I am at the court of Jefferson Davis. I call it a court because the president is in his office, and the rest of us are outside. He has guards posted at the door of his office.
The only other person inside is the chamberlain – well, who I call the chamberlain, at least that’s what they’d call him in the days of my youth. This chamberlain pokes his head out every once in a while, looking for someone, then retreats like a turtle.
The rest of us wait patiently, like members of court, waiting for the beneficence of the king. This brings me back to France, in the libertine court of Francis I, of which I had been a courier, then a soldier, and was not good at either, at least physically. But I had other talents that made me wanted by the court, especially the Princess Madeleine until her leaving for Scotland.
“So what is he waiting for?” asks one of the secretaries.
“News from Washington,” says another man quietly. “We’ve taken the capitol.”
“Is that bastard Lincoln in chains?”
“He should be.”
I smile at the group. “Well, if you ask me, they should bring him here to Richmond and hang him from the highest tree with the chains on him.”
“Here, here,” say the secretaries in unison.
Just after that, a man in a cloak stained in mud from boots to waist strides into the hall. People make way as he walks in with a purpose, heading right to the door to the president. The guard knocks on the door, and the chamberlain opens it. He ushers the man inside.
More speculation follows. Is the Union capitol taken? Has it been razed to the ground? Is Lincoln arrested, and his family, too?
Then the doors open wide, and the chamberlain steps out first, following him is Jefferson Davis. He is a tall, thin man, with a small beard at his chin, his hair more salt than pepper. His eyes are bright and he smiles, which causes the rest of the room to smile back.
“Washington is taken, my friends,” he says proudly.
The whole room whoops with glee, myself included. We must all celebrate now. I know that the next stop will be the tavern down the street. The whole gang of us, six men in assorted degrees of formals and finery, head arm and arm down Bank Street singing “Dixie”. Although most of these men are ready to fight, when push comes to shove, they wouldn’t be able to. Men left fat on the backs of their slaves and other servants, men who talked the talk, but couldn’t even walk without leaning on a cane. Old men, rich men, plantation men.
I go with them, being the official hanger-on of the rich. “Mr. Ruffin,” one man says to me, “don’t you have to go report this?”
“In due time, Mr. Pleasant. I am sure my editor already knows and has stopped the presses of the Daily Dispatch.”
“So what do you do there, if you don’t report the news?”
I laugh. “Why, report on you, gentlemen!” I lean forward at the rickety table and ask, “So what do you think of Washington’s fall?”
I received many good quotes, some of which were unprintable, giving praise to our troops in the field and General Robert E. Lee who led the great Army of Virginia in its attack. News boys announced throughout the entire street that Washington had fallen, and our paper was going to be in the vanguard with a special two-page edition announcing the success.
I leave the tavern after about two hours, when men are getting highly drunk and passions are running high. I sense a fight coming on as the conversation turns to bawdy tales and unnecessary and unprintable statements. I go to the paper, composing my article in my head, using the quotes I had memorized from the men there. Of course, I will change the quotes to make them all look good.
Crenshaw waits at the door for me. “What the hell have you been doing, boy?”
“Getting news, sir,” I say, and settle into a chair. I take up a pen and begin writing my article in the calligraphic writing that the printers so enjoy to read. Again, an influence of my youth.
My article is long, expected to be cut by Crenshaw, who takes to my article like a surgeon with a scalpel. After cutting it down to three paragraphs and placing it in the society pages. “Are you going to the Grand Ball Friday?” Crenshaw asks me after the first full page comes off the press.
“That is my plan,” I respond, as I drink some brandy while sitting in the press room. My feet are up on the rear rails as Thomas Crenshaw, editor-in-chief and brother to one of our biggest advertisers, watches the press with his hands behind his back. He walks back to me. He wears a cream shirt striped with blue, rolled up to his mid-forearm. His vest is open, but the chain along his torso connecting his watch to his button is still connected. He has broken many chains that way. His trousers are loose, also striped with blue but thicker stripes. He puts a foot up on the rail and regards me.
I smile at him, sip the brandy, and attempt to look coy. He doesn’t accept this, and turns away, chuckling. “Not tonight,” he says with a yawn and a glance at the presses. “I, like you, need to be here at nine.”
“The night is young and the times are early.”
“No,” he says more firmly. “I need to go home.”
He walks around the railing to the entrance of the press room and heads up the back stairs to his office, obviously to pick up his coat, hat and cane, and head home to his pretty but cold wife, Margaret.
I suppose that I should go home as well. I finish the brandy with a sneer that no one sees, as I do not like the taste of alcohol. Yet, I can stand it more than my brethren and often drink men under the table to get the story I need.
Looking out at the press room, I get up and head to the back stairs as well to gather my coat. I head out of Bank Street to Broad, and thence to Franklin and my room at the Exchange. The Exchange hotel is a yellowing old maid, with five floors. The bottom floor has room for four store fronts, but there are only two: a barber’s and a strange little apothecary shop with draughts and potions that could kill a man by their spell only.
My room is on the third floor at the rear. I stop by the clerk’s to pick up letters, two of which are addressed to “Resident” and one with my name in a woman’s handwriting. I open that one.
“Dearest Johnny.”
I groan inwardly. No one calls me Johnny, so I immediately know this is a woman who is not familiar with me.
“Dearest Johnny, I write to you in hopes that you will see it in your heart to visit me again. My father – “ I glanced at the signature. “Mary Alexander, daughter of Captain George W. Alexander.”
Mary Alexander. Mary Alexander. The name did not ring a bell to me. Captain George W. Alexander did, however; George Alexander was one of the many richer merchants in town, though I had never interviewed him. I continued reading the letter as I walked up the stairs.
“My father was unable to receive you on this 24th of April, and I am glad that we spent such time together as we could. Of course, he is with General Lee and the Grand Virginia Army at this time, but I am home with my bedridden mother.”
I snort. This is as bold as a woman can get to ask me to court her. I fold the letter up and choose to use it for kindling later.