Notes

"What do you think, Nate?" Mollie asked when he finally closed the covers.
"I think-" Caudell stopped, as if saying what he thought somehow made it
more real. But no help for it: "I think this may truly be a book from-from
the twentieth century."
She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. "Oh, sweet
Jesus, thank you! I was thinkin'
the same thing, and thinkin' I had to be out of my head."
"Believe me, I feel the same way." But when he looked down at the volume
that should have been impossible, his resolve firmed. "All the other choices
seem even crazier, though."
"Seems like that to me, too. But if it's real, Nate, it's important. What are we
going to do about it?" Page 286
That brought him up short. "You've had more time to think about this than I
have." Not wanting to sound as if he was accusing her, he quickly added,
"But you're dead right. If this comes out of Rivington, it ought to shed some
kind of light on all the other peculiar things the Rivington men have." Not
just AK-47s went through his mind, but also desiccated meals, Benny
Lang's helmet and bullet-stopping flapjack (he still wondered if he'd heard
that straight), and the marvelous lights and artificial coolness about which
Mollie had written. He'd never before thought of all those things together.
Now that he had, he saw what a mountain of strangeness they made, a
mountain beside which the Picture History of the Civil War was by itself
but a foothill.
He knew he was not a man cut out to handle mountains. He thought of
bringing the book to George Lewis, shook his head the moment the idea
occurred to him. Taken as a whole, the mystery of Rivington was far too big
for Lewis, too. With that realization came an answer to Mollie's question:
"Robert E. Lee needs to see this book."
Mollie stared at him. "Robert E. Lee? Marse Robert?" Her voice rose to a
squeak. "The President!"
"He's not the king," Caudell said. "He's not even President yet, and won't be
for more than a month. Remember how it was in Richmond? Jeff Davis had
his house open every other week, just so he could meet people. Captain
Lewis went there once, to shake his hand."
"I ain't no captain." Mollie vehemently shook her head. "Ita just a-hell and
damnation, Nate, you know what I am." She set a hand on the book in his
lap. "You go, Nate. You can tell Marse Robert what it's all about, better'n I
ever could."
"Me?" Caudell was tempted-anyone who brought something this important
to Richmond would become important himself, if only by association. But
then, regretfully, he said, "No, it wouldn't be right. For one thing, you got
the book, so you should be the one who takes it. For another, you've lived at
Rivington, so you can tell Marse Robert all about it. He'll want to know
that; the Rivington men were strong for Forrest in the election."
"Oh, were they ever," Mollie said. "You never heard such cussin' and fussin'
and carryin' on as when Tennessee went for Lee."
"There, you see? And besides, Mollie, you're already traveling. Me, I have
to teach school tomorrow and the next day and the day after that, or else
throw away a job I like and that I'm good at." He took a deep breath. "I'll do
it if I have to, I guess, but you're a better choice."
"But I'm nothin' but a no-'count whore," Mollie wailed. "Marse Robert, he
won't want nothin' to do with the likes of me."
"I don't know. He has an eye for pretty ladies, they say,"
Caudell said. But that made matters worse, not better. He tugged at his
beard, then suddenly grinned and asked, "Do you still have your old
uniform?"
"Yeah, I do," she replied, sounding puzzled at the change of subject. "What
about it?"
"If you won't go as Mollie, go as Melvin," he said. "You know Marse
Robert would do whatever needed doing for one of his old soldiers-and you
soldiered as hard as anybody." She had to nod. Slowly, she said, "Might
could be that'd work." Her laugh came shaky, but it was a Page 287
laugh. "Always kept it in case I had to get out of somewhere quiet and
sneakylike. Never reckoned I'd want to get into someplace that way." A
hand flew up to her hair. "Hate to chop this short again after it's been
growin' since the war. But if it needs doin', it needs doin'. I got me a little
scissors right here." She rummaged in one of the carpetbags, found what
she was looking for, handed Caudell the scissors. "You cut it, Nate. You can
see what you're doin'."
Caudell hadn't cut hair since the war ended. A Negro barber would have
laughed scornfully at the job he did, but when-he was through, Mollie
looked more like a man, or at least a beardless youth, than a woman. But
the dress she still wore, and the feel of her thick, curly hair running through
his fingers as he worked, the occasional moments when his hands brushed
against the smooth, warm skin of her cheek, her ear, her neck, reminded
him she was no man, even if she could put on the outer seeming of one. Her
hands checked what he had accomplished. She smiled. With her hair short,
all at once it was the saucy smile of the Mollie beside whom he'd marched
and fought-and lain. "That's good, Nate. Thank you. You want to shut the
door there, so as I can change? " He did as she asked; after a moment's
hesitation, he stood outside in the hallway. Through the thin wood panel, he
heard her chuckle, and felt himself blush. She opened the door a couple of
minutes later. "How do I look?" Shabby was the first word that came to
mind. No one could look anything but shabby in trousers, tunic, and forage
cap that had gone through the war, even if those clothes were cleaned and
mended, as Mollie's were. But seeing her in uniform somehow excited him
in a way her hoop skirt and petticoats had not-this was the way she'd looked
when he went to her cabin.
She was used to reading men's eyes. "You want to come back inside, Nate?"
she asked softly. "Handy thing about this outfit is, it goes off a sight easier
than the one I had on before." Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded,
stepped in, and closed the door again.
They lay side by side afterwards on the narrow, clothes-strewn bed. The
next to last candle Nate had got from Wren Tisdale still burned. Had the
saloonkeeper known, he could have leered with impunity. Mollie stroked
Caudell's cheek, just above the line where his beard started. She said, "I
always remembered you were sweet about it. You treat me like I'm
somebody, not just-a place to stick it in."
"Funny," he said, sitting up. "I always thought the same about you-that you
weren't just going through the motions, I mean."
"Not with you. Other times-oh, the hell with other times. I wish-"
Grimacing, she broke off without saying what she wished. Caudell thought
he could make a fair guess. He rather wished she had no other times to
come between them, too.
Mollie got off the bed and started to dress. So did Caudell; the room was
cold. As he pulled up his trousers, he said, "I have some money saved up
that I can give you for train fare, if you need it." He did not have much, but
for this he was ready to use it.
"Don't fret yourself." Mollie finished buttoning her private's tunic, then slid
over her head a small velvet bag on a thong. She tucked it under the tunic; it
clinked slightly as it settled between her breasts. "I hear tell gold's still right
scarce most places, but not in Rivington. You seen that for yourself. I got
plenty."
"All right," Caudell said, not altogether unhappily. He thought of something
else. "When you go to Richmond, don't go back through Rivington, in case
Benny Lang has noticed his book is missing after all. The Rivington men
might be watching the Wilmington and Weldon Railroad. Go south to
Goldsboro from Rocky Mount, then over to Raleigh or Greensboro, so you
can head north on the Raleigh and Gaston or Page 288
the North Carolina Railroad up to the Richmond and Danville."
"That's right smart, Nate. I'll do it," Mollie promised. "I'll hire me a wagon
first thing tomorrow to take me to the Rocky Mount train station." She
grinned a grin that took him back to their days round campfires together.
"Won't Mr. Wren Tisdale be confused when I go downstairs in the
mornin'?"
"Not unless you go barefoot," he said, noticing a gap in her disguise. He
kicked one of his shoes over to her. "Here-take these. I have another pair in
my room. My feet won't freeze on the way back. Reckon my shoes'!! fit you
like socks on a chicken, but if you have to, you can get yourself some
proper ones on your way north."
"Oh, Nate, not your shoes!" But she saw the need for what he'd said as
clearly as he did. She stooped, started to put them on, then stopped and
stuffed the toes with wadded-up clothes from a carpet bag.
"Just like I'dVe done in the war, taking big ones off a dead Yankee." She got
up and hugged him.
"Thanks for not thinkin' I'm crazy on account of all this. Thanks for-" She
hugged him again, hard. "For bein' a friend, and more than a friend."
He hugged her, too, felt the womanly shape of her through the uniform that
masked it from the eye. More than a friend indeed, he thought. "Come back
here when you can, if you care to," he said. It was not any sort of promise,
but it was as close to one as he could make himself come. Had she pressed
for more, he might well have fought shy of the little he'd said. But she only
nodded; maybe she'd not expected even so much.
Freezing mud squelched between his toes as he walked out of the Liberty
Bell. His head, though, his head was in the clouds, and not just because he'd
broken a long spell of abstinence. Not only had he held a willing woman in
his arms, he'd somehow held a bit of the future in his hands. Lee walked out
of St. Paul's Episcopal Church. The shadow cast by George Washington's
equestrian statue, across Ninth Street in Capitol Square, shielded his eyes
from the low, wan winter sun. Beside him, Jefferson Davis said, "A fine
sermon, do you not agree?"
"Yes, as usual," Lee said. "Mr. President, let me tell you again how grateful
I am mat you have agreed to serve as my Secretary of War. I hesitated to
ask it of you, lest you should feel it beneath your dignity to assume a
Cabinet position after having held the Presidency."
Davis snorted. "Nonsense, sir. I am ineligible under the Constitution to
continue as President; if I am to remain in public life, it must necessarily be
at some lower level. The post you offered suits me well, and I am glad to
have it."
Lee was about to reply when a light, hesitant voice said, "Beggin' your
pardon, General Lee, sir-" Frowning, he turned to deal with whoever had
presumed to interrupt his conversation with President Davis. He saw a
smooth-faced private in a worn uniform, clutching a parcel wrapped in
coarse brown paper and twine to his chest. "Yes, Private-?" he asked, voice
polite but frosty. The soldier, who at second glance looked not quite young
enough to be so free of beard, came to attention but held on to the parcel.
"M-Melvin Bean, sir, 47th North Carolina. I got here a book you ought to
see, sir."
"Never mind that now, young man," Jefferson Davis said impatiently. He
walked on, looking back to see if Lee was following.
Page 289
Lee was about to, when the private said something that made him stop in
his tracks: "It's a book from Rivington, sir."
"Is it?" Lee said. Davis had gone too far to hear the half-dozen soft, nervous
words, but, seeing that the ordinary soldier had somehow gained Lee's
attention, he shrugged and headed off toward the Presidential mansion.
"Yes, sir, it surely is," Melvin Bean said. The private gulped, licked his lips,
and then went on in a ragged whisper, "Other thing you ought to know, sir,
is that inside this here book, it says it was printed in nineteen hundred and
sixty, sir."
"By God," Lee said softly. Private Bean looked ready to bolt and run. Lee
did not blame him in the least. He himself knew the secret of the Rivington
men. But if this common soldier had somehow stumbled across it, not only
would he have trouble believing it, he would have even more trouble
believing anyone else would believe it. Quickly, Lee set out to ease his
mind: "Private, you had better come back to the Powhatan House with me.
This is most assuredly something I must see. Have you a horse?"
"No, sir-came up by train." Melvin Bean gaped at him, blurted, "You-you
mean you believe me, sir? Just like that?"
"Just like that," Lee agreed gravely. "Wait here a moment, if you please."
He ducked back inside the church, spoke with a vestryman, then returned to
Private Bean. "There-now Traveller will be seen to. Walk up Capitol Square
and then to the hotel with me, if you would be so kind, and tell me how this
book-"
"It's called the Picture History of the Civil War, sir," Bean said.
"The Picture History of the Civil Wart From-1960, you said?" A shiver of
wonder ran up Lee's spine. How would the Second American Revolution
look, from a distance of a hundred years? He and Melvin Bean turned right
from Ninth onto Broad Street. "Tell me at once how it came into your
possession." The story was less than clear, and left him imperfectly edified.
He gathered a woman friend of Bean's had actually gotten the book away
from the stronghold of America Will Break, but a couple of times the
private said "I" when he meant "she." Lee did not press him. For the sake of
a volume from Riving-ton-and from I960!-he was willing to overlook a
discrepancy or three. Private Bean, by his accent, was a country boy. Lee
expected him to gape at the red velvet and gold-leaf splendor of the Powhatan
House's lobby, but he took it in stride, merely muttering something
Lee did not quite catch: to him, it sounded like "It's not a not a hilton." Lee
led him to his own suite and closed the door after them. He turned on the
gaslight, sat by it, and pulled up another chair for Melvin Bean. "Now, if I
may, the Picture History of the Civil War." In anticipation, he slipped on his
spectacles. Bean handed him the parcel. He cut the twine with a pen knife,
undid the paper wrapper, and stared at the book for a long moment before
he opened it. The unusual quality of the printing struck him at once. His lips
shaped a silent whistle when he saw the copyright and publication dates. He
turned the page, came to the introduction. For a moment, he was confused
and jolted when he read of the war's ending with the South's surrender.
Then he understood, and said quietly, "So this is how it would have been,
had the Rivington men not come back to us."
"Sir?" Melvin Bean said. He was at the very edge of his seat, and still
looked ready to flee at any Page 290
moment. He also looked hungry: Lee had seen that expression too many
times in the war ever to mistake it.
He stood up. Melvin Bean bounced to his feet, too. Lee took some bills out
of a trouser pocket, handed twenty dollars to the private soldier. "Why don't
you buy yourself some dinner, young man? The cooks here are quite fine.
Ask for my usual table in the dining room, and tell them to send a boy back
here to me if they doubt your right to sit there. Later, perhaps, I shall have
questions for you, but first I want to read awhile."
Bean stared at the money without reaching for it. "I couldn't take that from
you, General Lee, sir." Lee pressed it into the private's hand. "You can, and
you shall."
"I got money o' my own," Melvin Bean said, drawing himself up with
prickly pride.
"As may be. Use this anyhow, please, if for no other reason than as a token
of my thanks for having brought this volume to my notice." He took Bean
by the elbow, steered the private to the door, and pointed in the direction of
the dining room. "Go ahead, please, as a favor to me." Still shaking his
head, Melvin Bean walked slowly down the hall.
Lee went back to his chair, picked up the Picture History of the Civil War,
and plunged in. He was not normally an enthusiastic reader; when he'd
come back to Richmond from Augusta, Georgia, he'd had half a dozen
chapters to go in Quentin Dur-ward, and those six chapters remained unread
to this day. But he held in his hands a volume he had never imagined he
would be able to examine. He eagerly seized the chance.
This Bruce Cation's style was less Latinate, less ornate, more down-to-earth
than Lee would have expected from a serious work of history. He soon
ceased to notice; he was after information, and the smooth, flowing text and
astonishing pictures made it easy to acquire. He had to remind himself that
Carton was writing long after the war ended and that, to the historian, it had
not gone as he himself remembered.
But the odd tone ran deeper than that. Catton plainly saw chattel slavery as
an outmoded institution which deserved to perish; to him, the Emancipation
Proclamation gave the United States the moral high ground for the rest of
the war. Lee had trouble squaring that with what Andries Rhoodie had said
about the hatred between black and white which was to come.
The sun sank; the only light left in Lee's room was the yellow pool beneath
the gas lamp. He never noticed-he had reached 1864, and all at once the
world he knew turned sideways. He studied Grant's campaign against him,
and Sherman's against Joseph Johnston, and nodded most soberly. That
relentless hammering used Northern resources simply to club the
Confederacy into submission. It was the sort of attack he had feared most,
and one which only the Rivington men's AK-47s could have disrupted. He
winced when he read of John Bell Hood taking Johnston's command in
front of Atlanta. Hood had the fierce visage of a lion and boldness to match.
At the head of a division, he was a nonpareil. But for boldness, though, he
lacked all qualification for army command. He would attack whether attack
was called for or not... Over the next few pages, Lee read what had comewhat
would have come, he made himself remember-of that.
He also took far more careful note of the political maneuvering in this other
version of the war than he would have before his own not-altogethervoluntary
entry into politics. He was unsurprised to discover Page 291
Lincoln reelected; Andries Rhoodie had told him of that. But Rhoodie had
also spoken of Lincoln treating the Confederate States as conquered
provinces after their defeat, and that proved nothing but a lie: even with the
war all but won, Lincoln had tried to get the Federal Congress to
compensate Southern slaveholders for the animate property they were
losing. Past reunion and emancipation, Lincoln had intended to impose no
harsh terms upon the states which had lost their war for independence.
Absurdly, rage filled Lee at Rhoodie's untruth. A man who knew the future
might at least have the courtesy to report it correctly, he thought. That
Rhoodie had lied argued he and America Will Break had their own political
agenda, one which they aimed to impose on the Confederacy. Given their
support for Nathan Bedford Forrest and all their efforts against the Negro,
the nature of that agenda was easy enough to deduce: the permanent
dominance of the white man. But by the tone of the Picture History of the
Civil War, white supremacy was an outmoded idea in their own day, just as
the course of history would have led Lee to believe. Did that make them
maverick heroes, or simply mavericks? The question being unanswerable
for the time being, Lee put it aside and kept reading. He pursed his lips and
tightly clenched his jaw when he came upon a picture of a wrecked
locomotive in the burned-out ruins of the Richmond and Petersburg
Railroad depot. A few pages farther on, he encountered himself, old, grim,
and defeated, standing on the back porch of the rented house in which he
and his wife had lived in Richmond. It was uncanny, seeing himself in a
photograph for which he'd never posed. As eerie was the photograph on the
facing page of his farewell order to the Army of Northern Virginia,
unmistakably in the handwriting of Charles Marshall, and as unmistakably
nothing Marshall had been compelled by fate to write.
He read of Lincoln's second inaugural address and of the broad peace
Lincoln hoped to gain, and, a page later, he read of the bullet that had slain
Lincoln on Good Friday evening in 1865. He clicked his tongue between
his teeth at the thought of a President dying at an assassin's hands. Then, all
at once, he shivered as if suddenly seized by an ague. He had seen Lincoln
in Louisville that Good Friday, had listened to him plead without avail for