“Congressman, we may very well bloody the North’s nose in the beginning. But people forget that the Yankees will have their own say in what happens next. Each time we humiliate them, bleed them, they’ll just come back harder and with stiffening resolve.”
A flintlike glint hardened in Hindman’s eyes. “Perhaps, Mr. Hancock, we think alike. I may not have liked the Yankees I associated with in Congress. Many I not only detested but despised. I did learn, however, to never underestimate them.” He paused. “Do you think they could whip us, Mr. Hancock?”
“Colonel, let us not forget the lessons of history. Northerners they may be, but they are still Americans. With all the resilience that implies. The only way we can lose this war is if we provide them with a reason to destroy us at all costs.”
Hindman seemed to process Butler’s words, then he said, “Here is how I see it: we must be audacious. Strike hard, recoil, and strike them again. We must defeat them quickly, sir, but only in defensive actions. By doing so, both England and France will understand that we are to be taken seriously, and that their advantage is best served by a rapid and resounding recognition of our rights as a nation.”
Butler countered, “Recognition of our Confederacy balances with the economic benefits that we provide Europe on one side, and their philosophical objections to slavery on the other.”
Hindman ran the toe of his polished shoe across the thick carpet, adding, “Without Southern cotton, European mills fall idle. Workers raise their voices in protest. The French have barely avoided revolution, and their workers are simmering. The English have their own multitudes in ferment. Southern raw materials provide gainful employment for their masses.”
Hindman paused. “We have gambled that their need for our resources outweighs the quibbles of conscience.”
“If we’ve wagered wrong, Colonel, we shall be in for a most interesting future, shan’t we?”
“And what is your motivation, Mr. Hancock? Your father was a Union man opposed to slavery, though I am delighted to hear that he has become a patriot when it comes to the defense of his hearth, home, and the Constitution.”
Butler raised his hands. “Colonel, in all honesty, like my father, I fear the rise of a tyrannical federal government. Nowhere in the Constitution does it say that once a state joins the Union, it cannot leave if that’s the will of its people. Your fight is to keep your slaves, mine is to keep my freedom of association. Sharing that last makes us allies.”
“Why come to me?”
“I am a classical scholar. My father said that if I wanted to understand Cicero, I should make your acquaintance. But now, I wonder if perhaps he was wrong.”
“How’s that?”
“I wonder if you aren’t more a Caesar incarnate than Cicero.”
Hindman fingered his beard, expression amused. “Mr. Hancock, if you are not indisposed this afternoon, perhaps I really could use your help with my correspondence.”
8
December 2, 1861
When Doc arrived at the Morton house a little after six on the night of December 2, a black wreath had already been placed on the door. Puffing in the chill air, Doc climbed the steps and hesitated. He glanced up at the overcast sky with its low scudding clouds: a gray and depressing day.
That morning, Doc had opened the surgery, only mildly surprised that Benjamin hadn’t beaten him there. An hour later, having finished with his first patient, and with another of Benjamin’s waiting in the foyer, Doc had felt the first flickers of worry.
The runner had arrived moments later with the news: Dr. Morton was dead—passed away in his sleep the night before.
Doc had responded by messenger that he would see to the surgery and await Mrs. Morton’s instructions. All through the day, he’d tended to his and Benjamin’s patients. Everyone had been stunned.
Late that afternoon he’d received a note asking him to call at the Morton house after closing the surgery.
Reluctantly, he knocked.
Moments later, Abel, the houseboy, answered, opening the door with the admonition, “Ev’nin, master. Mistress done tol’ me to let you in and no other, suh.”
“Thank you, Abel.” Butler slipped his coat and hat off as Andrew, the household servant, arrived in the foyer. Taking the garments, he ushered Doc into the parlor.
Doc sighed, both expectant at, and dreading, the prospect of facing Ann Marie. But he hated the idea of imposing on the stricken Felicia. He walked to the hearth, extending his hands to where an oak and hickory fire burned low in the grate.
Moments later he heard the rustle of skirts and turned to find Felicia Morton and Ann Marie, both in black satin, their hair done demurely. The women had the puffy and red-eyed look of grief.
“Dr. Hancock,” Felicia greeted him. “We hoped that you would come.”
“I was as shocked as anyone,” Doc told her as she extended a hand gloved in black lace. “You have my deepest sympathies. I will continue to fill in for Benjamin for as long as is necessary. If I can be of any additional service, I am at your disposal.”
He struggled to focus on Felicia. While he grieved for both of them, his eyes and aching heart kept straying to Ann Marie’s wounded expression. The past months had been filled with walks, conversation, and rising obsession. She filled his dreams, and every moment he could steal with her had been like a living miracle. Had he been asked before, Doc Hancock would have told the questioner that while a man might love a woman, he didn’t, couldn’t, worship her like a cherished idol. Fool that he’d been.
Benjamin and Felicia had both smiled knowingly, and each had given their approval to the courtship. But what now? Suddenly the plans, the notion of Benjamin walking his daughter down the aisle, seemed to have been from another world.
“She could do so much worse, Philip,” Benjamin had let slip over cigars in the surgery one day after a particularly brutal procedure on
