Lee looked over at him coldly.
"Your lead division, is it ready to exploit the breakthrough?"
"Sir, it will be an hour or more before McLaws is in position; they're filing off the road even now on the other side of the creek."
"An hour? I ordered you to have McLaws up by dawn." "Sir, we are trying to move our entire army down a single road, at night, through an ocean of mud."
"We won't win with excuses, General Longstreet"
The rebuke in his voice was obvious to everyone within hearing distance.
"We have fought two major battles in little more than a fortnight. We have destroyed one of their armies, and the capital is within our reach. We cannot lose our nerve this day, General. We must hold our nerve if we are to win. I propose to win this war today, sir, because never again will we have such a chance."
A cheer went up… the rebel yell. Hood's division
was going in.
The Moat in Front of Fort Stevens
Here they come!"
Sergeant Hazner cautiously raised his head to look back to the north. A corporal who had gone up on his elbows to look, only a minute before, was now sprawled in the bottom of the moat, the top of his head gone.
He could hear them, but the smoke was still too thick to see anything. The muzzle of the thirty-pounder ran out again, this time elevated higher, to sweep the field
"Lower, you bastards," Hazner shouted. "You're aiming too high."
"We'll get you soon enough, reb," the taunt came back from the other side, "once we kill off what's coming."
He lay back down, rolling on his back, looking down at the edge of the moat Hundreds of men were still alive, pinned along the slope of the fort and down on the inner side of the moat He held his hand up, risking that it would get shot off, and waved it in a tight circle to draw attention. Some of the men looked his way.
He pointed across the field, to the top of the fort, and then to himself. Some of the men nodded, pulled caps down tighter, clawed at bodies that they had piled up as barricades, fumbling through cartridge boxes to find a dry round and reload.
Colonel Brown, lying beside him, groaned weakly. After knocking him cold, Hazner had feared for a while the blow had been too hard, perhaps he had broken his skull, but the colonel had finally stirred. Brown had tried to get up on to his knees to vomit and he had knocked him back down, and for his troubles the vomit had splattered all over him.
"Hazner?"
"Just lie still, sir. The next wave is coming, then we'll get you back."
"No, I'm going in." "Just lie still, sir."
Hazner looked up at the sky; the sun was far higher, red through the smoke, but already hot. He hoped that one of the men coming up would have a full canteen.
He could see them now, battle flags emerging out of the smoke and mist, again the formation in columns of regiment in company front.
"Fire!"
The heavy guns inside the fort recoiled back, Hazner hugging the ground, arm over his colonel, the shock wave knocking his breath out.
Screams greeted the salvo; he looked back and saw the entire front ranks collapsing, officers, one on horseback, going down, flags dropping, one with a broken staff tumbling through the air, a hundred or more men falling.
God, that was like us, he realized, that was just like us.
The charge wavered then pressed forward, men scrambling over the fallen ranks, color guards picking up fallen flags.
"Volley fire on my command!" The cry echoed from within the fort
Hazner held his arm up, waving it again, and he prayed that someone down below saw him.
"Fire!"
The volley rippled from the top of the parapet, more men dropping across the field less than fifty yards away.
"Now!" Hazner roared. "Charge, Carolina, charge!"
He stood up, cursing himself even as he did so. His own heroics surprised him; it was an act of wild stupidity. And yet something compelled him, forced him beyond all reason or sanity to do so.
For a few seconds he stood there, naked, exposed, and no one seemed to move.
One. man, then another stood up. By his side Colonel Brown tried to come to his feet, sword held feebly up. And then a wild roar erupted from the men of Perrin's and Pettigrew's divisions, who had endured hell in front of Fort Stevens. Officers were up, waving swords. A wild rage was released and a wall of gray and butternut began to surge forward yet again, crawling, kicking, climbing their way up the blood-soaked muddy slope.
"Come on!"
It was only a few dozen feet to the top, the longest yards he had ever attempted or endured. He came up eye-level with the top of the parapet; a rifle slapped down on the top, aimed straight at his face. He grabbed it by the end of the barrel and jerked it hard, pulling it toward him. He heard a curse; the gun did not go off. He pulled harder, using it as a handhold; the owner of the gun released his grip as Hazner came over the top of the parapet. With one hand he hurled the weapon at the gun crew of the thirty-pounder and then used his own weapon to parry a bayonet thrust.
Suddenly more men were up around him, the first few jumping atop the parapet, gunned down even as they leapt up. More came and yet more. He swung his own musket around, aimed at the battery sergeant, and fired, knocking the man backward.
Yet again he rolled off the top of the wall and into the fort. The Yankees lining the firing step were stunned by the sudden onslaught; most were still fumbling to reload. Several turned and jumped off the firing step and ran across the open parade ground to join the companies still deployed in the middle of the field. This time Hazner did not hesitate. He leapt down, knowing that his only protection was to charge right on their coattails.
He looked to either side; several dozen men were with him, all driven by the same realization.
The shock of hand-to-hand battle exploded in the middle of the fort as the feeble charge slammed into the enemy formation.
He heard cannon fire behind him but did not look back as he waded in, dodging, parrying, slashing, kicking, screaming, the madness of battle upon his soul.
A boy charged straight at Mm, bayonet lowered. He blocked the blow, driving his own bayonet into the boy's chest. The young soldier gasped, staggered backward, and Hazner lost the grip on his rifle, letting go.
He caught a glimpse of a clubbed musket and dropped to the ground, the blow missing. All was confusion, feet-some barefoot, others in shoes with sky-blue trousers-and he feigned that he was down and out of the fight. More feet, all with sky-blue trousers, stormed around him. He curled up, as if hit in the stomach.
Looking back he saw scores of men gaining the top of the parapet
"On the wall, volley fire on the wall!" The feet around him stopped; a ramrod came down, stuck into the ground beside him. The men atop the wall paused, rifles dropping down to the firing position. A scathing volley erupted, the man standing within inches of Hazner's face shrieking, falling backward.
Again the rebel yell, this time louder, confident as the men atop the parapet slid down to the firing step, jumped off, and charged across the courtyard.
Another melee, the harsh sound of wood striking wood and wood striking flesh and bone. Screams, men falling, staggering past, cursing, huzzahs, rebel yells, all commingled together into a terrifying roar that seemed to be trapped within the confines of the fort.
A flash of butternut-clad feet this one wearing only one shoe. More swarms of men were coming over the fortress wall, shouting, screaming. A field piece in the middle of the parade ground erupted, canister cutting down dozens. Still the charge pressed in, survivors climbing over bodies.
The carnage that ensued was beyond Hazner's worst nightmares. Driven to madness by the slaughter, the men of three divisions, who had endured hell since before dawn, exploded in rage. The sally port at the rear of the fort was clogged with Union soldiers trying to escape. In the close confines of the fight no one had time to ask or give quarter, nor was anyone capable of it anymore. Hazner stood up, in shock, watching
as the garrison was slaughtered, many of the men of the First Maine and First New York Heavy Artillery fighting to the end, many bayoneted in the back, more than a few bayoneted or clubbed even as they tried to surrender.
Sickened, exhausted, Hazner collapsed back to the ground and sat unable to move or speak.
A flag bearer came up to his side and stopped.
"First Texas, rally to me! Rally to me!"
Hazner looked up at the man and caught his eye.
"You got water?" Hazner croaked.
The flag bearer nodded, unslung his canteen, and tossed it down.
He uncorked it, leaned his head back, half the water cascading down his jacket as he greedily gulped it. There was a bit of a taste to the water, whiskey, just what he needed. He emptied half of it, and then fought down the sudden urge to vomit.
He passed it back up.
"Thanks."
The First Texan grinned.
"I saw you. By God, I saw you go over the wall, the men following you! Hell of a thing, took the fire off of us. Got us in here."
Hazner couldn't speak.
"You hurt?"
Hazner looked up at him dumbly, and then at the tangle of bodies, many of them writhing in agony, which completely carpeted the parade ground of the fort
He shook his head. No, compared to them I'm not hurt, he thought
The sergeant from the Texan regiment took his canteen and slung it over his shoulder even as he continued to scream for his regiment to rally on the colors.
The Texan suddenly extended his hand.
"Lee Robinson, First Texas. Look me up after this is over, I'll give you a drink in the White House."
"Sergeant Major Hazner, Fourteenth South Carolina, and thank you."
A knot of men were gathering around the Texan, and with a wild cry he urged them forward, to continue the fight.
Hazner stood up, watching as the Texans reformed, groups of a few dozen here and there, and then pressed forward, little organization left but still game.
He turned and walked back to the parapet that they had just stormed, the tangle of bodies so thick he could barely find ground to step on.
"Sergeant Hazner!"
It was Brown, walking like a drunk, coming toward him.
'Sir.'
"Re-form the regiment, we're going in."
Hazner looked at the parade ground, at the gun emplacement for the thirty-pounder, the crew dead. He actually felt regret at the sight of that. The gunner who had been taunting him, he'd have liked to find him and offer a drink, but they were all dead. — "Re-form?"
"Yes, Hazner, we can't let the glory of the taking of Washington slip past us. We can't let Texas have this moment. Now re-form the regiment."
"Sir, what regiment?" Hazner asked woodenly.
In Front of Fort Stevens
8:30 a.m.
'T'hat's it," Lee cried. "Go, Texas, go!"
He had come forward from the grove, standing where he had first seen the fort the day before.
It was as if a vision was unfolding, a recurring dream that one forgets upon awakening, that yet hovers at the edge of memory throughout the day, only to return again in sleep. For two years he had dreamt of this moment, the final door unlocked, the end now within sight. Washington was there for the taking; it was the end.
"General Longstreet Now, bring your men up now!"
Longstreet was silent and there were tears in his eyes.
"General Longstreet?"
"Sir, it will be another half hour before I can even hope to commit McLaws."
"Then send in what you have!" "A brigade, maybe two, sir." 'Then send them in!" "Yes, sir."
He turned and rode back and Lee watched him leave. His gaze shifted to the east, to the sun.
"Oh, God, freeze it in the heavens as You did for Joshua before Jericho. I beg You please let it freeze, for time to stop, to give me but one more precious hour."
The smoke swirled, obscuring the sun for a moment, and then it came clear again… and to the southeast, he could see the dome of the Capitol.
To the Rear of Fort Stevens
9.15am
I can't let you go any farther, sir!" The captain of his cavalry escort reined around, blocking the middle of the road. Lincoln said nothing for a moment. He had always felt uncomfortable on horseback, and this mount was no exception … a mare, far too small for his long, bony frame, stirrups pulled up too high, so that he was crouching in the saddle rather man sitting.
He had left the White House shortly after dawn in a carriage, but the tangle of troops heading into battle, and the civilians fleeing it, clogged all the roads, making passage impossible. After a difficult argument with the commander of his escort, a trooper had offered a horse, but there had been no time to adjust the stirrups before setting out again.
They were north of the city, close enough to the battle now that the air overhead hummed with shot and spent bullets. A trooper riding at the front of the column had been knocked unconscious by a spent bullet, which had struck him in the forehead. After that the cavalry escort had ringed him in even tighter, using their bodies as shields. The gesture had both touched and annoyed him.
Battered soldiers were coming back, many wounded, all of them panicked, spreading the word that Fort Stevens had fallen.
He could hear the roar of battle just ahead, the sound shocking, a continual thunder, so close now that the rebel yell was clearly heard.
"Sir, we must go back!" the captain shouted.
"No, Captain, we stay here for the moment."
"Mr. President. I am responsible for your safety. I urge you, sir, let's retire to the naval yard; I will send a courier to fetch your family."
He thought of the servant Jim, at this moment most likely rounding up the other servants, telling them to get guns and prepare.
Lincoln looked over at the captain.
"My family will not be fetched," Lincoln said coldly.
"Sony, sir. I didn't mean it as an insult. They will be escorted with all dignity."
"No, Captain. They will not be escorted, nor will I. They stay where they are, as I plan to stay right here."
The captain started to open his mouth. Lincoln forced a smile, leaned over, and touched the captain on the sleeve; the young officer startled, looking at him wide-eyed.
"Son, if I run now, what will my soldiers say?"
The captain looked at him, unable to reply.
"I'm the commander of this army, am I not?"
"Ah, yes, sir."
"Fine then, son. Let's just calm down, stay here, and do our duty. At the moment my duty is to be calm, as is yours. We can't go running about like headless chickens, can we?"
The captain actually forced a smile.
"No, sir," he responded with an emphasis on the "sir."
Lincoln patted him on the arm.
"Fine, son. Let's just stay here for the moment and see what we can do to make sure this wrestling match turns out a victory for the Union."
He smiled again and the captain nodded, turning away, but ordering his men to form a barrier in front of the president, the captain himself taking position directly in front of him.
Lincoln had to admit that inwardly he was terrified. He had only heard battle from a distance before, the two fights at Manassas, the distant thunder from Union Mills. He never imagined it could be so loud, so all-consuming, and so frightening.
His mount, however, did not even flinch as a shell fluttered overhead and detonated with a thunderclap, the captain looking back anxiously to see that he was not harmed.
He smiled yet again.
"Sir, at least take that hat off." And the captain hesitated. "What?"
"Your hat. You're tall, sir, that hat marks you. A rebel sharpshooter might see it"
He realized the captain was right. He had somehow retained his stovepipe hat on the ride out No, if it marked him, others would see it as well; his boys would see it and that was what he wanted.
He shook his head.
Exasperated, the captain turned to face front
A cluster of officers came down the road, riding back from the fight, one of the men swaying in his saddle, blood covering the front of his jacket. In the lead was Heintzelman. The general reined in and saluted.
"Mr. President, just what are you doing here?" Heintzelman shouted.
"Watching the battle, General."
"Sir, battle is not a spectator's sport. The rebs are not a quarter of a mile off and coming on fast"
"What is the situation, General?"
"They've taken Fort Stevens; they have a breakthrough across a front of more than a quarter mile."
"The flanking forts?"
"Still holding for the moment, sir, but it's getting shaky." "And you propose?"
Heintzelman did not reply, looking back to the north. "Your plans, General?"
"Sir, we should abandon the line and pull back into the city."
"What has General Lee put in?" "Sir, it's hard to say. Looks like three divisions, but more will be coming." Lincoln nodded.
"Like trying to pour a hundred gallons of buttermilk through a funnel. It'll take him time, General."
"Sir, I know that, but the men are running, sir," and even as he spoke he gestured to the open fields, the battered remnants of defenders heading back into the city.
"Calm, General. Let us be calm."
Heintzelman looked at him wide-eyed, as if about ready to explode.
"Calm, General. If we lead we can rally those men. They will invest their fears in our courage. But they must see our courage and rally to it"
Heintzelman lowered his head, nodded, wiping his eyes, and Lincoln was startled to see that the man was actually in tears.
"I'm sorry, Mr. President Sorry. You are right sir. We can rally them."
Lincoln felt an infinite exhaustion. He thought of the pictures he had seen of General Washington, the forlorn hope of crossing the Delaware, of the bitter winter of Valley Forge when nearly all had given up hope. The mantle of that now rested upon him, the sacrifices made to create this republic now upon his shoulders.
He said nothing, features now stern, bony shoulders braced back.
"Let us just stay here," Lincoln said softly.
Heintzelman looked back up, nodded, and fell in by his side.
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