Grant Comes East cw-2

by Newt Gingrich

  "Sir, I don't like being dismounted at a time like this."

  "I understand, Sergeant."

  The trooper reluctantly handed over the reins of his mount, a towering stallion.

  "He's a tough one, sir, sensitive mouth, so be careful."

  Grant smiled, took the reins, and quickly mounted. The horse shied a bit, tried to buck, and he settled himself down hard in the saddle, working the bit gently but making it clear he was mounted to stay. The horse settled down.

  Elihu and Haupt mounted as well. Grant looked around, totally disoriented.

  "I know the way," Elihu announced.

  The sergeant looked up at him, and Grant sensed the man was a bit disappointed, half hoping that the mighty general would wind up on his backside for having taken his horse.

  Elihu led the way, moving at a walk down the length of the dock, passing another ironclad, this one rigged with lanterns hanging over the railings and boarding nets strung around its circumference.

  They eased past a line of wagons, several carriages, and a couple of ambulances. The main barracks were aglow with a light that cast dim shafts of gold out the windows to dissipate in the cloaking fog. From within he could hear low groans, a sudden cry of pain. Naval sentries, half-asleep, stood outside the building, leaning on their muskets. Four bodies were lying on the lawn, bare feet sticking out from under the blankets, the corpses, like all corpses, looking tiny and forlorn.

  Elihu broke into a slow trot as they went through the gates of the naval yard, the sentries looking at them wide-eyed as they passed.

  "Hey, was that Grant?" one of them asked as they passed, their conversations muffled and then lost in the fog. They trotted up a broad avenue, passing a convoy of wagons parked by the side of the road. No one was about The streets were empty, the soft glow of streetlights marking their way. Two- and three-story houses lining the road were dark. Several street corners had small patrols stationed, three or four men. Some were up, standing, more than one man curled up, sleeping in a doorway while a lone comrade fought to stay awake, keeping watch.

  A black cat darted across the street in front of Grant, causing his horse to shy, arid he fought it back down, urging it forward.

  Elihu chuckled.

  "Not superstitious, are you?" he asked.

  Grant said nothing, letting go of the rein with one hand to reach into his pocket pull out a match, and strike his cigar back to life.

  A wagon rumbled past them, going in the opposite direction. Inside, piles of newspapers were stacked high. The road slowly climbed up a slope, the narrow confines of houses giving way to a broad, open expanse of lawn. He didn't need to be told; it was the Capitol.

  Dim lights glowed from within, the fog breaking up slightly to reveal, in the first early light of dawn, the great iron dome that was still under construction.

  Elihu slowed a bit, reined his horse in, and stopped for a moment

  "No matter how many times I see it, it still gives me a lump in the throat," he whispered.

  Grant said nothing, looking up at the towering heights. Even now, at four-thirty in the morning, the building was open. A row of ambulances was parked in front of the east portico, stretcher-bearers carrying their burdens up the steps. Civilians were coming in and out, some moving slowly, wearily, after what must have been a long night of labor, others hurrying in.

  He was tempted to stop, if only for a few minutes. It had been years since he had trod these halls, and within were men who had suffered, some enduring the final agony of having paid the ultimate price for the preservation of what this building represented. But other matters pressed, and he slowly rode on.

  They skirted around the south end of the Capitol, dropping down to the broad, open, almost marshy ground below the building. Directly in the middle he stopped again and looked up.

  The structure towering above him was imposing, solid, conveying a sense of the eternal… the temple of the republic for which he fought

  Whether it would one day stand as a hollow testament to the failure of the dream, or remain the central hall of freedom, now rested squarely upon his shoulders. It was a responsibility he had not sought but which fate seemed to have thrust upon him. Strangely, he found himself wondering how this place would look fifty, a hundred and fifty years from now. Would it be barren, a city abandoned like so many capitals of the ancient world, or would it be vibrant, alive, the dream continuing, a place of pride, a republic that would endure this time of crisis and emerge yet stronger?

  He pressed on, following Elihu, who had slowly ridden ahead, Haupt at his side. They reached Pennsylvania Avenue and turned left. There was a light scattering of traffic, the first streetcar of the morning slowly making its way up the hill to the Capitol. A company of troops marching in route step passed on the other side of the road, rifles slung over shoulders, the men bantering among themselves, barely noticing the two officers and a congressman trotting past A barricade blocked off most of the street farther on, with two twelve-pound Napoleons deployed behind it, sentries standing at the narrow opening. No comments were exchanged as they rode through, though one of the men looked up curiously at Grant as he saluted.

  As they dropped down off Capitol Hill, the fog thickened again. Riding in the middle of the street, they could barely see the buildings flanking either side. A drunk sitting on the curb was being soundly dressed down by a policeman who was hoisting him to his feet. A few ladies of the evening, or in this case the early morning, loitered under a streetlamp, looking over hopefully as they passed, but offering no comments.

  They passed by the bright lights of the Willard, a small crowd gathered outside, mostly officers, but none looked over at his passage. He was glad of that, otherwise the rumor would explode like wildfire. With his private's sack coat, collar pulled up against the morning damp, he was barely distinguishable, except for the three stars on each shoulder.

  Directly ahead was the War Department, Elihu leading the way. In the fog he caught a glimpse of the White House, troops deployed on the front lawn. The sky was brightening, shifting from indigo to a sullen gray.

  They reined in before the dark somber mass of the War Department building. The sentries out front, in spite of the hour, were well turned out, uniforms smart, brass polished and reflecting the glow of the streetlights.

  As he swung down off his mount, several orderlies came out of the doorway and at the sight of him slowed, stiffening to attention.

  "General Grant?" one of them asked.

  He returned the salute and nodded.

  "Sir, the secretary of war is in his office; he told me to escort you in the moment you arrived."

  Haupt dismounted with him, but Elihu stayed on his horse.

  "Think I'll wander over to the White House," Elihu announced.

  In spite of the hour, Grant knew that Elihu would rouse the president, and he was grateful. Stanton had no real love for him, and at this crucial first meeting it would be good to have Lincoln present.

  Grant followed the orderly into the building after telling one of the sentries to find a way to return the horses back to the cavalrymen at the naval yard.

  The corridors were brightly lit with gaslight, the floor beneath his feet sticky with tobacco juice, cluttered with scraps of paper, and even what appeared to be splotches of blood. Even at five in the morning it was bustling with activity, staff officers running back and forth; a lieutenant with his arm in a sling-the blood on the floor obviously from the leaking wound in his elbow-leaned against a wall, pale-faced, not even noticing as Grant walked past him. In his good hand he was clutching a roll of papers.

  They went up the stairs, turned down another corridor, the air a bit stuffy and damp, and without fanfare were ushered into the outer office of the secretary of war.

  A well-dressed colonel, sitting behind a desk, stood up as Grant and Haupt came in.

  "Good morning, General, we were expecting you," the colonel announced in a soft, silky voice. "The secretary is asleep but I have order
s to wake him the moment you arrive. Please make yourself comfortable."

  The colonel slipped through a doorway, barely opening it, and the etched glass panes of the inner office, which had been dark, now glowed from a light within.

  There was muffled conversation. Grant settled back in the leather-bound seat and looked over at Haupt, who was obviously exhausted.

  They didn't wait long. The doorway opened, the colonel beckoning for them to enter.

  Stanton was up, hair rumpled, feet in carpet slippers, an unmade daybed in the corner, with blankets kicked back. He wheezed slightly as he came up and shook Grant's hand.

  "You made good time, sir.".

  "General Haupt is to be thanked for that. We had an express with track cleared all the way from Harrisburg to Perryville."

  Stanton beckoned to a couple of seats across from his desk as he settled down. The colonel reappeared bearing a silver tray with a pot of coffee and one of tea. He poured the tea for Stanton and coffee for Grant and Haupt, then withdrew.

  Stanton opened a desk drawer and pulled out a pocket flask.

  "Would you care for a bracer in that, General?" he asked.

  Grant, features expressionless, shook his head. Stanton put the flask back in the desk.

  "Give me a minute to wake up, General," he said, and leaning back in his chair, Stanton noisily sipped on his cup of tea, draining it, then refilling it.

  Grant waited patiently.

  "Did you hear what happened here the last two days?" Stanton asked.

  "Just the telegrams you sent up to me and the usual newspaper reports."

  "We bloodied them. Two divisions, Perrin and Pettigrew, were all but destroyed. It was a major defeat for Lee and his men."

  "That's what I heard."

  "We have some reports that Jefferson Davis is in their camp."

  "I heard that as well, sir."

  "If he's there, I think that means he will renew the attack." Grant said nothing, making no comment about Stanton's observation.

  "We are getting stronger pretty fast," Stanton continued. "All of Strong's brigade is up from Charleston. Two more brigades are slated to arrive today, along with some additional units out of Philadelphia and several ninety-day regiments that were mustering in New Jersey. I hope the rebels do try it again."

  "I don't think they will," Grant ventured.

  "Why?"

  "If Lee failed in his first assault, and did so with the casualties you are reporting, I cannot see him trying the exact same attack again. One attempt against a fortified position might be justified, but a second one on the heels of a failed attack would be folly. And Lee is not given to folly."

  "Are you certain of that?"

  "No one can ever be certain in war, but it's what I would do and I think Lee is a professional who avoids self-destructive mistakes."

  "Suppose Davis orders another attack? He obviously came north to be here and gloat over their final victory. I cannot see him turning away from us now. The political repercussions would be significant."

  "I think, sir, that General Lee would resist any such order. In spite of their victories of the last month they cannot afford any more serious losses. If he takes Washington but drains his army's manpower, it will be an even worse defeat in the end."

  "And you are certain of that?"

  Again Grant shook his head, knowing right here at the start that Stanton was trying to force him into a commitment to his own vision of what would come next.

  "And again, sir, nothing is certain in war."

  Stanton coughed noisily and then looked over sharply at the cigar in Grant's hand.

  There was an ashtray at the comer of the desk and he put it out.

  "Do you know why I summoned you here?" Stanton asked.

  "I would assume, sir, to review the plans of the forthcoming campaign."

  "Yes, General. Since your appointment to field command of all armies, I have not the slightest inkling of what your intentions are."

  "Sir, I thought it best not to entrust such delicate information to either the telegraph or dispatches. I was going to prepare a full report for you once I was in Harrisburg."

  "Why Harrisburg?"

  "Sir, I plan to make that the base of my operations." Stanton coughed again and then poured another cup of tea. "You did not get my approval for making that your headquarters."

  "I know that, sir."

  Haupt stirred uncomfortably by Grant's side and Stanton looked over at him. "What is it, Haupt?"

  "Sir, Harrisburg is an ideal location to constitute a new field army. Its rail connections are some of the best in the North. It offers easy access not only to upstate New York and New England, but to the Midwest as well. We will have to run literally thousands of trains in the next month in order to create this force, and I suggested Harrisburg almost immediately as the place to marshal. Besides, though not a field commander, I think it evident that by organizing at Harrisburg, we maintain a potent position to strike into the rear of Lee's lines of communication, thus ultimately forcing him to battle."

  "Thank you for that analysis, Haupt, but there is another consideration that carries far more weight, and that is the political consideration of maintaining Washington no matter what the cost."

  "Mr. Secretary," Grant interjected, glad that Haupt had offered a moment's diversion with a very pointed and cogent argument, "I think it is fair to state that Washington is secure now."

  "Are you certain, General Grant? We've had reports that a massive Confederate column, maybe upwards of fifty thousand strong, is already marshaling in Richmond; advance elements even now are moving into the Shenandoah Valley, coming up to reinforce Lee or to act as an independent striking force."

  "And who commands this?"

  "Our agents report it is Beauregard."

  Grant said nothing. He had faced Beauregard once before, at Shiloh, and did not hold him in the high regard that others did.

  "I would think they are destined to merge with Lee's forces," he finally offered in reply.

  "Whether with Lee or not, such a force could very well tip the scale and take the capital."

  "I would not place this new force in the same caliber as the Army of Northern Virginia. They are scraping the bottom of the barrel. Chances are many of the units are state militias, about as useful as our ninety-day regiments. It could take them weeks, a month or more, before their numbers will even be noticed."

  "Sir," Haupt said, pressing back in to the conversation. "The Confederate railroad system is a shambles. Several different gauges on their lines hinder any transfers when moving long distances. They have to stop and transfer men and equipment between trains every time they encounter a new gauge. Last winter, when the Army of Northern Virginia was encamped in front of Fredericksburg, they could barely move half a dozen supply trains a day, forcing Lee to scatter his forces across hundreds of square miles for forage. The task of moving that number of men north, if that is indeed the number, will strain them to the breaking point."

  "The number is valid," Stanton snapped.

  "As reported by whom?" Grant asked.

  "I've sent Pinkerton agents into Virginia."

  Again Grant did not reply. Some of the agents were good, obviously the one who had sent the message to him about Davis was doing his job, but most of them were amateurs when it came to doing field reconnaissance. It was similar reports, early in 1862, claiming the rebels had two hundred thousand in front of Richmond, that had crippled McClellan. In his own mind, he cut the numbers in half. At most Lee would get twenty-five thousand.

  "I think, General Grant, that you should stay in Washington, establish your headquarters here, and make this your main base of operations. Sickles, up on the banks of the Susquehanna, is even now reorganizing the Army of the Potomac. Between your force and his, Lee can be trapped."

  "Sickles? Dan Sickles?"

  "Yes, Dan Sickles. I signed the order this afternoon promoting him to command of the Army of the Potomac."

&nb
sp; He felt his face flush at this news.

  "Sir, as commander of all forces in the field, I feel I should have been consulted on this."

  "General Grant, you've been incommunicado ever since this debacle unfolded. I was forced to act and act I did."

  Before I could countermand it, Grant thought

  "Why General Sickles?" he finally asked.

  "I don't like him any more than you do, Grant," Stanton replied. "But he has powerful friends in Congress. We need the continued support of the Democratic Party and he is firmly in their camp and now their hero of the hour. His after-action report for Gettysburg and for Union Mills has been printed up and circulated, even the newspapers have it."

  "I've yet to see this report, who was it forwarded to?" Grant asked.

  "It came straight to me. With Meade dead, he had the excuse to bypass proper channels. Copies were leaked as well. I do have to admit mat the man had a point about Gettysburg. If Meade had allowed him to go forward on July 2, he would have plowed straight into Lee's flanking march and perhaps destroyed it. He argued as well that if he had been allowed to march to the support of Fifth Corps in front of Taneytown, rather than ordered to proceed to Union Mills, he could have turned Lee's left flank and forced the rebels to withdraw. It's causing an uproar. He was scheduled to appear before the Committee on the Conduct of the War to testify."

  "But if he was appointed to command of the Army of the Potomac that hearing would be canceled?" Haupt asked.

  That ploy was something he had never considered, and Grant shook his head. Yet again, the political maneuverings. Command in the East was clearly much more political and complex than command in the West Distance from Washington might have been a bigger advantage than he had thought.

  "Yes, something like that He won't have time to testify now.

  "Besides, he suppressed the rebellion in New York City and even the Republican papers are hailing him as the savior of the city."

  Grant looked at the crushed cigar in the ashtray, wishing he could relight it.

  "You are stuck with him, Grant" Stanton said.

  "But nevertheless he will still answer to my orders," Grant said softly.

  "In proper coordination with this office," Stanton replied.