"One more day and we'll have that rabble under control," Governor Seymour snapped back angrily.
Dan leaned back in his chair, raising a brandy snifter, and smiled.
"If you wish to give the order, Governor, I will withdraw my troops immediately," and he pointed to the square.
Worried looks were exchanged around the table between Seymour and Tweed, the silence of the moment disturbed by the distant echoes of shots, another fire engine racing past, the cries of those fleeing the anarchy out in the street.
"Let's not be hasty, Dan," Seymour replied.
Dan smiled.
"We have to be hasty, Governor, or we'll lose your damn city and with it the war. For or against it at this point, you don't want to be the one blamed."
"You actually think this goddamn war can be won?"
"Think it? I know it," Dan replied coldly.
"And you're the one to do it?"
"You're goddamn right I'm the one to do it"
"Lincoln will never let you take command, didn't you see Greeley's paper today? It's Grant now."
"A drunkard and yet another West Pointer," Dan announced, loud enough that his staff and the infantry guards at the door could hear.
"You honestly think he can do anything?"
"He did take Vicksburg," Tweed offered. "He's got powerful friends, Congressman Washburne for one."
Dan snorted derisively.
"Fighting against rabble out west is one thing. Let him try and tangle with Bobbie Lee. One fight and he'll be like all the others, running with his tail between his legs…." He paused for a moment, looking into his brandy glass, "or dead."
There was no response. Staring at the glass Dan felt a flicker of pain, the memory of that field at Union Mills, watching good men go in by the thousands, only to be cut down in their turn. If only they had listened, it all could have been avoided. The revelation that had just come out, that Lincoln had actually sent a dispatch advising Meade to use discretion, that he was not required to attack, was useful in his own campaign, but at the same time struck hard into that side of him that wished to see Union victory, to see an end to it all.
If only Meade had listened; his own advice had been a reflection of Lincoln's.
"I can end this war," Dan whispered, as if to himself, taking a sip of brandy and setting it back down.
He looked back up at Tweed and the others.
"I've watched the professionals mismanage this for two long years. They don't understand volunteers. I do, for I am one of them."
"But you are not in command," Tweed replied.
"I can be."
"How?"
"I want Meade to be taken care of by the Committee on the Conduct of the War."
"Good God, man, Meade is dead. Leave it rest," Seymour gasped.
"No. His memory still lingers. John Sedgwick is angling for that job, blaming me for his failure. Get your people in Congress to take down Meade before the committee and Sedgwick is hung with the blame as well."
"You forget about Grant," Tweed said. "Remember, he commands the armies."
"He's new, just a day at it. If the word comes from the White House that I now command the Army of the Potomac, he'll accept it He can't put his own people in yet"
"What Army of the Potomac?" Seymour asked sadly.
"It's still out there," Dan said heatedly. "Most of my corps is still intact. That's going to be the heart of it. I want that appointment confirmed before Grant gets east. I also want sufficient reinforcements assigned to me, the troops coming up from Charleston, Burnside's Ninth Corps; I can bring the number back up to sixty thousand in a fortnight and have the army ready to fight within the month. Then I'll cross the Susquehanna and drive Lee back into Virginia before Grant can even stir. If the rains hold I might even be able to pin Lee against the Potomac and annihilate him."
Seymour and Tweed looked at him with disbelief.
Dan smiled.
"Damn all of you. Think beyond this city for a moment. I take command of the army, defeat Lee, and all opens up. Lincoln and his cronies will be blamed for all that happened before. Even if the war drags into the following year, come next spring I take the Democratic nomination for president, and then, gentlemen, I give you the White House. Think of all that Tammany could do if we moved our headquarters there."
More than one nodded.
"If," Tweed said meditatively. "That's a very big if."
"It starts here, this morning," Dan said sharply. Draining the rest of his brandy he stood up, took the bottle that was on the table, corked it and then tossed it to one of his staff.
"Gentlemen, I'm putting this riot down and I want your people the hell out of the way."
Dan could see that he had them cornered. It was beyond their control and they knew it
"What are you going to do?" Tweed asked.
"What should have been done two days ago. I have a brigade forming up right now. I'm deploying them across the width of the island; we will seal every north-south avenue. Then sweep north."
"Why north?" Seymour asked. "The worst is in the southern wards, Five Points."
"Because that's where the money is, you idiot," Tweed interjected. "Save their backsides and we're heroes."
"My men are veterans," Dan continued, "and I'm cutting them loose. They're angry as hell after Union Mills, and I've told them this riot is provoked by rebel agents. At this point they will not stop and they will not be gentle."
No one spoke. The implication was clear.
Chapter Four
July 17 1863 9.00am
The morning fog was burning off, revealing a slate-gray sky that promised yet more rain. Taking off his hat, General Lee wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The day was already humid, the air still, warm. Mounted skirmishers rode ahead, fanned out to either side across a front of several hundred yards. A company of cavalry rode behind him, ready to spring forward if there was the slightest indication of trouble. He could see that Jeb was being cautious. During the night mere had been several probes by Union cavalry coming out of the city. There was always the chance that a unit could have slipped around the loose cordon of gray-clad troopers.
Cresting a low ridge he could see the forward line, horses tied, men sitting around smoking fires, springing to attention as word leapt ahead of his approach. Orders had been given that there was to be no fanfare, no recognition, but it was hard to contain the troopers that came down to the road, grins lighting their faces, young boys, old men, trim officers snapping to attention at his approach.
"You sleeping in the White House tonight, General, sir?" a wag shouted and a subdued cheer went up. Lee extended a calming hand as he rode past.
"The boys are eager," Jeb offered.
He could see that Most of them had fresh mounts taken in Pennsylvania; they'd been living off good rations for over a month. They had seen victory and in spite of the painful marching in the rainy fields, they were in high spirits, ready for anything. He knew that if he but whispered a few words, ordering them to form up and charge the fortifications, they would do so without hesitation.
Pressing on, he rode down into a tree-clad hollow, the muddy stream, which for most of the year was most likely nothing more than a brook that a boy could leap, now swollen, dark, coming nearly to Traveler's chest as they plunged across.
Several dozen troopers were at work, fashioning a rough-hewn bridge across the stream out of two logs and heavy planks torn from the side of a nearby barn. An ambulance lay on its side downstream, obviously flipped over when its driver had attempted to ford the torrent.
Traveler, slipping, gained the opposite side of the stream and with a quick jump took the muddy slope. The skirmishers, moving ahead, had slowed and Jeb nodded.
"We're there," he announced.
Lee nodded and without comment pressed on. Walter fell in by his side, as did Hood and Hotchkiss, the rest of the staff staying back under the canopy of trees.
"We're inside the District of Columbia now," Hotch
kiss announced with a hint of ceremony in his voice.
That close, Lee thought and there was a memory of his home, of Arlington. Not ten miles away now, ten long miles and then it is oven How many hundreds of miles have we marched from Richmond, to Manassas, to Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, and Union Mills, and now to here? All of that, to gain this moment, at this place. One final lunge and it ends it. This one final lunge.
A couple of the scouts ahead stopped, turned, and came cantering back, the rest of the line slowing to a walk then reining in.
A messenger came up, saluting.
"It's ahead, sir, you'll see their line in a minute. Sir, it's rather close."
Lee smiled at the boy's caution. The message was clear, he'd prefer it if the general would stop now.
"I need to see," Lee said softly. "Lead the way, Captain."
The captain saluted and turned his mount, Lee following, with Taylor, Hotchkiss, and Hood following behind.
He could already see the vague outlines of the fortifications, an unnatural straight line, horizontal, cut like a razor's edge a quarter mile away. Gradually it came into clearer view as he reached the forward skirmish line. Most of the men were dismounted, carbines raised, the troopers looking anxiously toward Lee at his approach.
"Sir, would you please dismount?" the captain asked. "They've got plenty of ammunition over there and they like using it."
As if to lend weight to the argument, there was a flash of light from a gun emplacement, followed a couple of seconds later by the whoosh of a shell passing overhead, to detonate a hundred yards behind them.
Lee nodded but did not get off Traveler, who barely flinched as another shell streaked past
The young captain positioned his mount between Lee and the fort
Lee smiled.
"Captain, you are blocking my view." The captain looked to Stuart who nodded, and the captain moved.
"Sir, if they realize who we are, it means they'll shift troops here," Stuart said.
Lee said nothing, but he knew Stuart was right and, dismounting, he moved down into a shallow ravine, walked up a few dozen paces, and uncased his field glasses.
Stuart and Hood were quickly by his side.
He scanned the fort It was a significant work, a dozen gun embrasures, what looked to be thirty-pounders, perhaps heavier. He caught glimpses of troops along the parapet, Union soldiers curious, looking over the earthen wall in his direction.
A dull thump echoed and he saw the sparks of a mortar shell lazily rising up, trailing smoke, fuse sputtering. It climbed, seemed to hover nearly overhead, then came plummeting down, striking a hundred yards behind him in a splash of mud, the fuse smothered and going out.
Hotchkiss knelt down by his side.
"Fort Stevens. It always has at least one battery of heavy guns, we're told thirty-pounders, rifled. Also a battery of eight-inch mortars as you can see. Garrisoned also with a regiment of infantry. You can't see them in this mist but the forts to either flank are within easy gunnery range, enfilading the approaches with at least one hundred-pound Parrott gun in each. Anyone attempting to cross this field will be hit by guns from at least three fortifications."
Lee nodded, stood up looking to the flanks, but the mist concealed the positions.
"The military road just behind the fortifications links all positions and is well maintained, macadamized in parts or corduroyed. They can easily shift significant reinforcements in and move them back and forth to counter any move. I would assume they are doing so now and will bring up additional troops from the center of the city."
Lee focused his field glasses back on Stevens, ignoring another mortar round as it struck fifty yards to the front, this one detonating with a flash just before striking the ground.
"Good gunners," Hood muttered, "cut the fuse right."
"Might I suggest we move," Jeb said, "they've bracketed you, sir."
That caught him. It wasn't "us," it was "you "
He nodded without comment, cased his field glasses, and walked into the hollow. Seconds later a third round whistled in, striking and detonating within yards of where they had been standing.
He looked over at Jeb and smiled.
"Excellent recommendation, General," Lee said.
"They've been firing away since last night, sir. They're garrison troops but well practiced, at least in gunnery." After mounting up they rode a few hundred yards farther on and, crossing the main road, the group reined in again. Lee raised his field glasses once more, scanning the fort, which was half-concealed in the fog.
Ramparts stood at least ten to fifteen feet high, a dry moat, most likely a muddy swamp now with all this rain, six lines of abatis, sharpened stakes ringing the position like a deadly necklace, earthworks running outward, connecting the position to the next fort to the east, a low blockhouse of logs and rough-hewn barriers blocking the road. It was formidable!
A rifle ball hummed dangerously close and then another. One of his escorts cursed and clutched his arm.
"They might have some sharpshooters over there armed with Whitworth rifles," Hotchkiss said. "Sir, I think we should pull back to safety."
Lee reluctantly agreed, and turning Traveler he regained the road and cantered back into the mists. A parting shot from one of the thirty-pounders shrieked overhead.
Near the stream where troopers still labored to build a bridge over the swollen creek, he stopped, Jeb pointing the way to a tarpaulin spread taut in a stand of chestnut trees, a table and chairs beneath.
Dismounting, the group gathered around the table. Hotchkiss reached into his oversized haversack and pulled out a map on rough sketch paper, folding it out on the table.
"I drew this up last night," Hotchkiss said, "after talking to some of Stuart's men and interviewing some locals who claim to be on our side.
"This is Fort Stevens, which you just saw," he said as he traced out the necklace of fortifications that were like beads on a chain embracing the city.
"Are there any weak points at all?" Lee asked.
Even as he spoke and looked at the map, the moment struck him as strange, tragic. This was once his home. He remembered a Washington without fortifications, lush meadows and fields surrounding the city, blistering in the summer but delightful in autumn and early spring.
Hotchkiss shook his head.
"They've covered every approach. Trees and brush cut back in places for nearly two miles to give clear fields of fire and deny concealment. The Virginia side is even worse."
Lee said nothing. He knew Arlington had been turned into a fortified camp. The approach to Alexandria, where the main military railroad yard was located, was an impossible position to storm.
"It has to be here," Lee said softly. "We must stay in Maryland; to cross back over the river and attempt it from the Virginia side is impossible, if for no other reason than the Potomac cannot be forded."
"It will be the same here or over toward Blandensburg or down along the river. The fortifications will be the same."
He looked over at Hood, who was silent, staring at the map.
"General Hood, do you think you can take that fort?" Hood looked up at him. "When, sir?" "By tomorrow."
There was a moment of silence.
"Sir, I'm strung out along twenty miles of road, my men are exhausted. Pettigrew is in the lead, I could have him up by late in the day, but it won't be until midday tomorrow that I can have all my divisions ready. If it should rain again today, sir, I can't even promise that. You saw the roads."
Lee had sympathy for Hood on this. He had indeed seen the roads, the thorough job that the Union forces had done destroying bridges and mill dams from here halfway back to Westminster.
He thought back to just before Gettysburg, the sense of hesitation in his army in spite of their high spirits, the sense that he was not fully in control. Was that setting in again now that the euphoria of victory was wearing thin because of exhaustion and the unrelenting rains? Am I pushing too h
ard now, should I wait?
He stood gazing at the map of the fortifications.
This is the only chance we will ever have, he realized. We must take it now. I must push the army yet again.
"It has to be here," Lee said. 'To try and maneuver now would be fruitless. They have the interior lines and maintained roads; wherever we shift, they will be in front of us. That and every hour of delay will play to their advantage."
He looked over at Stuart, who nodded.
"We've had half a dozen civilians get through the lines during the night," Stuart announced. "Reinforcements are starting to arrive in Washington from as far away as Charleston. Their newspapers are reporting that as well. The garrison is most likely at twenty-five thousand now; before the week is out, it could be forty thousand or more."
"Then we have to do it now," Lee replied, "Every hour of delay only strengthens them."
"I can't hope to have any artillery support for at least two days," Hood said, his voice pitched low. "They're stuck in the mud from here clear back to Westminster."
"General Hood, the artillery we have will do little if anything against those fortifications."
"So we are to go in without artillery support, sir?"
"Yes, General, without artillery."
"Sir. Respectfully, sir, you know I'm not one to shy away from a fight," and he fell silent, head half-lowered.
Lee looked at him. I need dissent, I need to listen. It was listening to Longstreet, the first night at Gettysburg, that had set victory in motion.
"Go on, General Hood, please speak freely, sir."
"Thank you, General. Sir, I have a bad feeling about this one.
Hood looked over to Stuart as if seeking support. Lee followed his gaze and could see Stuart lower his eyes. He was troubled as well.
"Why this bad feeling, General Hood?" Lee asked, his voice pitched softly, almost deferential.
"Sir, we won the most glorious victory of the war little more than two weeks ago, but it came at a terrible price. Pettigrew, who will lead off the assault here, took nearly fifty percent casualties. My other divisions, on average, still are down by twenty percent or more."
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