"General Lee!"
McLaws, with Stuart by his side, was forcing a way through the columns of infantry. The main thoroughfare just ahead was littered with debris, a rough barricade blocking half of it, a storefront burning. A man came running out of a building directly behind Stuart and began to raise a rifle, aiming at Stuart's back, incredible, since dozens of Confederate infantry stood only feet away.
A flurry of shots dropped the man in his tracks. Stuart, not even bothering to look back, approached Lee, unaware that in another second he would have been dead. Lee's escorts, seeing the drama, became more tense, most of the men now cocking their revolvers, looking around warily.
Stuart came up, features pale. McLaws by his side had a bandage around his forehead, left side of his face puffy and swollen, with his eye half-shut.
"There's hell to pay up there," McLaws shouted. "It's madness. You'd think the entire city's sold itself to the devil."
"What is the situation, gentlemen?" Lee asked sharply.
'To be honest, sir, we're not sure," Stuart interjected. "We got in without a fight, as you saw, but about four blocks back it started getting ugly. The fort blew a few minutes ago; guess you saw that. The garrison is making a run for the harbor."
"I no longer care about that!" Lee snapped. "I want this city intact, not a smoking ruin. And I want it done peacefully. What I've seen so far is barbaric."
"It's not us, sir," Stuart said defensively. “It's these damn civilians, both sides. You think all the hatred these last two years is boiling out They're killing each other without mercy."
"I want it stopped now, General Stuart Now!"
He shouted the last word, half standing in his stirrups.
"Get your men fanned out along every street and thoroughfare. I want the word passed that everyone is to return to their homes. The city is now under the martial law of the Confederacy and a twenty-four-hour curfew is in place. I want that done now."
"Sir. I don't think many will listen."
Lee looked around, exasperated. From a block away, up a side alley, he saw two men pointing toward them One lowered a pistol and fired several shots. At such a range, of course, the rounds missed, but two of his guards set off in pursuit He wanted to shout for them to come back, but they disappeared around a corner. More shots, and no one came back.
His army was not trained for this, had no experience at all in how to take a city and then control it Even as he thought that, one of his attempted assailants stepped back from around the corner, making a rude gesture and a defiant wave. This time he had a carbine and lowered it to take another shot A volley from some of Pickett's men dropped him.
We are out of our depth here, Lee realized. For the first time in a very long while he was flustered, not sure how to act, what orders to give. This was not as easy as simply ordering a division out of line and sending them in. They'd done that a hundred times; everyone down to the dimmest private knew his role. But here?
"General Stuart Cavalry to stay together in troops; do not let your men split up or get lured off. Infantry to move in company strength. I'll establish headquarters …"
He hesitated. Where?
"Mount Vernon Square. It's half a dozen blocks from here. I'll be at the center of the square. General McLaws, you are to advance down to the harbor. I want a courier sent down to Fort McHenry. We will offer a temporary truce. Ask the commander to please cease any thoughts of firing upon the city and to aid us in containing the fires and the rioting. Any Union troops still in organized formations and attempting to maintain order will be granted free passage back to their lines once order is restored."
"I doubt if he'll go for it sir," McLaws said. "He's a real firebrand."
"Then that is on his head, not ours. If he goes for it or not any Union troops you see in formation or attempting to control this madness, grant them a truce, assistance if they need it then the right to leave."
"With arms?"
"Yes, with arms," Lee replied, exasperated at such a picky detail. "They'll need them against this madness. I want those fleeing to be aided and assisted with safe passage."
"Sir, what about the…" Stuart began, then hesitated, "the colored?"
"The what?"
"The colored, sir. Some of my men just reported that thousands of them are fleeing north. Many of them are slaves, sir, or runaways from Virginia. By right they should be returned to their masters."
"Like the two I saw several blocks back?" Lee asked.
"Sir?"
"I just saw two dead Negroes, one of them a boy hanging from a tree, the other a woman with her throat cut; is that what you mean?"
Stuart lowered his head and said nothing.
Another explosion rocked the plaza ahead, debris soaring heavenward, tiny fragments raining down around them long seconds later.
"I want the colored left alone. Let them flee if they wish."
"But the slaves?"
"General Stuart, just how in God's name will you tell the difference?"
All were again startled by his rage.
"I don't know, sir," Stuart said woodenly.
"Then don't bother with it."
"Sir," Taylor said softly. "Remember, the president is just outside the city. If he hears you've willingly allowed slaves to escape, there could be problems."
"Then, sir," Lee snapped, "I suggest you go back out of this city, bring the president here, make sure he sees that hanging, and let him pass the order as to what to do. We are a Christian army that has fought with honor, and I still propose that we maintain that honor. I will not tolerate what we just saw back there."
Taylor, absolutely crestfallen, lowered his head.
Lee took a deep breath. The fear of earlier, the confusion as to what to do in this strange, new battlefield, then the outrage had overtaken him for a moment He turned away, mastering his passion; and looked back.
"I apologize, Walter. You were doing your job."
"No apology needed, sir."
Lee leaned over and in a gesture of remorse lightly patted him on the arm.
"Gentlemen. Remember, we are gentlemen," he said softly. "I want this city brought under control. As I said, I will establish headquarters at Mount Vernon Square. General McLaws, pass the message to the commander down at Fort McHenry. General Stuart start moving your men out as ordered. Taylor, locate General Longstreet and ask him to come to my headquarters. Finally, locate Pickett and order him to start spreading his division out and make sure they understand my orders as well."
The gathering looked at him for a moment trying to process all that he said. Again there was a flash of exasperation.
"Move!"
The group scattered.
With his escort pulled in tight around him, Lee pressed into the city.
Baltimore
July 21 1863 5.00pm
Hey, niggers!" John Miller slowed. At the street comer ahead, a cordon had been set up. A rough barricade of tom-up cobblestones, an overturned delivery wagon, and bits of lumber blocked the way. Behind him hundreds of blacks from his community were surging forward. Behind them the city looked like something out of the Bible, of Sodom and Gomorrah, flames soaring heavenward, explosions rocking the harbor, and now this line of men armed with clubs and guns.
To his dismay he did not see any indication that they were the Loyal League, who had freely let them pass several blocks back, though more than one taunt was hurled about a black Moses leading his children.
He slowed.
"Where you going, boy?" one of the toughs asked, stepping out from behind the barricade.
"Out of this city. We're going north."
"Oh, no you ain't. You're runaways. Now git back home where you belong."
"We're freemen, and we can go where we please."
"Don't back-talk me." The man came forward, raising an axe handle threateningly.
All was silent for a long moment.
"We're leaving the city," John said quietly, looking the man straight in t
he eye.
"God damn you!"
The handle came down. The man was clumsy, obviously not used to the type of dark-alley brawls that John had grown up with. He easily dodged the blow and with a single strike from a curled-up fist knocked the man flat
"The son of a bitch hit George!" someone screamed from behind the barricade.
John looked up and saw a rifle being leveled, aimed straight at him. Before he could even begin to react, the gun went off. He heard a scream, looked, and saw his young son stagger backward from the blow.
A wild madness now seized him. He raced the dozen feet to the barricade, reaching into the haversack by his side, drawing out an antique pistol, an old flintlock that his grand-daddy claimed to have carried against the British in 1814. He cocked it even as he ran. Stopping on the far side of the barricade, he leveled the piece straight at the man who had shot his son, and squeezed the trigger. The gun went off with a thunderous report, kicking his hand heavenward. The rifleman seemed to leap backward.
The next couple of seconds were mad confusion. Hundreds charged around him, swarming up over the barricade. Shots rang out; the flash of knives glinted in the sun; rifle butts were raised, slammed down; the wild, hysterical crowd pushed forward, clearing the barricade.
Stunned, he just stood alone and then looked back to where his wife, Martha, knelt in the middle of the road, keening softly, cradling the body of young John, his two daughters standing wide-eyed, looking down at their mother and dead brother.
He walked back to her as if in a dream, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her back up.
"We have to go," he whispered.
"No!" She started to flail wildly at him.
"For our two who are still alive we've got to go! We stay here now we'll all be killed."
She stiffened, nodded, but her face was still buried in her hands.
He knelt down, picked up his boy, and carried him to the side of the road, to the entry of a livery stable. A couple of hands in the stable looked at him nervously, bitterness in their eyes.
He gazed at them, saying nothing as he reached into his haversack, drew out a pad and a pencil, wrote the name of his son and their address on it, then tucked the paper into the boy's breast pocket
In a way he could not believe what he was doing, so casually marking the body of his son before walking away. He folded the boy's hands and kissed him lightly on the forehead, drew out five dollars from his pocket nearly all he had, and put it into the boy's pocket then stood back up.
"His name is John Miller Junior. I put five dollars in his pocket for his burying."
"So what?" the younger of the stable hands growled.
John looked around meaningfully then back to the two.
"If you have any Christian sense to you, you'll see that my son is buried proper."
"And if not?" the young one laughed.
"I'm going to join the army now. And after this is over, I'll be back. If he isn't buried as I want, I'll track both of you down and kill you."
The older of the two, gaze lowered, nodded his head.
"I'll see to it. I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you."
John turned without looking back down at his boy. He knew if he did so he'd break, and there was no time, no luxury for that now.
He gathered Martha under his arm, his two sobbing daughters clinging to her skirts.
Hundreds were still passing over the barricade, which was carpeted with a score of dead and wounded, black and white. Lying on the ground was a rifle, a new Springfield. He looked down at it, and the man still clutching the weapon, the man who had killed his son. He picked the gun up, testing its heft, then bent back over to pull off the cartridge box the man was wearing, the brass plate on its side an oval with us stamped in the middle. He put it on, picked up the cap box, and slipped it on to his belt.
He had seen it done often enough. He drew a cartridge, tore it open, poured in the powder, rammed a ball down, half cocked the gun, and capped the nipple with a percussion cap.
Some had stopped to look at him, wide-eyed. None had ever seen a colored man do this or seen a colored man with a cartridge box stamped us on his hip.
He scrambled over the barricade, then turned to help his wife and daughters. Shouldering his rifle, he headed north.
Mount Vernon Square, Baltimore
My 21, 1863 6:30 p.m.
You, sir, have let this go out of control," General Lee snapped, looking up at the quaking civilian standing before him.
The Honorable George Brown stood crestfallen, shirt open, tie gone, fine broadcloth jacket streaked and burned. "Sir, if only I could explain."
"You've tried to explain," Lee said, "and I find your explanation unacceptable.
"Young Lieutenant Kirby here tells me that you were told to help us enter the city but to keep things under control. Do you call that control down there?"
Lee pointed back down toward the center of the city, which was a raging inferno. Fort McHenry beyond was concealed in the smoke.
"General Lee, we did not want this, either."
"I should hope not."
"Sir, you have not been here these past two years," Brown said defensively. "It has been a place seething with hatred, with midnight arrests, a city under occupation. The passions simply exploded, sir."
Lee sighed wearily. He had no authority to deal with this man, but if he did, he'd have him under arrest, if for no other reason than to set an example.
"I want you to go back out there. General Stuart will provide you with an escort. You are to try and help us stop this, because if you don't, my provost guards most certainly will. I have issued orders to shoot to kill anyone caught looting or setting fires, and I don't care which side they are on."
"What about the Loyal League?" Brown asked. "Aren't you going to arrest them?"
"No, I will not. Do you want to set off yet another explosion? They are to go home. Tomorrow I will offer them amnesty if they turn in their arms."
"Amnesty, sir? They should be thrown in jail the way we were!"
"Don't you understand, Mr. Brown? I am trying to restore order here. I will not follow the practices of the Lincoln government in the process. If we act with forebearance now, it will reap rewards later. As long as they comply with military law, they and their property will not be harmed."
"At least round up their ringleaders. I have their names, sir," and Brown fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper, and placed it on Lee's desk, which had been set up under an awning right in the middle of the square.
Lee angrily brushed the note aside.
"No, sir. No! I want their help at this moment. If they will help us to restore order, no matter how naive that might sound, then they are free to live peacefully. I would think that together, both sides would wish to save this city before it burns down around your ears."
Brown said nothing.
"Now go do your duty, sir."
Brown, obviously shaken by the interview, withdrew.
Lee stood up and walked out from under the awning. The city he had loved so much was going under. The entire central district was in flames, the fire department all but helpless to contain it, since so many of the firemen had fallen in with one side or the other during the rioting.
He now had most of Pickett's division either fighting the fires or struggling to suppress the rioting. A report had come in of one company from the Fourteenth Virginia all but wiped out in an ambush, dozens more injured or killed fighting either the rioters or the flames.
It was early twilight, and as he watched the fire, he wondered if this was now symbolic of their entire nation, North and South, so consumed with growing hatred that they would rather destroy all in a final orgy of madness than band together to save what was left.
If this is indeed what we are sinking to, then we are doomed, he thought Even in victory we will be doomed, for God will surely turn away from us.
We have to retrieve something out of this, he thought
. There has to be something saved out of these ashes. I must still set the example and lead if we are to restore what we have lost.
July 23 1963
8.00am
The constant stream of engines pulling the long convoy of trains coming down through the gap above Marysville, Pennsylvania, filled the Susquehanna Valley with smoke. The shriek of train whistles echoed and reechoed. The mood all along the trackside was jubilant, civilians out to watch the spectacle, boys waving and racing alongside the long strings of flatcars and open-sided boxcars packed with troops.
The veterans of McPherson's corps, riding east to save the Union, seemed to be delighted by the spectacle as well. Regimental flags were unfurled, hoisted up, the staffs tied securely in place, each train thus festooned with battle-torn standards from Illinois, Iowa, Michigan, Wisconsin, Ohio, Indiana, emblazoned on them in gold letters the names of campaigns that to the Easterners were a mystery, except for the freshly lettered, triumphant vicksburg.
Rumbling down out of the mountain gap toward the broad, open plain of the Susquehanna Valley just ahead, the veterans looked about with approval at the rich farmlands, the open vista, the cool air of the mountains wafting down around them. It was indeed a far cry from the heat, swamps, ague, and snake-infested landscape of the lower Mississippi. These farms looked much more like the neat, well-kept farms of their Midwest.
They were, as well, coming now as saviors and heroes, and they basked in the glory of it. At crossroads and whistle-stop stations young women waved, sang patriotic airs, and passed up baskets of fresh-baked bread, biscuits, pitchers of
cool water and buttermilk, and older men, with a glimmer in their eye and a wink, would hand off bottles of stronger stuff. The reception across the Midwest had been a warm one, especially when a regiment was passing through its home state, but here at the edge of the front lines the outpouring of enthusiasm was bordering on the ecstatic. These were the men who were going to save central Pennsylvania from the Confederate army, and the local citizens were thrilled by their arrival.
The trains passed over the massive viaduct that spanned the Susquehanna a dozen miles north of the city. Earthworks and freshly built blockhouses guarded the approach to the bridge on the western shore. Fortunately, this bridge had not
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