Free Across Five Aprils by Irene Hunt

Jeth. We needed a victory— how we needed one—and Tom helped to give the Confederates a big set-back. Things have been going their way all these months, but not now. This victory has clinched Kentucky to the Union side; that’s a big thing in itself.”
    “But it ain’t enough. Is that what you meant a while ago, Shad?”
    “Well, think for yourself, Jeth. Our armies in the West have a part of the Union’s plans to carry out, just one part, and let’s see what it is. Have a look at old Mississippi here. If we can control this river, we can cut the Confederacy right in two. That’s not saying we can win the war out here, but it would be a big step, because any Confederate army west of the river would be just about powerless to do anything. Here in Kentucky we’re in control now; Johnston’s men can’t get supplies, so they have to withdraw or surrender. But down here, look how the Mississippi stretches through the states of Tennessee, Mississippi, and Louisiana—all enemy territory. And think how hard the fighting was at this little place on the map called Donelson. Does this make you want to throw up your hat and say that it’s all about over?”
    The log in the fireplace fell apart, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Outside across the prairie the shadows were almost black. Jethro and young Yale were silent, a part of the great dread that spread in all directions over the land that night, a dread that all the cheers over Fort Henry and Donelson couldn’t dispel; it reached from the White House to the cities and towns—north and south, to the lonely places in the farmlands, one of which was this long log room adjoining a country schoolhouse.
    Finally Jethro spoke softly. “Anyway, we’ve got Grant. That’s good, ain’t it, Shad?”
    “It appears so.” Shadrach’s tone lacked the enthusiasm Jethro would like to have heard. “It’s strange,” he added. “I’d have sworn that General McClellan was worth a dozen Grants, and yet, what do we have? McClellan in the East still waiting, week after week, while Grant strikes out here and strikes successfully. I wonder what the President is thinking.”
    Jethro had forgotten for a while the sad-eyed President, whose pictures had been in the papers only days before, above the story of his own son’s death. Willie Lincoln, the eleven-year-old boy in the White House, had died that same month.
    “I guess Ol’Abe has troubles over and above any of us,” Jethro said, his large eyes grave with sympathy.
    “Mr. Lincoln, Jeth.”
    He would remember the rebuke to the end of his days. He would remember, and he would feel ashamed at the memory, but still, he would wonder. People—smart people, one would suppose since they printed newspapers and drew pictures for them—many of these people spoke of the President as “the baboon,” “the ugly, ignorant, backwoods Lincoln,” and other names as vicious and expressive of hate. To say, “Old Abe” was not mean or vicious; people from all around called Matthew Creighton “Old Matt.” They meant no disrespect. Under no circumstance would he, Jethro Creighton, show disrespect to the President.
    “I think a lot of Mr. Lincoln,” he stated in quiet self-defense after a while.
    “I know you do, Jeth.”
    “Lots of people don’t. I could name you people in this neighborhood that hate him like poison.”
    “Not only in this neighborhood—not only in the South, either. It seems that people everywhere are criticizing him. The abolitionists hate him as much as the sympathizers of the South do. People blame him for the mistakes of his generals; and they’re just as bitter about his grammar, his appearance, his family.” Shadrach took a poker and stirred it thoughtfully among the red coals. “I’m not wise enough to measure Mr. Lincoln, Jeth; I just don’t know. But I have a feeling of confidence and faith in him that I can’t always justify. Sometimes I’m angered with him as others are; sometimes I