war background, and they were married."

"Married?" He said the word with such force that for some moments no one dared speak, but then a club member who had also fought at Cold Harbor said: "Young Shallcross served as Grant's aide at Union quarters on the Pamunkey."

For two days my grandfather could not bring himself to visit his daughter, although he was willing to risk capture to see the only remaining member of his family-and capture would be probable if he was identified by an official in the government of occupation/But his curiosity and love for his daughter were so great that on the third day he allowed his fellow officer from Cold Harbor to take him to the small house occupied by Shallcross and his bride. There he waited behind a tree while his guide knocked on the door, was greeted by a man Clay could not see, and entered. Inside, as the man explained later, he arranged a truce of honor: "Captain Shallcross, you know me, Major Abernethy, reprieved by your government."

"Of course, Major. What can I do for you?"

"I know, here in Richmond, where a Confederate officer is hiding who is not reprieved." At these ominous words Shallcross held up both hands: "We no longer hound patriots, misguided though they were. I don't want to hear any more."

"Former Confederates are arrested daily," the major snapped, and Shallcross said: "If they force themselves upon us, if they have criminal records."

"I think you will want to see this one, but I must ask your word of honor once you have seen each other that he can leave freely."

"You didn't need to creep to my house to extract such a promise. Granted." The two soldiers shook hands, whereupon the major went back to the door and signaled. In a moment Jubal Clay edged suspiciously into the small room and stood facing his son-in-law. When neither man spoke, the major said: "Captain Shallcross, I have the honor to present Colonel Clay, late of the Virginia Third."

Shallcross flushed, hesitated, then extended his hand: "You are welcome here, Colonel. I'll call your daughter." In a moment Grace Clay Shallcross entered the room-an elfin girl of sixteen with a waist so small a man could encircle it with his hands. She was, thought Clay, in that first moment of seeing her after three years of painful absence, the kind of woman who would keep the South alive and functioning, for defeat had not touched her, and he saw her as a creature of inestimable worth. But as the four of them sat and talked he felt a hardness supplanting his first sensations of love.

"How was it your mother didn't escape, too?"

"She wanted to save her piano. The men tried to drag her away, but she wouldn't go and finally they had to flee, because of the smoke." She hesitated then added: "We thought that maybe she wanted to die ... the boys gone ... the house . .. and maybe you had been killed in the Valley defeats."

"When she died we were still winning. We were in Washington." His voice hardened not against his daughter but against the man she had married. Pointing at Captain Shallcross he asked: "Is it true that he served as General Grant's aide at Cold Harbor?"