by James Devine
The first smile in three days broke across the G-G’s small pale face, which began to glow from ear to ear. He came around the desk and took the enormous left paw in his own tiny hands. “Thank God, Winfie…General Scott. The situation is critical. Your return is not a moment too soon.”
“And, if I may be so bold, Mr. Governor,” Scott said, looking around at the others whose faces ranged from the Duke’s sincere delight to Cass’ pained expression (which may or may not have been attributable solely to his hangover), “what is the situation? The city is alive with rumors…”
Two hours later, having absorbed Goodwin’s report and studied maps brought over from the War Department, he closed a lively, free wheeling discussion with Wellington and the Marine by addressing the G-G:
“With your permission, Mr. Governor, I will leave immediately for Centreville to inspect the defenses and assume tactical command. I believe General Thayer is right: a battle of this scope and intensity must naturally exhaust both sides. The Rebels will need time to rest and refit.
“But I share Colonel Burr’s concern about Rebel cavalry on our flanks. I believe it was a mistake to split our own cavalry. I intend to utilize it as a separate, independent force, operating as it did during the march down from Carlisle. It will guard the flanks, which I will gradually lengthen as various I Corps units are reorganized.”
The relief of the men in the room was palatable, their relaxation visible. The Duke was nodding approvingly: the warhorse is back…
As Scott turned to leave, Colonel Burr stopped him: “One piece of encouraging news, General. In all the chaos and catastrophe, I nearly forgot…”
All eyes turned questioningly to the old man, who grinned his youthful, mischievous grin. “The weapon that fiend Ignatieff used to wound you. It’s a fascinating piece of machinery, quite unlike any firearm seen on these shores before. French markings. A three-shot ‘repeating’ rifle. I had it sent to Baltimore. The gunsmiths there, you know, are our finest. A young man named Colt, from Connecticut, the son of an old friend, has been working with them on something somewhat similar, a ‘revolving’ multi-shot pistol.
“Young Mr. Colt has sent me encouraging reports. He believes we can replicate this three-shot weapon in volume. Says if he can obtain War Department backing, he can have the initial production ready in the early part of next year.”
The Colonel’s eyes were twinkling as he looked from Scott to Wellington and then, significantly, from the G-G to the suffering Cass. “In time for a spring offensive.”
Scott’s brilliant blue eyes began to glow in a way the observant newspaper editor, Blair, never forgot. He nodded, pivoted and strode from the room.
___________
USBAA Lines
Centreville, Virginia
November 8, 1833:
The dramatic appearance of General Scott last Monday evening had boosted morale on the Centreville Heights. The mood of the II Corps and the survivors of I Corps’ lead brigade---mainly Ohio and Brooklyn men---had turned sullen once they had filed into the lines and it became evident the Rebels were not pursuing.
What the hell happened? Why did we retreat this far? Why didn’t we make our stand on the north bank? Having tasted Rebel lead and returned the compliment in kind, these men could not understand I Corps’ collapse, either. We gave the Southerners better than we got for almost eight hours, but most of I Corps ran away without ever engaging? Without ever firing a shot?
Yes, they knew about the vicious fight put up by the Ohioans near the Pike. And, they were beginning to hear that the 2nd Regular Infantry had been virtually wiped out…but not before they had taken most of a Confederate division with them. But the others turned tail at the first sight of the damn Rebs? And now they’re back in camp in Alexandria, warm and comfortable with hot food and fires and tents on dry ground while we’re out here shivering behind these makeshift barricades, without even any damn blankets?
Scott’s unanticipated arrival in full dress, riding the big white charger they had all admired when they first marched into camp, put an end to the mutinous mutters. As did the appearance the next morning of supply wagons bearing rations, ammunition, blankets and medical supplies. The rumor mill, however, was still cranked up:
“Did you hear? Wool’s still missing… They say the Old Man’s so mad, his orders are to shoot the bastard on sight!”
“Aw, Wool’s dead or captured. Don’t make much difference. Scott’s reorganizing I Corps himself…”
“Yeah, well what do we do in the meantime? Damn Rebs may come up that road any damn minute!”
“Aw, the Rebs ain’t comin’. The cavalry’s out there. They’d pick ‘em up!”
“Sure, like they did Sunday. The Ohio boys say the Rebs came out of nowhere to hit their flank. Cavalry!”
“Don’t blame the cavalry. I hear ol’ Wool was so sure he was behind the damn Rebs he wouldn’t let the scouts out ahead in case they’d tip off the Rebs he was acomin’.”
“Jes…is that what the fuck happened?”
___________
Cranford Plantation
Alexandria, Virginia,
November 9, 1833,
11:50 p.m.:
Now, in the dark of night five full days after the battle, a played-out Capt. Thomas Wilder urged his tired horse the final mile of its journey from Bull Run.
As physically exhausted as he was mentally fatigued and saddled with a crushing emotional loss, Tom pointed Bay Ridge past the Army’s staging encampment in the plantation’s fields and toward the big house on the rise. The Captain, who could not remember the last time he had been off duty, had served in the dual capacities of intelligence aide to General Scott and social aide at The Residency before the South’s secession. Since the winds of war had begun their relentless swirl, he had commanded a squad of elite scouts in the no man’s land between the two armies.
In his pocket he carried two notes delivered some time this week---he could scarcely remember which day---by Sebastian, the Latoure family butler at Cranford.
“Thank the good Lord Ah’s found you safe, Lieutenant Tom!” Sebastian was grinning as he handed over the notes in a tent just behind the front lines on the Centreville heights. “Miz Angeline, she’ll be mighty relieved.” He grinned again. “Miz Lucille, too, Ah’d wager.”
Despite---perhaps because of---his exhaustion, and despite the crowd of officers and men around him, Tom had blurted it out: “Miss Lucille…is Miss Lucille up at Cranford?”
“Yes suh, Lieutenant Tom. Miz Lucille, she come home Monday. Been at Cranford all week…”
As Tom became embarrassingly aware of the cackling and snickering around him, Lt. Col. Brian Judge had looked up from the map table: “If you don’t mind, Captain, we’ve got a war to fight…”
Red-faced, Tom had turned back to the dignified black man. “Thank you, Sebastian, Extend my thanks and compliments to the ladies. Tell them I’ll be in touch.”
Armed with Mrs. Latoure’s warm invitation to visit “at any time, day or night,” and Lucille’s curious note expressing “my earnest prayers for your personal deliverance,” Tom rode slowly up the driveway, tied his tired animal to a porch pillar and used the big decorative doorknocker. General Scott himself had ordered him to take leave. He was free until Monday…
As he waited, tottering with fatigue, the shock of what he had seen a few nights ago flashed back across his mind’s eye. Why the devil had his brother come? The 1st Brooklyn was basically cheeseheads; damn Dutch Reformed farmers and shopkeepers. Hell, there couldn’t have been 50 Catholics in the whole damn regiment!
Grasping a flaming candle by its tightly secured holder, Sebastian opened the door. “Come right on in, Lieutenant Tom. You come right in de parlor and I see to it Miz Angeline and Miz Lucille knows you here.”
In Sebastian’s eyes, apparently, Tom thought with his first small smile in days, I’ll always be a lieutenant…
His sword left dangling from Bay Ridge’s saddle, Tom collapsed into
a high cushioned chair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes, only to see images of his dead brother’s bloated and battered body immediately flash past. He could hear the sudden noise from the second floor and knew Sebastian had servants waking the household. The butler soon returned with a tray containing a bottle of Claret and a glass.
“Ah knows you don’t drink hard spirits, Lieutenant Tom, but dis’ll do you good…”
Tom gratefully took the liquor Sebastian poured and handed him. He was savoring the burning sensation in his throat as the mistress of Cranford came hurrying down the stairs.
“Thank the Lord you’re all right, Thomas. No, no, stay seated, you look thoroughly exhausted… General Scott assured us you survived the battle… He stopped here with his staff to water the horses on his way to Centreville the other day… But he indicated you might have gone back out…”
There were more steps on the stairs. This time, Tom did struggle to his feet as Lucille came into the room. Dressed in a rich dark robe that set off her magnificent mane of auburn hair, she came up to him and in a glance detected that more than fatigue was lining his troubled face.
“Tom, I am so relieved to see you here. I was so worried…” She stopped. “I mean, we’ve been so concerned about you…and Luke, and Joe and Robert. Thank God this horror is at an end…”
She again paused momentarily as her younger, blond sister slipped into the room, Jaine looking intently at Tom as her own beau’s name was mentioned.
“…and we’ll soon have peace.”
Mrs. Latoure, too, had been studying Tom closely: “What is it, Thomas? You’ve something terribly to relate…” She motioned for Sebastian to pour Tom another glass and sent into the kitchen for three more glasses.
Jaine’s voice was firm though she had clutched her robe at the throat. “Tom, have you word of Luke?”
Tom managed a wan smile as he sipped the Claret. “‘Major’ Beaufort is fine, Jaine…at least, he was two days ago when I interrogated some of his troopers we captured trying to get a good look at our lines.” He looked back at Lucille. God, I want to put my arms around her… “I got a glimpse of Robert during the battle. You can tell Mary we’ve no indication he’s been hurt. As for Joe Johnston, well, he is supposed to have commanded the artillery on Henry Hill. That’s about all I know.”
“Then what is it, Thomas?” Mrs. Latoure was soft but insistent. “My God, not young Joe? The poor boy should never have been allowed to march out…”
Tom shook his head sadly, his eyes welling up with unshed tears. “No Ma’am. Joey’s okay. A couple flesh wounds and some scratches, but he made it through. I saw him… Yesterday, I think…”
A sudden quiet, then:
“No Thomas, not Father George! Dear God in heaven!” Mrs. Latoure made a rapid Sign of the Cross and motioned to Sebastian, who helped Tom back into the chair.
His head slumped on his chest, Tom spilled out the story: The 1st Virginia Cavalry, Luke Beaufort’s outfit, had sent a squad through the lines under a white flag with a wagon packed high with makeshift coffins they indicated contained noncombatants. Doctors and nurses killed during a firefight during mopping up operations after the battle. One body, however, carried no insignia. Just a rosary…
“Joe heard about it first, from Colonel Felton. He did the actual identification. They told me when I got back from a reconnaissance. The body was…disfigured…but he was so gaunt, it was still recognizable. It was him. My brother George. The Catholic chaplain of a regiment 90% Protestant…”
The Latoure ladies put him to bed soon after, but remained up talking for most of the night.
___________
November 10, 1833,
9:20 a.m.:
Lucille was already up and in the mansion’s garden when Tom emerged through the dining room’s French doors. Her eyes widened as he strode purposefully toward her and gathered her in his arms, relishing the taste of the plush lips.
“I love you Lucille…I’ve always loved you…”
She smiled up at him. “I know, Thomas. I’ve known for some time.”
“Will you wait for me? Until the war is over…”
She frowned. “But Thomas, the war is over. We…the peace. That’s what we must wait for.”
He kissed her again, more forcefully, before looking down at her. For all her surface sophistication, she can be so naïve…
“No…darling…the war is far from over. I’m afraid it has just begun. General Scot…”
“Damn Winfield Scott!” Her brown eyes suddenly blazed. “Your army’s been whipped! The South has beaten back your invasion! In the end, General Scott must march your army---what’s left of it---back across the Potomac. The South has won! All that’s left is to decide if Georgetown will remain your capital. Or become ours!”
She had stepped back out of his arms as his look of astonishment turned to one of anguished comprehension. The words came out in a whisperish croak: “That’s what you meant: ‘my prayers for your personal safety…the horror is over…soon we’ll have peace’…”
He slowly repeated her last words as if refusing to accept them. “‘Your capital’…or ‘ours.’”
Suddenly, his brain was screaming an ugly thought. No, it can’t be! He fought against the suggestion, even as he realized: Yes, it could be!
The weeks leading up to the fight…the sudden interest in the particulars of his job…the private, candlelight suppers at the townhouse…the questions about the deteriorating situation:
“These ‘Black Hawk veterans?’ They’re from the Wes…Ohio and Illinois? The grim man with the one star? General Worth, you say? The ‘tactical commander?’ A temporary bridge? At Edwards Ferry? And: a ‘reconnaissance?’”
He had been thrilled by her interest…pumped up:
Finally, she actually shows that she cares!
That singular smile! That once-in-a-lifetime look, hanging on his every word is if it were gospel… How he had craved it! How he had sought it…prayed for it! How he had vowed, when she had flashed it at Joe Johnston; at other, older and more prominent men: Some day, she’ll look at me like that!
And how he had savored it these last few weeks when she finally began directing it at him!
Yeah, she had been interested! ‘Pumped up’ all right…pumped you up for information. And like a fool you gave it to her! Yeah, she gave you that smile; she looked at you like that! God knows what she did with that information… You damn, stupid…who looks naïve now, idiot?
Jaysus, Mary and Joseph!
Well, it’s too late to worry about that. And I’m not blaming her for poor George’s death…
But she’ll get nothing more out of me! Not now! And not later, damn it!
She had taken his hands in hers and was speaking quietly. “I am a Virginian, Thomas. Virginia has stood up for her rights. Your Congress in Georgetown…your Parliament in London…neither has the right to interfere in our way of life. We have now made that clear, though I am horrified and sickened by the fact that your poor brother had to die in the process.”
She moved back and threw her arms around him. “We have a wonderful future to look forward to, darling. But we must wait. Until the peace is firmly established.” She moved to pull his head down towards her, but he broke roughly away.
“No, Lucille. I’m afraid not. This war will go on. We’re not retreating another inch. Nor are we about to negotiate anything.
“Perhaps we’ll both…we’ll all…survive this…rebellion. Perhaps, hopefully, Cranford will. But our relationship won’t.”
He turned to walk away, then turned back. “Our relationship is as much a victim of this war as my poor brother.
“And just as dead.”
She stood dry-eyed, watching him as he reentered the house. He’ll come back outside in a few minutes. After reconsidering. We’ll have breakfast, speak again. I know he loves me... She strolled through the garden, past the dead and dying summer plants.
Minutes later, she heard a shou
t for his horse to be brought up. As she ran through the mansion and came out onto the veranda, he was leaning down from Bay Ridge, saying his goodbyes to her weeping mother.
As he reached the far end of the driveway, she was surprised to see him turn the big black stallion up the road towards Georgetown.
___________
Headquarters, USBAA
Centreville, Virginia
November 16th, 1833:
Two weeks after the battle, the Dominion army was regaining a smattering of its self-respect. There was none of the cockiness, the undeserved swagger, of the march down from Carlisle. These men, no matter how young chronologically, were veterans now; they had tasted lead and cold steel and now knew war to be a grim, serious…killing…business.
The mood, of course, differed in the two corps:
The II was proud of the performance it had turned in at Bull Run; even the collapse of the 2nd Division’s 2nd Brigade was written off as bad luck. The Brigade had been surprised well east of the battlefield---where no Rebels had been reported---while still fording the Run. The Confederates’ uniforms and flags had added to the confusion and camouflaged their intent. While three regiments had been lost---the only II Corps units to suffer excessive casualties---the remaining regiments, the 2nd Pennsylvania and 1st Rhode Island, had regrouped to secure the ford and seal the army’s eastern flank.
General Scott generally agreed with this common analysis, though he was angered that no cavalry had been assigned to screen the 2nd Brigade. No pickets or skirmishers either, apparently; it sounds like the 2nd proceeded like they were out for a training hike…
No, II Corps could hold its head high now that it understood the rationale for the retreat all the way back to Centreville. And because it had begun to understand that its fighting withdrawal under fire from the Henry Hill pocket was apparently a textbook professional maneuver.