Sterling Smith, Joseph Wheeler's New York brother-in-law, was tending some business in Baltimore this warm day in late June 1865. He had come to Fort Delaware when the general was paroled and released from military imprisonment to get him on his way to Georgia. Giving the general ten twenty-dollar gold pieces without ceremony or comment, he had excused himself. The former general joined the former Colonel Stevenson at a saloon near the depot.
At a table in the back of the saloon, the two former Rebels had a parting meal. Joseph Wheeler, 29 years old, looked gaunt and soul-weary. Solon Stevenson looked the same. Joseph forced half of his coins on Solon. They shared ham and sharp cheese sandwiches, sweet pickles and drinks. Joseph had a lager beer and Solon a frosted, foaming glass of root beer. Solon had sworn off spirits last month in Fort Delaware US Military Prison.
"Solon, I haven't done anything but be a soldier since I was seventeen. You neither. You bent the truth in '46 when you went with Taylor to Mexico, as I remember.
"Yes, Sir, Old Zach's boys. I talked a recruiting officer over in Pulaski into believing I was nineteen. I was barely seventeen but he saw I was near grown and let me in. Got transferred to the Lincoln Legion at Monterrey and, well, been in uniform ever since." Solon paused a moment and took in his young general's worn, gaunt, troubled face. "General, you ought to have become that merchant your daddy wanted you to be." Wheeler's brow frowned.
"Oh, Sir, the boys gossip something awful. Ain't no secrets. Yeah, you a wealthy merchant, say in Charleston or Savannah, making thousands off of this nightmare. You know lots of those sons of bitches did." His face was reddening and he was letting out some of the grief and anger of a man who has been deceived in the worst way possible by something he deeply believed in - a righteous cause.
"Fools, fools . . . . all of us, all the dead, . . .fools . . ." His voice trailed off and he looked out towards the big glass window at the other end of the saloon, its window like a mirror reflecting bright sunshine. He returned to the moment and gulped a deep drink of his now warm root beer. His face the color of some of the bloody creeks he's rode through.
"Solon, I understand what you feel," Joseph began, "but you're too harsh." He paused a minute, letting silence settle, then, "Bitterness will mean the others won both on the field and in our hearts. We fought 'em to hell and back. They beat us, sure, but what a fight we put up. They aren't going to beat my spirit. No, Colonel, never." The 29 year-old nearly emaciated little fighter took on the visage of a Celtic sage, bright focused blue eyes, his beard longer and with traces of gray, his head nearly bald. This beaten but undefeated twenty-nine-year-old messenger ministered to the forty-six-year-old man's spirit. Solon's eyes became moist and then tears came. He smiled through them. "I'll take that as my last order, Sir." He blew out a gust of air towards the smoky saloon. "Yes Sir, I surely will, much obliged . . . .Joseph." Wheeler smiled and pursed his lips, then downed his warm beer.