Mr. Calhoun at Appomattox

I

THIS is the story of General James Longstreet at Petersburg, near Appomattox, when he rolled over in his bed and found a civilian in his room; an old man with a string tie and an oddshaped collar.

Josiah Sykes, who was aide to Longstreet, has told it many times and it may be you have heard, yet refused to believe. It may be that you are among the stubborn ones, but you must remember that Josiah was a Baptist and he never missed a Sunday’s meeting — would a man like that be lying?

Longstreet said: ‘Hell, you look like John C. Calhoun.’

The stranger replied: ‘I am Calhoun.’ It was the morning after the death of A. P. Hill, and Longstreet was in a bitter mood. All night he had cursed the impulse which sent gallant Hill against the skirmishers’ guns. There was never a soldier in the Army of Northern Virginia, or in the Army of Tennessee for that matter, with franker tongue than Longstreet. ‘Get out of here,’ he said. ‘ Get out before I have you shot as a spy.’

John C. Calhoun, if it were he, stood unsmiling. ‘How can you shoot me if I am dead?’ he asked. ‘How can you stand me before a firing squad, or dangle me from the limb of a tree?’

Most men would have raced from the room, or shouted for aid, but not James Longstreet. He dropped his feet to the floor, raised his thickset body, and waited a minute before he pulled on his pants.

‘I have come to save you from yourself,’ said Calhoun.

Longstreet leaped to the chair, punched the stranger’s body with his forefinger and felt the tip of his nail reach wood. There he stood with one hand sunk through what had appeared to be solid flesh: ‘By God, you are John C. Calhoun!’

‘Of course, I am.’

‘Then get out of my room.’

‘Get out?’

‘I have no need of politicians.’

James Longstreet meant what he said. He knew the whole thing was over now. He knew the war that had brought him hurrying from Albuquerque through Texas to Richmond was at its close. He had been a major in the paymaster department before the war. It had been easy living; not high living, but easy. The sport was good, the food was good, and a man could relax in the shade. In the beginning, Longstreet had expected the politicians to forestall the war. They had done it before, but after Mr. Henry Clay died something slipped, someone got the wires crossed. Then there was the eternal problem of Jefferson Davis — that damned Mr. President Davis. Longstreet was sick of politicians. ‘It’s too late to help me, Mr. Calhoun,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you come sooner?’

‘It took me a long time to discover you are from South Carolina,’ said Calhoun. ‘I never saw a Carolina man before who always stayed out of his state.’

’I’ve been busy,’ said General Longstreet.

‘Busy, hell,’ said John C. Calhoun, and it was a rare thing for him to swear. ‘No man ought to be too busy to visit South Carolina. I almost passed over you, young man. I said, “Haven’t we any South Carolina men left in this war?” Someone told me, “Yes, there’s Longstreet, Mr. Calhoun. He’s not doing so well, but there’s General Longstreet from South Carolina.’”

‘Who said that?’ asked James Longstreet, scowling. ‘I’m doing all right.’

‘You’ll do better now,’ said Calhoun. ‘With me about, you’ll do fine.’

Longstreet was a stubborn man. ‘I’ll not have a politician littering up my camp,’ he said. ‘You get out of here. I remember you, Mr. Calhoun. You started this thing, you got it rolling downhill like rain off a rock. I remember when everything was quiet, when folks had settled back to their ploughing, you could always get them riled again with your speeches — with your chatter.’

‘I could make a good speech,’ said John C. Calhoun.

‘You started a good war, that’s what you did,’ said Longstreet. ‘ You started it, now you get out of here and let me finish it.’

‘If I left you now, you would never outlive this fight,’ said John Calhoun. ‘You better think about that, James Longstreet. You need me to look after you. Don’t you be bullheaded, like Henry Clay.’

‘I’ve gone this far on my own, I’ll go the rest of the way,’ said Longstreet.

‘Don’t be a fool.’

‘I’m not a fool, I’m a soldier. I don’t need you.’

John Calhoun smiled and rubbed a hand against his chin. ‘There never was and never will be a man from South Carolina who doesn’t need John C. Calhoun.’

‘Applesauce,’ said Longstreet.

‘Applesauce, is it? What about you in the Wilderness?’

‘Well, what about me?’ asked the general.

‘Getting shot in the neck like that— shot by your own men, too. That would not have happened if I had been there; I would have kept you out of harm’s way, General Longstreet.'

‘Listen, don’t you try to blame that on me,’ said Longstreet. ‘Can I help it if Mahone’s men lost their heads — can I help it if they mistook me for Yankee cavalry?’

‘Just the same, it should not have happened and would not have happened if I had been there.’

Longstreet sighed, rubbed the fresh scar on his neck. He remembered the shock when Mahone’s men fired. Micah Jenkins had been beside him, had gone down too. Micah had died in a few hours, but not James Longstreet. They carried him out on a stretcher. They carried him out with his hat over his face.

The soldiers cried: ‘He is dead and they were telling us he is only wounded.’

Longstreet had jerked the hat from his face to let them know he was yet alive. They fought better then. They pushed ahead and gave the Yankees hell.

‘Do you want to live?’ asked John Calhoun.

That was a foolish question for one so wise as the great Calhoun. Did Longstreet wish to live? The vigor of his face, the very wildness of his beard, the solid set of his shoulders, and his lusty manner of eating answered that. No man enjoyed life more than James Longstreet, no man had more vitality, or longed less for death. ‘Of course, I want to live,’ he answered.

‘Then I’ll ride with you today.’

‘Ride with me?’

‘Of course,’ said Calhoun.

Longstreet chuckled: ‘You couldn’t keep up with me — not you.’

Josiah Sykes always said, even after Longstreet warned him, that he never quite saw Mr. Calhoun, but he knew the great man must have put on his hat because he heard the sound as it moved through the air. Josiah had entered the room to tell Longstreet his mount stood waiting, and he said the general walked about in circles, shaking his head.

II

They galloped along behind the front, Josiah told me, and you could see the grass trampled near Longstreet’s horse as Mr. Calhoun picked his way. Later Longstreet told Josiah the great man was riding a gaunt mare with ribs which nearly broke through the skin. ‘It looked like he got that horse to match himself, like a man might buy a hat to meet his boots,’ Longstreet said.

Josiah Sykes told how they rode along without talking, and all at once there was a broken fence lying across the field, part of it destroyed by shellfire. A horseman had his choice of circling around the rails, if he was patient, or jumping across, if he would not wait. It was not a wide jump, or yet a dangerous one, but it was too much to expect of war-starved horses. ‘Let’s take it,’ ordered Longstreet.

He landed in the field on the back of his neck. He landed with the seat of his pants scooting across the rocky topsoil. Josiah said General Longstreet sat there for a moment, scowling. ‘Is this the kind of protection I get?’ he asked. ‘I thought you were trying to help me out.’

‘That’ll teach you to leave me,’ said John Calhoun, but he was a long time reaching them again because he had to circle the fence; his nag refused to take the jump.

Josiah told me the great man’s voice sounded like the wind, only there was no wind. Josiah said the horses lifted their ears, dropped their heads, and shivered from breast strap to bellyband.

Longstreet returned to the saddle. They rode farther from the front, picking their route with care; here and there a soldier would recognize the general and salute with upraised musket. ‘I don’t need any aid, Mr. Calhoun, as long as these men are left alive,’ said James Longstreet.

‘You will — wait and see,’ replied John Calhoun.

A rabbit broke across the trail, a lean but happy cottontail, one of the few to survive in battle-scalped Virginia. It was a long-legged creature, and when Longstreet saw it bouncing through the weeds he recalled the sight of rabbit in a steaming dish and he hankered for the odor of long-eared stew. ‘I have him,’ he cried, pulling his pistol.

One bullet passed beneath the quarry, leaving its mark in the earth; another clipped fur from its tail, but the rabbit sped on into deeper brush. Josiah Sykes said General Longstreet pulled in his mount and almost wept. ‘See here, if you’re my guardian angel, Mr. Calhoun,’ he said, ‘why, in God’s name, didn’t you make the bullet hit that rabbit? You knew I could use that meat.’

‘I’m not here to fatten you, General Longstreet,’ said Calhoun, if it was Calhoun, and not the wind. ‘I’m here to keep you alive.’

Josiah Sykes said it went that way for the better part of a day and a night and there were times when he thought James Longstreet would take his pistol by the barrel and hammer himself to death — he was that upset. Once Mr. Calhoun got real nasty and asked, ‘Why did you waste so much time up there at Gettysburg? Why didn’t you come to the support of Lee?’

‘Listen, I was born in South Carolina, but I was raised in Georgia and Alabama, Mr. Calhoun,’ said Longstreet. ‘You leave me alone. You started this whole business, you got us into this mess — now you get out of here and quit pestering me.’

‘I’m going to save your life,’ answered John C. Calhoun.

For six days and six nights, Josiah said, General Longstreet went riding with Mr. Calhoun at his side. Bullets came and bullets went, but none of them touched the bearded giant. Once a Minié ball flipped hair from the tail of the general’s horse, and another raised dust near his boot, but no missile kept Longstreet from his duty of protecting the Confederate rear. General Robert E. Lee had said to him, ‘General, why do you keep staring over your shoulder?’

Longstreet had grinned, not knowing how to reply. He could not tell the old man that it was not the wind but John C. Calhoun who whispered at his rear.

‘Six days have passed and I have not needed you,’ Longstreet told Calhoun. ‘Why don’t you leave me and pester someone else? Why don’t you guard R. E. Lee?’

But John Calhoun shook his head. ‘He’s not from South Carolina.’

‘Six days and six nights — I have not needed you.’

‘The time will come, you wait and see.’

Surrender was inevitable; Longstreet had known that for some time, although when they had asked him to tell General Lee, he had pointed out that the Articles of War were definite in their provision that officers or soldiers who asked commanding officers to surrender should be executed. He had said: ‘If General Lee doesn’t know when to surrender until I tell him, he will never know.’

Of course, Lee found it out for himself soon enough; he went riding off in a fine uniform with sword and sash. His belt was embroidered and his spurs were gold, but his eyes were lead and his face was pale.

General Longstreet had said to John Calhoun: ‘It is all over now. Why don’t you leave me? Why must you remain to see the finish? Hell, you were one of those who started all this. Get out of here and leave us to our suffering.’

‘Not yet,’ said Calhoun, if it was Calhoun and not the wind. ‘It’s not over yet. You’re not the best man South Carolina ever saw, James Longstreet, not by a long shot, but you’ll come in handy to the South when this is finished. It’ll have need of a hardheaded man like you.’

Then a courier brought the news — the thing they had known was bound to come. Lee was signing away the war to Grant. Even now he was seated in the McLean house at Appomattox with the blue uniforms around him. ‘Well, it’s official now,’ said Longstreet. ‘He said he would do it and he’s done it — I think I’ll go and take a look.’

‘You keep away from Appomattox,’ said Calhoun. ‘What business have you there, Longstreet? Lee gave you the rear of this army to protect. You stay here and obey his orders, or you’ll get into trouble.’

Josiah Sykes always said it was plain to see that John C. Calhoun did not understand Old Pete. If he had asked some of the soldiers, one or two of those who had stood in the Wilderness, they could have told him more about it.

‘Hell, Mr. Calhoun, the war is ended now,’ said Longstreet. ‘You pulled me through alive — your mission is ended. Now get away from me.’

‘I’ll ride to Appomattox,’ said John C. Calhoun. ‘I’ll keep an eye on you.’

III

Josiah maintained Mr. Calhoun had something to do with the manner of the horses’ running. He said no normal mounts, even with good fodder inside their bellies, could have matched the speed Longstreet’s party made in reaching the McLean house. There were Union saddles stacked around the steps, and there were Union boots trampling the grass.

Calhoun forced General Longstreet behind a bush near the house to keep him out of sight of the soldiers, Josiah told me. Even today there are many folk who don’t believe he was there at all. I expect most people will come right out and call you a liar when you tell them this story, but that’s because they just don’t know. Josiah Sykes was there, standing next to his general, both having dismounted, and he saw Robert E. Lee come out the door and walk silently to his horse.

Before Lee left they had seen him signing the papers, resting one elbow on the table. They had seen his gray head bowed over the pen, they had heard the blunt kindnesses of U. S. Grant.

‘I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Calhoun,’ said Longstreet. ‘I’m glad you rode with me after all. You ought to have a seat at the finish — you and the rest of the hotheads. There’s your handiwork, that’s Lee walking there. You know Robert E. Lee of Virginia?’

‘It’s a great pity, sir,’ replied John C. Calhoun, shaking his head. ‘It’s a pity he isn’t from South Carolina.’

‘To hell with South Carolina,’ said James Longstreet. He stood at his full height, stretching his shoulders, and Josiah tried to move nearer to him, fearful of what might happen. ‘Now that it’s over, Mr. Calhoun, now that it’s finished, why don’t you leave me?’

But if Longstreet was stubborn, so was John Calhoun. ‘I’ll not leave you yet,’ he said. ‘You’ll need me soon — wait and see.’

‘I don’t need anyone now,’ said Longstreet. ‘I’m through with this war. There’s only one thing left to do — I’ll return tonight and take that table from McLean’s house. I’ll take it out and burn it for the shame it brought to Lee.’

‘You forget about that table,’ shouted Calhoun. ‘A grown man like you can’t go getting excited over a table. You keep your hands in your pockets, James Longstreet.’

‘Why? Why should I forget the table?’

Before the words had left his lips, Longstreet knew the answer. Josiah said you could stare through the window and see the men inside. You could hear their laughter and the noise of hands slapped against backs. A runt of a man, a tiny fellow with a close-clipped head, reached into his pocket and pulled forth a twenty-dollar gold piece. ‘For this table,’ he told McLean, the owner of the house, who still remained in the room.

‘See, now, you forget that table,’ said Calhoun. Josiah Sykes said the great man’s voice was shrill, as if he was excited, as if he had waited a long time for this.

‘It’s that Sheridan!’ General Longstreet reached for his pistol. He would show this upstart a thing or two, by God. First he pulled that raw stuff in the Valley, now he was buying the table right out from under General Lee — buying the wood that saw the Confederacy die. ‘I’ll teach him manners fast enough. I’ll put a bullet through his collar.’

John C. Calhoun grabbed the general’s shooting arm. Josiah said you could see the hand jerked down and held to Longstreet’s side. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Calhoun. ‘Don’t lose your head over a silly table. You know what they’ll do to you, James Longstreet, if you shoot Sheridan? They’ll march you into Washington in irons, that’s what they’ll do. They’ll toss you into the hulk of a rotten ship most likely, and they’ll let some of those Yankee devils spit in your face and kick your shins. Then when you kick back they’ll knock you down into the Washington mud, that’s what they’ll do. Finally they’ll hang you, Longstreet — with torchlights, cheering, and lots of bad whiskey.’

‘You stay out of this, you leave me alone,’ said Longstreet.

Josiah Sykes said it was a lucky thing that General Longstreet could not always see John C. Calhoun, because the general might have taken Mr. Calhoun by the neck then and there, ghost or no ghost, and strangled him where he stood. Josiah said Longstreet was so angry his thick hands trembled and he could not speak for gasping.

Phil Sheridan dropped his gold on the table and McLean reached forth to pick it up. ‘It’s not for me, it’s for George Custer’s wife,’ said Sheridan. ‘She’ll like it, too.’

‘For Custer’s wife? That’s a hell of a thing,’ said Longstreet. The general knew Custer well. They had clashed not four hours before when the boy commander had galloped up beneath a flag of truce. ‘Well, it’s over,’ Custer had cried. ‘I demand your surrender in the name of General Sheridan.’ If it had not been for Calhoun, Longstreet would have split his skull.

‘A fine thing,’ Longstreet howled. ‘Giving that table to that popinjay!’

George Armstrong Custer, he of the flowing hair, tilted the table on his shoulder, walked out the door. There was a laugh on Custer’s lips, there was a twinkle in Custer’s eyes. ‘Here’s an end to rebellion,’ he cried.

Josiah always maintained that if it had been left up to Longstreet he would have chopped George Custer down then and there. He would have knocked the smiling officer from beneath the table and run him through with his saber, but once again John C. Calhoun held to him, saying, ‘Keep your head, general. My God, don’t lose yourself over a table!’

James Longstreet again grew so angry he could not open his lips. The veins in his forehead swelled to the bursting point, and his belly heaved until the belt around it threatened to snap. He leaned forward to curse his enemies but Mr. Calhoun clamped an invisible hand across his mouth.

Josiah said if Phil Sheridan had seen them there would have been hell to pay because Sheridan was a fighting man. He would have come at Old Pete and Old Pete would have chosen him and the clawing would have been terrific. Josiah always said, however, that he believed Custer caught sight of Longstreet, heard some of the things he was saying. Josiah said Custer covered the side of his head with a portion of the table and almost broke into a run — he was in that much of a hurry.

John C. Calhoun removed his hand from Longstreet’s mouth after Custer was out of sight. He turned Old Pete completely free when the last Union man was well over the hill. ‘See, you needed me all right,’ he said. ‘Damned if I ever saw any man go so haywire over a table. If I had turned you loose, James Longstreet, you would have slain either Custer or Sheridan, or both, or they would have killed you. In any case you would not have survived this war.’

Likely as not he was right, said Josiah Sykes, who ought to know.

‘You leave me be,’ answered Longstreet.

‘You have more things ahead of you now than fighting over a table,’ said John Calhoun. ‘You don’t see me losing my head like that, do you?’

‘Just the same, it’s a painful thing to think of a Yankee woman using that table,’ said Longstreet. ‘Like as not she’ll keep it polished, and like as not she’ll serve tea on it. Folks will sit about it, Mr. Calhoun, and laugh about us, laugh about the Confederacy, laugh about General Lee.’

‘Do you reckon they’ll laugh about South Carolina?’

Old Pete stared at Calhoun, and Josiah said the general almost laughed aloud himself. ‘Of course, they’ll laugh about South Carolina!’

John C. Calhoun reached over and lifted a knife from James Longstreet’s pocket. ’I’ll be leaving now, you can go the rest of the way alone,’ he said. ‘You’ll be needing brains, not a blade, from here on out.’

‘Where you going with my knife, Mr. Calhoun?’ demanded Longstreet.

Josiah could not see him, but he knew the great man must have smiled. ‘ Hell, Pete, one of these nights I’ll put some nicks in that table,’ said the great Calhoun.

If it was Calhoun, and not the wind.