The Battle of the Crater: A Novel (George Washington Series)

by Newt Gingrich

  “Forget the law, my young friend,” he had proclaimed. “Besides, there are too many of us lawyers already. You must be an artist!”

  For the next six months James cleaned during the day, and at night studied art books that somehow, mysteriously, appeared in the prairie lawyer’s office. He had no bent toward the classical art of the day and showed little interest in the works of Church, Cole, and Turner. His was more of a satirical wit, mixed at times with personal studies of folks sitting in a tavern or courtroom, or clients of Lincoln’s who took delight in James’s skill and sharp wit. One client gave James the unheard of sum of five dollars to do a serious pencil-and-charcoal portrait of himself, his wife, and daughter.

  With the advent of the steam-powered printing presses, and with the public’s insatiable demand for steel engraving illustrations, James at last found his calling, and an anonymous donor appeared. Lincoln smiled at the memory, for James would never be told the name of his benefactor. James spent a year of study in Chicago and never returned to Springfield, landing a job with a paper in the growing metropolis along Lake Michigan.

  They had lost touch, as often happened, and Lincoln suspected that James, guessing who the “anonymous donor” had been, felt shame for so readily accepting the gift.

  They did not cross paths again until 1858, when, during the first debate with Douglas, Lincoln had spotted the young man, now in his late twenties, sitting in the press section, sketchpad in hand.

  It had been a warm reunion, rekindling a deep friendship, and it was, he had to admit, an investment well paid for; it was beneficial to have such a supporter with a national weekly. While some artists took to wicked, and at times enraging caricatures, Lincoln could always find the warmth in James’s work. There was a certain homey touch that captured the spirit of a plainspoken prairie lawyer, carrying the burden of a nation sliding into the “inevitable crisis.” Thomas Nast, though supportive of the cause, could be wickedly vile, especially in his portrayals of Irish, Catholics, and Negroes. Ward and Homer—although their work was superb—lacked something that James always seemed to capture: a very personal, and at times disturbing, vision of the war.

  Shortly after the debates and their reestablished contact, James sent the defeated candidate a check for $120, the cost of his year’s tuition at the art school. Lincoln had replied to him that he had no idea why such a check would be sent to him, but he would cash it and donate the money to a school for freed colored children.

  They temporarily lost touch again until the week following the collapse of McClellan’s Peninsula Campaign. James had shown up at the White House, unbidden, standing in line for hours to finally have a word with his President. He asked for five minutes of time to show him some sketches—not the sketches that would appear next week in Harper’s, of perfectly aligned ranks of soldiers going forth to victory, but rather, drawings that would never be published.

  For the first time, he had seen a glimmer of the true face of this war through James’s eye and pencil, and it had left him shaken. Five minutes turned into four hours, and later that evening a plan was hatched.

  “James, I’d like to ask a favor of you,” he said slowly.

  “Anything at all, sir.”

  “Whenever you are returning from the front would you visit with me?”

  “A pleasure,” and he then hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your time, sir.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Actually, I take delight in seeing you as an old friend from Illinois, but this is about something else.”

  “And that is, sir?”

  “I’d like you to bring your sketchpad along, share it with me, especially those drawings, which you say will never be published. It gives me a sense of things, things no official report, no newspaper account, can carry.”

  “Of course.”

  “But there is more, James.”

  “And that is?”

  “I’d like you to talk to me as you just have. Tell me your impressions. What you see. What you hear the men saying. Unlike a lot of the newspaper writers the soldiers dislike, I can see from the drawings that the men trust you. They fancy when you sketch them, and you’ve told me what they talk about while you sketch them. I want to hear that.”

  “And?” he asked tentatively.

  “And what you hear in headquarters as well. What the staff talks about. Find a way to sketch some of the generals now and then. Heaven knows they will sit all day doing nothing except posing like Napoleon himself while a battle is raging outside their tent if they think they’ll wind up on the cover of Harper’s.”

  He had forced a smile.

  “Share a drink, let them chat, hear what they say about themselves, about each other, about how they really feel the war is going. That is what I really want to hear from you, James.”

  His young friend had taken that in and remained silent for several minutes, looking down at his sketchpad, slowly thumbing through the drawings, stopping at a drawing of the field at Malvern Hill after the fighting ended.

  “In other words, you want me to spy.”

  “That, my friend, is such an ugly word when so many talk about an honorable war, all glory and such.”

  He sighed.

  “I want to hear the truth, James, not the whispers of a spy, as you put it. I want to hear from a man I trust, understand what he sees with the eyes of an artist, but also, what he hears. I do not think there is dishonor in that. It would be of tremendous help. Think of yourself as the President’s eyes and ears in places I can’t go.”

  His friend had finally nodded, pointing to the carnage drawn out on his pad.

  “If it shortens that by one day, I’ll do it.”

  It was James, returning to Washington the day after Antietam, who brought Lincoln the bitter news that two entire corps had remained idle throughout the fight, the men raging that if they had been sent in at the end of the day, they would have swept Lee and his army into the Potomac and ended the conflict then and there. The privates, sergeants, even some of the generals, had seen it—but not McClellan. He had reported the same about Chancellorsville and again after Gettysburg … lost victories and distant generals who had failed to see the possibilities.

  But now, Lincoln could see that his friend was a man all but shattered by what he had seen over the previous month. His drawings were full of pathos and anguish. Gone was the light satirical wit.

  Thumbing through the pages of drawings, Lincoln stopped at the one of the men, lined up in the trench, slips of paper pinned to their backs with their names on them.

  “Tell me of this. What is it?” Lincoln asked.

  He looked into James’s eyes and saw that there were tears; the man all but breaking as he described the futility of the charge.

  “That was the attack your brother was in?”

  “Yes, sir.” James did not offer any further explanation.

  “I see,” and he continued to thumb through the drawings, stopping at the last one, bodies carpeting a field, all of them with the sheets of paper pinned to their backs.

  “Talk to me about this,” Lincoln said softly. “Why the pieces of paper?”

  James, head lowered, the cigar between his fingers going out, described all he had seen, his voice a monotone.

  “They baa-ed like sheep, sir, like sheep as they climbed out of the trenches. These were veterans, sir: men who had seen three years of it. Many of their enlistments were up within a few more weeks and they had already done their duty a hundred times over. They knew what was to come, that it was the end of it all, and yet they went forward anyhow. That baa-ing was their last act of protest.”

  He sighed deeply.

  “After Antietam, I no longer heard them sing, or cheer for the Union when they charged, but they would go in like veterans, they would. However, three days ago, sir, it was different from anything I have seen in this war. I never want to see the likes of it again.”

  He looked into the President’s eyes.


  “I don’t want to talk about that anymore, sir,” he whispered.

  Lincoln nodded, features drawn, filled with an infinite weariness. He slowly stood up, went to the door, opened it, and said something to John Nicolay, who was at his desk in the next room. Nicolay came in a minute later with a heavy crystal glass, filled halfway with whiskey. He offered it to James, who gladly took it.

  “Not a word ever of this drink,” Lincoln said, trying to make a feeble attempt at a smile. “If Mary knew I served liquor in this room she’d have my head, but I think we can forget that this time.”

  “Of course, sir,” John replied, withdrawing and closing the door.

  “Did Grant fail?” Lincoln asked, waiting for James to drain the glass and finally relight his cigar with a shaking hand.

  James looked straight at Lincoln.

  “Information from a spy?”

  “James, just the truth as you see it.”

  “I honestly can’t say. At the Wilderness, and even at Spotsylvania, the men were saying they trusted him even though the fighting was murderous. That he was knocking the stuffing out of Bobbie Lee, keeping him pinned in place and dancing to our tune. But North Anna, and then this accursed place, Cold Harbor…”

  He fell silent again.

  “I’m told he saw no other choice. Richmond was right before him, he thought Lee was battered enough that he could break through.”

  “Was that the official report?” James asked.

  Lincoln did not reply.

  “I guess it could be said that way but the men who had to do the charge knew different.”

  James looked into the glass and then back at Lincoln, but the President made no offer to have it refilled.

  “The war’s changed, sir.”

  “How so?”

  “You could see it at Antietam. In a stand-up fight, the ghastly slaughter was equal, but give one side time to dig in, dig deep, real deep…”

  His voice trailed off, and he looked out the window.

  “Lee had entrenchments three lines deep. Deep falls, entanglements, and a moat in front if they had time. A fortress line, miles long. Gone are the days of trying to maneuver around it. The Rebs can dig as fast, even faster, than a corps can march to flank them, and when they attack, there are the trenches filled with Rebs waiting for us.

  “General Grant gambled that he could batter his way through,” James gestured to the open sketchpad of the casualties on the field. “And that is the price. Was it a mistake?”

  He hesitated, Lincoln leaning forward, nodding in a reassuring gesture for him to proceed.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied emphatically, almost fiercely. “Rumor is there were the usual staff work mistakes, the result the attack went in twenty-four hours later than planned, and that gave the Rebs more than enough time to turn it into a killing ground with no hope of success. If the privates and sergeants could see it, why in hell…”

  He hesitated.

  “Excuse me, sir, but why in hell couldn’t the generals see it?”

  He muttered something under his breath, and Lincoln did not ask him to repeat it.

  “Blame Grant? I’d say blame the whole mess on the chronic, bad luck Army of the Potomac. It always seems on the edge of victory and then someone goes off half-cocked, or does not do his job right, or gets drunk, or an order gets lost. Don’t get me wrong, never blame the men, they are the bravest of the brave, and if just once leaders ensured that things were done right by them, I know they could win.”

  Lincoln nodded in agreement but said nothing.

  “After Cold Harbor though, I must say this: No frontal attack will ever work again, sir, not against trenches manned by Lee’s veterans, armed with rifles, and backed up by artillery packed with canister. Around Richmond itself there is nothing but layer after layer of trenches and forts. No, sir, not Grant, nor anyone else, will break through and take Richmond. I guess he believed he had to try and that was the result.”

  Lincoln whispered, “It’s the same I hear from Sherman on the approach to Atlanta. With every flanking march, he finds another wall of fortifications waiting. It seems we are in a new age of warfare, as Ericsson’s monitors have changed forever how navies will fight. Until some genius figures a new way of doing the same on land, or the will of the Rebels just falls apart…” His voice trailed off.

  “Sir, I came to see you, but this will be for the last time.”

  “Why so?”

  “I’m asking for a change of assignment after this. I want to get as far away from this damn war as I can possibly get.”

  He looked back at Lincoln and shook his head.

  “Excuse my language, sir.”

  “I’ve heard a lot worse, James, no apology needed.”

  “Maybe go out west; I’d like to see that while it is still wild, open, and free.”

  Lincoln sighed and looked out the window. Darkness was settling, but the river was aglow with lights, distant echoes of steamboat whistles drifting in the still evening air.

  “Another division is shipping out tonight,” Lincoln said.

  “The colored troops,” James said.

  “How did you know?”

  “Some of them buried my brother this morning. Good honorable men they are, and God save them, they cheered when they heard the news that they were going up to the front lines.”

  “They feel they have something to prove and indeed they do.”

  “They’ll be slaughtered. We’ve both heard what the Rebel government said about black troops.”

  “General Lee is an honorable man, even if he is the deepest thorn in my side,” Lincoln replied sharply. “There have been communications, shall we say, in private and assurances conveyed, that regardless of what Jeff Davis and some others say, the rules of war will be observed.”

  “And what is it, you think, they’ll prove?” James asked.

  “The same thing the Irish Brigade proved at Fredericksburg, what hundreds of thousands from your isle proved.”

  “That we’re equal? That we have brought our right to a claim to this land?” James questioned. “Sir, that might sound good in war time, but if and when this war ends, what then? And if we lose?”

  “We will not lose,” Lincoln replied sharply. “We cannot lose. And, yes, I do believe those men just might prove something once and for all,” he continued, nodding toward the river and the boats heading downstream. “Believe me, I was one of the chief doubters when it came to arming Negro troops, but now? They are just about the only ones left willing to volunteer and their presence just might decide the issue. If that is the case it requires me as well to rethink many things about them.”

  “For their sake, sir, I pray it is worth something, given what they are about to face.”

  They sat silent for several minutes, James relighting his cigar and puffing it down to a short stub.

  “I sent Grant a box of his favorites,” Lincoln said, finally breaking the silence. “Are you at the Willard? If so I’ll send a box over to you first thing in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir, but I’m catching the noon train for New York tomorrow to turn in my sketches, they want to run them next week.”

  “Which sketches?”

  “The usual ones,” and he shook his head. “My editor keeps saying the others are too grim, and the public does not want to see them.”

  “If both sides could see them in every detail,” Lincoln replied, “maybe this madness would indeed stop. But that is never the case in war.”

  “Do you still think we can win?” James asked.

  Lincoln simply nodded.

  “James, there is no other choice. I pray the good Lord will forgive me for this price,” and he pointed at the drawing still open on his lap. “I could end it tomorrow with a simple command for the armies to stop, turn around, and march home, and I daresay, at this moment, most folks in the North would cheer. But what of the future?”

  He looked back out the window.

  “In five years at most the
re will be more war,” Lincoln whispered, voice distant as if remembering a dream or nightmare. “The fire-eaters in the South will plunge into Mexico, claiming they are going to kick the French and Austrians out, but in reality, they will attempt to seize more land for slavery. California and the west coast? We will wind up fighting over that someday, or they may also just decide to split away. Then we will be three nations, maybe four or more. Then we will squabble over everything in between. You know your history of what happened after Charlemagne died; it would be the same here.

  “A hundred years hence? We will be like Europe, divided against itself, scheming with ever more cruel instruments of war against each other. A Shakespeare would indeed then proclaim that there was a plague on both our houses. It has to end here and now.

  “That and slavery; it, too, has to end now, and I believe it is the burden of our generation to see it done. I will not pass on to my sons the curse of yet another war and to my grandchildren, Lord forbid it, yet another and another.

  “And as for those men,” and he gestured to the boats turning down the broad sweep of the Potomac, one after another in the line disappearing from view.

  “There was a time, James, when I agreed with the recolonization movement, that the two races could not live side by side in peace. But those men, their blood drawn with the lash and the bullet, I realize now, have as much a place here as I do and as you do.”