Grant Comes East

Chapter Eleven

In Front of Baltimore

July 21, 1863 3:00pm

General Longstreet, what is the situation?" General Lee, reining in Traveler, looked expectantly at Old Pete, who had been busy shouting orders to several staff officers. The staff, clearly aware of Lee's arrival, hurriedly saluted, turned, and galloped off.

"McLaws's division is deployed for action, sir," Long-street yelled, in order to be heard above the thunder of a battalion of artillery that was firing less than fifty yards away.

The battalion was wreathed in smoke; General Alexander, newly promoted to command of all artillery for the Army of Northern Virginia, was racing back and forth along the line of guns, motioning another battery into place along the low ridge.

On the flank of the guns, McLaws's division was ready to go, haversacks and equipment dropped in regimental piles, battle lines forming up, officers pacing back and forth nervously. Having ridden up from Ellicott Mills, Lee had just passed Pickett's division, coming on at the double across the open fields.

"Jeb did his job here," Longstreet announced. "You can hear his skirmishers forward even now, probing their line."

'Taking the bridges at Ellicott Mills was a feat," Lee said in agreement.

His young cavalier was at his best again, the failure before Gettysburg still a goad, a blemish to be redeemed. In a predawn charge he had personally led a brigade into Ellicott, seizing the town, leaving garrison and bridges intact, a feat that had laid Baltimore open to mem. Throughout the day the men of Longstreet's corps had been storming across the bridges, deploying to approach Baltimore from the west side of town.

He raised his field glasses. The town was clearly in sight, high church spires, smokestacks of factories, warehouses, rich homes, all of it wreathed in smoke.

"Is the town burning?" Lee asked.

Longstreet nodded.

"Started around noon."

"Who started it?"

"It wasn't us, sir. I've held fire back to hit just their fortifications. It must be inside the dry."

"We've got to get in there before it goes out of control."

"Here comes Jeb" Longstreet announced

It was indeed Stuart, riding hard on a lathered horse, staff trailing behind him, plumed hat off; he was using it to strike the flank of his horse. Troops seeing him approach let out a rebel yell in greeting.

Grinning, he reined in before Longstreet and Lee.

"A lovely day!" Stuart exclaimed, waving his hat to the sparkling blue skies overhead.

They're abandoning the lines, running in panic, General Lee! Some of my men are already into their fortifications. We need that artillery fire lifted, General Longstreet"

Longstreet shouted an order to a waiting staff officer, who ran off toward Alexander.

"One of my young spies just came through the lines," Stuart announced, pointing to a sweat-soaked lieutenant behind him.

"Lieutenant Kirby, sir," and the boy saluted with a flourish.

"Your report, Lieutenant?" Lee asked.

"Sir, it is chaos in the city. The panic started midmorning with the reports that Stuart's cavalry was in sight I tried to get back through during the night but got trapped in an attic loft when I was chased by one of their Loyal League patrols. Fortunately I knew the neighborhood, and a friend of my family hid me. I'm sorry I didn't get back through earlier."

'That's all right son. I'm glad you are safe."

"Sir, their garrison is not more man several thousand, but a panic just exploded around noon. Deserters are pouring into the city, many of them heading down to Fort McHenry. Word is the commander there is threatening to shell the city."

"He wouldn't dare," Stuart grumbled "That's against all rules of civilized warfare."

"He just might," Longstreet replied.

"Is that what started the fires?"

"I couldn't tell for sure, sir. I did hear some artillery fire. The family mat was hiding me, they said that fighting is breaking out in the streets between the Loyal League and those on our side. It's getting ugly."

"How so?'

"Burning, sir. Hangings, executions." "General Stuart, did you leave the northern roads open as ordered?"

"Yes, sir. I have patrols watching them, but there are no troops moving in."

"I want those roads kept open. If we cork the bottle, those people in there just might turn and fight I want them to know there is a way to get out safely. We can chase their infantry down later, out in the open, but I don't want them barricading themselves into the city."

"I'm certain it is still open, General Lee."

"Sir," Kirby interrupted. "I urge you to go in now. It is getting out of control in the city. Your presence will stop it; otherwise all of Baltimore might burn to the ground."

Lee nodded, looking over at Longstreet.

"Send McLaws in now, General Longstreet"

"Sir, I'd prefer to have Pickett up on the line before we attack."

"There is nothing organized in front of us to attack," Stuart announced. "As I said, my boys are already into some of their fortifications."

Longstreet nodded toward Lee.

"As you wish, sir."

He urged his mount away from the group and raced off to where McLaws and his staff were waiting. Orders were shouted. Thousands of men stood up, rifles flashing in the brilliant afternoon sunlight Drums rolled, officers, most of them mounted, riding up and down the lines, waving their swords.

The division lurched forward, five thousand strong; as the men cleared the crest, passing through Alexander's guns, which had fallen silent a cheer went up.

Caught up in the moment, Lee fell in on their flank, standing in his stirrups, urging them on.

The day was glorious, bright, crystal-blue sky, a touch of breeze whipping out the flags, men cheering, the city of Baltimore before them.

First Church of the Redeemer (AME), Baltimore

July 21, 1863 3:15 p.m.

John Miller stood in the nave of the church along with many of the other elders, his wife and three children gathered fearfully around him.

It was chaos. The small, clapboard-sided church was packed beyond overflowing, hundreds more gathered out in the streets and yard around this center of their community. A white officer from the army was up at the pulpit trying to be heard, Miller and the other elders shouting for those around them to fall silent to hear what was being said The officer looked down at Miller, exasperated, and then actually motioned to his revolver, as if ready to draw it and fire it into the ceiling. John shook his head, pushed his way up to the side of the pulpit, and cupped his hands. "Everyone! Shut up!" he roared

His tone, his bull-like voice, a voice of command gained from years working in the heat and thunder of the Abbot Rolling Mills, cut through the chaos. At this moment the shy, soft words of a preacher just would not have done it. The church fell silent though the tumult out in the street still rolled in to them, counterpointed by the distant nimble of artillery fire in Baltimore. What was to be their fate? No one said. Some of the Loyal League, the pro-Union militia that had taken over the city, claimed that black men would hang from every lamppost in Baltimore if the rebels came. John knew that was just talk to stir up passions, but there might be a grain of truth to it. More than one whose loyalties were with the South had said the exact opposite, that all would be as before. There were some though that muttered that "the niggers had gotten the upper hand," and a day of reckoning would come.

He looked at his friends and neighbors, his own family huddled in the crowd, and knew something would have to be done. They could not just stand here like sheep waiting for the slaughter, praying that the good mercies of their white neighbors would see them through. Yes, most of them were good neighbors, but one lone wolf could still slaughter them all or take them back into slavery.

He had never known that bitter bondage. He was a skilled man, helping to oversee one of the rolling mills that turned out iron plate for the navy. He would die before a slave catcher would ever place a hand upon him, or his skills would ever be turned to feeding the Confederate cause.

"Major, which way is your army fleeing?"

"Some to McHenry, others on the road north, following the tracks of the Philadelphia and Wilmington Railroad. Why?"

"I'm leaving," John announced, his voice raised so all could hear. "I'm taking my family and going north."

The major looked at him and men nodded with approval.

"Don't go down to the Fort There will most likely be fighting there. Boats are already taking many out; I doubt though if they will allow you colored to board. Get on the road north and stay on it. There are some troops moving on it who should protect you."

"We'll protect ourselves," John said harshly. "Some of us have guns."

"Don't do that; you know what will happen if you are caught with weapons."

"Major, if you were me, wouldn't you carry a gun?"

The major, taking no insult as some white folk would have, looked at John and men smiled.

"The army, as you know, is recruiting for colored regiments. Go to Wilmington. Better yet, Philadelphia, where the recruiting and training camps are for the colored regiments. Go there, become a soldier, then come back and fight to liberate Baltimore from the Confederates!"

John listened but said nothing. For the moment all he cared for was to get the hell out of this town and move his family to safety.

John left the pulpit, garnered his wife and three children under his arms, and headed for the door.

‘I’m leaving now," he shouted "Any who want to go with me, pack up some food, leave everything else behind, and let's get out of this God-cursed city before the rebels get here."

Near Federal Hill, Baltimore

July 21, 1863 3:45 pm.

Brown, things are getting out of control!" Former police commissioner Kane came staggering into the hotel lobby they had established as temporary headquarters for their new "Sons of Liberty" militia.

Hundreds had rallied to their call in the hours just before dawn. Street fighting had erupted almost immediately. At first it was nothing more than scuffles, taunts, which had then moved to boys throwing "horse apples," to an occasional brick, and in short order had escalated to showers of rocks, men armed with clubs, and in the final step to pistols, rifles, and now several artillery pieces taken by both sides from the regular troops who were now only themselves trying to get out of the way.

The sound of glass shattering was a continual accompaniment to the cacophony of noises, intermixed with gunfire, screams, the panicked braying of mules, the pitiful shrieks of wounded horses, one team trapped under an overturned carriage that had crashed into a building burning across the street

Kane stood in the doorway, blood pouring down the side of his face, which was puffed up, swollen from where he had been struck by a piece of cobblestone. A bullet nicked the frame of the open doorway, splinters flying. Another round hit the chandelier over Brown's table, shattered crystals raining down.

A volley erupted, ragged, the report greeted by guttural cheers. A group of men stormed out of an alleyway alongside the hotel, charging across the street, colliding with a mob of Loyal Leaguers, who turned and started to run. Brown stood up, watching the mad scuffle, musket and pistol butts rising and falling. A giant of a man armed with a pickax handle fighting like Samson in the middle of the fray, going down, a moment later his body rising back up, held aloft by half a dozen men, several boys looping a coil of rope around his neck, throwing the other end over a lamppost and then straining to hoist the dying man aloft.

Disgusted, Brown turned away.

"It's this way all over the city," Kane gasped. "Murders, beatings, reports of rape; entire blocks are burning now. My God, the city has gone insane."

Brown, obviously overwhelmed, could not speak. He knew this was far beyond anything he could have ever imagined. Yes, there would be fighting, but these were neighbors before the war, friends even. Have two years of this war so coarsened all of us that we have sunk to this? he thought. All the talk of glory and freedom now tasted bitter and stale.

"Can't we stop it?" Brown asked weakly.

"Not now," Kane shouted as an explosion down the block rocked them, flames gushing out of a tavern. Several men \ were running out of the open doors, as if emerging from the pit of hell, their entire bodies on fire. They ran shrieking, flailing, then collapsing.

"Hate, liquor, half the mob out there is drunk, the other half drunk on blood."

Brown lowered his head.

"What are the Yankee troops doing?"

"Fort McHenry is threatening to open fire. The road down to the fort, however, is packed with refugees."

A "Son of Liberty," Brown recognized him as a former police captain, came through the door, eyes wide, the stench of liquor on his breath.

"The niggers are rioting" he shouted. "They're killing white folk!"

Brown looked at him, incredulous.

Before he could even respond, the man was back out the door, holding a pistol aloft, shouting for men to follow him.

Brown retreated back to his table in the comer of the lobby and slumped into his chair, covering his face.

If this was war, he wanted nothing to do with it It had all sounded so bright and wonderful last night In his fantasies, it would be done with chivalry, a few dead perhaps, but done cleanly, the cowardly Yankees fleeing under a gauntlet of taunts, the Loyal League retreating to their basements to hide, the gallant Army of Northern Virginia, with Lee at the fore, riding into the center of town, where he, as the provisional mayor, would ceremoniously hand him the keys to the city.

Another explosion rocked the room, but he did not even bother to look up.

Outskirts of Baltimore

July 21,1863 4:00 p.m.

General Lee, I think we should hold back here for the moment," Walter Taylor announced, coming up to the general's side.

Reluctantly, Lee found he had to agree. They were into the edge of the city, a district of neatly built homes. He did not recognize the neighborhood; it must have been built after his tenure supervising the building of fortifications for the defense of Baltimore. So ironic that the very defenses he helped to build and upgrade were now the object of his attack.

If the fortifications were properly garrisoned, he knew there would be a formidable battle ahead. So far, however, his hope that the outnumbered, second-rate garrison would take flight seemed to be coming to pass.

He always had a fondness for this town, Southern in so many ways, but also bustling, sophisticated, with orchestras, theaters-a place of culture. It had been a comfortable posting.

He did not recognize any of it now.

Crowds were out in the street and panic was in the air. McLaws's men had stormed up and over the outer perimeter of fortifications with ease; barely a shot was fired. The men were exuberant, for the works were indeed extensive though nowhere near as well designed as Washington's, and to the last instant there had been fear that somehow it was a trap, that the guns, visible in their emplacements, would suddenly open up, turning an easy advance into a shambles.

The only Yankees to be found were drunks and a few sick and injured who had been abandoned by their terrified, retreating comrades. There had been a few shots from houses at the edge of town, the advance line of skirmishers rushing in, the shooters bursting out of the homes, casting aside their rifles, and running for their lives. He had already intervened personally at the sight of a couple of young boys, not more than fourteen or fifteen, surrounded by an angry knot of his soldiers. The boys had apparently decided to try and hold back the Confederate army on their own and shot a soldier, fortunately only a graze to the arm, but the wounded man's comrades were getting set to string the boys up.

"Give them a good spanking," Lee had announced good-naturedly, his suggestion breaking up the angry mood. "Then send them home to their mama."

He could hear the two boys howling as the men set to them with a will.

But as they got a few more blocks into the city, the mood turned darker. Several houses were burning, no one bothering to try and put the flames out, the owners standing outside, shocked, one shouting to the passing troops that the damn Loyal Leaguers were burning the town, a half block farther on another victim hysterically screaming imprecations at the soldiers and at "all goddamn rebels."

An occasional report of a rifle or pistol echoed ahead. Walter and his guard detail looked around nervously. Though Lee hated to put a special distinction unto himself, he felt the need for it now. He had no hesitation about riding into the storm of battle; there were times that he sought the challenge or knew that his duty required it, but to be gunned down by a hidden assassin lurking in a darkened window struck him as obscene, and inwardly he had to admit that it did frighten him a bit Somehow he still clung to the notion that battle should be fought in open fields and woods. There it was pure, no innocents caught in the middle, the only ones present men who had volunteered to be there, and who in general fought with honor. To die at the hands of a drunken assailant was not a worthy death.

He reined in and waited, his guards, with pistols and carbines raised, forming a tight circle. Down the middle of the street a regiment from Pickett's division came by on the double, Virginia state flag at the fore.

"Your orders, Colonel?" Lee shouted as the regiment came abreast of him.

Startled, the colonel looked up, saw Lee, stepped from the front of the column, and saluted with a flourish.

"We're leading Armistead's brigade, sir. Our orders are to occupy Federal Hill."

"Carry on."

The men cheered as they passed, more regiments coming around a bend in the road behind them

Their enthusiasm was overflowing, the men yelling, cheering, drummers struggling to keep up while at the same time beating out the pace. A troop of cavalry riding on the sidewalk across the street trotted by, pistols drawn.

The wind shifted slightly, carrying smoke on it a distant rumble, almost like battle but not quite.

A courier came tearing back up the street lashing his mount shouting for the infantry to clear the way. He rode straight past Lee, went half a block, then reined in hard, horse skidding. He turned his mount and came racing up to Lee, breathing hard

"General McLaws's compliments, sir. He begs for you to come forward with as many men as possible."

"What is wrong? Are the Yankees standing?"

"No, sir. It's the civilians. Sir, it's a riot like nothing we've ever seen. I'm supposed to find General Longstreet and report this, sir."

"How bad is this riot?"

"Sir, I've never seen anything like it Whole blocks are burning; there's people a-hanging from trees. They're fighting so hard neither side will stop."

"Our men?"

"They're trying to stop it now, sir, but we're getting hurt some. General McLaws got hit by a rock and is down."

A thundering explosion suddenly washed over them. Startled, Lee looked up to see a massive fireball climbing heavenward, mushrooming out Windowpanes farther down the street shattered, glass tinkling down onto the street

"Longstreet's farmer back," Lee said, pointing back up the road. "He might be riding with Pickett's headquarters."

The boy saluted and galloped off.

He took a deep breath.

"We better go in."

"What was that?" Taylor asked, pointing at the still-mushrooming cloud

"Might be the powder reserves at Federal Hill; if so, there's going to be a lot of damage down in the center of town," Lee announced

Taylor shouted for the guard to keep a sharp watch, and Lee did not object as several of the men moved in closer. He knew he had to put on an imperious air, to project a calm authority, but still he found himself looking nervously about After so long in the field this environment was alien, disquieting.

Crowds were out at every street corner, some cheering the passing troops, others standing by, sullen and quiet Confederate flags appeared at some windows and porches. A lone defiant girl stood in her doorway, holding a Federal flag up in her hands, weeping.

Moved by her bravery, he saluted, then told Taylor to detail off a soldier to gently take the girl inside for her own safety but offering his compliments as well.

They turned the corner in the road leading down to Federal Hill, and he reined in again. The scene was apocalyptic, something from the Bible. Fire was soaring up from the center of the old fort, buildings beyond the fort shattered, in flames. But what he saw at the next street corner truly sickened him. A body was dangling from a tree, another lying in the gutter. The house the bodies were in front of was engulfed in flames, the side of the neighboring house already scorched and smoking.

The body hanging from the tree was a black boy, not more man twelve or thirteen, the body in the gutter a woman, her throat cut, blood spilled out in a dark, ugly pool.

Sickened, Lee looked over at Taylor.

"Damn it," he shouted, "this will not be tolerated!"

The use of even a mild profanity startled Taylor, who, ashen-faced, stiffened in the saddle.

"I want the provost guard in this town, in force now! This will not be tolerated! I want that boy cut down. His family and that of the woman to be found, our condolences offered, and funerals paid for! I want someone to find out what happened here!"

Angrily he turned Traveler away. His fear of the moment before gone, he pressed farther into the city.

Even as Pickett's regiments stormed along the street beside him, he caught glimpses of side streets and alleyways. Some were empty, others lined with nervous groups of civilians watching, and then the next one would reveal a raging battle, mobs swaying back and forth, storefronts being broken into, looted, crowds fighting with each other, bricks flying, rifle shots echoing. The column of infantry suddenly stopped, half a dozen blocks from the center of town, the men who were now stalled leaning over, panting hard, looking around nervously, not sure of what should be done next

"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 the 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

been dropped, the furthest advance of the Confederates stopping down at the gap just above the city.

Along the narrow road just south of the bridge more fortifications were in place, two batteries of rifled pieces guarding this precious crossing in case any rebel raiders should now try to attack.

The river beneath the bridge was still swollen and turbulent from the torrential rains of the previous three weeks, the water dark, littered with debris that tossed on the waves. As the lead train shifted through a switch and on to the bridge, they passed out of the morning light on the west bank of the river into the shade on the steep slopes of the eastern side, the air cool and refreshing.

Spirits were up. The word had passed that their journey of almost a thousand miles was at an end. Fifers picked up songs. Here and there men joined in, some of the tunes patriotic, more than one off-colored, with loud coughs and throat-clearing at every sight of girls lining the track. A group of young women from a nearby female academy, dressed in patriotic red-white-and-blue dresses, triggered an absolute frenzy of coughing, cheers, and more than one friendly, ribald comment that set the girls to blushing but also giggling in response.

The train thundered out of the pass into the broad, open panorama of the Susquehanna Valley, directly ahead the dome of the state capitol, church spires, and factory smokestacks of Harrisburg. All could see the flame-scorched piers of the destroyed covered bridge dropped during the Gettysburg campaign, and the approaches to the pontoon bridge that had been swept away in the flood. Several artillery batteries lined the bank of the river, the guns well dug in, the crews lounging about, waving as the first train passed, the veterans replying politely but holding themselves a bit aloof. For, after all, they were fresh from victory, and the ones waving were not. The armies of the West were now here to teach them how to do it right

Interestingly, a small knot of horsemen was stationed on the far bank, sitting in a clearing partway up the slope of the mountain… advanced rebel scouts, signal flags fluttering. The Confederate outpost had been dislodged several times by small raiding forces coming over from Harrisburg, but as quickly as the Yankees withdrew, the rebs came back to continue their observations of the goings-on inside the state capital.

At the sight of the rebs, the men stood on the flatcars, taunting and waving, shouting that Grant's boys were now here to set things right. Several of the rebel cavalry waved back.

The lead train began to slow, the engineer merrily playing his whistle with a skilled hand, trying to squeeze out the opening bar to "Rally Round the Flag." The tune didn't carry too well, but the rhythm was plain, and some of the men picked up the song, though this was an army that didn't hold much with such patriotic mush. And anyway, in their minds that had been a marching song of the Army of the Potomac and not of the armies of the West.

The crowds along the siding were increasing, people rushing down side streets, cheering, waving, Union infantry joining in, their greeters dressed in bright, new, unstained uniforms.

In contrast, these boys of McPherson's corps were a hard, grizzled lot. Uniforms had long ago faded in the harsh Mississippi sun, the color all but bleaching out to a light, tattered blue. Pant legs were frayed; many had patches sewn on thighs and knees and had backsides stained darkly from countless nights of sitting around campfires. Headgear was non-distinct; few wore kepis, most favoring broad-brimmed hats of brown, black, or gray, which were just as faded and holed as the uniforms.

Hardly a backpack was to be found, the men having long ago adopted a simple horseshoe collar roll of vulcanized ground cloth, with a shelter half, one blanket, and a few changes of socks and a shirt rolled inside. Haversacks were stuffed with some rations; extra food-such as a heavy slice of smoked ham, or a chicken waiting to be plucked-was tied to the strap of the haversack. Of course cartridge boxes were crammed with forty rounds, ten or twenty extra cartridges stuffed into pockets. Maybe a Bible was in the breast pocket of their four-button wool jackets, sometimes riding alongside a deck of cards, a flask of good corn liquor, or some of the new picture cards from Paris. Given the largesse of civilians along the way, most canteens were filled with a mixture of water and whiskey, rum, applejack, or, from the hills of western Pennsylvania, a good solid load of clear, white mountain lightning.

They were veterans, easy in their self-confidence, inured to hardship, long ago disabused of any vague dreams of glory. They had seen what glory led to. They knew their job and would see it through to the end, but they would do so with a quiet, no-nonsense determination. They had signed on for three years, back in the heady days of 1861. Shiloh, Corinth, Fort Donelson, the swamps of Louisiana had forever dimmed the visions and dreams of those early days. What compelled them now was the pride in their regiments and the friendship of their comrades, and no vainglorious words of beribboned generals would sway them one way or the other. It was their job and that was it. War no longer held any illusions for them.

These veterans of the West held the Eastern soldiers who were greeting them with a sort of bemused contempt. Granted, they were on the same side in this war, but it was beyond their understanding how anyone could let a rebel drive them out Where they came from, it was the rebels who did the running, and so it would be here as well. They had come to save the East and they found that concept amusing. They would lord it over the Eastern boys as was their right but then they would see it through to the finish.

They held Grant in supreme confidence. He was one of them. In the shadows of evening, when he would at times walk through their camps, few would actually notice his passing. He was as rumpled as they were, unshaven, battered hat pulled down low, a man you would never notice in a crowd, the only giveaway the almost-permanent cigar clenched in his teeth, glowing like a smokestack. As quickly as it burned to a stub, another would be lit. On a rainy march you might see him sitting astride his horse by the side of the road, eyes watchful, hat brim soaked and dripping, silent, perhaps offering an occasional word of encouragement, but woe betide the man who cheered him; the response was always an icy stare.

He gave no speeches, disdained reviews, which to both him and them were a waste of time, dealt summarily with fools in command, and though they knew he would not hesitate to feed them into the cauldron, he would do so only when there was something to be gained. Their lives, they thought, did mean something to him.

They were of the armies of the West, a different kind of American than those who dwelled in these lush farmlands and burgeoning cities. Many had helped their fathers to clear land on the edge of the frontier. If they were bom in Ohio or Illinois, the stories of Indian raids, of virgin forests, and trackless wilderness were still real to their families. If they were from western Minnesota or Iowa, the frontier was indeed real to them; just beyond the western horizon was a limitless world yet to be explored. Such a vista affected a man, how he thought, what he believed, what he knew he could do, what a hundred thousand thousand of them could do if ever they set their minds to it.

Most had schooling, but not much. Perhaps, like their president, a few months in "blab school." They usually had four, maybe six years tops in a one-room structure that they walked miles to each day. A few, very few, were schooled in the classics and spoke almost like their cousins in the East. Some of these were now officers, but they learned quickly to speak like the men they commanded, to think like them and respect them, or they did not last for long.

Some came from the emerging cities of Chicago, Springfield, or Indianapolis, while others came from the new factory cities springing up around the Great Lakes, and in those regiments could be found mechanics, iron pourers, toolmakers, men who could fashion anything the army might need, or fix anything broken or taken in conquest Men like these could put twenty miles of track back in operation in a matter of days, salvage a locomotive, restore a gasworks, or repair a burst steam boiler.

A sprinkling of Irish were with them, laborers who bent double fourteen hours a day in prairie heat or driving snow, laying the track that was lacing the country together, and some were river men, working the steamships or guiding the flatboats on the Mississippi, the Missouri, and the Ohio. From the far north, more than a few only spoke German, or Swedish, or Norwegian, farmers who had cleared the cold northern land or lumberjacks still felling the great, silent forests. Their new country reminded them of ancestral farms back in northern Europe. Such men were inured to the harsh winters they had always known in both the Old and New Worlds.

Until the start of the war few had ever traveled farther than their county seat to attend a fair or a Fourth of July parade, and nearly all could remember at least one old man riding there in a carriage, eyes dim, but proud and erect, a man who had so long ago marched with Washington, or Wayne, or Morgan.

They were used to vast, open vistas, the limitless plains, or the deep northern woods. This East was almost a different nation, cities to be mistrusted or hated, rich merchants and counting-houses of the railroads, which even at this time were wringing the profits out of their farms.

Ironically, if given a choice, they would have felt far more in common with their foes from Tennessee, Arkansas, and Texas than their comrades from Boston and New York City. The Southern boy might sound strange, but still, he could talk of crops, and raising hogs, and trying to spark a girl behind the barn at a cornhusking, and knew the feel of the damp, rich earth on bare feet when you did your first plowing of spring.

If they had their eyes set anywhere for when this was finished, it was not to the East but always even farther West, maybe mining in Colorado, or perhaps all the way to California. The East was the past, the West was the future, and they were eager to see this war done so they could embrace that future.

There were no illusions now among them. Losing was a concept that was all but impossible for them to contemplate, but they knew the vagaries of battle might bring hard losses. Yet they would see it through even as they knew victory would carry a price. Comrades laughing beside them might be dead in a month; for that matter they themselves might be dead, but at this moment it seemed almost worth it. They were free of the heat and stench of Mississippi, they were back north, treated as saviors, and, as veteran soldiers, they knew how to enjoy the moment

The lead train drifted into the rail yard, bell ringing, whistle blowing. Behind the lead train were fifty more, spaced at ten-minute intervals, the convoy stretching clear back nearly to Pittsburgh, an entire corps with its artillery.

Few contemplated all that had gone into this move, brilliantly designed and orchestrated by Herman Haupt. Entire trainloads of firewood had come along the track ahead of them, replenishing stockpiles at fueling stations. Where it was felt mat watering tanks could not fill the need, hundreds of buckets had been left for the men to haul water up from the nearest stream. Patriotic civilian committees had been raised to bake bread, set out food, pack hampers to greet the soldiers at each of the refueling stops along the way, all of it choreographed so that a train could pull into a siding to take on wood and water and back out in the required ten minutes. Replacement steam engines had been set at major rail yards, ready to rush out and clear the track of breakdowns. This had only happened twice in the long journey. Countless chickens had been slaughtered, fried, and packed, tens of thousands of loaves of bread baked, barrels of fresh drinking water delivered, beeves by the hundreds slaughtered and cooked over open fires alongside the station. Hospitals had been established to take care of the sick or injured, of which there were more than a few. Guards had been posted at key bridges. All of this under the watchful gaze of Herman Haupt, who sat for endless hours by the telegraph in Harrisburg, monitoring every step of the great movement This was the largest, fastest movement of men and equipment in human history and Haupt was determined to make it work.

Supply wagons, ambulances, and nearly all horses and mules had been left behind. Remounts, mules, replacement wagons were coming in from other sources to meet up with this corps, the logistics of it far easier than shipping the same all the way over from Mississippi.

It had come together smoothly, and now the first of these trains could slow to a stop.

General McPherson stepped down from a passenger car at the front of the lead train, stretching, looking around, accepting the salute of the guard detail and then smiling as he saw Grant approach, hat brim pulled low, cigar clenched firmly in his mouth.

"General Grant, it is a pleasure to report to you," McPherson said. "My entire corps should be here by the end of the day."

Grant offered nothing more than a salute, a nod of approval, and a brief "welcome to Harrisburg," and, turning, led McPherson back to his headquarters. It was the type of greeting McPherson expected, and he smiled at the unpretentious simplicity of it.

Baltimore

July 23,1863 Noon

The band, the same one that had serenaded the troops at Leesborough, was yet again playing "Maryland My Maryland," though it was evident that they had spent quite a bit of time practicing since their last performance.

The carriage bearing President Jefferson Davis, Secretary of State Judah Benjamin, and Gen. Robert E. Lee came down the thoroughfare, which was lined shoulder to shoulder on either side by the men of Pickett's division. The troops looked exhausted, uniforms filthy, soot-stained, more than one of the men with blistered hands and face.

Smoke still coiled up from dozens of fires, sometimes an isolated house that had been torched through accident or the ire of a neighbor. But in the downtown district entire blocks were gone. Smoke still coiled heavenward, and over the entire city there hung a pall, bits of black ash covering houses, streets, and even trees.

The troop of cavalry riding escort was strictly adhering to orders, riding almost nose to tail, two ranks deep around the carriage so that Davis grumbled more than once about not being able to see anything.

"Sir, I am responsible for your security and I felt it prudent to exercise caution," Lee replied calmly.

The fact that Jeb Stuart had been winged by a bushwhacker only that morning had sobered everybody. The bullet had narrowly missed the bone in his upper arm, causing Lee to remember how a similar wound had taken Jackson from him.

The assailant had not been caught, and it took serious restraint and the arrest of several of Stuart's troopers to prevent the burning down of the entire block where the attack had occurred.

The carriage turned on to North Holliday Street and stopped in front of City Hall. Cavalry troopers lined the approach from the street and up the front steps with carbines drawn. The ceremonial guard was at attention, but behind them dozens more faced outward, eyes on the windows of buildings up and down the street, and yet more men, selected sharpshooters, were atop the roofs.

A small gathering of well-wishers were out in the street, the band thumping away as the carriage came to a halt, a feeble cheer going up, small Confederate flags fluttering. Twelve girls dressed in white stood on the steps of the building, each wearing a sash hastily lettered with the name of one of the states of the Confederacy; the twelfth, wearing the sash of Maryland, curtsied and gave a bouquet of flowers to Davis, who formally bowed and then kissed her hand, the girl blushing and drawing back.

The president had already been briefed in the strongest of terms by Lee and did not pause on the steps, instead going straight inside, the foyer of the building cool after the noonday warmth of the sun.

An escort led them down the main corridor and into a side office. The table before them was neatly arranged with flowers, pitchers of lemonade, and an ornate coffee-and-tea setting in silver. A black servant stood at the ready, softly asked what each gentleman would prefer, poured the refreshments, and left Davis settled down at the head of the table, Benjamin at the middle, and Lee across from him.

"General Lee, I will confess to expecting a bit more ceremony on our triumphal entry into Baltimore. We arrived almost as furtively as Lincoln did when he passed through here two years ago."

"Sir, I would rather err on the side of caution this day. You already know about what happened to General Stuart."

"Yes, how is he?" Judah Benjamin asked.

"He'll mend. It is a clean wound. Several inches more to the left, however, and we would have lost one of our best generals this morning. If there is one man gunning for General Stuart I daresay a dozen, a hundred would be aiming at you, sir."

"But nothing happened," Davis said a bit peevishly.

"Because, sir, you had a full division of my finest infantry on guard. This city is not yet secured and will not be so for at least a fortnight."

"And the delegates?"

"Sir, the former mayor, the former chief of police, half a dozen former state legislators, various citizen groups are waiting for you in the next room."

"Good. I look forward to meeting with them. The news this morning, in spite of your caution here, has been fortuitous beyond our dreams of but three months ago. We need to act swiftly."

Lee nodded in agreement.

"And the state of the city?" Benjamin asked. "I can barely hope to carry on negotiations if we are in the middle of a battle zone. It would not look good at all; I hope you understand that, sir."

"Yes, Mr. Secretary, I do understand, and am making every effort to facilitate your wishes.

"I've sent another envoy to the garrison at Fort McHenry this morning. I have begged the indulgence of the commander there to refrain from any consideration of shelling the city. To do so would only damage civilian property and not serve his cause. I've offered him, as well, free passage out of the fort, troops to bear arms and colors. Union soldiers waiting for parole are to be free to go as well, along with any Union soldiers that sought refuge there, without need for parole."

"Generous terms, General Lee."

"Yes, sir, but necessary. If I took you down near the waterfront, you would see half a dozen gunboats in the harbor."

"What about the guns we captured at Federal Hill? I understand we have six eight-inch Columbiads."

"Yes, we do, sir, but precious few men trained to man them. To begin a formal siege will be an exercise in yet more bloodshed at a time, I would hope, when we both should be looking to stem that flow."

"There are over seventy guns in Fort McHenry, General Lee," Davis retorted. "Heavy siege guns. If we could seize them intact, they just might be the key to taking Washington."

"I know that, sir. That was one of the terms, that the guns in Fort McHenry are not to be spiked or damaged. But I think that will be a sticking point It would give us a fort that controls Baltimore and armament that would threaten Washington. Sir, he will not surrender the fort, of that I am all but certain."

"Then we must storm it and take the guns by force. Their garrison surely cannot be strong enough to withstand you."

"At a cost of yet thousands more, which we simply cannot afford," Lee replied forcefully. "I lost nearly three hundred more killed and wounded taking this city."

"A small price."

"Not if you have General Lee's numbers," Benjamin said quietly.

Davis nodded reluctantly.

"The state of the city, General Lee?"

"Sir, there are still scattered pockets of rioting and looting, but no organized resistance. It should be noted that the retiring Union soldiers behaved with honor and I was more than happy to grant them free passage. Several of their companies, when they realized they would not be taken prisoners, pitched in with helping to contain the rioting and put out the fires. We then escorted them to the north side of the city and set them on their way."

"Why did you leave the roads to the north open?" Davis asked.

"Sir, never trap an opponent in a place you want to take. Give them a way out and they will take it. The capture of several thousand more soldiers would have served us little, and in fact burdened us with yet more men needing to be guarded."

"I understand though that tens of thousands of civilians are fleeing as well, that many of them are escaping slaves."

Lee said nothing. It was a topic he was hoping to avoid.

"This newspaper from Philadelphia came through our lines this morning," Lee said, reaching into his dispatch pouch and placing it on the table. The headline proclaimed that the rebel army was looting and burning the city.

'To be expected."

"Still, sir, it is not the image we want with the world at this time. We need to show forebearance now." Benjamin cleared his throat

"I would suggest that we allow some members of the Northern press to enter the city and interview civilians who witnessed the rioting," the secretary of state declared. "There are no real military secrets we need to conceal now. Perhaps, Mr. President, you should agree to an interview as well, to lay out our proposal for peace talks."

"I'll consider that" Davis replied.

Davis shifted back to face Lee.

"But I am disturbed that valuable property is escaping north. These are people that we can put to work helping our cause. Many of them are able-bodied men, and the Yankees will press them into their colored regiments."

"Sir. There have been a dozen or more incidents of hangings, rape, torture, outright murder in the colored community. I would much rather see those people leave this town than to have the stain of blood on our hands by forcing them to stay."

"I heard a report that some colored killed white citizens."

"Yes, only after they were attacked."

"Nevertheless, that is intolerable."

"Perhaps intolerable, but I would say intolerable on both sides. Sir, I beg you. Declare an amnesty in this city. It will stand well with the European press and derail the efforts of the Northern press. Declare that all free blacks are to be unmolested as long as they obey martial law. All slaves to stay with their owners."

"And the contraband, the runaways from Virginia?"

"I beg you, sir, do nothing about that now."

Davis looked over at Benjamin, who nodded in agreement with Lee.

"Let it rest for now, sir. Let it rest To do otherwise will trigger yet more panic and rioting."

Davis said nothing.

"The city itself?"

"I think we can have the fires under control by this evening, as long as Port McHenry and the gunboats do not shell us. We've captured dozens of factories all but intact, including the Abbot Mills. Thousands of colored work in them and we need them to get the mills back in production, yet another reason to go easy on them. There's enough food to sustain our army for months. Thousands of rifles, artillery, powder, shoes-more shoes than we ever dreamed of. I've ordered our quartermaster to take control of one of the printing presses and print up vouchers for all supplies taken. What we have here, on top of the supplies taken at Westminster, can sustain the Army of Northern Virginia clear through the winter."

"Good, General Lee, very good. Do you see now why taking this city was crucial?"

"Yes, sir. The question though is how long can we hold it?"

"Why, until peace is negotiated, General Lee."

Lee said nothing, hands folded, looking down at the desk.

"You look distressed, General. What is it?"

"Sir. It'll take at least two divisions, for the next fortnight, to keep order here until we can turn it back over to a reorganized police force. Ten thousand or more are homeless and it is our Christian duty to give them aid and help find shelter. My army is a field army, not an occupation army. There is still the question of the reports of the Army of the Potomac reorganizing on the Susquehanna and the reports that Grant is mobilizing a force at Harrisburg. I must have the latitude to maneuver with my forces if need be."

"Baltimore is our key now," Davis replied forcefully. "Mr. Benjamin will reinforce that, won't you, sir?"

Benjamin nodded reluctantly.

"I'm preparing dispatches to be given to the French consulate here in Baltimore, outlining our position. We cannot just seize Baltimore, send the dispatches, and withdraw. We must be here for the replies. The factories here can be of incalculable service to our cause. We must hold this city, and perhaps, with the armaments taken, renew the threat on Washington.

"The political situation is ripe as well. The fall of Baltimore, the third largest city in America, will reverberate across the North as well. I think, General Lee, we are here for the duration."

"Is there any chance you can get the B amp;O line re-established back over to Harper's Ferry?" Davis asked.

Lee had never seriously thought of that. It would speed up communications to Richmond and help as well to bring up reinforcements.

"I don't have the railroad people. I wish I did," Lee replied, "but I will see what I can do. Yet again, it will stretch us. We'll need to garrison key points, draining yet more men, but yes, it would be a great help."

"If you could open that line all the way back to Winchester, it would mean little more than a day's journey back to Richmond. It would be a major statement as well that Maryland is now firmly linked to our South.

"The news you gave me this morning from General Hood, that Annapolis has fallen, the governor and his pro-Yankee lackeys in the legislature fleeing to the east shore of Maryland, has set the stage for us. Tomorrow I will call a convention for the establishment of a new state-governing body for Maryland with its capital here in Baltimore, declare the prior state administration as illegal and disbanded, and appoint a provisional governor. It is my intent that within the week this new legislature will declare for the Confederacy. If we do that, General Lee, I can promise you twenty thousand more troops within the month, rallying to defend their home state."

"Sir, that would be a boon, but nevertheless they will be barely trained militia." "Men, nevertheless." "Yes, sir."

Lee sat back wearily in his seat All was happening far too fast The city was barely under control; there was the threat that the gunboats and fort might open fire. It was not as easy as Davis wished

"General Lee," Benjamin interrupted. "I received a most gracious invitation this morning from Rabbi Rothenberg of the local Jewish congregation. Would you be interested in joining us for dinner? I think your presence would be of interest to him and the congregation, and helpful as well."

"Me, sir?"

"You are noted for your piety, sir; a visit with one of the leaders of the Jewish community would be a positive example."

"Yes, sir. But of course."

"He has invited us to dine with his family tomorrow night I think you would find him remarkably interesting and the meal more than adequate."

"If he is a friend of yours, I would be honored to join you," Lee replied.

Davis looked at the two, obviously wondering for a second as to why he was not invited.

"The delegation is waiting in the next room?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then let's get started," Davis announced. "This should be most interesting."