Booth’s Revenge Chapter Forty-Six

Andrew Johnson knew the last leg of his train trip home to Tennessee in March of 1869 was not going to be pleasant as a new conductor entered the car at the depot in Wytheville, Virginia. The conductor tucked his little wooden box containing tickets and cash under his right arm. He glowered at the passengers. Johnson observed the man’s pinched thin lips, his pepper gray hair peeking from under his blue conductor’s hat. His slender body was straight as a lonesome pine in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The former president assumed the posture was the result of imperiously following railway regulations to the letter. The conductor demanded exact change from soldiers wearing Union uniforms, but persons with distinct Southern drawls received a large smile, and miraculously he found change at the bottom of his little box for them.
When Johnson had left Washington City that morning, his daughter Martha insisted that he have proper change for all his tickets and even packed a small lunch for him. Johnson found the conductor on the first train to be quite cordial. He even told the former president that he would bend the rules to allow him to smoke his cigar, even though this was a non-smoking car, as long as he had a window seat and politely tipped his ashes out in the morning air. After all, the conductor explained to him, this idea of having a separate car for smoking had only begun since the end of the war, and passengers must be given time to adjust to the changes.
All of that changed when the new conductor joined the train at Wytheville. By the time he stopped by Johnson’s seat, the former president had taken out his change purse and was counting out the coins.
“I hope you don’t think just because you used to be president you don’t have to pay your train fare,” the man said in an icy tone, which made his Appalachian accent more pronounced.
“No, of course not,” Johnson replied in his humblest and most respectful voice. As he handed the conductor the coins he smiled innocently. “I hope I counted that out right. I never learned arithmetic until after I was married.”
The conductor grunted as he counted the money twice, very slowly. “Very well.” He began to walk away, but he turned for one last glower of the former president’s pulling a cigar out of his coat pocket and patting his other pockets to find a match. Swinging around, he raised his voice. “This car don’t allow no smokin’.”
Johnson could feel his infamous anger rising from his stomach, but forced it down. Whatever anyone might think of him, he prided himself on being considerate of the feelings of the common people, including the ones sharing the train coach on the long ride to Greeneville. They did not need the stifling atmosphere of anger created when a former president would lose his temper.
“Of course, sir.” He put his cigar away and stared out the window, preferring to concentrate on the reunion with his wife Eliza. She had stayed by his side in Washington City during the ordeal of impeachment and trial in the summer of 1868. Her tuberculosis grew worse and forced her to return to their home in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains where the air eased her breathing. His daughter Martha stayed in the Capital to act as his official hostess. His son-in-law David Patterson was one of the senators from Tennessee, so Martha actually spent most of her time with her husband and their family. Johnson felt quite alone.
His first action after the trial was to inquire discreetly with the national Democratic Party leadership if they would support him in his bid to run for a term as president in his own right. Democrats fought valiantly to keep the Republican majority from removing him from office, Johnson reasoned, and therefore might be willing to support him again. Unfortunately, they informed him the mood of the country was against him. Northern voters clearly saw him as one of the last vestiges of the old southern order of White supremacists. Instead, they nominated a less well known, less controversial Democrat to oppose the Republican candidate Ulysses S. Grant, whose victory over the South had made him a mythic hero. The general won the presidency easily.
Johnson could not help but think about how at one time he had appointed Grant to replace Stanton. Within a few months Stanton convinced Grant to abdicate his post, leaving it open for Stanton’s return. But Johnson could not hold a grudge. Hell, he told himself, he even smiled and shook hands at the Executive Mansion Christmas reception with Benjamin Butler who had been one of the leaders in the impeachment proceedings. If Grant had attended the party, Johnson would have shaken his hand too. So when Grant declined to ride in the same carriage to the inauguration, Johnson was a bit surprised but followed his inclinations not to encourage bitter feelings. He remained at the Executive Mansion, and when the news came that Grant had been sworn in, he quickly left for the train station. Perhaps it was just as well he had forgone the ceremony because Stanton surely must have attended. He was the one person Johnson could not have forced himself to greet cordially.
The fact that Stanton would never face legal consequences for his acts of treason and betrayal stuck in Johnson’s craw. The little evil man’s only punishment would be to fade into history, hopefully as only a minor footnote in the accounts of the American Civil War. Johnson felt a tinge of his old craving for alcohol, which he had always used to ease his uncontrollable hatred for Stanton. Johnson closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. If he had learned anything through the ordeal, which began the night of Lincoln’s assassination, it was that alcohol never solved any problems. It only made matters worse.
A train whistle roused him from his inner thoughts. Johnson looked out the window to see that the train was pulling into the station at Greeneville. He smiled as he recognized faces of old friends who had never given up on him, going back to the days when he was nothing but an illiterate drunkard with no skills or ambitions. When he learned how to be a tailor, Johnson could count on these the people to bring him cloth they had made themselves so he could turn it into a pair of pants or a coat. He accepted their payment of fifty cents gratefully. The pennies added up, and he found hope for a better life for his family. They encouraged him to run for public office, voted for him and applauded when he won elections. And they never believed the lies told about him during the impeachment.
After the train jerked to a stop, the conductor made his way down the aisle to Johnson’s side and informed him he could leave now. “There’s a crowd out there. Don’t know why.” The man’s pale, wrinkled face did not move a muscle.
“Thank you, Mr.—excuse me, what was your name again? I can’t seem to keep a name in my head anymore.”
“Fisher, sir, Edgar Fisher.”
“Mr. Fisher, thank you so much.” Johnson stood and shook the man’s hand vigorously. “You’ve made the trip mighty comfortable.” He looked up and down the length of the train car, watching the other passengers gather their belongings to leave. He held on to the conductor’s hand. “Mr. Fisher, I must assume you had sons in the Confederate Army during the war. East Tennessee suffered during that tragedy, now didn’t we?”
“I had two boys.” He paused to keep his voice from cracking. “Only one came back.”
“That weighs on my heart more than anything else. To know a neighbor’s boy died at the hands of men that I sent to war. I don’t know how I will ever atone.” Johnson heard his own voice crack, and he was not ashamed of it.
Slowly Fisher raised his other hand to clasp their grip. “My boy who made it home—he always told me if you ever got on one of my trains I should throw you off.”
Johnson guffawed and slapped the man’s back. “And I wouldn’t blame you if you did. The last few years have been mighty rough times, ain’t they?”
“Mighty rough times.” He paused as a small smile crept across his lips. “I suppose North and South have been mighty grieved, Mr. President.”
Johnson looked around again to see that they were alone. “Now which way would you like for me to skedaddle, Mr. Fisher?”
The conductor nodded to the left. “That way will take you out to where most of the folks are waiting for you, sir.”
“Well, you lead the way, Mr. Fisher.”
The conductor escorted him to the exit but paused at the landing and stepped back. “The next time I see my son I’ll tell him he was all wrong about you, Mr. Johnson. You’re a good man, sir, and I won’t mind telling my son that.”
Johnson stopped just inside the door because he knew as soon as the crowd saw him, they would yell and applaud, ending this pleasant moment. “Where do you all hail from, Mr. Fisher?”
“Morristown, sir. And call me Edgar, sir. I’d be proud to wait on you, Mr. President, if you ever ride one of my trains again.”
He stepped forward and as the gathering erupted with cheers he shook the conductor’s hand again. Johnson waved both arms to greet the townspeople. Johnson paused a moment as the cheering continued. He felt good getting back to the basics of politicking, turning a doubter into a supporter with nothing more than a big smile and a touch of thoughtfulness. Perhaps, after a short period of recuperation, he would try to run for senator, or some other fool nonsense.

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