The Sphinx of the Confederacy Part Two Revolution: Part Two of the Sphinx of the Confederacy

By F. J. Freitag

The South had won a resounding victory at Manassas in July of 1861. Since then, however, the fledgling nation has lost huge chunks of territory and strategic military outposts. Jefferson Davis is repeatedly forced to fight with limited supplies of war materials and without reserves.
Enemies from the North are not the Confederate presidents only problem. He also has to contend with his proliferating political enemies, and he is forced to face them from an increasingly weakening position. His staunchest ally, Judah Benjamin, who played the martyr and took the blame for the loss of Roanoke Island, also comes under attack, and Davis is forced to make some difficult decisions regarding his minister.
Moreover, Benjamins attraction to the First Lady continues to develop as the two are often thrown together socially and politically. Once, when they are working on a coded message to the Confederate minister in France, she breaks into tears and admits to Benjamin that her husband is cold and aloof. He moves to comfort her, but she breaks away and asks him to leave.
In the meantime, Davis slave, Rachel, has permitted herself to get romantically involved with Colonel Chestnuts body servant, Lawrence, in an attempt to forget Silas, the beau she left behind at Davis plantation. Silas, however, has run away and joined the Union army. Because of his ties to Rachel, the Union sends him to Richmond to get her to listen in on conversations in the Confederate White House. He manages to displace Lawrence and enlists Rachels help just before General Lee, President Davis, and his ministers gather in the White House to discuss Lees plans to invade the North.
Once again, masters and slaves, politicians and generals are inextricably bound together. This time their individual fortunes are propelled relentlessly toward Lees fated meeting with the Union army at Gettysburg.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 11, 2004
• ISBN: 9781469104843

F. J. Freitag

Freitag received a BA in literature from LaSalle College and an MA in literature from Villanove University. he retired after teaching for thirty-five years. Other books by the author: Part One, "Dissolution," and Part Three "Resolution," of the three-volume The Sphinx of the Conferderacy.

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Revolution

Part Two of

The Sphinx of the Confederacy

F. J. Freitag

Copyright © 2004 by F. J. Freitag.

Library of Congress Number: 2004094847

ISBN : Hardcover 1-4134-6163-8

Softcover 1-4134-6162-X

ISBN: ebook 978-1-4691-0484-3

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Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

 . . . Man is, in substance and in structure, one with the brutes…

T. H. Huxley(1863)

ONE

Henry Foote accepted the

whiskey proffered by John Daniel. He had been somewhat perplexed ever since he received the latter’s invitation for drinks and conversation. However, reading the relentless attack on Davis in Daniel’s Examiner, Foote had to believe that his own reputation as a life-long Davis enemy was the reason behind the invitation. He’d met the editor in Montgomery and briefly shared some observations on the provisional President with him. One had to be careful, though. Daniel was a dangerous and unpredictable man.

The room, which was small and dingy but snug in the warmth of the fireplace, had a decidedly unpleasant odor. Foote could smell stale smoke, perspiration and urine, and he noticed that the carpet was blotched with stains, most of them a dark brown color. He wondered if the two huge mastiffs, which flanked their master, who took his perch high up on a raised barber chair, were housebroken. The Senator felt at a disadvantage, sitting below the tiny bug-like man with the gaping mouth.

The Editor opened his furnace mouth and aahed his pleasure over the whiskey. He crossed his spindly legs and leaned his tiny head forward. Foote wondered how that diminutive head managed to house his cavernous and often gaping mouth. The Editor held a riding crop in his left hand, possibly to be used against the two large animals, which sat rigid like two Egyptian statues on either side of his chair. A thick staff about four feet long was propped up against the wall behind the editor. Looking at the brown stained club end of the instrument, Foote surmised that the stories he had heard about Daniel and his dogs must’ve been accurate.

Well, Senator, our country, to my way of thinking, is in desperate straights. Daniel slapped his leather crop against the arm of the chair, making both dogs flinch.

Foote sipped his drink.

Do you know why Walker stepped down as Secretary of War?

The same reason Toombs quit, I’d imagine. Foote decided to follow the Editor’s lead. He didn’t want to be the President’s lackey.

Hell fire, Senator! The dogs cowed. Davis forced him to resign. He insulted him in front of others.

And put the Jew in his place.

The mouth opened wide separating Daniel’s chin from the rest of his face. A man with no military background, a man who spent his entire Jew life in court, conniving and cheating. He sipped his drink. Our Creon sure as hell wasted no time dismissing the Quartermaster General, Abraham Myers.

They say the Quartermaster’s wife called the First Lady a squaw. Foote was able to relax. He saw, or at least thought he saw, the general purpose of the evening’s meeting. The Jew puppeteer pulling the strings for the dancing despot.

Are you so sure? Daniel sipped his drink and permitted a smile to divide his face. I think we should drop these… ah, silly… formalities at the outset. You call me John, and I’ll call you Henry.

Foote gestured with his drink and nodded at his companion.

You may be right, Henry. Who knows? You may be right. I hear that Davis spends a good deal of time laid up with various physical maladies. He drained his glass. Some say that the squaw and the Jew are often alone together, plotting and making decisions. Those same people say that it’s they who’re running our country’s revolution and not the puppet President.

Foote also drained his glass. He realized that it was cheap, bottom-shelf Red Eye, but after the first few gulps his sense of taste was anesthetized.

Tell me, Henry. You’ve had more success against Davis than anyone else. Hell, you defeated him in your state’s gubernatorial election. What do you have against the man?

Foote tightened up. He shouldn’t have dropped his guard against this man, but how could he answer the question without opening up the festering wound and exposing the cesspool of his hatred? Yes, he had beaten him in the election, but then it was a close race in spite of the fact that Davis didn’t deign to campaign. Moreover, shortly after the election, President Pierce appointed Davis Secretary of War. And, just recently, while sitting home at Brierfield, supposedly planning to lead the army, he received word that he had been named President. May the flames of Hell sear the son of a bitch! The man always seemed to land on his feet. I am convinced he doesn’t have his country’s best interest at heart. His every move so far has been motivated by self-aggrandizement.

Daniel reached down from his perch, lifted the bottle from the small table between them, and refilled their drinks. Just as I thought, Henry, you’re a patriot. Like me, you want what’s best for our country.

Foote rested back against his seat and sipped his drink.

If we had any doubts about the intentions of our President, they should’ve vanished when he made Benjamin Secretary of War.

Judas Iscariot Benjamin.

And what’s happened since, damn it? What’s happened since? He pounded his crop against the arm of the chair, riveting the attention of the dogs. After our success at Manassas, we’ve gone nowhere. Our army’s losing everywhere. Hell fire! Earlier this month General Wise and Governor Clark of North Carolina pleaded with that damn Jew to send men and arms to Roanoke Island. The veins stood out on Daniel’s tiny, insect head. He suddenly jumped to his feet and turned on his dogs, brandishing his crop. Down you sons o’ bitches! What the hell’s going on here! The dogs cowed against the carpeted floor. Down you sons o’ bitches!

Foote didn’t notice what it was the dogs were supposed to have done.

Daniel climbed back up on his chair panting from the emotional exertion. He was apparently not a well man. Any exertion exhausted him. Finally, after catching his breath, he looked over at Foote. No doubt you heard the news.

Roanoke Island has fallen.

The Jew sat on his hands and allowed that fort to surrender.

Foote reached out to help himself to some more whiskey, but the snarling dogs made him think better of it. Instinctively his hand slipped into his pocket and clutched the handle of the revolver he took everywhere, even onto the floor of the Senate.

Go ahead, Senator. If either of these sons o’ bitches goes near you, I’ll split his damn head open. Another slap of the riding crop caused the dogs to lower their snouts between their outstretched paws.

Foote refilled his glass.

You’re aware, of course, Henry, that Davis wouldn’t permit Beauregard to pursue the retreating Yankees to Washington after his wonderful victory at Manassas.

Foote reached forward and refilled Daniel’s glass. Beauregard made us all aware of this, John.

Our golden opportunity—the Army of the Potomac in complete disorder, the Union capital completely vulnerable to attack, and our leader refuses to allow his generals to attack.

They should have rebelled. The Senator lit a cigar and continued to listen from behind a wall of drifting smoke.

My point is, Henry, that Davis was a Unionist right up to the time of Mississippi’s secession. What could cause the dramatic change in him after secession?

You think he’s a Unionist still, hiding behind a mask like a Greek tragedian.

Compare his farewell speech to Congress before he left Washington to his inaugural address on the steps of the Montgomery court house. Is such a change possible?

Foote thought he saw the Editor’s point. So he, to your way of thinking, doesn’t want to win the revolution. He wants to return to the Union. Foote gulped his drink. It no longer burned his throat.

He’s a Unionist still. Daniel drained his glass and refilled their glasses. We seem to be of a single mind, Henry. Perhaps we may disagree slightly over the exact location of the ulcerous center. You see the Jew as the manipulating puppeteer. He paused and smiled at his companion. I, on the other hand, have settled on the despot as the cause of our plight. Suddenly he roared. Why else would the bastard son of a whore, himself a graduate of West Point, place a man who had no knowledge of military affairs at the head of the War Department. He slumped back in his chair panting. After recovering his breath, he glanced down at the dog on his left and slapped the bridge of its nose and returned his ashen glance to his auditor. But, in reality, we’re after the same thing—what’s best for our country. And you must admit, Henry, you don’t like Benjamin any less than I do, and you loathe Davis just as much as I do. We only disagree over which one’s in control.

Agreed. Foote was feeling mellow.

The two are of a piece. The editor pushed the long handle with his right hand, lowering the barber chair and bringing himself face to face with his companion. So it’s not a matter of going after one or the other—we’ll get them both. He poured some more fluid out of the half empty bottle. We’ve a powerful ally.

Who?

None other than General Stonewall Jackson. Daniel watched the Senator’s amazement. Benjamin had the effrontery to try to give Stonewall orders in the field. In response the—shall we say—proud General wrote the Jew Secretary of War requesting orders to report to the Virginia Institute at Lexington or he’d submit his resignation.

Oh, I heard about that letter.

And so has everyone else. Daniel was working himself up into another emotional frenzy. And that’s not all. He writhed in the barber chair. Tomorrow, General Wise’s son, Captain Jennings Wise, will be buried. His funeral will be at Saint James’, Davis’ own church. Hell fire, Henry! He jumped so violently to his feet that he sprayed whiskey over the serving table and his companion. The time’s perfect. We must strike now. He spun around to face the dogs. Down you sons o’ bitches! Down! He turned panting. Tom Cobb said a grander rascal than Benjamin doesn’t exist in the Confederacy, and he didn’t care who heard him say it. What more could we want? He raised both arms, casting an elongated, simian-like shadow on the faded pealing wallpaper behind him. What an age this is to live, this age of iron!

Foote was aware that his companion seemed to be searching for something, possibly his leather crop, which, the Senator noticed, had slipped down behind the padded footrest of his chair. What do you suggest, John?

Daniel looked up, gasping. Davis must fire the Jew.

There’s very little chance of that happening.

Hell fire, he won’t have a choice. Daniel leaned over Foote, who wrinkled his long expanse of forehead, peering back up at him. You and a select committee’ll pay the Secretary of War a visit and demand an explanation for the Roanoke debacle.

Foote too rose to his feet. His interest was piqued by the thought of going after the President’s man. However, his quick movement drew the attention of the dogs.

Daniel spun back to his pets. Silence, you sons o’ bitches! While he continued gasping and talking to Foote, he kept his eyes on the two giant creatures. Hell fire, Henry, you won’t just be getting the President’s Jew, you’ll be bringing down the despot himself. Think of it. Won’t it be gratifying to bring them both down?

But how? Foote could not control his excitement. He paced over to the hearth and kicked an ember back into the fire.

"Benjamin’s now persona nongrata in Richmond. The heroes of our cause are openly attacking him. Daniel paused and scratched his delicate, beardless chin, momentarily lost in thought. I guess it’s too much to ask to have the Jew attend the funeral tomorrow."

There’d be an open rebellion.

His wide smile split his face again. What a thought. He then seemed to compose himself. No matter, however. The talk against Benjamin’ll fill the air. The consensus of opinion’ll be that tar and feathers are too good for him.

I could think of a few things.

I’ll bet you could. Daniel looked down at the dogs, but then turned back to Foote. My paper’s going to castigate the son of a bitch.

Something, John, you’ve made a fine job of so far.

"Wait’ll you see what the Examiner does now. Daniel actually hummed as he refilled their glasses. Now, Henry, this is where you come in. He put down the bottle and glanced at the dogs before continuing. As I’ve already said, you and a committee which you’ll head will call on Mister Benjamin and demand to know exactly why he refused to send powder and men to Roanoke Island."

And the Jew will just sit there and smile at us.

He can smile all the hell he wants. When your committee gets no satisfaction from him, it’ll next go to the President.

Foote grinned. The ingrained ridges on his forehead almost smoothed out. And demand his ouster.

Daniel raised his glass and made a little dance step. Even his imperial majesty can’t ignore overwhelming public opinion and a Congressional committee. He turned to the dogs, which had sat up in response to his two-step. Down you sons o’ bitches! Where the hell’s my crop! Before Foote could enlighten him, he lunged past the cowing dogs and grasped the staff, which he then brandished above the frightened animals. Go ahead you sons o’ bitches! Want to taste my stick!

The dogs’ snouts were pressed hard against the floor between their front paws.

He lowered the club and placed it in front of him like a walking staff. It took him a full minute to catch his breath. Set the one on the other. Politically, the despot’ll have to axe the Jew.

I love it.

That’s the strategy. Set your enemies to scratching and gouging one another, and, then, when they’re hurt and bleeding, move in for the kill.

Daniel’s eyes seemed to be on fire. He banged his staff against the stained carpet. Up! Up, you lazy sons o’ bitches! Get up! The dogs nervously rose from the floor. Now watch what we’ll do to the despot and the Jew. Fight! Fight, you sons o’ bitches! He poked them hard with the staff. I said fight, you sons o’ bitches.

The dogs snarled and snapped at each other, arching their backs before striking. When they did finally clash in a heap of raised fur, they knocked over the serving table. Foote rescued the bottle before too much of the liquid had spilled and poured himself a drink. He motioned the bottle toward his companion, but the Editor was thoroughly engrossed in the canine combat.

The fight increased in intensity. Each dog seized the other in its jaws and shook its head from side to side, ripping out mouthfuls of hair and flesh, before springing back in a new embrace. One lost part of an ear; the other received a deep wound in the neck.

Go for the blood! Go for the blood! Daniel was in a frenzy, banging his club against the floor.

Foote, abstractly aware that his vision had doubled and the room was tilting slightly, sipped his whiskey and shouted incoherently. He wanted to see the one with the mauled ear return to the wound on the other’s neck, but the dogs had obviously slowed down. Loss of blood and the strain of battle had drained their energy.

Don’t stop, you sons o’ bitches! Fight! Fight!

Daniel’s words had no effect, however. The dogs just gripped each other and panted laboriously through their clenched teeth into each other’s blood-matted fur. They were exhausted.

Now that they’ve done their worst, now that they’re weak and bleeding. Daniel raised his club and approached the dogs. His tiny face glowed with excitement. Now we move in and finish the job.

With these words, he brought the club down hard on one of the dogs. Foote could hear the bone crack. Again and again the thick staff came down on the dogs, sometimes with a sharp thwack, sometimes with a dull thud, depending where the club end, now dripping crimson, struck. The editor didn’t cease bludgeoning the two helpless animals until his thin, bloodless arms were spent.

Foote guessed that one of the dogs was already dead. A pool of blood ringed its gaping mouth. The other appeared to have a broken back. Its hind legs twitched convulsively while a puddle of urine spread out beneath it. At the other end, the dog panted heavily into the floor through its open mouth and stared vacantly at the carpet.

Can you see it? Daniel gasped still unable to catch his breath. The despot and the damn Jew… , he sucked desperately,  . . . dead and bleeding. His eyes sparkled in his tiny face. The winged monster, raining down plagues and vermin on our Thebes, but I’ve solved your riddle. I know how to defeat you.

If by winged monster the Editor meant Davis, Foote could see it. He reached down, staggered slightly, and picked up his companion’s blood-splattered glass and filled it for him. Yes, he could see it. Once before he had his hand on Davis’ throat, but could do no real damage. His frame was too small to engage in physical confrontations. But, now, politically, he’d strangle the son of a bitch.

TWO

Rachel liked the Davis’ new

house. People called it the White House, but, as far as she was concerned, it was at best gray. At any rate, it was large, and the children didn’t feel too cramped up when they were confined indoors by inclement weather like that, which on this day pelted the windows with rain, sleet and snow. Maggie sat in front of the nursery window gazing forlornly at the dark, miserable day. Little Joe sat on the floor unsuccessfully building card houses with Mister Benjamin’s playing cards, and young Jeff was upstairs, sitting disobediently at Burton’s desk drawing pictures. On this particular day, however, no one reprimanded the rebellious child. The family was two blocks away at Saint James Episcopal Church attending the funeral service for the son of General Wise. Catherine was downstairs with Billy, the latest addition to the Davis family.

Rachel and Tennie, who were becoming inseparable, had a two-fold job. They were to help keep an eye on the Davis’ children while they hand washed the Davis family knickknacks and small china pieces—a difficult chore since many of the pieces were both valuable and fragile. To make the task possible, the two servant girls carried the delicate objects up to the nursery in baskets and, with a bucket of water and drying cloths, they were now stationed at the children’s game table and ready to set about performing their dual assignment.

Is Mister Benjamin at the funeral too? asked Maggie, still facing the window.

I reckon not, chile. Rachel placed some of the tiny figurines in the water. "Folk not too friendly with ‘im right