"How did you see it in the dark?"
"It was lined with torches, sir. I could see infantry on it. A long column clear back across the river into Harrisburg."
How did the Yankees get a bridge across the Susquehanna so quickly? They must have built sections of it upstream and floated them down once it got dark. He suspected that Syms and his boys were truly asleep, from too much drink, if they let that get past them.
Duvall sighed and looked at Sergeant Billings.
"Send the following to headquarters: 'Grant started crossing Susquehanna shortly after midnight. Ord's Corps in the lead.'"
Gunfire outside interrupted his thoughts. He looked up and saw what was left of Sym's detachment galloping onto the parade ground: one trooper leading the horse of a wounded comrade, who was slumped over in the saddle.
" 'Believe Grant moving down this valley, heading south. Regiment or more of their cavalry about to storm Carlisle. Abandoning this post.' Now send it!"
Billings worked the key as Duvall went to the window and looked out. The Yankee cavalry were clearly visible on the main pike, deployed to either side of the road, forming a battlefront several hundred yards across. They were coming on cautiously, most likely not sure if this town was. well garrisoned or not. Mounted skirmishers were now advancing less than a quarter mile away.
Billings finished sending the message, the confirm reply clicking back seconds later.
"Smash all this equipment, then get mounted," Duvall snapped, and he walked out of the room.
He reached the ground floor and saw three troopers upending cans of coal oil onto the floor, a sergeant holding a rolled-up newspaper, already striking a match.
"What the hell are you doing there, Sergeant?"
"Well, sir, this is Yankee government property, isn't it? Figured you'd want it torched."
The sergeant was grinning. There was something about arson that seemed to excite most young men, and the wanton destruction of this fine old barracks would be quite a blaze.
Duvall looked around, the corridor lined with old prints, lithographs of the war in Mexico, a portrait of Lincoln still hanging but the glass on it smashed, a rather scatological comment penciled across his brow. The barracks were a reminder that this was the oldest military post in the United States. It dated back to the French and Indian Wars.
The newspaper flared. The sergeant looked at him expectantly.
I grew up a little more than a hundred miles from here, Duvall thought. We were neighbors once, a sister even marrying a fine young man from the theological seminary down at Gettysburg. He had not heard from her in more than a year, not since her husband was killed at Second Manassas, fighting for the Yankees.
We were neighbors once.
"Sergeant," Duvall said quietly. "Don't."
"Sir?"
"You heard me. Let it be."
The sergeant looked disappointed.
"Go out and mount up."
The sergeant nodded, carrying his flaming torch, tossing it by the doorstep, where it flickered and smoked, his disappointed assistants following. Billings came running down the stairs and out the door behind them.
Duvall took one last look, walked over to the smoldering paper and crushed it out with his heel, then stepped onto the porch. His command of a hundred men was mounted, many with revolvers drawn, expecting to be ordered to turn out on to the pike and face the Yankees head-on.
Syms was kneeling over the wounded trooper, shot in the back, lying on his side, blood dripping out.
"We leave him here," Duvall said. "They'll take care of him."
"Sir, forgot to tell you," Syms said, looking up at Phil. "Your old friend is over there."
"Who?"
"George Armstrong Custer. That's his brigade dogging us. I saw him in the lead."
George, it would have to be him. No one spoke. All knew that he and George had been roommates at West Point.
An orderly led up his mount, and Duvall climbed into the saddle, turned to face his men, and pointed south. "Let's go, boys."
"We ain't fighting 'em?" Sergeant Lucas asked, coming up to Phil's side as they trotted across the parade ground, angling toward the road out of the south side of town.
Phil shook his head.
"Hell no, Sergeant. That's not a regiment out there, that's Grant and the entire Yankee army. Now let's go."
Washington, D.C.
August 22 6:00 A.M.
Maj. Ely Parker, aide-de-camp to Gen. Ulysses S. Grant, turned off Pennsylvania Avenue and approached the east gate of the White House. A crowd milled about on the sidewalks, spilling into the streets. Guards lined the iron fence facing them. There was a low hum, as copies of newspapers, which had just hit the streets minutes before, were passed back and forth. He caught snatches of conversation. "Sickles is dead." "The rebs will be here by tomorrow I tell you ..."
At his approach a detachment swung the gate open, a captain stepping forward to block Ely's approach. Ely leaned over, showing a slip of paper.
"Bearing dispatches from General Grant," he whispered. The captain examined the note, nodded, stepped back, and saluted.
"Hey, who's the Injun they're letting in?" a civilian shouted. "Injuns and niggers, Abe's got a helluva an army, don't he?"
Ely knew he shouldn't, but he was just so damn fed up and tired. Being a full-blooded Seneca in the army, he had often drawn comments, which he knew how to deal with, usually by a cold stare. But this morning he was tired, damn tired and fed up. He turned his mount and stared straight at the man who had shouted the insult.
The crowd parted back to the offender.
"Got a problem there, Major?" the man asked.
"Injuns and niggers are dying for you," Ely said quietly. "And you stand out here taunting. If you don't like us, at least have the courage to put on a gray uniform and fight us like a man. You're a coward, sir, and if you don't like that, wait out here for me after I meet the president and we can discuss it further.
"Pistols, swords"—he paused—"or tomahawks."
The man paled. A flicker of laughter greeted Ely's comments. "Bully for you," someone shouted. The loud-mouthed civilian turned and stalked off. Applause rippled through the crowd.
Angry that he had allowed himself to be baited, Ely turned back and rode the last few feet to the entry to the White House, dismounting wearily.
The captain at the gate came to his side.
"Can you tell me what's going on, Major?" he asked curiously.
Ely shook his head.
"Sorry to ask, sir," the captain pressed. "Just the city's been crazy with rumors for two days now. Word is the entire Army of the Potomac was wiped out and Lee will be here by tomorrow. That crowd has been out there all night. A lot of them are like that fool you dealt with. I have my men standing by with loaded rifles."
Ely said nothing, just nodded as he walked up the steps to the door, a sergeant opened it for him. An elderly black servant, waiting inside, offered to take Ely's hat.
"I'm bearing dispatches from General Grant," Ely said. "Is the president available? I'm ordered to deliver these to him personally."
"He's awake, sir. In fact, been up most of the night. Could you wait here, please?"
Ely nodded. The servant turned and went up the stairs, returning less than a minute later.
"This way, sir."
Ely followed him, looking around with curiosity. It was his first time in the White House, in fact, the first time he would stand before a president. If not for all that he had seen the last few days, the enormity of what he was bearing with him, he knew he should be nervous, but he wasn't. If anything, he was angry, damn angry.
The servant knocked on a door and seconds later it opened. Ely was surprised to see that it was the president himself opening the door.
The man towered above him, dark eyes looking straight at Ely.
"Thank you, Jim," the president said, then extended his hand to Ely.
"Come on in, Major. I was hoping you or someone
would come down from our General Grant. Are you hungry?"
Caught a bit off guard, Ely lied and said no.
"Jim, could you bring our guest a cup of coffee?"
Ely stepped into the office. One other person was in the room, shirt half open, tie off, sitting on a sofa by an open window.
"Major Parker, is it?" Lincoln asked.
"Yes, sir. I'm on General Grant's staff, sir." - "Congressman Elihu Washburne," Lincoln said, nodding toward Elihu, who stood up and offered his hand.
"So do you think you'll fight that duel with that Copperhead down on the street?" Elihu asked.
Ely looked at him with surprise, dark features flushing even darker.
Elihu chuckled and pointed toward the open window.
"I heard you're a Seneca," Elihu said. "Yes, sir."
"Noble tribe," Lincoln said with a smile. "I'm glad you're on our side "
Lincoln motioned for Ely to sit down on the sofa alongside of Elihu while he sank into an overstuffed leather chair facing them.
Even as he sat down Ely reached into the haversack at his side and drew out a sealed package and handed it to the president.
"These come directly from General Grant," Ely said. "I should add, sir, I was with General Sickles during the fight on Gunpowder River. After being separated from Sickles I recrossed the Susquehanna where a courier from General Grant met me, handed over the dispatches you now have, with orders to deliver them to you personally."
Jim came back into the room, bearing a small silver tray with several cups and a coffeepot, and placed it on a table, then filled the cups.
Lincoln placed the package on the table and motioned for Ely to take some coffee.
"So you were with Sickles during the fight?"
"Yes, sir, right up till he was wounded and taken from the field. After that, I felt it was my duty to retire and report on what I had seen."
'Tell me about it. Everything that's happened this last week. Why were you there with Sickles? What happened?"
Ely sighed and could not help but shake his head.
"Go on. I know you're tired, Major, but I want to hear it all."
"Of course, sir. No, I'm not really tired," he lied. "Well, sir, it's just the waste of it all, sir. It never should have happened.
"Sir, in brief. General Grant suspected that General Sickles was about to take the Army of the Potomac and cross the Susquehanna River to engage Lee on his own. That was specifically against Grant's orders.
"General Sickles, as you know, sir, crossed the river and fought Lee at Gunpowder River, and he was soundly defeated."
"Annihilated is more the word," Elihu interrupted.
"Sir, I was there throughout. That is why I felt I should come and report to you personally while carrying those dispatches at the same time."
He paused, taking a long sip of coffee. It was good, darn good, the best he had had in weeks. It hit his empty stomach, and for a second he felt slightly nauseous from it, suppressing a gag. He let it settle, Lincoln still staring at him.
"Take a minute, Major," Lincoln said, "then you can tell me the rest."
Lincoln had his shoes off, threadbare stocking feet stretched out, cup in his hand, sipping on it.
Where do I start? Ely wondered.
Lincoln put his coffee cup down, reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded paring knife, opened it, and cut the cords wrapped around the dispatch, peeling off the matches attached to the wax seal, and opening the cover.
He opened a dispatch of several pages and Ely immediately recognized Grant's handwriting. Lincoln scanned the sheet, features impassive, saying nothing, and then passed it to Elihu.
He picked up a second sheet, and scanned it. As he turned it over, Lincoln's features clouded. He stood up, turning away from Ely, and forcefully thrust the note toward Elihu, who took it.
"Damn it," Elihu muttered.
Lincoln paced over to the window and looked out for a moment, shoulders back, head lowered, lips moving as if speaking to himself.
Elihu tossed the second note on to the table. Ely looked at it, and Elihu nodded for him to pick it up.
The memo was authorization by Secretary Stanton for Sickles to move independently of Grant's command, and there, scrawled on the back in Grant's distinctive handwriting, was the question "Mr. President, did you authorize this?"
The silence in the room was interrupted only by the clock sounding the half hour.
Lincoln turned and walked over to his chair and sat down, with a long glance between him and Elihu.
"Go on, Major, tell me everything. Start with why you were sent down to General Sickles."
"Sir, on the afternoon of August 19 General Grant ordered me to proceed down to the Army of the Potomac," Ely began. "The general suspected that General Sickles was about to move, contrary to orders."
"Whose orders?"
"His, sir. There had been a staff meeting several days earlier that I attended as secretary. I did not bring a copy of that transcript, since it is highly sensitive, and if I were to be captured, it would have revealed in full detail General Grant's entire plan. It can be sent to you, sir, under escort if you wish, and it is proof that General Sickles acted against orders, for he was at that meeting as well."
"I think we'd like to see that at some point," Lincoln replied. "Now please go on."
"At that meeting General Grant outlined his plan for the forthcoming campaign. General Grant was waiting for the arrival of additional remounts, artillery, enough material for two more pontoon bridges, and at least another two divisions, planning that all would be in place by September 10. He would then have General Sickles cautiously move toward Baltimore to hold General Lee in place, while the Army of the Susquehanna moved to the west to outflank and envelop General Lee. As you can see, sir, those orders were not followed."
Ely hesitated. Lincoln nodded for him to continue.
"For whatever reasons, sir, General Sickles began to move independently, crossing the Susquehanna on August 19."
"And Grant did not authorize this?" Elihu asked sharply.
"Sir, he was not even aware of it."
"So why did he send you down to Sickles?" Elihu pressed.
"Because, sir, the telegraph connections between our command and Sickles went down. General Grant became suspicious, and there were rumors afloat that Sickles was indeed moving. I was sent down, carrying a direct written order from General Grant Sickles was to reverse his march, fall back across the river, and then report directly to General Grant."
"So General Grant in no way whatsoever gave General Sickles any option to move independently?" Lincoln asked. "No, sir."
Lincoln and Elihu again exchanged glances. "Go on."
"Sir, I arrived at Havre de Grace on the morning of August 20 to discover that the Army of the Potomac was already across the river and pressing south toward Baltimore. I should add, sir, that I did a little checking at the telegraphy station there and, frankly, that was a wild goose chase."
"How so?"
"Well, sir, it was rather obvious the explanation that so-called rebel raiders had cut the lines north of Port Deposit was nothing more than a subterfuge. Those lines had been cut deliberately. I was met there by several of Sickles's staff. I told them I had to find the general at once. It was clear they had been waiting for someone from General Grant's headquarters to arrive."
Ely could not help but shake his head, the memory of that frustration apparent to Lincoln and Washburne.
"And they led you on another wild goose chase, is that it?" Elihu asked.
"Yes, sir," Ely said coldly. "I could have been up to General Sickles in two or three hours if guided correctly."
He shook his head angrily.
"I could have stopped that battle, sir," he said, voice heavy with despair. "I could have stopped it if I had gotten up to Sickles in time."
"I doubt that," Elihu replied.
"Sir?"
"Sickles was hell-bent on winning the war on his own. Maj
or, you were outmaneuvered by one very slick general, and there was precious little you could have done to stop him, no matter what you tried."
"It took nearly the entire day of us riding back and forth," Ely continued. "I finally abandoned those damn... excuse me, sir... those staffers and headed off on my own. I could hear the sound of a battle developing and just rode straight to it. I found General Sickles at around four or so that afternoon.
"The battle was already on. I delivered General Grant's orders to disengage, but General Sickles argued that the battle had begun and he was driving them."
"Was he?" Lincoln asked.
"Yes, sir, and frankly, sir, once something like that starts, it's kind of hard to stop it. It looked as if Sickles did have the advantage over the rebels at that moment."
"Should he have disengaged anyhow?" Lincoln asked.
"Well, sir, at that moment, I guess not. He had two corps on our side tangling with but two divisions. But the point is, sir, if not led about so deliberately, I could have gotten up there before the battle even started. I had no doubt that General Sickles had the whole thing planned out."
Lincoln nodded thoughtfully.
"And the end of the first day?"
"Well, sir. They broke Pickett. Broke him badly. I saw that, but they pressed in too aggressively in pursuit, then ran smack into at least two more Confederate divisions and got mauled. I think, sir, at that moment it was obvious that all of General Lee's army was coming up and the battle had turned."
"Did Sickles see that?"
"Yes, sir, but he kept exclaiming that he now had Lee where he wanted him. I tried to press him yet again to follow the commander's orders. That, come morning, he would be facing superior numbers, while acting against the orders of the commanding general as well."
"But he pressed in anyhow." "Yes, sir, he did." Ely sighed.
"He had to," Elihu interjected. "He was going for all or nothing."
"What happened then?"
"General Sickles misread Lee's intent, believing he was retreating. Sir, I would not care to second-guess a general on the field."
"Least of all General Grant," Elihu said with a bit of a smile.
"That's been my only experience up till then, sir," Ely replied. "But General Sickles had not yet fixed where Lee's new corps, under Beauregard, might be located. He pressed in anyhow and walked straight into a trap, Beauregard coming out on the right flank of the army and rolling it up.
Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 Page 2