Men continued to pass, falling back, but at the sight of the two, here and there a soldier slowed, stopped, a few calling out Lincoln's name, others silent, as if ashamed. Gradually a cluster of men gathered around them. A flag bearer came out of the smoke, carrying the dark blue banner of Maine. The soldier stopped and without comment planted the staff of the flag in the ground and turned to face back North. Within minutes hundreds were gathering. There was no cheering, no singing, no heroic gestures, just grim determination.
As he looked at them he wept inwardly, struggling to hide his tears. Here was the republic, his country, which he had sworn to defend and which those men were now defending, without fanfare, without much hope of seeing the day through to the end, but which they would now die for. The cause of the United States of America was reduced to this band of nearly defeated men who were gathering new courage, reorganizing themselves, and beginning to gird for battle in front of his eyes.
He took heart from these rallying troops, as he had taken heart from a servant of a race who till now were exempt in the minds of so many from that solemn pledge that all men were indeed created equal.
Another flag bearer, from New York, fell in carrying the national flag. A militia regiment, easily distinguished by their bright, clean uniforms, came up the road at the double. Sweat streaked their faces; many were gasping for breath, many trembling with fear, and yet they swung into line.
Heintzelman looked over at Lincoln, nodded, and then, with proper flourish, drew out his sword and saluted.
Lincoln could only nod.
The ragged formation stepped off, following Heintzelman. They went back into the inferno. He caught glimpses of battle, his first sight of that blood-red banner of the South coming forward, a dimly seen line of men advancing. A round struck one of his escorts, the man swearing, turning away, clutching a shattered arm. The wounded trooper looked at Lincoln, then pushed his mount back into the formation around the president, reassuming his post
The roar of battle swelled, expanding, racing outward to either flank, Union huzzah counterpointed by rebel yell.
And then they started to fall back, giving ground slowly, men dropping, but none running.
"Sir, we must move back. Now."
His attention was so fixed on the battle that he had not even noticed the captain by his side, reaching over to take his reins.
"Not yet"
"Sir, they're a hundred yards off, they'll be on us in a minute."
He shook his head.
The captain started to pull his mount around and Lincoln angrily jerked his reins back.
"We stay here," Lincoln said sharply.
The captain looked at him, wide-eyed, and then with a flicker of a smile raised his hand and saluted.
"Yes sir, Mr. President."
And then a distant cheer rose up behind them.
Lincoln looked back over his shoulder; even as he did so, another trooper of his escort collapsed, falling from his horse, dead. Behind them, though, he saw something coming. A column on the road from the city, running, bayonet points held high, tin cups and canteens clanging, an officer riding at the front ahead of the colors.
The officer came on fast, now urging his mount to a gallop and then reining in hard, and with an elegant gesture raised up his sword and saluted.
"Mr. President, I'm Col. Robert Shaw, Fifty-fourth Massachusetts."
"Colonel, it warms my heart to see you and your men; you may be just in time to save your nation's capital." "Mr. President. We're from Charleston. We arrived at the naval yard two hours ago. My brigade commander, General Strong, ordered me to move my regiment to the sound of the guns. He and the rest of the brigade will be coming up shortly."
Lincoln looked back and saw the column of veterans beginning to shake out into battle line, the men professional-looking, moving sharply … and they were colored.
Unable to speak, Lincoln faced Shaw again.
Shaw could not help but smile.
"We loaded up from Charleston the day the message arrived about Union Mills. There's a full brigade of combat-experienced troops behind me, sir. Now just tell me where to go.
He still could not speak.
'To the sound of the guns, sir!" the captain exclaimed, reaching out to grasp Shaw on the arm.
Shaw saluted, turned, and galloped off. A minute later the regiment swept past, and at the sight of the president, the men burst loose with a thunderous cheer. "Lincoln… Lincoln… Lincoln!" The charge went in.
He watched them go forward, still unable to speak. Behind them, back down the Seventh Street road, he saw more troops coming on at the double, a battery of artillery galloping across the open field beside the road, caissons leaping into the air.
He turned back to say something to the captain. But the saddle was empty, the young officer down on the ground, a couple of his troopers around him, kneeling, one looking up anguish-stricken at Lincoln.
He dismounted and knelt down by the captain. The man had been struck in the chest, was struggling to breathe.
Lincoln took his hand.
"Will we hold, sir?" the captain gasped.
"Yes, son, we'll hold. You have helped save the Union this day."
In Front of Fort Stevens
July 18,1863 10:00 a.m
General Lee, I beg you, sir, call it off." He turned to look at Longstreet and Hood, who stood beside him. He could not reply.
"Sir," Hood interjected, "it's finished. They're closing the breech. They have a colored regiment in the line now; one of my staff says it's the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts. General Beauregard reported that same regiment as being in front of Charleston two weeks ago. It means, sir, that they have fresh troops, experienced troops in the city now."
"Can we not sweep them aside?" Lee asked, and even as he spoke he realized his own will was breaking, he was asking now for some final reassurance.
"Sir," Hood continued. "My divisions are a shambles, one of them my own former command; if they cannot take it, no one can."
Longstreet shifted uncomfortably at this unintended slight. "General Longstreet?"
"I agree with General Hood, sir. I'm sorry, sir, but that road, in places the mud is knee-deep; we just can't bring men up fast enough to exploit the breakthrough."
"What about somewhere else along the line? They must have stripped their defenses to the bone elsewhere."
"Sir, we have no infantry along the rest of the line. We don't have enough men as is, even if we do force our way into that city. Sir, we've lost five, maybe ten thousand this day; we'll lose that much again, even more if we press it"
He paused, as if seeking a dramatic effect
"Sir, we just might take the city by the end of the day if you press it, but the Army of Northern Virginia, our last hope, will be destroyed doing it"
"I beg you, sir," Hood cried, his voice close to breaking. "Stop it now, our chance has passed for this day."
Lee looked toward the fort, that accursed fort Wounded, demoralized, pitiful fragments of broken units were coming back out of the smoke.
He lowered his head and nodded.
"Pull them back," he whispered.
He looked back to the southeast. The Capitol was still visible, its nearly completed dome standing defiant.
He turned and walked away.
Chapter Seven
In Front of Fort Stevens
July 18,1863 10:15 pm.
General Lee walked with infinite sadness and weariness through the hospital area. As he passed, those around him, even the most hideously wounded, fell silent.
General Pettigrew had been found, just before dusk, when Lee had asked Heintzelman for a truce. Contrary to the first reports, the general had still been alive. He was no longer; Lee had held Pettigrew's hand as he died.
Perrin had been more fortunate, hit twice, in the arm and leg; the limbs had not been broken. Perrin had wept at the sight of his commander, asking forgiveness for not going in "more sharply."
How did
one answer such a statement when it was obvious where the fault truly rested?
Lee finally broke the silence, looking over at "Pete" Longstreet, who respectfully walked by his side.
"It was my fault, General Longstreet."
"General Lee, you did all that any man could do."
"I should have waited another night. I attacked too soon, I asked too much of these men."
"Sir, the reason you attacked this morning was clearly confirmed. Reinforcements are pouring into that city." He nodded in the direction of Washington. "If you had waited another night, the results would have been the same, perhaps worse."
"Then I should have realized it was impossible." "Sir, how? The only way to confirm the impossibility was to attempt it. If we had not attacked at all, what would we
have then thought? It would have haunted us, the thought that we might have been able to take it. It would have undermined morale. What would all have said across the South if we had not tried?"
"A terrible confirmation, General," Lee sighed. "Eight thousand or more dead, wounded, or captured. I might as well strike the divisions of Pettigrew and Perrin off the roster. After the losses suffered at Gettysburg and Union Mills, and now this, they are fought out."
Longstreet nodded in agreement. The two divisions, since July 1, had sustained over eighty per cent casualties. All of the original brigade commanders, except for Scales, were dead or wounded. All but three of the regimental commanders were down as well. As fighting units, the two divisions were finished. They would have to be pulled from the order of battle, rested, consolidated, and reorganized.
The two walked back toward the grove that had been his headquarters for the last two days. With the truce, the enemy had stopped shelling the position, but when morning arrived Lee would have to move. As they approached the roughly fashioned bridge of logs and barn siding, the two stepped aside as a convoy of a dozen ambulances passed. The shrieks and groans of the wounded within cut to Lee's soul and he stood with hat off as they passed, in the darkness no one recognizing him.
The grove was illuminated by several dozen lanterns, officers and staff standing silent. There was no frolicking this evening, no banter or music. All were silent. All were oppressed by the cost of this day's fighting and the friends dead and dying. At his approach whispered commands echoed, men coming to attention, some taking off their hats, others saluting.
He looked around at the gathering he had called- Longstreet, who was already at his side, Hood, arm in a sling from a rifle ball that had nicked his shoulder, Stuart, Walter Taylor, Jed Hotchkiss the cartographer, Scales as the senior surviving officer of the first two assault waves. Staff retreated to a respectful distance as Lee stepped under the overhanging tarpaulin and sat down in front of the rough-hewn table that had been dragged over from a nearby house.
"A terrible day, gentlemen," he opened without fanfare.
No one spoke.
"I take full responsibility for what happened here today." "General, we all must take responsibility for it," Hood interjected.
"I will hear no more on that, General Hood. I ordered the attack, it was my decision and mine alone."
He held his hand up for silence and Hood lowered his head.
Yet Hood was right to a certain degree. It was his first attack as a corps commander. The assault waves should have been better coordinated, sent in directly one after another. The attack had kicked off an hour late, the second wave going in late as well.
Hood should have informed him of that confusion before the attack commenced. But oh the other side of the ledger it was a night attack, something the Army of Northern Virginia had never before attempted, except after already being committed to action at Chancellorsville, and that was against a beaten foe … and in the confusion that action had cost him Jackson. The single road up was indeed a quagmire; the fog and friction of war were at play. He should have sensed that, made closer watch on the preparations, but he knew that he, too, had been exhausted and in his exhaustion had trusted the judgment of those beneath him.
That was his responsibility and his alone.
"There was no alternative," Pete said even as he puffed a cigar to light "We had to try and strike before reinforcements came in. The men that counterattacked us in the final assault were veteran units pulled all the way up from Charleston. We knew they were coming and had to attack before they arrived. If they are moving the entire besieging force up from there, that could mean twenty thousand additional men are now in the city or will be within the next few days. General Lee, that is why you had to attack today, and not tomorrow. Today was our only hope of taking the city by a coup de main."
"Is it true there was a regiment of niggers with them?" Stuart asked.
Lee looked up at him sharply. "You know I don't like that word, General."
"I'm sorry, sir. Colored then."
"I saw them," Hood interjected. "It must be that regiment from Massachusetts. Now we must deal with that as well."
"If we take any of them prisoners," Lee said softly, "they are to be treated like any other soldiers. I want that clearly understood. I disagree with General Beauregard's statements and that of our government that they will be sold as slaves and their officers executed. I will not have that in my army and I want that clearly understood by all."
No one spoke.
"We drift from our topic, gentlemen," Lee announced. "And that is to decide our course of action."
He looked at the men gathered at the table.
'Two of our divisions are no longer fit for service, at least for a fortnight or more. What is left of Anderson's division is still in Virginia, escorting prisoners back. In our remaining six divisions of infantry I would estimate that we have barely thirty thousand men under arms."
He looked at Taylor, who sadly nodded in agreement.
"That does not include artillery and cavalry, sir," Stuart said.
"No, of course not, General Stuart, but when it comes to siege operations and assault, it is infantry we need." No one replied.
"It is safe to assume that their garrison in Washington, now receiving yet more reinforcements, numbers at least thirty thousand, perhaps as many as forty thousand by tomorrow. Their heavy artillery, well, we saw what but three forts defended with heavy artillery can do to our men out in the open."
"Are you saying, sir, that the hope of taking Washington is finished?" Stuart asked.
"Do you see any alternative, sir?"
"They are still strung out defending thirty miles of front, sir. We can maneuver, feign, probe. Sooner or later, we'll find the weak spot and push in."
"That will take days, maybe weeks," Longstreet replied, "and every day means yet more men in their garrison to repulse us. They have the interior lines. Even if we did break through, they can muster a force sufficient to face us at the edge of the city or inside of it.
"I must say this now, sir," Longstreet continued. "Our army, unfortunately, is not an army that can fight a siege, or take a city the size of Washington; we are a field army that survives by maneuver, surprise, and agility. That other type of warfare fits our enemy, with their limitless numbers."
He sighed. "It doesn't fit us and never will."
"Then you believed we would not take that city?" Lee asked.
Longstreet hesitated, then finally nodded his head. "I didn't think we could take it if they were prepared to fight block by block and house by house."
"I wish I had heard that from you yesterday, General, or a week ago before we even marched down from Westminster."
Longstreet could sense the rebuke and his features reddened.
"We had to try, sir. After all, their army might have lost enough morale after their shattering defeat at Union Mills. The green troops in the forts might have broken down. The reinforcements might have come a day later. We had to try, General Lee. Maybe it was a forlorn hope, maybe not. But we had to try. Everyone, our men, the government, the people of the South, expected it and therefore we had to try."
Placated, Lee nodded and leaned back in the camp chair.
History would have expected it, he realized. After the triumph at Gettysburg and Union Mills history itself would have expected him to march on Washington and take it. He had to have tried.
The dream of taking Washington had been the goal ever since the start of this campaign, the thought that with the final defeat of the Army of the Potomac, Washington would fall and then it would be over. Was that itself an illusion?
If so, what now? Was everything this campaign was predicated upon an illusion? Was there nothing that could force the North to negotiate a peace?
Walter stepped away from the group for a moment and returned with a tin cup brimming with coffee. Lee nodded his thanks, lifted the cup, blew on the edge and took a sip, then set the cup back down.
Hotchkiss had already spread the maps of northern Virginia, Maryland, and southern Pennsylvania out on the table. Lee examined them. At Gettysburg this had been a defining moment, when the map seemed to come alive with movement, of troops marching on roads, enemy positions marked, all leading to a place where victory awaited.
But nothing stirred within his heart and mind. All was still and silent, except for the creaking of the ambulances passing nearby on the road, the distant cries of the wounded piercing the night.
"We have three choices," he finally said, rubbing his eyes, then taking another sip of coffee. "We either stay here and continue the action or we pull back into Maryland, maybe toward Frederick, and in so doing reorganize, see to our logistical needs, and then perhaps consider Baltimore. We can also retire back into Virginia and reorganize and refit until Grant and his new army come after us."
He had laid it out cleanly and no one spoke, though he could see that all were now forming their responses, each ready to set forth his opinion.
"Continue it," Stuart said sharply. "I still maintain that we can maneuver, shift some of our forces toward Blandensburg, others down along the Potomac, stretch them out using my cavalry, then when the weak point is found, go in."
"Not again." This time it was Scales. Though he was only a brigade officer, now in command of a shattered division, all looked over at him respectfully. He was the only general to come back out of today's inferno.
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