The Bone Pile: Seeing the Elephant

By Sharon Traner

The first part of a Civil War trilogy, this novel begins with Lincoln's election as told by two historical characters, James Hanger and Halbert Paine. James was an eighteen-year old Virginian who joined the Confederate cavalry while Mr. Paine, a lawyer from Milwaukee, was named colonel of the 4th Wisconsi

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadersMagnet LLC
• Release date: Jul 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798890910776

Sharon Traner

Sharon grew up on a farm in Iowa where she learned the importance of family and a reverence for the land which are central themes in her novels. She and her husband lived in Dubuque in the 70's and fell in love with the splendor of the Upper Mississippi Valley. She wanted to write a novel which not only captures the beauty of the area but also depicts a chaotic time in American history when families struggled with heartbreaking events while questioning long established beliefs.

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A swiftly paced story aiming to show the difficulties of the Civil War for both sides that does not shy away from the issue of slavery and its centrality to the conflict.

Traner succeeds in providing a complex, human angle on the Civil War, which will surely have readers clamoring for the second installment of this trilogy.

A fast-paced, engrossing, and character-driven war tale . . .

-Kirkus Reviews

Dedicated to my wonderful, patient proofreaders

who have helped me immeasurably:

Tom Ferrari

Dixie Wyatt

Scott Traner

and

Ann Hanson

Thanks, guys!

I couldn’t have done it without you!

Also, thanks to my chief marketing agents

who spread the word about my books wherever they go:

Craig Hackert

Ricky Ferrari Traner

and Kay Radke

FORWARD

As a home care nurse in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, I became interested in the story of James Hanger when I called the local Hanger Prosthetics store on behalf of my patients. While waiting on hold, the Hanger Company regales its callers with a recording about the founder of their company, an eighteen-year old Virginian who raced off to join the Confederacy in the early days of the Civil War. I eagerly embarked upon further research and read his biography, The Amazing Legacy of James E. Hanger, Civil War Soldier , by Bob O’Connor.

Since I am a perpetual student of history, especially American history, one of my children invariably gives me a historical book every Christmas, usually pertaining to interesting facts related to Milwaukee and Wisconsin. Recently, I was given a book, Wisconsin and the Civil War by Ronald Paul Larson and became intrigued by the equally compelling story of Halbert Paine, a Milwaukee lawyer who became a Union general.

While these are the facts upon which this story is based, I must admit that with significant literary license, I have fashioned a tale regarding the lives of these two gentlemen while depicting the very real horror and degradation of the American Civil War. As with most wars, this is a very human story. It’s not about armies and battles or historical events as much as it is the personal accounts of the ordinary people who lived through it which hopefully, will deepen the readers’ understanding of the travesty of this war, a legacy that endures still today. My hope is that Mr. Hanger and General Paine will offer the reader a firsthand account of this great American tragedy.

As always, I hope you enjoy my efforts.

CHAPTER 1

Mid-morning of Thursday, November 8 th , 1860, the news of Abraham Lincoln’s election was delivered to the Milwaukee law offices of Schurz & Paine by John Wilkerson, a young, fresh-faced clerk who had been dispatched that morning to wait outside the telegraph office for the much anticipated news.

He won, he won! Johnny cried as he burst through the door, clumsily running into a small table and pushing over a vase. The clang of the brass vessel hitting the floor seemed to accent the magnitude of the momentous announcement. It was close but he pulled it out.

Carl Schurz was standing behind his desk searching the shelves of law books when the clerk arrived. Are ya sure, Johnny? he retorted in his heavy German accent, collapsing into his wheeled office chair which was propelled backwards by the sudden deposit of his portly heft.

I think so, Mr. Schurz, sir, Johnny said as he stooped to pick up the table and its contents. According to Mr. Warlinski in the telegraph office, it’s official. Mr. Lincoln will be our next president.

Well, the ol’ rail-splitter did it, exclaimed Mr. Schurz’s partner, Halbert Paine, smiling broadly as he rose from his desk on the other side of the room. It occurs to me that my caseload is apt to expand exponentially, Carl, so perhaps this is not good news after all.

Whatever do you mean, Halbert?

I should think the president-elect will be calling you to Springfield as he assembles his administration and I shall now need to cover your clients.

Carl Schurz was one of the more famous members of a small group known as the German forty-eighters. These men and woman were well-educated doctors, politicians, and intellectuals who had escaped their homeland after the 1848 failed uprising against the Prussian Army. Mr. Schurz had evaded prosecution and probable execution in Germany and immigrated to the Unites States where he continued crusading for his revolutionary causes. A fervent abolitionist and ardent supporter of Mr. Lincoln, he had made frequent speeches in the candidate’s behalf, many of which were in his native tongue, appealing for votes from the large Wisconsin German population.

Ya, ya, we’ll see if Mr. Lincoln remembers my humble endeavors, Carl retorted, raking his fingers through his bushy black beard as he usually did when he was nervous or excited, but right now, I think this calls for a celebration. Neither one of us has court the rest of the day, Halbert, and I’ve been keeping this bottle of du Prince Eugene Reserve for three years, waiting for a special occasion. I think this is as special as it gets. He opened the bottom drawer and took out a dusty bottle of champagne.

Now, Carl, countered his partner, grasping the lapels of his jacket with both hands as though he was delivering a summation in court, perhaps you are pre-mature in your celebratory exuberance. With all due respect to Mr. Warlinski in the telegraph office, Mr. Lincoln may yet lose this contest as it is extremely unlikely that all the votes have been counted since the election was only two days ago. Besides, I thought we agreed to save that bottle for when we win the case against the Marshall & Ilslly Bank.

My dear Halbert, if we win that case we can buy all the champagne we want. Bring some glasses, Marion. He popped the cork and laughed uproariously as the foaming liquid exploded over the papers on his desk. They’ll dry, he insisted, grinning sheepishly, or I’ll write the damn things over again. He offered a glass to Mr. Paine, Marion the secretary, and the other staff members present. To Mr. Abraham Lincoln. This is certainly a day we shan’t forget.

Yessir, I would agree, Mr. Paine murmured as he raised his glass to toast the man of the hour as a shadow of anxiety fell across his face. The others appeared to mirror Halbert’s look of consternation as they clicked their glasses and sipped the champagne.

I dare say, our esteemed president-elect should be careful what he wishes for, lamented Mr. Schurz, because now the trouble begins.

Halbert agreed. He had voted for the tall, inelegant man from Illinois, but he was also aware of what this meant for the country. The Southern states had been threatening secession for months and now they were sure to fall like dominos with South Carolina leading the way. The North would be compelled to take up arms to hold the nation together so perhaps this wasn’t a day for rejoicing after all.

Because of the countless interruptions by the many congratulatory acquaintances who stopped by to exhort the attributes of Mr. Lincoln, not much business was conducted at the offices of Schurz & Paine the rest of the day. It was reported that the president-elect owed his election to the disintegration of the Democratic party, which had allowed Mr. Lincoln to narrowly overtake the three other candidates by carrying the Northern states. Halbert Paine wondered if the man himself was celebrating or was he on his knees praying to the Almighty for divine guidance because he was, no doubt, acutely aware of the tremendous challenges that lay ahead. Halbert suddenly pitied the man.

He pushed the key into the lock of the office door precisely at five o’clock, having sent the others home early. His associate, Mr. Schurz, had departed mid-afternoon having availed himself of too large a portion of the libations. Halbert drew his overcoat tightly and wrapped his woolen scarf to cover his face, bracing for the November cold that struck him the moment he stepped onto Michigan Avenue. The wind was from the northeast, off Lake Michigan, so it would be in his face the entire trip home.

He turned north onto Water Street and hurried toward his home on the hill on Knapp Street. Repugnant fumes from the breweries and tanneries that lined the Milwaukee River assaulted his nose as swirling snowflakes danced around him. The sun had not shone all day, signaling that an early November storm was coming. The ominous ceiling of gray clouds rushed with the wind, heading south. Yes, Halbert thought, there is a terrible storm coming, more frightening than this country has ever seen.

He couldn’t help but notice the scores of young men—deliverymen, clerks, livery drivers, and laborers who rushed home after toiling in factories and breweries. He tipped his hat toward two ruddy-faced Irish policemen who were admonishing some street urchins to go home before the snow became heavier. So many men, Halbert thought, so eager and earnest, those who would no doubt heed the call to arms when the war started. And it was coming, Halbert was certain of it and he wondered what his own part would be.

It seemed preposterous to Mr. Paine that his name already appeared on a list of possible officers of the Wisconsin volunteers. He knew nothing about military strategies or procedures. He had drilled as a teenager back home in Painesville, Ohio, as a part of the local train-band, a loosely organized company of militia. They had learned a few rudimentary military basics, such as marching smartly and standing at attention with their fathers’ ancient muskets slung across their shoulders. He thought of those training sessions as great fun and had participated gladly until he went away to college and left his comrades at arms behind. Halbert had hunted as a boy but never once in all of his life imagined shooting another human being.

Upon his arrival at home, Halbert was relieved to find a roaring fire in the hearth, the smell of mutton and potatoes wafting from the kitchen, and his daughter sitting in her small chair, reading to her horde of dolls assembled nearby. He was overwhelmed by the sublime rapture and solace that here at least, everything was as it should be.

Halbert’s wife and daughter were the center of his life. Mary was a handsome woman with an attractive face and buxom figure. He considered himself to be a fortunate man that she had chosen him among her numerous suitors. She stood more than a head shorter than him, having to stand on her tippy-toes to kiss her adoring husband when he came home. Always helpful and pleasant, frugal with the household funds, and a wonderful cook, she was supportive of him in all things, her good sense and sharp mind being two of her most appealing qualities.

Lizzy, on the other hand, showed early signs of being flighty and impetuous but she was also curious and very bright. Halbert was relieved that his daughter had not inherit his looks. He considered himself to be as homely as a fence post, as tall and lanky as Mr. Lincoln with a similar elongated bearded face, a severe jutted chin, and deep set eyes. His daughter’s brunette hair was soft, curly, and as lovely as her mother’s while Halbert’s was unmanageable, usually sticking out in every direction like the needles of a porcupine, especially since he frequently neglected to have it trimmed until Mary would gently chide him that he would appear ever more judicious in court if he maintained a more refined appearance. Adding to his inauspicious appearance was the fact that he was nearly blind without his spectacles.

Halbert warmed himself by the fire until Mary called him to the supper table where there was no talk of politics. Lizzy, who at the tender age of ten years old was already a voracious reader, gave a report of a new book she was reading, Alice in Wonderland.

It is simply rapturous, she gushed. Oh, Papa, do you think there really is a place like that?

Halbert smiled at his daughter’s exuberance and said, Only in the dreams of sweet little girls like you, my dear. Lizzy seemed pleased with that answer and her smile never dimmed until she went off to bed.

Later, when Halbert and his wife were sharing a quiet evening by the fire, he tried to read his Milwaukee Sentinel while Mary sewed, but he found it hard to concentrate.

You have no doubt heard by now that Mr. Lincoln won the election, he murmured.

Yes, Bertie, she replied, Mrs. Rommel told me this afternoon. Her son came home at noon and said he had heard it at school. What does it mean? There was urgency and trepidation in her voice. Will there soon be war?

Halbert did not answer immediately. The enormity of the situation was difficult to summarize in a few words but he tried to explain it as simply as possible.

Yes, Mary, I am afraid this country will soon self-destruct. The South thinks Lincoln intends to free the slaves even though he tried many times to pacify them by declaring he simply wants to stop the spread of slavery. Unfortunately, they believe even that will sound the death knell for their wretched institution.

What do you think, husband?

I have thought about this a great deal and resigned myself to the sad truth that this will be like all other wars, which, since the beginning of time, have been fought in the name of noble causes, but they’re always really about money.

Surely not our great war to end the English tyranny, Mrs. Paine exclaimed indignantly. After all, her great-grandfather and his brothers had all fought valiantly in the nation’s war for independence. If ever there was a righteous war, that was it.

Yes, my dear, it was hard fought and came to a satisfactory conclusion on our part, but it began because of greed. Why did the English and the other European nations establish colonies such as this? The pursuit of wealth, of course. They expected good return on their investments in these far flung outposts and the more successful they became, the more they wanted. In due course, the colonists saw that they were being cheated out of a good percentage of the income generated by their own labors because a large portion was getting shipped off to the English aristocratic overlords who contributed nothing to the success of these ventures except the original endowments, money which most of them inherited. The Americans didn’t want to share their wealth anymore and demanded independence. That war was like every other war, fought mostly by illiterate country boys who bravely followed splendidly clad gentlemen officers into battle and laid bleeding for what they thought were righteous causes.

But George Washington and Jefferson, John Adams—

Yes, they exulted the virtues of freedom and independence very eloquently and I, for one, am truly thankful for their efforts as I sit here in my fine house after a wonderful satisfying meal, content in my pursuits of a good income and social standing. But I am not so naïve as to ignore the simple truth that if this country goes to war, it will boil down to money.

But Bertie, you yourself have championed the end of slavery. I’ve heard you comment many times about the evils of such a miserable enterprise.

Yes, to be sure, I despise the idea that there is a large segment of the American population who sit back in their fine mansions amid their well-mannered society and become wealthy off the backs of Negroes, but do not let the high-toned rhetoric of our Northern neighbors fool you into believing that they would fight the South solely to end slavery or prevent secession of the Southern states.

His wife looked up from her sewing and cast a bewildered glance toward her husband. What are you saying, Bertie?

My dear, most Northern capitalists don’t care a rip about the slaves in the South. They just don’t want slavery to spread into the Western frontiers because that would give the slave owners an unfair advantage. If there are two neighbors, living side by side, one with slaves and one without, how can the landowner who has no slaves compete with one who does? The slave owner can buy more land, plant more crops, reap a much larger profit because he is using virtually free labor.

If you feel so strongly about this, why would you consider heeding the call for military service?

Duty? Honor? If my Wisconsin brethren rush to join the regiments of volunteers, how can I not do likewise?

You would do that for a cause in which you are not fully invested?

Yes, I believe I would—I must! His proclamation was uttered with firm resolve but his wife detected a touch of dispirited melancholy that betrayed his conviction. I believe in the sanctity of the law, Mary. I have given my oath to uphold the laws of this state as well as the Constitution of these United States and I believe that the South should not be allowed to carry forth with their intention to secede. It cannot be permitted—it’s unlawful. The whole is greater than the sum of the parts and neither the North or the South can prosper or thrive without the other.

Mary sighed deeply. Such complexities were wearisome to her but she had total faith in her husband’s logic. She knew him to be thoughtful and perseverant in his single-minded pursuit of justice and had thus far lived his life in a very sharply delineated world of right and wrong. Mary’s singular concern was the horror of battle and she could not reconcile the thought that her husband of these twelve years would voluntarily insert himself into such a dangerous calamity if he could not wholly embrace it.

I had hoped that you would be so against this war, she said, that you would choose not to participate.

Halbert who had thus far sat in his chair glum and dispirited, now gazed at his wife with an anguished intensity that she recognized as purposeful and resolute. If I am called, I will go, he announced, but a pall of sadness returned and his wife realized that the moment Mr. Lincoln puts his hand on the Bible and becomes the country’s sixteenth president, their lives may well take an inexorable turn.

* * * * * * * *

James Edward Hanger was sitting in his mathematics class on the Washington College campus in Lexington, Virginia that same morning when the lecture was interrupted by a loud disturbance in the hallway.

It’s happened, an excited voice proclaimed. Lincoln’s been elected!

The news was met with a few heartbeats of stunned silence before the classroom erupted into near mass hysteria, the students jeering and howling with defiant rancor.

James turned to his best friend, Willie Bigler, as they joined the surge of young men who had bolted into the corridor. Words like war and damn Yankees echoed around them with vehement contempt as the boys were swept outdoors with the flood of crushing bodies that spilled out the front door. Most students appeared excited and animated while others paled at the announcement, particularly the older students who looked anxious and alarmed.

The braggard won, Willie cried. Now South Carolina will secede for sure! He was jubilant and grinning as though this was wonderful, eagerly anticipated news.

I wonder what ol’ George would think about this, James quipped, gesturing toward the bronze statue of the first president which adorned the top of the colonnade of Washington Hall, the majestic building at the center of the campus.

He was a Virginian before he was president, Willie retorted. He wouldn’t like this Northern tyranny any more than any other son of Virginia.

Talk of possible secession if Lincoln was elected and the inevitable, much anticipated war that would likely follow had been the topic of most conversations for months, not only here at school, but at home in Churchville. The Commonwealth of Virginia was situated in a precarious position by being in close proximity to the nation’s capital in Washington City and the first state south of the Mason-Dixon line with Pennsylvania and Ohio their neighbors to the north. Virginia had been a hotbed of controversary between the plantation owners and the Northern abolitionists for as long as James could remember.

Mr. Braintree, James’ mathematics teacher, and several other faculty members huddled together, wringing their hands with looks of consternation upon their faces. Most of them were imports from the North. Even the president of the college was a Presbyterian minister from Massachusetts who had been very vocal in his support of the Union. He had lambasted the students with forceful rhetoric, exhorting the necessity of preserving the Union at all costs. He stood grim-faced and stunned as he watched the students cavorting with youthful, unbridled exuberance.

Maybe we should go home, Jimmy, Willie exclaimed. I want to hear what my father has to say about all this.

James, too, was excited. He considered this to be the most momentous event of his life, albeit he had not experienced much in his short eighteen years. He was sure his hometown of Churchville would be rife with excitement and he was overwhelmed by the need to be close to home and family.

There’ll be no classes until things calm down, Willie added. Let’s go to the office and see if there’s any wagons heading north this afternoon.

The office to which Willie referred was his family’s shipping company, which had terminals throughout the Shenandoah Valley, including Lexington and Staunton, a larger town situated seven miles east of Churchville. Thankfully, the two boys learned that three wagons were scheduled to leave Lexington shortly. They would have to ride the thirty-five-mile trip perched on top of sacks of wheat and seed corn but they didn’t care. They were young and adaptable and eager for whatever adventure lay before them.

They climbed aboard in early afternoon, hoping to reach Staunton before nightfall. They headed down the valley, heading north. Because the Shenandoah river flowed in a northerly direction, it was somewhat of an anomaly that the lower valley was at the north end, near Winchester.

The lead wagon upon which they rode was driven by one of their favorite teamsters, Mr. Doyle, while the others had Negroes at the reins. You watch them two, the driver called over his shoulder, gesturing toward the Colored teamsters. You make sure they’re keepin’ up, ya hear?

There was always concern that one or both of the Darkies might try to lag far enough behind that they could leap off the wagon into the brush and try to escape. It had happened once before when Mr. Doyle had been hard pressed to decide whether he should worry about the precious cargo or go chasing after the escapees. But these two plodded along diligently and there was no trouble.

As James shifted his body to recline comfortably among the bags, he drank in the warmth of the noonday sun and the familiar sights of pastures, the wild foliage that grew along the roads, and the occasional repugnant aroma of manure of the pig sties and cow lots. He thought himself to be fortunate to live in this part of Virginia for he believed his homeland was a garden of Eden. The valley floor was carpeted with fertile soil, transversed by rippling rivers and streams that flowed out of the mountains into the Shenandoah River. A person could go barely three or four miles without crossing a creek or river with water so clean and sweet you could drink it with your hands. No one ever thirsted or starved in this valley, which teemed with an inexhaustible bounty of fish, water fowl, and wild game.

The Valley was geographically rimmed by the James River on the south, the Potomac on the north, the Blue Ridge Mountains on the east, and the Allegheny Mountains on the west. The hallow trough between the two great ranges was barely twenty miles wide in most places so its inhabitants lived in the shadow of the high, forested ridges which were clearly visible except on days when a mist clung to the valley floor and enveloped it with a chilled blanket of fog. But today, the skies were azure blue with cotton ball clouds dancing on the lazy northern breeze. It was one of those gorgeous, late autumn days that warms your soul and reaffirms one’s belief in a higher power.

Although the Valley was defined by geographical boundaries, it was also characterized by its own rich heritage and cultural delineations. Finding it too difficult to cross the mountains, English, German, and Irish-Scotch settlers had filtered into the valley from the north more than a hundred years ago. The people here were fiercely independent and prided themselves on being thrifty, hardworking, and resistant to outside interferences and intrusions.

The Valley Pike Road, which began as an ancient trail through the forests and meadows used by the earliest tribes, ran the entire length of the Valley as the main artery of commerce for the entire region. This stretch of the road was not as nicely maintained as the thoroughfare north of Staunton which was wide enough for two wagons to pass each other without difficulty. That section of road was what the engineers called macadamized, meaning it was a level, graded road, packed with crushed rock. The southern portion, which connected Lexington and Staunton, was still a narrow pathway, rutted and barely passable in places. As a future engineer, James was interested in such things. He usually studied the planked bridges and rocky fords, but today there were other things to occupy his mind.

I suppose George will sign up right away, he said, referring to his oldest brother who was thirteen years his senior, maybe Henry, too. There’s talk that the local boys will form a company of cavalrymen. It sounded so grand, Augusta County’s youngest and bravest men climbing aboard their gallant steeds and galloping off to war.

I’m sure my brothers will go, too, Willie replied confidently. Perhaps my father will sponsor the company. He’ll be hard pressed to manage the business without Nathan and Frank but he’ll have to make do. He’ll be busier than ever if there is a war.

James understood what his friend was saying. The Bigler Transport Co. was sure to be called upon to ship supplies and armaments throughout the area as it was the largest, most established shipping company in the Valley.

Do you think we should start practicing with muskets? Willie asked eagerly. I’m not too good at shootin’ anything that ain’t standing still.

Ha, retorted the driver, having evidently overheard the conversation, I don’t reckon them Yankees will stand still just so’s you can shoot ‘em.

The teamster, who was usually referred to as Sergeant Doyle, had served in the U.S. regular army’s artillery for twenty years and joined the Bigler company when he returned to the Valley after fighting the Mexicans in the last war. He was one of the boys’ favorite drivers who usually regaled them with dramatic tales of his time in uniform, detailing his exploits during famous battles such as the Battle of Palo Alto, when the flying artillery chased the Mexicans back across the Rio Grande River. The boys were sure he’d have an opinion about these latest developments.

I should know, lads, he added. I served with them Bluecoats for a lot of years—sweat and fought, starved and bled with ‘em. Ever’ one’s sayin’ them fellers will hightail it north as soon as the bullets start flyin’, but I ain’t so sure ‘bout that. No siree, I ain’t sure ‘bout that a t’all.

But, Sergeant, James retorted, even Jeff Davis says he doesn’t think it’ll last long. If me and Willie don’t hurry up, we’re gonna miss the whole thing.

Well, laddies, the driver mused, sighing, I wouldn’t be in such a goldarned hurry if I was you. It may sound excitin’ but I’m tellin’ you, when the cannon starts blastin’ and the muskets are shootin’, it’s not like you read in them books.

James was disappointed by the driver’s precautionary words. Sergeant Doyle had always made it seem so glorious before, the colorful banners flying in the wind, lines of fearless men in brightly colored uniforms facing each other across golden fields with plumes of artillery fire streaking overhead. The sergeant’s tales sounded so exciting that James could almost smell the thick cloud of sulfur in the air.

What about you, Sergeant? Willie asked. My father said he heard you were thinking about signing up.

Well, someone’s gotta teach the young ‘uns how to keep their durned heads down and fire them howitzers. There’s more to shootin’ a cannon than just lightin’ a fuse, ya know.

The conversation was interrupted by the sight of an approaching wagon, carrying a load of slaves. There were four men, two women who were clutching small children, and a teenager who looked to be James’ age. The Negroes stared at them, sullen and grim. James recognized that look, the dispirited, anguished despair that he had seen in the faces of other Darkies. Two of the men had swollen, bruised faces and cut lips with torn and bloodied shirts, suggesting that they were captured runaways who had suffered for their foolishness and were now wearing chains around their ankles and wrists. James looked over his shoulders as they passed the other two Bigler wagons. The drivers stared straight ahead and didn’t make eye contact with anyone.

James had been around slaves all his life. His mother had three Negroes who lived in a small cabin behind the town house next to the stable. They helped her with household duties, the yard work, and gardening. Ellie Mae had been a young woman when she came to the Hanger household shortly after James’ parents were married and had helped the missus rear all ten of her children. Ellie Mae scolded the Hanger offspring with relentless regularity and in truth, James had always feared her acrimony more than his mother’s.

Ellie Mae had mated with Josiah, one of the field slaves, and always referred to him as her husband, even though their union was never legally recognized. She had birthed three sons who became Hanger property the moment they took their first breaths. Her boys and another dozen slaves toiled on the nearby Hanger plantation, Mt. Hope. His father died when James was only five years old and George and Mr. Mallory, the overseer, had operated the farm ever since. As far as James knew, their slaves were treated kindly and he never once had seen them beaten and bleeding.

Some people said the Darkies were stupid and needed to be taken care of as though they were dim-witted children, but James never believed that. Most of the ones with whom he had contact seemed to be hard-working, intelligent, and loyal. But it was also true that he couldn’t imagine a world without them. Who would do the cooking and cleaning, who would plant and harvest the crops and look after the livestock? Mother had never allowed her offspring to be lazy—they always had chores but pursuing a proper education was their primary task. James started school when he was five years old, trudging off to class every day while the Negro children labored in the yard and fields. He had never questioned the morality or validity of that arrangement and had assumed things were as they should be and always would be—until now.

James was, of course, aware of the fiery rhetoric espoused in speeches and newspapers by the Northern abolitionists but he didn’t understand it. They threatened to disrupt a well-established and accepted way of life that seemed so unencumbered and idyllic to the young man. Life was relaxed and prosperous within the well-defined norms and traditions of generations of his Virginian neighbors and friends. That was why they would fight this war, to preserve a way of life and repulse the Northern transgressors. Yes, this would be a righteous war, one of which he hoped to be a part. He felt a desperate urgency to get on with it because he was convinced if he didn’t hurry, the whole thing would be over so quickly he’d miss out on the adventure of a lifetime.

CHAPTER 2

Just as Halbert Paine and many others predicted, South Carolina seceded in December, 1860, barely a month after Lincoln’s election. Six of the other Southern states quickly followed, establishing a separate, breakaway Confederate country. A copy of President Lincoln’s inaugural speech delivered on the front balcony of the partially constructed Capitol building on that cool, blustery day in March, 1861 was featured in every newspaper in the land, North and South. He pledged that he would not interfere with slavery where it now existed and extended the olive branch to the South, stating emphatically that if there was to be a war, it would not be started by him.

While most Northerners extolled his words as conciliatory and moderate, the Southerners called them blasphemous and traitorous. They would not be pacified and their indignation reverberated throughout the region as hundreds of zealous volunteers gathered to form companies of local militias at county courthouses, churchyards, and village parks.

The call to arms rang throughout the North, too, especially when they learned of the South Carolinians’ temerity to fire on Ft. Sumter in the Charleston Harbor in April, 1861.

The president has no choice, Halbert explained to a crowd of friends at the Plank Road Tavern where they had gathered for their customary Friday night supper. Those fine Southern gentlemen have to understand that we will not allow them to take control of Federal property, so now we must answer President Lincoln’s mandate and form regiments of our own.

Why doesn’t he put the call out for more? asked Peter Lonergan. He was smartly attired in a dark woolen long jacket with a matching waistcoat and trousers befitting his status as a wealthy grain merchant and deacon at the nearby St. John’s Cathedral. 75,000 isn’t very many and why only three months?

You’d better think twice about what you’re saying, sir, Halbert retorted. God forbid, if all the brewery workers run off and enlist, we might have a shortage of beer. He hoisted his foaming stein with mocked solemnity and then grinned amicably.

Perhaps you are not aware that there are constitutional restrictions for our national army, he continued with a more serious tone. It specifically limits the number of soldiers as well as stipulating three-month enlistments.

His friends pressed forward to hear him speak. Halbert Paine could always be depended upon to make sense of the latest pronouncements coming out of Washington City as well as Madison. He had an excellent grasp of the law and a teacher’s talent for clarifying things well.

The learned men who framed our great Constitution feared having a powerful standing army, he explained, and felt the state militias should provide the country’s main line of defense.

There were murmurings among the crowd as they digested that last bit of information. Ya, ya, if you ask me, retorted Reuben Fischer, the rotund German proprietor of the establishment, three months is plenty long enough. We’ll beat those bastard Reb’s to a bloody pulp before the end of summer. He dried his hands on the beer-stained apron and twisted the end of his handlebar mustache that twitched with excitement. Never fear, gentlemen, we’ll have plenty of beer. They don’t call Milwaukee the ‘Beer Capital of the World’ for nothin’.

Mr. Fischer’s place was overflowing that evening, the high beam ceiling echoing with talk of war. The cross section of lawyers, merchants, brewery and tannery workers had gathered for their usual Friday evening informal meeting to discuss recent events and concerns over bratwurst, red cabbage, and steins of the locally brewed libations. A cloud of brown cigar and pipe smoke blended with the pungent stink of beer and whiskey breath, overflowing spittoon’s, and men who proudly smelled of sweat and factory fumes, having completed a hard day’s work. Milwaukee was too new to boast of many aristocrats and while there was some delineation between migrant groups and neighborhoods, most men rubbed shoulders across economic strata.

Halbert Paine was holding court, at ease with the factory workers as much as with his lawyer and merchant friends. With ancestors from several European tribes, such as the German, Irish, and Anglo-Saxon Englanders, he owed no allegiance to any one group and happily socialized within Milwaukee’s melting pot of first and second generation immigrants from every walk of life.

I heard Wisconsin is supposed to send three regiments. How many men is that? This question was posed by Mr. William Jacobson, a supervisor at the nearby Schlitz Brewery. He was older, probably in his late fifties and knew he would never be sent off to war but he had three sons whose mother was already weeping with great alarm that they would heed the call to enlist.

Each regiment should be about a thousand men, with ten companies each, Peter Lonergan replied. Three thousand men shouldn’t be a hardship at all. Mr. Jacobson could provide at least two or three companies on his own—the Schlitz Beermakers’ Legionnaires. He had jokingly proclaimed that glowing declaration without noticing the bleak grimace upon Mr. Jacobson’s face, but Halbert Paine did.

Ha, if there’s a war we’ll need more beer than ever, Halbert retorted. I think we should petition the governor to exempt your workers, Will.

You know those bastard Democrat slavers sent a delegation to Washington to try to negotiate, the worried father replied, still scowling. Maybe they’ll come to some sort of compromise.

Mr. Lincoln wouldn’t dare enter into any kind of agreement with those scoundrels, Halbert exclaimed, because if he bargains with them, he’ll be admitting that they exist as a sovereign nation and he’ll never do that as long as there’s breath in his body.

We can still hope that Virginia will stay neutral, lamented Dirk Putchinski, the usually pessimistic foreman at the nearby Pfister & Vogel tannery. But if she secedes, that’ll be the final nail in the coffin ‘cause the other border states, like Maryland and Tennessee, are sure to follow. His perpetual dour grimace was more deeply entrenched than