Heaven and Hell

PROLOGUE: THE GRAND REVIEW 1865

Rain fell on Washington through the night. Shortly before daybreak on May twenty-third, a Tuesday, George Hazard woke in his suite at Willard's Hotel. He rested a hand on the warm shoulder of his wife, Constance. He listened.

No more rain.

That absence of sound was a good omen for this day of celebration. A new era began this morning, an era of peace, with the Union saved.

Why, then, did he feel a sense of impending misfortune?

George slipped out of bed. His flannel nightshirt bobbed around his hairy calves as he stole from the room. George was forty-one now, a stocky, strong-shouldered man whose West Point classmates had nicknamed him Stump because of his build and his less-than-average height. Gray slashed his dark hair and the neat beard he'd kept, as many had, to show he had served in the army.

He padded into the parlor, which was strewn with newspapers and periodicals he'd been too tired to pick up last night. He began to gather them and put them in a pile, taking care to be as quiet as possible. In the second and third bedrooms, his children were asleep. William Hazard III had turned sixteen in January. Patricia would be that age by the end of the year. George's younger brother, Billy, and his wife, Brett, occupied a fourth bedroom. Billy would march in today's parade, but he'd gotten permission to spend the night away from the engineers' camp at Fort Berry.

The papers and periodicals seemed to taunt George for his sense of foreboding. The New York Times, the Tribune, the Washington Star, the most recent issue of the Army and Navy Journal all sounded the same triumphant note. As he created the neat pile on a side table, the phrases leaped up:

Today and tomorrow were to be celebrations of that: a Grand Review of Grant's Army of the Potomac and Uncle Billy Sherman's roughneck Army of the West. Grant's men would march today; Sherman's coarser, tougher troops, tomorrow. Sherman's Westerners sneered at Grant's Easterners as "paper collars." Perhaps the Westerners would parade the cows and goats, mules and fighting cocks they'd brought to their camps along the Potomac.

Not all of the men who went to war would march. Some would lie forever hidden from loved ones, like George's dearest friend, Orry. George and Orry had met as plebes at West Point in 1842. They had soldiered together in Mexico, and had preserved their friendship even after Fort Sumter surrendered and their separate loyalties took them to different sides in the conflict. But then, in the closing days, Orry met death at Petersburg. Not in battle; he fell victim to the stupid, needless, vengeful bullet of a wounded Union soldier he was trying to help.

Some of the young men made old by the war still tramped the roads of the South, going home to poverty and a land wasted by hunger and the fires of conquering battalions. Some still rode northbound trains, maimed in body and spirit by their time in the sinks that passed for rebel prisons. Some from the Confederacy had vanished into Mexico, into the army of the khedive of Egypt, or to the West, trying to forget the invisible wounds they bore. Orry's young cousin Charles had chosen the third path.

Others had ended the war steeped in ignominy. Chief among them was Jeff Davis, run to earth near Irwinville, Georgia. Many Northern papers said he'd tried to elude capture by wearing a dress. Whatever the truth, for certain elements in the North prison wasn't enough for Davis. They wanted a hang rope.

George lit one of his expensive Cuban cigars and crossed to the windows overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue. The suite offered a fine view of the day's parade route, but he had special tickets for a reviewing stand directly across from the President's. With care, he raised a window.

The sky was cloudless. He leaned out to let the cigar smoke blow away and noticed all the patriotic bunting on the three- and four-story buildings fronting the avenue. Brighter decorations were at last replacing the funeral crepe that had hung everywhere after Lincoln's murder.

A scarlet band of light above the Potomac River basin marked the horizon. Vehicles, horsemen, and pedestrians were beginning to move on the muddy avenue below. George watched a black family — parents, five children — hurry in the direction of President's Park. They had more than the end of the war to celebrate. They had the Thirteenth Amendment, forever abolishing slavery; the states had only to ratify it to make it law.

A clearing sky, a display of red, white, and blue, no more rain — with such favorable portents, why did his feeling of foreboding persist?

It was the families, he decided, the Mains and the Hazards. They had survived the war, but they were mangled. Virgilia, his sister, was lost to the rest of the family, self-exiled by her own extremism. It was particularly saddening because Virgilia was right here in Washington, although George didn't know where she lived.

Then there was his older brother, Stanley, an incompetent man who had piled up an unconscionable amount of money through war profiteering. Despite his success — or perhaps because of it — Stanley was a drunkard.

Matters were no better for the Mains. Orry's sister Ashton had vanished out in the West after being involved in an unsuccessful plot to overthrow and replace the Davis government with one that was more extreme. Orry's brother, Cooper, who had worked in Liverpool for the Confederate Navy Department, had lost his only son, Judah, when their homebound ship was sunk off Fort Fisher by a Union blockade squadron.

And there was his best friend's widow, Madeline, facing the struggle to rebuild her life and her burned-out plantation on the Ashley River, near Charleston. George had given her a letter of credit for forty thousand dollars, drawn on the bank in which he owned a majority interest. He'd hoped she would ask for more; most of the initial sum was needed for interest on two mortgages and to pay federal taxes and prevent confiscation of the property by Treasury agents already invading the South. But Madeline had not asked, and it worried him.

Even at this early hour, the horse-and-wagon traffic on the avenue was heavy. It was a momentous day and, if he could believe the sky and the soft breeze, it would be a beautiful one. Then why, even after isolating his anxieties about the two families, could he not banish the feeling of impending trouble?

The Hazards ate a quick breakfast. Brett looked particularly happy and excited, George thought with a certain envy. In a few weeks, Billy planned to resign his commission. Then the two of them would board a ship for San Francisco. They'd never seen California, but descriptions of the climate, the country, and its opportunities attracted them. Billy wanted to start his own civil engineering firm. Like his friend Charles Main, with whom he'd attended West Point — both inspired by the example of George and Orry — he wanted to go far from the scarred fields where American had fought American.

The couple needed to travel soon. Brett was carrying their first child. Billy had told this to George privately; decency dictated that a pregnancy never be discussed, even by family members. When a woman neared her term and her stomach bulged, people pretended not to notice. If a second child arrived, parents often told their firstborn that the doctor brought the baby in a bottle. George and Constance observed most of the proprieties, even many that were silly, but they had never stooped to the bottle story.

The family reached the special reviewing section by eight-fifteen. They took seats among reporters, congressmen, Supreme Court justices, senior army and navy officers. To their left, the avenue jogged around the Treasury Building at Fifteenth Street; the jog hid the long rise of the street up to the Capitol.

To their right, for blocks into the distance, people jammed behind barricades, hung from windows and roof peaks, sat on sagging tree limbs. Directly opposite stood the covered pavilion for President Johnson's party, which would include Generals Grant and Sheridan and Stanley Hazard's employer, Secretary of War Stanton. Along the pavilion's front roof line, among bunting swags and evergreen sprays, hung banners painted with the names of Union victories: ATLANTA and ANTIETAM, GETTYSBURG and SPOTSYLVANIA, and more.

By quarter to nine there was still no sign of the President. The blunt-featured Chief Executive sailed in a sea of gossip these days. People said he lacked tact, drank heavily. And he was common — well, that was true. Johnson, a tailor, later senator, was the self-educated son of a Tennessee tavern porter, but he did not have the skills that had enabled Lincoln to turn his rustic background into a personal advantage. George had met Johnson. He found him a brusque, opinionated man with an almost religious reverence for the Constitution. That alone would put him at odds with the Radical Republicans, who wanted to expand interpretation of the Constitution to suit their vision of society.

George agreed with many Radical positions, including equal rights and the franchise for eligible males of both races. But frequently he found Radical motives and tactics repugnant. Many of the Radicals made no secret of their intent to use black voters to make the Republicans the majority party, upsetting the traditional Democratic dominance of the country. The Radicals displayed a vicious animosity toward those they had conquered, as well as any others they deemed ideologically impure.

President Johnson and the Radicals were locked in an increasingly vindictive struggle for control of reconstruction of the Union. It was not a new quarrel. In 1862, Lincoln had proposed his Louisiana Plan, later amplifying it to allow for readmission of any seceded state in which a "tangible nucleus" of voters — only ten percent of those qualified to vote in 1860 — took a loyalty oath and organized a pro-Union government.

In July of 1864, the Radical Republicans had retaliated with a bill written by Senator Ben Wade, of Ohio, and Representative Henry Davis, of Maryland. It outlined a much harsher reconstruction plan, which included a provision for military rule of the defeated Confederacy. The bill fixed control of reconstruction in the Congress. Early in 1865, Tennessee had formed a government under the Lincoln plan, headed by a Whig Unionist named Brownlow. The Radicals in Congress refused to seat elected representatives of that government.

Andrew Johnson had accused Jefferson Davis of acting to "inspire" and "procure" the assassination at Ford's Theatre. He made the obligatory harsh statements about the South, but he also insisted that he would carry out Lincoln's moderate program. Lately, George had heard that Johnson intended to implement the program by means of executive orders during the summer and fall. Since Congress had adjourned and was not scheduled to reconvene until late in the year, and since Johnson certainly wouldn't call a special session, the Radicals would be thwarted.

So the political wind carried word of coining Radical reprisals. One of George's missions in Washington was to speak to a powerful Pennsylvania politician, to state his views on the situation. He donated enough to the party each year to feel entitled to do so. He might even do some good.

"Papa, there's Aunt Isabel," said Patricia from behind him.

George saw Stanley's wife waving from the presidential stand. He grimaced and returned the wave. "She wanted us to be sure and see her."

Brett smiled. Constance patted his hand. "Now, George, don't be spiteful. You wouldn't trade places with Stanley."

George shrugged and continued scanning the crowd on his side of the street, searching for the congressman from his state whom he wanted to corner. While he was occupied, Constance reached into her reticule for a piece of hard candy. Her red hair shone where it curled from beneath a fashionable straw bonnet. She still possessed a pale Irish loveliness, but she'd gained thirty pounds since her marriage, at the end of the Mexican War. George said he didn't mind; he considered the weight a sign of contentment.

Promptly at nine, a cannon boomed, off by the Capitol. In a few minutes, the Hazards heard a distant brass band playing "When Johnny Comes Marching Home." Then they heard unseen thousands cheering parade units beyond the jog in the avenue. Soon the first marchers rounded the corner by the Treasury, and everyone leaped up to clap and hurrah.

Scholarly General George Meade led the parade, riding to the presidential pavilion amid an ovation. Small boys hanging from the trees behind it leaned out to clap and nearly fell. Meade saluted the dignitaries with his saber — neither Grant nor Johnson had yet arrived — then handed his horse to a corporal and went to sit with them.

Women cheered, men wept openly, a chorus of young schoolgirls sang and showered the street with bouquets and nosegays. The sun struck white fire from the alabaster of the Capitol dome as General Wesley Merritt led the Third Division into sight. The regular commander, Little Phil Sheridan, was already en route to duty on the Gulf of Mexico. When the Third appeared, even William, who was afflicted with adolescent disdain for nearly everything, jumped up and whistled and clapped.

Sixteen abreast in a column of platoons, sabers flashing in the sunshine, Sheridan's cavalry passed. The troopers had a trim, freshly barbered look and showed few signs of war-weariness. Many of them had stuck small bunches of daisies or violets into the muzzles of the carbines carried behind them on shoulder slings.

Each rank dipped its steel to the Chief Executive, who had finally entered the pavilion with General Grant, looking apologetic. George heard a woman several rows behind wonder aloud whether Johnson was already drunk.

Dust clouds rose. The smell of horse droppings ripened. Then, from Fifteenth Street, George heard a chant. "Custer! Custer! Custer! ..."

And there he came, on his fine high-stepping bay, Don Juan: the "Boy General" — shoulder-length ringlets, yellow with a red­dish patina, flushed face, scarlet neckerchief, golden spurs, broad-brimmed hat doffed to acknowledge the chanting of his name. Few Union officers had so captured the fancy of public and press. George Armstrong Custer had been last in his class at West Point, a brigadier at twenty-three, a major general at twenty-four. Twelve horses had been shot from under him. He was fearless or reckless, depending on your view. It was said that he wanted to be president after Ulysses Grant ran for the office. If he did want that — if the famed "Custer's luck" stayed with him and the public didn't forget him — he'd probably get what he wanted.

The Boy General led his troop of red-scarfed cavalrymen while his regimental band blared "Garry Owen." The schoolgirls surged up, ready to sing again. They threw flowers. Near the presidential stand, Custer stretched out his gauntlet to catch one. The sudden move spooked the bay. It bolted.

George glimpsed Custer's furious face as the bay raced toward Seventeenth. When Custer regained control of Don Juan, it was impossible for him to turn back against the tide of men and horses to salute Johnson. Enraged, he rode on.

No Custer's luck this morning, George thought, lighting a cigar. The road of ambition was not smooth. Thank God he himself had no designs on high office.

According to his engraved program, it would be a while before the engineers appeared. He excused himself to search again for the politician he hoped to find in the crowd.

He did find him, holding forth among the trees behind the special stand. Congressman Thaddeus Stevens, Republican of Lancaster and perhaps the foremost of the Radicals, was over seventy but still had an aura of craggy power. Neither a clubfoot nor an obvious and ugly dark-brown wig could diminish it. He wore neither beard nor mustache, letting his stern features show clearly.

He finished his conversation, and his two admirers tipped their hats and walked away. George stepped up, extending his hand. "Hello, Thad."

"George. Splendid to see you. I'd heard you were out of uniform."

"And back at Lehigh Station, managing the Hazard works. Do you have a moment? I'd like to speak to you as one Republican to another."

"Surely," Stevens said. A curtain dropped over his dark blue eyes. George had seen this happen before with the eyes of politicians put on guard.

"I just want to say that I'm in favor of giving Mr. Johnson's program a chance."

Stevens pursed his lips. "I understand the reason for your concern. I know you have friends down in Carolina."

God, the man had a way of setting you off with his righteousness. George wished he was five inches taller, so he wouldn't have to look up. "Yes, that's right. My best friend's people; my friend didn't survive the war. I must say in defense of the family that I don't consider them aristocrats. Or criminals —"

"They are both if they held blacks in bondage."

"Thad, please let me finish."

"Yes, certainly." Stevens was no longer friendly.

"A few years ago, I believed that overzealous politicians on both sides had provoked the war, unnecessarily. Year after year, I rethought the question, and I decided I was wrong. Terrible as it was, the war had to be fought. Gradual peaceful emancipation would never have worked. Those with vested interests in slavery would have kept it going."

"Quite right. With their cooperation and encouragement, the blackbirders imported and sold slaves from Cuba and the Indies long after Congress outlawed the trade in 1807."

"I'm more interested in this moment. The war's over, and there must never be another one. The cost to life and property is too high. War defeats every attempt at material progress."

"Ah, there it is," Stevens said with a frosty smile. "The businessman's new creed. I am well aware of this tide of economic pacifism in the North. I'll have nothing to do with it."

George bristled. "Why not? Aren't you supposed to represent your Republican constituents?"

"Represent, yes. Obey, no. My conscience is my sole guide." He laid a hand on George's shoulder and gazed down; the mere act of inclining his head was somehow condescending. "I don't want to be rude, George. I know you donate heavily to the state and national organizations. I'm aware of your fine war record. Unfortunately, none of that changes my view about the Southern slavocracy. Those who belong to that class, and all who support them, are traitors to our nation. They presently reside not in sovereign states, but in conquered provinces. They deserve full punishment."

In the eyes beneath the overhanging brows, George saw the light of true belief, holy war.

Cynics often cited sordid reasons for that fanaticism. They linked Stevens's championship of Negro rights with his house­keeper in Lancaster and Washington, Mrs. Lydia Smith, a handsome widow, and a mulatto. They linked the burning of his iron works in Chambersburg by Jubal Early's soldiers with his hatred of all things Southern. George didn't entirely believe the explanations; he considered Stevens an honest idealist, though an extreme one. It had never surprised him that Stevens and his sister Virgilia Hazard were close friends.

Still, the congressman by no means represented all of Republican opinion. Again sharply, George said, "I thought the executive branch was in charge of reconstructing the South."

"No, sir. That's the prerogative of the Congress. Mr. Johnson was a fool to announce his intention to issue executive orders. Doing so has generated great enmity among my colleagues, and you may be assured that when we reconvene, we will undo his mischief. Congress will not have its rights usurped." Stevens rapped the ferrule of his cane on the ground. "I will not have it."

"But Johnson is only doing what Abraham Lincoln —"

"Mr. Lincoln is dead," Stevens said before he could finish.

Reddening, George said, "All right, then. What program would you enact?"

"A complete reconstruction of Southern institutions and manners by means of occupation, confiscation, and the purging fire of law. Such a program may startle feeble minds and shake weak nerves but it is necessary and justified." George grew even redder. "To be more specific, I want harsh penalties for traitors who held high office. I'm not content that Jeff Davis be held in irons at Fortress Monroe. I want him executed. I want amnesty denied to any man who left the Army or Navy to serve the rebellion." Unhappily, George thought of Charles. "And I insist on equal rights, full citizenship for all Negroes. I demand the franchise for every eligible black male."

"For that, they'll throw rocks at you even in Pennsylvania. White people just don't believe blacks are their equals. That may be wrong — and I think it is — but it's also reality. Your scheme won't work."

"Justice won't work, George? Equality won't work? I don't care. Those are my beliefs, I'll fight for them. In matters of moral principle, there can be no compromise."

"Damn it, I refuse to accept that. And a lot of other Northerners feel the same way about —"

But the congressman was gone, to see three new admirers.

The battalion from the Corps of Engineers, Army of the Potomac, swung down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the presidential pavilion. Eight companies marched, smartly outfitted in new uniforms, which had replaced the soiled, ragged ones worn during the last days of the Virginia campaign. On the belts of half the marchers swung short spades, emblems of their dangerous field duty — bridge building, road repair — often done under enemy fire they were too busy to return.

Marching with them in the hot sun, neatly bearded, the pain of his healing chest wound almost gone, Billy Hazard strode along with pride and vigor. He glanced toward the stand where his family should be sitting. Yes, he saw his wife's lovely, luminous face as she waved. Then he noticed his brother and nearly lost the cadence. George looked abstracted, grim.

The brass band blared, sweeping the engineers past the special stands through a rain of flowers.

Constance, too, saw something amiss. After Billy went by, she asked George about it.

"Oh, I finally found Thad Stevens. That's all."

"That isn't all. I can see it. Tell me."

George gazed at his wife, weighed down again by that feeling of hovering disaster. The premonition was not directly related to Stevens, yet he was a part of the tapestry.

A similar feeling had come over George in April of 1861, when he watched a house in Lehigh Station burn to the ground. He had stared at the flames and visualized the nation afire, and he had feared the future. It had not been an idle fear. He'd lost Orry, and the Mains had lost the great house at Mont Royal, and the war had cost hundreds of thousands of lives and nearly destroyed the bonds between the families. This foreboding was much like that earlier one.

He tried to minimize it to Constance, shrugging. "I expressed my views, and he put them down, pretty viciously. He wants congressional control of reconstruction and he wants blood from the South." George didn't mean to grow emotional, but he did. "Stevens is willing to go to war with Mr. Johnson to get what he wants. And I thought it was time to bind up the Union. God knows our family's suffered and bled enough. Orry's, too."

Constance sighed, searching for some way to ease his unhappiness. With a forced smile on her plump face, she said, "Dearest, it's only politics, after all —"

"No. It's much more than that. I was under the impression that we were celebrating because the war is over. Stevens set me straight. It's only starting."

And George did not know whether the two families, already wounded by four years of one sort of war, could survive another.