The riders began pulling their horses to a halt. Someone was attempting to shout orders over the pounding. That wave of death reached the end of the front rank began to move in the opposite direction, sweeping the second rank down as the hammering continued.
“Colonel, get up here . . .”
The pounding suddenly fell silent. Thorne moved his head. Atop the ridge about twenty yards down he saw a cloud of powder smoke. A banging sound began, and someone shouted a curse.
“Steve . . .”
The Rebel troops stood as if fixed in place, staring at the mounds of the dead lying before them. One of the cavalrymen pointed at the smoke atop the ridge. Someone gave an order. Then the pounding started again.
It tore into the middle of the Confederate ranks, carving a widening hole among the butternut-clad troops, the officers in gray. They withstood it only for seconds before they broke, heading in any direction that promised safety. The gunfire followed them, knocking down fleeing men by the dozen. From the ridgeline came a cry of triumph.
“Goddammit, Steve . . .”
Thorne was turning toward the slope when an explosion flung him face-first into the brush.
He was nowhere near the ridge when he awoke. He was lost amid a pall of dust and smoke. Was this . . . Harrisburg? Is that where he was? It couldn’t be anywhere else, could it?
He thought of the girl with no face, saw her clearly for just a moment. She would be here. He could feel her, somewhere close. He swung around, looking in all directions. Somehow he missed her. But she was there, waiting. Waiting to tell him something that he would rather die than hear.
He realized he was still holding his pistol. He moved to slip it back into the holster. It took him several tries.
There was a clattering sound from behind him. He looked over his shoulder. A wagon appeared in the smoke, pulled by two terrified horses. He stood staring as it rattled past him.
He became conscious of the sound of gunfire, somewhere in the near distance. There was fighting going on. No question about it.
And he had lost his unit. He tried to remember the name, but for some reason it wouldn’t come. He could see their faces, especially all the dead ones, he could remember clearly where they had all died—Gettysburg, York, Harrisburg—but the name of the unit. That was lost to him.
He took a few steps in the direction of the gunfire. He had to find his unit.
A few horsemen appeared within the smoke, followed by foot soldiers. They were headed in the same direction as he. Catching sight of him, one them rode toward Thorne. He gave him a salute as he drew near. “Major . . . can we be of assistance?” he asked in the tones of the state of Maine.
Thorne gazed at him a moment before answering. “I . . . I need to find my unit.”
Another officer approached, a tired-looking man with a ginger mustache.
“And what unit is that, sir?”
“The . . . the . . . the 6th Indiana.” He let a laugh at how simple it had been to say it.
“Well . . . I think we could spare you a horse . . .”
The mustached officer spoke for the first time. “I believe the major needs some rest.”
The younger officer eyed Thorne for a long moment. “I think you’re right.”
Someone gave him a full canteen. Someone else rolled him a cigarette. They sat him down on a wrecked wagon, telling him to remain there. They would send back someone from the 6th as soon as they came across them. He watched them march off, savoring the cool water.
He didn’t use tobacco, but he enjoyed the cigarette all the same. It made him feel a lot better, despite occasional bouts of coughing. By time he was finished, the dust and smoke had started to clear, and the sound of gunfire had become much more distinct. He got up and started walking toward it. He had to find his unit.
A few steps on, he came across a man sitting up against a wagon wheel. He was all in gray, but that didn’t matter. A man couldn’t help where he was raised. He had a writing pad on one knee and was holding a pen in his hand. He was gazing off into the distance, as if thinking of what to write next.
Thorne squatted before him. As he was about to speak an explosion came, shaking the ground beneath them. “Hell of a day, my friend.”
He noticed an expensive watch lying in the officer’s lap. He snapped it shut and slipped in into the man’s greatcoat pocket. “Better hide that,” he said. “There’s vagabonds everywhere you look.”
There was something sticky on his coat. Thorne wiped his fingers clean, then reached for the writing pad. It read:
To my Dearest Moth
He picked up the pen. An ink bottle sat beside the man’s hand. He carefully inked the pen. “Now,” he said. “Just tell me what you want to write, and I’ll put it down for you.”
The officer simply stared, saying nothing.
“Just tell me. Tell me what you want to write.”
The pen shook over the white paper. Someone started sobbing very loudly.
Lee urged Traveler into a fast trot when the cannon fire began up ahead, followed by the rattle of musketry. That didn’t sound good. A few moments ago they had heard a number of large explosions to their rear. There was still no explanation as to the cause. And now this . . .
He slowed down as he came to the crest of the hill. As he had guessed, it overlooked the Potomac. The river flowed directly below him, less than half a mile distant. On it—he frowned in puzzlement—floated what appeared to be a barge, piled high with hay bales. On the near shore, perhaps a hundred yards from the canal running parallel to the river, a unit of his cavalry was deployed. He saw that a number of them lay on the ground, along with several horses. A little to their rear, a large group in butternut milled in confusion. As he watched, several of them levelled their guns at the barge and opened fire.
Aboard the barge, a hay bale was pushed aside and the snout of a cannon appeared. With a roar, the cannon belched flame. Almost immediately the shell exploded between the cavalry and foot soldiers. The men below him scattered as shrapnel swept through their ranks, dropping several of them to the ground.
Aboard the barge, a figure rose at the top of the bales. He defiantly waved a rammer before ducking back into shelter as the troops opened fire.
Behind Lee, one of his staff shouted. Looking to his right, Lee saw a black beast of a vessel belching smoke as it appeared from behind a curve of the river. Lee knew it for what it was: Yankee gunboats much like this one had stolen a victory from him after Malvern Hill. As he watched, the forward turret swung around and the huge cannon within opened fire. The shell exploded among the infantry below him, tossing several men into the air. The troops ran wildly toward the shelter of a nearby wood as the rear turret began swinging in their direction. The cavalry were right behind them.
Lee raised his eyes as the second cannon fired. There was another line of smoke well behind the gunboat, growing larger as he watched. He turned to look eastward, and saw a hint of yet another gunboat there as well.
There was a muttering from behind him. Hundreds of troops had climbed the hilltop to witness the bombardment. As he watched, a group of them parted to allow a man on horseback through.
“Ah,” Lee cried. “General Alexander—you are the man of the hour. Bring forward your artillery to sweep aside these vessels, if you will.”
Porter Alexander’s head dropped as he rode toward Lee. He sat a moment in silence, his shoulders slumped. Lee could have sworn that he heard the words before Alexander actually spoke them:
“General Lee . . . I have no artillery.”
Lee listened to the details with only half an ear. A Yankee ambush, large numbers of guns and their ammunition destroyed or captured, the rest scattered across the Maryland countryside. It would take hours to gather any of them together, and the Army of Northern Virginia didn’t have hours.
Porter Alexander sat with his face in his hands. Lee nudged Traveler beside him and gripped his arm. “General . . . you did what you could.”
&
nbsp; He turned away and rode back over the crest of the hill. To his right some brave unit had rolled a small gun, a regimental piece firing a two- or three-pound ball, out onto the flat ground. The gun spat fire. For a moment it seemed as if the ironclad hadn’t even noticed it. Then the turret swung and the mammoth cannon opened fire, the flames and smoke nearly reaching to where the small cannon stood. Had stood, rather—nothing remained but a scattered pile of bodies. Of the gun itself there was no sign.
Lee raised a hand. “Order them back,” he called out. “There’s no purpose to that. No purpose . . .”
He stared out over the field, as he sifted the possibilities through his mind. To turn back and confront Grant would be suicide, with his back against the river, without adequate guns and with the army as scattered as it was. To move east would be just as bad. He would be caught between Baltimore and Washington and Grant would cut him off and attack at his leisure.
That left a movement to the northwest, where the river would be too shallow for any sort of ironclad. March past the Sharpsburg battlefield and cross the river there . . . to be cornered in the mountains of northwest Virginia between Grant and Sherman emerging out of the Shenandoah Valley.
He paused as he considered the magnitude of the trap that had been set for him. Caught between a lunatic and a drunkard. He pushed the thought aside even as it arose.
The monitor fired once again, the shell exploding close to the hill.
“General Lee . . .” Someone called out. The voice was echoed by a chorus of other voices behind him.
Lee bent forward and stroked Traveler’s mane. He went through the alternatives once again, searching for something he might have overlooked, for any possibility whatsoever, knowing that he would find nothing. Aware at last that the moment had come. The moment that, deep down, he had always known must come, despite all the effort, all the plans, all the heroism, all the courage.
A wild thought occurred to him: to take the men behind him and lead them into one last charge against the metal beasts below. They would follow him, as they had followed him into certain death before. They would do it once more, even in the grip of madness.
The ironclad had nearly reached the barge. At the bend of the river, the second one was now visible. A cannon fired and the shot exploded at the foot of the hill, splattering him with clods of earth.
. . . but he was a Lee, and the Lees never took the easy road.
He sensed a presence beside him. “General Lee, please . . .”
He reached out to stroke Traveler’s mane one more time. He raised his eyes to the sky. “Thy will be done.”
Turning the horse, he nodded to the young man alongside him and rode toward where his staff awaited. It took him a moment to find his voice. “Gentlemen . . . it is time for me to speak to General Grant.”
★ EPILOGUE ★
As they entered Capitol Square, a man nearly blundered into their path before catching himself. He was reaching to tip his hat to Cassie when his face went cold and he turned abruptly away.
Steven gripped her arm tighter. He wasn’t the first of the type that they’d encountered this morning. Yankees were less than welcome in Richmond this Inauguration Day.
Most of the crowd awaiting them in the square were northerners. At least she assumed that the few hundred standing to the left were from the South, quiet and sullen as they seemed. A wide space divided them from the bulk of the crowd, who appeared much more cheerful and animated. And there, far to the right, stood a small group of freedmen, all very merry and wearing their best.
The sight of them brought Hadrian to mind. She thought of him often, wondering how he was doing on the Dakota frontier. He had set out last summer, the original core group of his people expanded to nearly a thousand. She had seen them off at the station, as they boarded the train that would take them to the Great Lakes on the first leg of their voyage. Toby bowing with his hat to his chest, the women weeping as they hugged her, Mariah the last of them, not daring to look back at her as she fled with her eyes filled with tears. At last only Hadrian remained, dressed in a frontiersman’s buckskin jacket that suited him well. He had gazed at her in silence, then had taken her hand for one long moment, before turning away without a word. It was the only time they had ever touched.
They climbed the slope toward Thomas Jefferson’s Capitol, gleaming white in the morning sun. Dignitaries were already sitting on the platform in the front. She could clearly make out General Longstreet, his crutches leaning against the back of his chair. Beside him sat Mr. Seward and Chief Justice Chase, and she thought she saw Vice President Conkling seated next to him. Neither Grant, Sherman, nor any other northern commanders were visible. It was thought best that they not appear.
In front of the stand stood hundreds of blue-clad troops, their weapons grounded but ready. There had been rumors of an attempt on the President’s life, to be carried out in the name of John Wilkes Booth, of all people.
Others were visible atop the Capitol itself, sharpshooters prepared for any attempt on the President. Steven knew one of them. The best shot he’d ever seen, he said.
She glanced up at him, unconsciously looking for a sign of the darkness that he had brought back from the battlefields. But she saw nothing. His good friend Archie Willis, who had accompanied him home, had warned her that Steven was not truly himself. And he’d had some very bad days. Days when he had wandered the roads alone, speaking to no one. Days when she had found him weeping in a darkened room. And sleepless nights haunted by a faceless figure that he would not describe to her.
But that was over. The beginning of their wedded life seemed to have put a seal on the invisible wounds he had suffered.
They came to a halt. On the platform, Mr. Seward was alternately haranguing Longstreet and Conkling. Cassie understood that it had been Seward’s idea to hold the inauguration, against seventy years of tradition, in Richmond, the former capitol of the Confederacy. A necessary gesture of reconciliation, as he put it. Lincoln had approved, as did many others, including Steven and most of the war veterans.
But not everyone did. The more wild-eyed Republicans were calling it “treason,” and some of the most radical had gone so far as to call for Lincoln’s impeachment, directly after an election that had given him the largest majority since George Washington. The New York papers were dead-set against it. Cassie had seen a cartoon in Mr. Greeley’s paper showing an elongated Lincoln, his head in the clouds and encircled by cuckoos and fairies, being stalked by dwarfish Rebels with daggers led by a deformed Robert E. Lee.
In fact, that was the reason her father had not accompanied them to Richmond today. He too thought that Lincoln had turned weak with the end of the war.
If the war could be said to have actually ended. The resounding blows of the final weeks had not been enough to stifle the spirit of southern rebellion. Grant had taken the defenseless Richmond two weeks before Christmas, as “a gift to the President of the United States.” The Confederate government had fled to Atlanta, but had lasted only a few months longer before Joseph Johnston, surrounded by Grant, Sherman, and Thomas, had been forced to surrender. The captured Jefferson Davis was being held under house arrest at the Soldiers’ Home in Washington —another thing that annoyed the radicals, who demanded that he be locked up in prison to await trial for treason.
But even that resounding victory hadn’t completely ended the bloodshed. There were still irregulars fighting in the mountains of Tennessee, the Carolina Piedmont, and in east Texas. Farther west, John Bell Hood had revived the Texas Republic at El Paso. The most recent news was that he had taken his “army”—if that was the word for a force smaller than a division—across the river into Mexico to drive out the French. Nothing further had been heard for months, and it was likely that the poor deranged Hood and his misguided followers had left their bones somewhere on the Mexican high plains.
Steven believed that the fighting would not end completely until Robert E. Lee made his intentions known. None of his
army, the Army of Northern Virginia, were involved in the continuing fighting. They had all gone home after Grant offered them parole. Apparently some had been greeted as “cowards,” while their commander had been attacked as a traitor. Duels had taken place and riots had occurred over the name of “Lee.” All the same, Steven still believed that he was the only man who could pull the South together.
But no one knew where Lee was. He was in isolation, overcome by shame, the southern hotheads said, by fear, said the Republican radicals. He had gone west. He had accompanied Hood to his final reckoning. The strangest story was that he had fled the country with the huge British fleet that had sailed into Halifax in late January, remained for two weeks, and then returned to England as mysteriously as it had come.
She stood up on tiptoe as a tall shape appeared from within the Capitol. The Northern section of the crowd burst into cheers, drowning out the few boos and catcalls from the southerners. Steven pointed toward the freedmen’s corner. They were no less than ecstatic. One coffee-colored woman was blowing kisses to Lincoln with both hands. Cassie looked up at Steven to see him smiling broadly.
On the platform, Lincoln said a few words to the seated men before stepping to the podium. The crowd fell silent. He looked out at them for a moment, his gaze lingering on the southerners, before he began to speak.
“At this second appearing to take the oath of the Presidential office there is somewhat more occasion for an extended address than there was at the first . . .”
There was a catcall from her left. She couldn’t catch the meaning, but a large number of the men laughed nastily. The crowd over there had grown a little larger in the past few minutes, as more people arrived. She glanced up at Steven, who looked down at her and shrugged.
The Day After Gettysburg Page 39