Anything But Civil. Anna Loan-Wilsey
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fought together, and lots of us died together. But those of us who lived, we can hold our heads up higher than before because we did what was right.”
“Unlike those Southern-loving rich folk!” one man cried.
“Or those lousy Southern-loving copperheads,” someone else added.
“I’d heard a certain segment of Galena society had ties to the South, especially those relying on the Mississippi River trade,” Sir Arthur said. “But I didn’t know there were copperheads.”
I’d learned about the Copperhead Movement while helping Sir Arthur with his first book. A Northern faction of the Democratic Party, they were called by President Lincoln “the fire in the rear” and by their enemies who hoped to stigmatize them like venomous snakes “copperheads.” Among other things, they believed the Union could never be restored by war and demanded peace at any cost. To undermine the war effort they were known to fight the draft, encourage desertion, talk of helping rebel prisoners of war escape, and take money from the Confederacy. Even unsuccessful efforts to organize violent resistance occurred. When the Union suffered losses, the movement had strong support. After Sherman’s victory in Atlanta, support for the movement waned and some movement leaders were tried for treason. Copperheads in Galena could’ve split the town apart.
“It sounds like living in Galena during the war was . . . complicated,” Sir Arthur said, in what I took to be a vast understatement.
“Oh, no, sir,” the round-faced man said. “Like General Grant once said, ‘There are but two parties now, traitors and patriots.’ ”
“Hear, hear, Charlie!” Rowdy applause erupted and several men slapped the round-faced man named Charlie on the back. Before the clamor settled down and Sir Arthur could ask another question, the door swung open.
“Who’s a traitor and who’s a patriot?”
“Henry!” a simultaneous cry went up as Henry Starrett was welcomed heartily into the room. Sir Arthur scowled. Lieutenant Triggs stared at the newcomer with an unreadable expression.
“You old rascal!” someone said.
“We heard that you were back.”
“Break any hearts lately?”
“Sink any ships lately?”
Men clambered over to shake Henry Starrett’s hand. I couldn’t shake the impression of ancient boys vying for Santa Claus’s attention.
“Now what’s this about a copperhead I’m hearing?” Henry Starrett said.
“The men were graciously answering questions for my book, Captain Starrett,” Sir Arthur said. “We weren’t talking about ‘a copperhead.’ ”
“No, actually, he’s right, mister,” Charlie said. “That’s one of the reasons your questions got us so fired up. There’s talk that Enoch Jamison is back in town, visiting his ailing mother for the holidays.”
“And who is Enoch Jamison?” Sir Arthur said, knowing full well he was the same man we witnessed being beaten.
“One of the most vile creatures to walk the earth, Sir Arthur,” Henry Starrett said. “Am I right?” The men began grumbling among themselves. “Am I right?” he said again.
“Oh, Henry,” General Starrett said. “Don’t be ridiculous. It was over twenty-five years ago.”
“Again, I ask,” Sir Arthur said, getting annoyed at his time being wasted. “Who is Enoch Jamison?”
“One of Galena’s most notorious copperheads,” the man with the moles on his cheek said. “He spent time at Fort Delaware for treason.”
“I believe he was honorably discharged, Mr. Groat,” General Starrett said.
“That was a mistake, sir,” Mr. Groat, the man with the moles, said.
“Yeah, some say he should’ve hanged,” Charlie added.
“Which is why he has some nerve showing his face around here again,” Henry Starrett said.
“Yeah,” a few men said in vague agreement as a middle-aged man with brown hair, a large, floppy mustache, broad shoulders, and big, muscular arms stood and made for the door. He shook a fist at Henry Starrett. In India ink, O.C.K. was marked on the back of his left hand. He was clearly angry. But why?
“Speaking of copperheads,” Henry said, glancing at the man in the doorway.
“Damn you, Starrett!” the man shouted before slamming the door behind him. More grumbling came from the group. Henry either didn’t notice or pretended not to.
“I think something should be done about it,” he said.
“Like pull the man from his buggy and give him a lashing in the street, Captain Starrett?” Sir Arthur said calmly. The room fell silent and all eyes were on Captain Starrett.
“That’s right, by God!” he said, slapping the back of the man nearest him. Chaos erupted. Several men jumped up and shook Henry’s hand while everyone spoke at once.
“Pulled him from his buggy?”
“Doesn’t he have a sick mother to tend?”
“Did you kill him?”
“Henry, you are a madman,” one man yelled, “but I’m sure Jamison deserved it!”
“Damn right he did,” Henry said, “and more if I have anything to do with it. I’ll have him regretting he ever came back to town.”
“Hear, hear!” several men shouted in approval.
“If I may,” Sir Arthur said, ignoring the growing tension in the room, “I have a few more questions for you gentlemen.”
No one seemed to hear Sir Arthur as the men all talked, almost shouting, among themselves, gesturing with their hands and canes.
“Order, order!” Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook shouted about the din. “We still have the newly purposed charity works to discuss.”
I quickly gathered my things and, being careful to stay out of arm’s reach of Mr. Groat, followed as Sir Arthur stomped toward the door. Lieutenant Triggs scrambled through the crowd to catch up with us.
“Order, order!” Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook shouted again. “Please, gentlemen.”
“Oh, where’s your fighting spirit, Holbrook? Let the old codgers have some fun.” Henry Starrett pointed to two men who were red faced and arguing over something I couldn’t hear. One minute the room had been filled with reminiscing old men and now it was filled with angry ex-soldiers who were eager for one last battle. How had Henry Starrett’s surprise appearance turned a routine meeting into a mob scene?
“Sir Arthur, please don’t leave!” Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook shouted. Sir Arthur, knowing he wouldn’t be heard without shouting back, and Sir Arthur never stoops to shouting, shook his head and waved. Lieutenant Triggs hesitated slightly and looked back once before leaving.
“Don’t forget. The tour starts at eleven,” was the last coherent statement I heard as I gladly followed Sir Arthur and the lieutenant out the door.
BOOM!
The house shook and I heard Mrs. Monday downstairs scream. The explosion was still ringing in my ears as I raced down the stairs and found the entire household congregating in the foyer. Sir Arthur was still dressed, but the Triggses, William Finch, and Mrs. Monday, a reed of a woman in her mid-sixties, were still in their robes, having been startled awake.
“What the devil was that?” Sir Arthur said. Sweat ran down Lieutenant Triggs’s face and he was shaking. He shook his head as his wife clung to his arm.
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