Chapter Thirty-Five
Robert strolled slowly along the Battery of Charleston, watching the parade of people jostle by. That Charleston was a city preparing for war, no sensible person could deny. Militia units, sporting the bright colors of their identifying uniforms, strutted around him like proud peacocks all too willing to preen their glory. Women, eager to be a part of the wondrous events happening in their own fair city, flocked to the streets every day. They peered into the harbor with eyeglasses, hoping to catch sight of the shot that would finally end their waiting and escort them into the glory Southern politicians promised so freely and easily. Drums rolling and parades snaking through the streets had become a daily occurrence.
Robert watched all of it, as he had been doing for several weeks, before he moved to lean on one of the railings and peer out to sea. He had completed what he had been sent to do. Stacked neatly in his hotel room were thick sheaves of documents accounting for and describing the military operations that had turned Charleston into a bedlam of activity. He heaved a heavy sigh, rested his chin in his hand, and stared out at Fort Sumter—the cause of the entire furor surrounding him. He was ready to go home.
“You don’t look too excited to be here, young man.”
Robert started and turned. “Excuse me?”
The man standing before him had a shock of white hair tumbling down over vivid blue eyes that regarded him sharply. “I said you don’t look too excited to be here.”
Robert shrugged. He didn’t sense any judgment coming from the man, and his observation was certainly not inaccurate. “I’ve been here long enough.”
“You mean to say you’re not enthralled by all the chaos exploding in your fair city?”
“It’s not my city. I’m just visiting.”
“You and a few thousand others,” the older man snorted. “You with one of the militia units sent to fire on that paltry number of soldiers trapped out in our harbor?”
Robert shook his head and eyed the other man closely. “Your name is?”
“The name is Crawford, son. Dr. Adam Crawford. I’ve lived in this city all my life.”
Robert took the hand extended to him, drawn to the man’s direct, open manner. “My name is Robert Borden. Virginia is my home. A plantation close to Richmond.”
“Lured by the smell of blood are you?”
Robert was aware he was being baited—tested for some reason—but he had no idea why. He opted for honesty. He had no idea who this man was, and he had no reason to play games with him. “No, sir. I’m down here at the request of the governor to evaluate and report on the military fortifications of the city. I am done. I plan on returning home soon.”
Crawford barked a laugh. “I wouldn’t leave now, boy. You’ll miss the best part of the show!”
Robert stared at him, beginning to wonder if the man might be a little crazy. The steady shine of his eyes reassured him. “Why do you say that, sir?”
“There are lots of people down here on the Battery watching the peripheral parts of this crisis. They count the number of troops coming into our city. They keep track of every gun and cannon being added to the arsenal of power surrounding Fort Sumter. Me? I spend my time looking at the inner guts of what is going on. That’s where all the real action is. What you’re looking at is no more than an outward show of what’s going on behind the scenes.” Crawford paused and stared out at Sumter. “The waiting will soon be over, boy. The South can’t afford to let Fort Sumter continue to defy them.” He snorted. “Up until now it’s been like a little hangnail. It was irritating, but it could be dealt with. The South has stalled, using Buchanan’s indecision to help them reach the place they want to be. With Lincoln in office, the hangnail has suddenly become a serious infection.”
“So they’ve got to get rid of the infection,” Robert observed.
“Sure they do! But it’s more than that. All the states who jumped so fast to form this Confederacy figured all the other states would jump on board as soon as they sounded the call. It’s not happening quite the way they figured. People follow passion, Robert. Always have and always will. President Davis and our leaders know that. They know it’s time to give the people some passion—something to rally behind.” He paused and then continued, his voice grim. “They know it’s time to give them some blood.”
Robert frowned. “You sound as if you think they’re wrong.” He wasn’t sure why it bothered him. He wasn’t even sure it did. And he had no idea why this total stranger was talking to him. He stared at Crawford. “A lot of people around here wouldn’t take kindly to what you’re saying.”
Crawford laughed heartily. “My boy, I reached the point years ago when I quit basing what I believe on what other people think. People have been frowning at me ever since.” He paused. “I have to live with myself, Robert. Other people have to live with themselves.”
“Do you think the war is wrong, sir?” Suddenly Robert was eager to talk with this man.
Crawford shrugged. “It’s not a war yet, my boy.” He sighed heavily. “It’s just a matter of time, though, I know.” He shook his head sadly. “Can any war be right? Especially when the sheep being sent off to fight the battle have no real idea of what is going on.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
Crawford smiled, his lips tight. “Robert, the South has attracted the young and the poor to their radical banner with lies. I suppose there is no other way to induce people to jump into the tragedy of war. They have been told the act of secession will produce no opposition of a serious nature, that not a drop of blood will be spilled. They have been told no one’s property will be destroyed. They have been promised unbroken prosperity—even greater prosperity because cotton will control all of Europe.” He shook his head. “People believe what they want to believe. They also believe what people in leadership tell them. That is their first mistake.”
Robert searched for the right response. “I take it you don’t believe all this, Mr. Crawford.”
Crawford turned to stare out at Sumter again. “Robert, I know there are close to seven thousand men crowding the city of Charleston who have only one reason for being here—to commit an act of war against one hundred twenty-eight poorly armed Union soldiers sitting in that fort. Someday people will probably call this a battle, but I think that is a mockery of the term. Those men are nothing but sitting ducks. Our new government is going to use them to rally the Southern people.” He paused, searching for the right words. “I don’t believe most people understand it...but who ever waited for the common man when a great move was to be made? Our leaders have decided to make the move and simply force them to follow. They believe this is the way of all revolutions and all great achievements. If they wait until the mind of everybody is made up, they will wait forever and never do anything.”
Robert stared at the older man. Crawford spoke as if he were merely reporting facts. There was very little emotion in his voice. “But, sir,” he protested, “that is simply manipulation. Surely you cannot agree with it!” Robert could not even identify the source of his own unrest. Suddenly the whole picture had taken on a different hue. He felt vaguely certain he was one of the sheep Crawford was alluding to.
Crawford suddenly turned to look deep into his eyes. “As long as there are people willing to be manipulated and controlled, there will be people eager to step forward and accept the position.” He glanced down at his watch before straightening. “I have an appointment, Mr. Robert Borden. It was a pleasure to meet you.” He reached out and shook Robert’s hand firmly. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I have bored you with all my talk.” Robert opened his mouth to protest, but Crawford gave him no opportunity. “I can’t stop the madness going on around me, young man.” He hesitated slightly. “But if I can reach out and cause even one person to stop and think—even if all they all do is look back after this horrible war is over and say one old man in Charleston knew what was really coming—then I can sleep at the end of each day.” He laughed shortly. “You just happened to be the lucky one today.” He turned and disappeared into the crowd as quickly as he had appeared.
Robert stared after him for several long moments and then resumed his position on the railing. The old man had given him a lot to think about.
Two nights later, Robert was jolted from his bed by a deep blast in the distance. The first was followed by yet another, and then another. It took a moment for reality to seep into his fogged mind. When it did, he jumped from his bed, slipped into his clothes, and took off for the harbor at a wild run. It was 4:30 a.m. on the twelfth of April. The Battle of Fort Sumter had just begun.
The streets of Charleston were full of people—men, women and children—racing down to find the best seats for the show. Five thousand people crowded the cobblestone roads and filled every rooftop with a view of the battle. Excited calls and cries of joy filled the night. Finally the standoff had been ended. Action had been taken! The honor of the glorious South could no longer be trampled upon.
“Now the North will see that there will be terrible consequences to pay if they don’t leave us be!”
Robert turned to look at the man yelling into his ear. This was the first attention he had paid to the throngs pressed against the Battery railing. He nodded. “Once they get a taste of it, this whole thing will be over before it starts!” he yelled back. “This war will be so short, most people won’t even know it happened.”
Robert smiled as a thrill coursed through his tense body. Crawford’s words had led him to think deeply for two days as he had waited for the old man’s predictions to come true, and he had started to harbor serious doubts. The whoosh, boom, and mighty explosions caused by the battle raging around him made all doubts flee his mind. The mighty South would not be controlled. Victory would be theirs—by right and by might.