Grant Comes East

Chapter Fifteen

Philadelphia

August 11, 1863 4:00 p.m.

Cpl. John Miller stood at attention under the blazing sun. He and the men of his company had been standing thus for the last ten minutes as their white drill sergeant paced up and down the line, delivering a lecture as old as the armies of Caesar, discussing with them their lineage, legitimacy, how "his" army had indeed fallen on hard times if the men before him were now part of it, how the best thing possible would be their complete slaughter on the first volley and other such minor threats.

The sergeant did not really know his audience. Most of the men around John had known nothing but a life of abuse and denial. Most of them were freemen, born in the North or in Baltimore. Nearly all had been laborers, farmhands, dock-workers, mill workers. For John, this session under the sun was a minor annoyance compared to being in Abbott's mill in July, when the hot iron was going through the rollers, sparks flying.

His body was a crosshatching of scars, deep burns, so many in fact that his white lieutenant, seeing him one evening with his shirt off, came up and sympathically asked if his master had whipped him. The young man was embarrassed when John told him about the scars, actually concerned that he might have insulted him by implying he had been a slave. That conversation, talking about his work in the mill, his being foreman to twenty colored workers, his knowledge of writing, even some of the literature he took pleasure in, resulted in the two stripes on his sleeve the next day and an increase in pay, which meant that Sarah and the children, staying with her sister, would no longer be dependent on kin for charity.

"All right, you benighted bastards, let's do it one more time," the sergeant roared.

"Forward march!"

The company line, eighty men formed in two ranks, stepped off, moving like an undulating wave across the parade ground. John, as corporal, on the right of the line, kept looking toward the center, carefully measuring his pace to match the sergeant's.

"Keep watching the center, keep watching the center," he hissed, reaching out to push the man next to him up. The line buckled and wavered, keeping some semblance of formation.

The sergeant, now marching backward, kept up a steady cadence count; most all the men had finally mastered that, the steady tramp of left, right, left, right

"Company, by the right wheel, march!"

John instantly stopped in place, the man behind him almost banging into him as he took one more step.

The line started to turn, again wavering, one man tripping in the front rank, stumbling, breaking up the center.

"Move it, double time, double time!"

The line swung, bent like a snake, almost disintegrated.

"Halt!"

"God in heaven above, preserve me," the sergeant cried, taking off his hat and throwing it on the ground. One of the men actually stepped forward to pick it up for him.

"Get back in line there! You're a soldier, not my goddamn servant. If I want my hat picked up, I'll order you!"

John could not help but grin slightly. The sergeant had not even realized he had just complimented them. He had called them soldiers, not servants. The finer nuance was not lost on many of the men, who, even while the sergeant was swearing, had been looking sidelong at each other, a flicker of a smile on more than one face.

If this sergeant wanted to stand them under the sun all day, swear and roar, march them back and forth, that was fine with them. Dawn to dusk in a mill in July-this was like Sunday in comparison.

John knew mat there was far more, however, than simple physical endurance that would be the final issue here. This new regiment had to learn to march, live, and fight as one. Just as in the mill, where a single misstep by one man could kill an entire crew. Something he had seen beyond counting, men turned to cinders by a blast of molten iron, caught in rollers, crushed in presses. Death and hardship were no strangers to him nor to the rest.

His only fear, the fear of all the men standing there beneath the hot August sun, was that it might be over before they were ready. The regiment had only started to form less than two weeks ago. They had come some distance in those two weeks; uniforms had been issued, shoes, which had caused agony for many of the men until the sergeant had shown them how to break in the heavy leather "brogans," as he called them, by first soaking them in hot water and then putting them on, so that the shapeless form molded somewhat to their feet.

They had yet to receive their rifles though, and rumors were sweeping the city and the newspapers that another great battle was brewing. The horror for all of them was that Lee might be defeated and they would not be there to do their part.

The men from Baltimore were imbued with a dream, that they would march in triumph back into their city. And yet he knew as well how much of a dream that might be. In his walk from Baltimore to Port Deposit he had seen the panicked Union troops falling back, running blindly whenever there was a report that rebel cavalry was closing in. He had seen it after finally crossing the river, where to his amazement a church group was helping to provide transport for colored refugees to Wilmington or Philadelphia. What had been the Army of the Potomac was gathering there, and though they were impressive at first sight, it was evident that they were but the survivors of a beaten army.

And then there was the other talk, that Lee just might win yet again, and if so, the war would definitely be over. If that was the case, he wondered if this could even be his country, North or South.

"All right, you bastards. One more time. Company forward march!"

The ragged line stepped off yet again, the hot sun blazing down, passing dozens of similar companies parading back and forth. The steady "left-right" cadences shouted by white sergeants with Irish brogues, thick German accents, Midwestern twangs, and deep New England drawls, echoing across the held.

Near Gunpowder Falls, Maryland,

Fifteen Miles North of Baltimore

August 11,1863 6:00 p.m.

General Lee rode with Longstreet by his side, staff, including Jed Hotchkiss, and a heavy security patrol of an entire regiment of cavalry spread out before them.

The evening was turning cool, after a warm day of riding. They had set out shortly after- dawn, riding with President Davis for several miles until he had continued on to the west, this time escorted by a full regiment of Stuart's best and a section of light guns. Once the president was out of sight, he had told Pete that they would spend today riding north, to explore the land a bit. They had advanced up the road toward Bel Air, nearly halfway to the Susquehanna, then swung about, heading down toward the Chesapeake, following an open river valley with the ironic name of Gunpowder.

Reining in to rest Traveler, Lee dismounted, loosely holding his old friend's reins, Traveler cropping noisily at the tall, rich grass. Pete dismounted, stretched, and lit a cigar.

"Beautiful evening," Lee said softly.

"That it is, sir."

"We do love these moments. If other parts of our task could forever be put aside, if we could have but this, riding reconnaissance, watching our army on the march, now there would be something to enjoy."

Pete nodded.

"But there is something about the sting of battle," Pete replied, "just before you go in, that is stirring as well, when we are driving them, and the men are shouting to go forward."

"Yes," and though he felt uncomfortable admitting it, that was true for him as well, the vast battle lines deploying out, the thunder of artillery, flags held aloft, the long, long battle lines charging forward, that piercing yell reaching to the heavens. Those were good as well, except for the price that came afterward.

"I'm not given to religious philosophy as you are, sir," Pete said. "But I remember the Norse mythology. Perhaps our Heaven, our Valhalla, will be just that, a warrior's heaven, where we will march and fight forever, and at dusk the dead will rise to feast together, friend and foe, throughout the night until the coming of the next day's battle."

It was a thought Lee did not wish to pursue; he had dwelled too much on philosophy, on moral questions, these last few weeks; to debate now the nature of Heaven would reawaken those other thoughts as well, and he needed to again focus on the now.

"You realize the president expects us to end this within another month," Lee replied, changing the subject.

"I think we can do it," Pete replied forcefully. Pete had stood to one side while Davis had given his final admonition, that with the reinforcements that had just arrived, he expected Washington to be taken.

"We can win," Lee said quietly, shading his eyes to look off to the west. He said, letting go of Traveler's reins, "But not with another attempt on Washington, as the president expects."

Longstreet grinned.

"Glad to hear you say that, sir. Dare I assume that is the purpose of our ride today?" Lee smiled and nodded.

Davis, unknowingly, had at least given him some wiggle room with his closing statement that he expected the Army of Northern Virginia to force Lincoln into capitulation. He cited a pledge, printed in all the Northern newspapers, where Lincoln declared that the city was invulnerable and that he would stay there no matter what happened.

"He cannot run now," Davis said. "Storm the city, capture the scoundrel, and I will be back to deal with him."

He did not exactly say that the city was to be stormed within the next two or three days, though one would have to admit that the president fully expected that outcome.

"I can see the way you've been looking at ground today," Longstreet pressed. "It's like the old days, when we had a chance to look things over before picking our spot"

Lee smiled, his attention diverted by the approach of Taylor and the army cartographer, Jed Hotchkiss.

"Beautiful ground, sir," Jed Hotchkiss announced, a flat board balanced on the pommel of his saddle with a sketchbook pegged to the board. Throughout the day he had been feverishly sketching away, turning out one map after another.

"May I see your work, sir?" Lee asked.

Grinning, Hotchkiss handed the sketch board down.

"Just rough drafts, sir," he said, offering the classic excuse of all artists and writers. "Once back to headquarters I can run off better copies."

Lee took the board, turning slightly to orient himself toward north, Pete coming up by his side.

"We have two good roads coming north out of Baltimore," Lee said, thumbing back to one of the earlier sketches, putting on his reading glasses so he could figure out the finely written details of distances, prominent buildings, and types of terrain.

"The first road toward Bel Air," Lee said, pointing to the map, "the second, the one we are on now, down closer to the bay and parallel to the railroad, which could be used as well for infantry if the weather turns bad."

"North rather than Washington, sir?" Walter asked tentatively. It was unusual for him to venture a question, but Lee did not reproach him. The excuse of their just "going for a ride after seeing the president off" was just that, an obvious excuse after nearly ten hard hours in the saddle, crisscrossing the landscape.

Lee did not reply to Walter's query, instead concentrating on the sketches, turning the pages, pausing occasionally to ask Jed to explain some detail, comparing relative heights between the low-lying ridges.

He could sense the mounting excitement of the other three. The weeks of idleness at Baltimore, though a wonderful chance to relax, reorganize, and refit, seemed out of place for a field army during the height of the campaign season. Battle, of their own choosing, was again in the air.

He reached the last map, the one that sketched this line along the Gunpowder River for nearly ten miles of length. Hotchkiss was obviously tired; he had gone through three horses during the day, covering two miles or more at a gallop for each one Lee had ridden at leisure. He alone knew the full details of why they were riding thus.

Their cavalry escort ringed in a bit closer as the four stood examining the maps, forward pickets a good three or four miles ahead of the main body… and not a single Yankee, not even a few scouts, had been seen all day, a clear sign that Sickles was keeping to the north side of the river.

Lee studied the last map intently, the shadows around them lengthening and then disappearing as the sun set, summer twilight settling over them.

"I think it will be here," he finally said.

"Good ground," Pete replied. "We can ring our guns along this side of the stream, force them to cross; this is very good ground."

Lee shook his head.

"No, I think we'll give it to them."

"Sir?"

"A friend of mine, a man Judah took me to share dinner with, made a good analogy of our army's situation. He said we're like Napoleon before Quatre Bras, several days before Waterloo. Napoleon was trying to force a break between the allied army and the Prussian army. As you know, he failed to do so, and the defeat at Waterloo was the result. We're like Napoleon at this moment, but it's not two armies we must force apart, it is three."

The Plan to bring out Sickles

"We do have the advantage of being in the middle. Pete offered, "Washington garrison to the south, Sickles to the — northeast, Grant to the north."

"And if they should all squeeze at once, we have a problem. No, we must lure one of the three out, defeat it without question, then turn on the second force and defeat that in turn. Once two of the three are destroyed, the third will be broken morally and then we finish it up. I think we can do that, but it will require audacity."

"We never lacked that," Pete said with a grin.

"If we offer battle to Sickles but then dig in here, on the south side of this stream, I think even he will hold. He talks big, but he also has the memory of Union Mills fresh on his mind. He will stop, probe, try to flank us, and in the interim I would suspect Grant will either order him to retire or come down upon our flank and rear and we will be forced to withdraw."

He smiled, pointing at the ground around them.

"No, I want Sickles alone, I want him overly confident, I want him advancing rapidly. If I give him this ground-after a fight, mind you, but not a real fight, just a demonstration- 1 think he will come on with a vengeance, thinking we are on the run, and then we jump him. Conceding this ground at the start will embolden him to push on toward Baltimore and then we spring our trap several miles to the rear."

Pete grinned.

"Fine, sir, now how do we get him here?"

"We set him off half-cocked. Tomorrow afternoon the army will leave Baltimore and advance on Washington with all proper fanfare. I want it done publicly. Let the rumors fly. We don't press the men, however; we save their strength. How we arrange the marching order will be crucial. I want Hood on the left, Beauregard on the right, and you acting as a reserve in the rear, but instantly ready to turn around.

"Leave your strongest division here in Baltimore as a garrison."

"That would be Pickett and, as usual, he'll chafe."

"Let him. No one is to know of this plan other than the four of us here. I want no lost orders like we had at Sharpsburg. We can tell the others when the time comes."

"Thank you for the confidence, sir," Longstreet replied.

"Pete, I have to tell someone, in case anything happens to me."

"Just mind the heat, sir," Walter interjected protectively.

"Thank you, Walter, and remember, no written orders regarding this place here. I want all to appear as though we are marching on Washington with the full intent of storming it within three days."

"Yes, sir."

"We engage in front of Washington, make all appearances of preparing to attack. Now, if by some rare chance the opportunity does arise to take the city, we will venture it, but I don't see that happening, at least not without a bloody cost. Our threat, however, will trigger yet another panic in that city and in the North."

"But Grant did not even budge last time," Longstreet said, "and we've seen the reports about his statements, along with our observations near Harrisburg of his army building there rather than shipping it all to Washington."

"Sickles is the one," Lee said emphatically, "he is the one I'm playing this game to. We know the divisions between Grant and Sickles. It's the same as it was with Pope and McClellan at Second Manassas. We threaten Washington and I am all but certain that Sickles will find an excuse to bring his army, ill prepared, across the Susquehanna. At the very least he'll see the chance to grab back Baltimore, but I suspect that ultimately he will seek to strike us in the rear, at least he will think he is striking us in the rear."

Lee smiled, turning to walk back over to Traveler's side, gently rubbing his old friend's forehead.

"Once we know he is across the river, we move, countermarching back, and when I say move, we will do it with utmost speed, the same way you marched to Westminster, General Longstreet Here is the place we drive for, especially after Sickles has gained it

"We'll work out the details tonight. I think we'll camp near here, gentlemen, I'd enjoy a night away from the city."

Walter nodded and rode off, calling for the cavalry to circle in and to find a tent.

"We play this for Dan Sickles," Lee said, still smiling. "Bring him down here and let him think he is winning, then close in like a vice, taking him on the flank when the time comes. It will call for careful coordination, Pete. Stuart will observe, skirmish, and offer some delay, acting as if he is trying to buy time, thus causing Sickles to press harder. We then send Pickett up to delay, but not too much, a different kind of fight for him, but it's time he proved himself at it. Then, when the moment is right and all our forces have marched back up from Washington, we hit Sickles with a concentrated attack and finish him."

"Grant and the Washington garrison?"

"That's one of the reasons I'm sending Wade Hampton across the river between the two armies. Yes, I want to know exactly where the Nineteenth Corps is before we start this fight If they do move with Sickles, we might have a bigger fight than anticipated. But the broader plan is for Wade to disrupt communications between those two armies and sow panic, perhaps even to lead Grant to think I'm preparing to cross the river farther up. I want Sickles cut off as much as possible from Grant to give him the latitude to move without being restrained. As for the Washington garrison, they will stay stuck behind their fortifications, as always. They are not a factor in this. Ultimately it will first be Sickles, and then Grant, but a Grant weakened when a third or more of those people north of the river cross over and then just disappear."

"Sir, a concern," Hotchkiss interjected.

"Go on."

"The main body of our army countermarching back up from Washington will have to march nearly three miles for every mile that Sickles makes."

"It will have to be done. We cannot allow Sickles to actually get into Baltimore. Once there, he'd be behind the fortifications and our chance to catch him in the open will be lost If we beat him south of Baltimore, yet again he could fall back to Baltimore and dig in. No, we must fight him here, on this ground."

'That will be one tall order, sir, when it comes to the distance our men must cover before going into a fight," Hotchkiss pressed.

"Then we march through the night and into the next day," Lee said quietly, looking over at Pete.

"General Longstreet, do you think you have another Union Mills in you?"

Longstreet grinned.