"Reinforcements are promised," Lee offered and instantly regretted the statement. It sounded like an attempt at justification. Hood was talking about tomorrow, not what Davis had promised and what most likely would not arrive for weeks.
"Go on, General," Lee said.
"Though well fed these last six weeks, the men are exhausted; many are ill from the weather and the heat. If I go in tomorrow, sir, at best I can muster twenty thousand rifles."
"I am aware of that, sir. The question is, with those twenty thousand, can you take those works?" He pointed back toward the city.
Hood looked around at those gathered, the staff standing deferentially in the background. No general ever wanted to admit that he could not do the task assigned. He took a deep breath.
"I can take the works, sir."
"Good. I will leave the details to you, General. Fort Stevens will be the center of the attack; I need this road to move up our following units. General Longstreet's men will push into the city once you have cleared the way."
The look in Hood's eyes made him pause. Yet again it was rivalry, the sensitivity of who would claim what. He offered a smile.
"General, when we take the White House, you will be at my side."
"It's not that, sir." "What then?"
"Sir, I will have no command left to march into Washington." "Sir?"
"Just that, General Lee. I have twenty thousand infantry fit for duty in my divisions. I will lose half of them taking that fort and clearing the way for General Longstreet. The men will be charging straight into thirty-pounders loaded with canister; they throw nearly the same weight as all the guns we faced atop Cemetery Hill two weeks ago. There are some hundred-pounders on that line; a single load of canister from one of those guns can drop half a regiment."
Lee lowered his head, the memory of that debacle still haunting him.
"General Longstreet, sir, has barely twenty thousand under arms as well and, sir, once the outer ring cracks, we might have to fight Washington street by street, clear down to the Naval Yard. I must ask, sir, after that, then what?"
All were silent. Lee looked from one to the other and knew that General Hood had asked the most fundamental question of all. The answer had seemed easy enough two weeks ago; the objective was to destroy the Army of the Potomac, to take it off the field. They had achieved that… but still the war continued.
If we take Washington, then what? For over a year he had fought under the assumption that if indeed Washington fell, the war was over, but now he wondered. The thought of capturing Lincoln, of having Lincoln and Davis then meet, like Napoleon and the czar at Tilsit, to talk and to sign a peace, was that realistic? He rubbed his eyes, picked up a tin cup of coffee someone had set by his side, and sipped from it, gazing at the map, but his mind was elsewhere.
I must keep this army intact. That is what Hood is driving at. If we take Washington but bleed ourselves out, if we have only twenty thousand infantry left, the victory will be a Pyrrhic one. We would be driven from the city and lose Maryland within the month. I must now spend this army wisely. It is all that we have and we cannot form another the way the Union is most likely creating a new one at this very moment.
"General Hood, you were right to ask that, to remind me," Lee said softly, setting down the cup of coffee.
"Our objective is to win this war before autumn. We cannot sustain ourselves at this pace much longer. We must try, however, for Washington. This is the best chance we will ever have to take it"
Hood sighed, then slowly nodded in agreement.
"President Davis will be here within the week. If we can take Washington and present it to him, it will be the fulfillment of the campaign we started a year ago before the gates of Richmond. It will demonstrate to our people, to the North, and to the world that we are a viable nation."
He was silent for a brief moment, then continued.
"But we cannot bleed ourselves to death while doing it"
"Then we attack and pay the price?" Hood asked.
Lee stepped away from the table and walked out from under the awning and back toward the road. The men laboring on the makeshift bridge were still hard at work, struggling to drag the second tree trunk into place. He walked slowly up the slope. The fog was breaking up, swirling coils burning away in the morning heat. The dim outline of Fort Stevens was visible as he reached the top of the low rise.
The ground ahead was clear cut, trees removed; the fields that had once been orderly, planted with corn or wheat, were now weed choked, barren, offering no cover. He could imagine his lines going forward across those fields, the guns of the forts tearing gaping holes into the ranks, the charge hitting the abatis, men tangled up, stopping to cut their way through, stumbling into the moat thick with mud and slime. Even the greenest of troops behind those fortifications would turn it into nothing more than murder, the finest infantry in the world mowed down in a stinking moat by garrison soldiers in spotless uniforms.
He shook his head. Hood was right. His men were too precious for this. Yet he had to do it. If he did not, that in itself would be a victory for the North. Davis would not understand, though that was not his concern at this instant. He had to conceive a victory here, a victory that justified the blood shed at Gettysburg and Union Mills.
He studied the field intently, the open ground free of obstacles, the unfinished dome of the Capitol most likely visible once the fog lifted. It would be lit up with gaslight at night, a beacon, a dream so tantalizingly close, and just beyond that, Arlington and home. How many nights did I sit on the porch, the boys playing in the front yard-not yet soldiers, one of them a prisoner-the lights of the White House just across the river.
He stood there and the plan formed at last.
Looking back over his shoulder he saw Hood and Stuart waiting expectantly, the others standing behind them.
He forced a smile.
"We go in at night, gentlemen. That is how we will take it. At night." He smiled as he gave the order.
"At night, with surprise, we'll be into their works before they know it."
Hood and Stuart smiled and, turning, they left him, already giving orders, leaving him alone with his thoughts and dreams
July 17 1863
7.30pm.
Gazing out the window of the train as it raced across the broad, open countryside of Ohio, Gen. Ulysses S. Grant found his attention wandering for a moment He tried to ignore the pounding intensity of the migraine headache that had bedeviled him since last night. But of course nothing would work except for that oblivion from a bottle, which he most definitely could not indulge.
As the train took a gentle curve, heading southeast, long shadows of the cars, cast by the setting sun, reached out across the open fields. The land was rich, the last of the winter wheat being harvested, fields of corn more than waist-high, weeds and honeysuckle engulfing the split-rail fences that bordered the railroad. The train raced past a barn; a farmer and his two boys driving cows in for the evening milking paused, looked up, took off their hats, and waved.
Thoughts drifted back to his own boyhood as he absently rubbed his temples, to the hardscrabble farm not far from here, and his desire to escape its labors, a desire that had taken him to West Point, an institution that glorified a business that would sicken many a butcher. The army had been, at first an escape, then a burden so intense he had left it Only this war had brought him back into uniform. And now he was in command.
For a moment his mind wandered across the empty years, the war in Mexico, the bitter loneliness of California. He impatiently pushed those thoughts aside. A danger to think of that now; self-pity compounded by the headaches was an almost certain first step back to the bottle, and now was not the time, though the temptation was always there.
"What are you thinking, Sam?"
Grant turned and offered a faint smile.
"Nothing much, Elihu, just drifting."
Congressman Elihu Washburne smiled and said nothing.
He was a g
ood friend. Grant knew that It was through Elihu that he had received his first commission in this war, from a man who was one of the mentors behind the president's rise to power.
Like him, Elihu had come from a farm, up in the bitter cold of Maine. But unlike the Grants, the Washburnes seemed destined from the start for greatness. Five brothers, all of them now in positions of power and influence. One was a general commanding a corps under Sherman, another a captain in the navy, another the governor of Maine.
He envied Elihu for his relaxed, easy air, his nonchalant movement through the halls of power, his urbane manner. He was dressed casually-jacket off, wine-colored vest unbuttoned, linen shirt spotless. Elihu was the type that no matter what the situation would always look and smell clean. And yet he was not a dandy. He had visited Grant during the exhausting winter campaign of the previous year and exclaimed more than once that the rigors of the field were a tonic. He could sit up to dawn with the staff, mount then spend an entire day visiting units, shaking hands, and like any politician, when he came across constituents, make the most of it, passing out cigars and canvassing for votes with vigor.
As Grant looked over at him he realized yet again that he had a true friend in Elihu, an absolute rarity in the game of politics, where too many congressmen would blow with the wind of newspaper coverage and abandon friendship if doing so got them more votes. Elihu had been the one to back him when there was the falling out with Halleck the year before and Halleck's people had openly spread stories about his drinking. The fact that Elihu was one of the men behind Lincoln was a help, not something he had ever deliberately calculated on… but it was a help.
He knew the reasons Elihu was here, riding with him on a train headed east Elihu was an observer from the White House, sent to evaluate him. That didn't bother him. He was also here as a shepherd, to keep an eye on him and the bottle. The last thing the republic needed now was for their new commander to break down. That didn't bother him either. And finally Elihu was just here as a friend, and that was a pleasure. Once he was fully in command, Grant's nature was such that he would take counsel from no man but the president But it was good to have Elihu here now.
Though the president had directed that the war would continue no matter what the cost it was now his job to bring an end to it in the field. Every death, whether it was a death that accomplished something or a death wasted, as so many now were, would be upon his shoulders, and his alone.
As he contemplated this, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a battered cigar case, and drew out a Havana. Elihu struck a match on the side of the table that separated them and, nodding a thanks, Grant leaned over and puffed his twelfth cigar of the day to life.
The open window of the car drew out the swirling smoke and flickering bits of flaming ash.
Grant looked around his staff car, actually a railroad president's car that Haupt had "borrowed" for the "emergency." The appointments were rich: red-silk wallpaper, heavy, ornate tables, stuffed leather chairs, and a plush burgundy sofa upon which Ely Parker, a full-blooded Seneca whom he had just "drafted" on to his staff, was fast asleep. He had known Parker casually before the war in Galena. In his mid-thirties, Parker was well educated, a lawyer by training, articulate, and a paragon of organization, capable of keeping the vast mountains of paperwork moving smoothly. Behind his back, some of the men ribbed Parker about his Indian blood, claiming he kept Confederate scalps hidden in his haversack. Parker took it good-naturedly, to a point then his cold gaze shut them down, something Grant admired.
Since leaving Cairo the day before, Parker had not known a moment's rest until Grant finally ordered him to take a break. Within minutes Parker was out, his snoring almost as loud as the rattling of the train as they raced east
Ornate, cut-glass, coal oil lamps with what looked to be real gold gilding lined the walls of the car, the carpet underneath his feet, also burgundy, had been thick and clean, though tracked dirty now with the constant coming and goings of staff from the other cars.
Elihu had laughed when they first boarded, claiming that the car had a certain look to it. Naively Grant had asked what it looked like, and smiling, Elihu said it reminded him of a bordello in Chicago. That had actually embarrassed Grant. He had never stepped foot in such a place, even during the agonizing loneliness out in California, and though Elihu tried to act sophisticated, Grant knew him well enough to believe that while the man might have been in the lobby of such an establishment Elihu never went "upstairs."
There was even a private compartment in the front, with a real bed. He was tempted to try and find a few minutes' solitude there but knew it would be useless, his head throbbing to every beat of the iron wheels. Besides, like many a man who has been in the field for months, he found a soft bed with clean cotton sheets to be uncomfortable, and a reminder as well of other times, when such a bed would be shared.
There had only been a brief moment to spare with Julia before heading east to take up command. She would come along later, and as always the separations from her were an agony. If nothing else, he missed her soothing touch when the headaches came, how she would hold his head in her lap, whisper softly, hour after hour rubbing his brow with a cool, wet cloth until he drifted to sleep.
The door to the privy at the back of the car opened and Herman Haupt stepped out looking a bit pale.
Elihu chuckled softly.
"Still got it?" the congressman asked.
Haupt nodded grimly as he slipped his jacket back on, not bothering to button it
"General, if you don't mind, I think our railroad man needs a little Madeira; it's good for his stomach complaint"
Grant nodded, saying nothing. Around his headquarters the custom of asking if a drink was all right had evolved. It was a subtle reminder, as well, that he should think twice before indulging himself.
Haupt at first hesitated as Elihu opened an ornate, inlaid cabinet set against the other wall and pulled out a decanter and two thick crystal goblets. Elihu poured the drinks himself, handing one to Haupt, who sat down by his side, across from Grant
"Feeling all right Haupt?" Grant asked.
"It'll pass, sir. I've had worse."
Grant actually smiled, remembering the agony of the army in Mexico, when nearly all the men were down with either dysentery or the flux. More than one man had been reduced to cutting the bottom out of his trousers, so frequent and violent were the attacks, and many a man had died, more than from Mexican bullets. He motioned for Haupt to go ahead and indulge himself with the drink.
Haupt settled back in the leather chair, nodded his thanks to Elihu, and downed half the glass of Madeira. He looked over at Grant
"How is the headache, sir?"
Most of his staff had learned long ago to never inquire on that subject His pale features and the cold sweat should be indication enough and it always set his temper on edge. But he indulged Haupt who was new to working with him and obviously not feeling too well himself.
"It should run its course by tomorrow," Grant said quietly, trying to force a smile.
Grant looked down at the reams of paper piled up on the table between them, accounts from nearly every railroad in the North reporting on available rolling stock, supplies, particularly armaments waiting at factories for pickup, locations of nearly every garrison, training depot, and recruiting station from Kansas City to Bangor.
They'd gone over it for hours, and the sheer waste was appalling. Well over a hundred thousand troops were scattered in remote posts and garrisons up north, or wasted on meaningless fronts. Many of these would not be ready for combat, having lived a soft life for too long, but they could still serve a better function than the one they now occupied, and they'd learn combat soon enough.
Elihu had pointed out to him how damn near every governor would howl when their pet units were pulled into federal service, men occupying forts in Boston Harbor, watching supplies in Cleveland, guarding river crossings in Iowa. The men who had these assignments usually had some frien
ds in politics who had arranged a safe berth for them to sit out the war in comfort.
When Parker awoke, he'd pick up the writing of those letters that would set governors howling throughout the North.
Lincoln had tasked him to end the war and now, after two futile years of watching the stupidity, waste, and outright corruption, he would change anything that kept the Union from winning the war.
For the first couple of days after receiving notice from Lincoln, he had been overwhelmed by the responsibility of it all. For two years the republic had waged war to heal itself, to re-create a single nation, but had done so at cross-purposes with itself, and often to its own detriment.
McClellan had been given the best chance to do so the previous year, marshaling close to two hundred thousand men in Virginia and Washington, then had wasted his supreme effort, with only a fraction of those men ever effectively engaged before Richmond.
The president had not helped, hobbling McClellan with orders to keep an entire army stationed near Washington. Yet it had gone far beyond that Officers had plotted against each other, jockeying for power. Congress had played its usual games of maneuvering and deal-making, even while men died in the swamps below Richmond. Never had there been a single unifying purpose, a single will shaping the republic to this war. A war that had to be fought with brutal, direct efficiency.
He had sensed from the very beginning that this war would be profoundly different from any other in history. After the bloody battle at Shiloh he had often talked about it with Sherman, late at night… that Sherman who had been called mad when he declared that in the West alone a quarter of a million men would be needed. A poet named Whitman, whom Julia would often read aloud and whom he hoped someday to meet, had sung of it, of a sprawling, muscular, urban nation of factories, and riches undreamed of. In some ways, like the poet's, his own vision was of a republic stirring, rising, waging a war not of glory, for he loathed that concept, but doing it grimly and efficiently and relentlessly until the job was done.
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