Grant Comes East

Chapter Sixteen

In Front of Washington, D.C.

August 14,1863 7:30 a.m.

“I they're coming, I tell you!" Sergeant Hazner wearily looked up at the excited young private and fixed him with a cool gaze.

"So what if they are?" he growled, shifting a wad of tobacco in his cheek and spitting.

"It means we'll finally take that damn city," the boy answered enthusiastically.

He pointed south, where, on the horizon, the unfinished dome of the Capitol was in clear view.

The others around the campfire were reacting in mixed ways to this tidbit of information, which a young headquarters cook had brought to them.

Rumors had been rampant for more than a week that something was about to happen. Ever since the bulk of the Army of Northern Virginia had marched off, what was left of Pettigrew's and Perrin's old divisions-now combined under the command of General Scales-had hovered at the edge of Washington. It had taken time to sort the battered regiments out, reorganize them into four effective brigades, and there had been much grumbling and arguing when a number of old glorious regiments had been disbanded, the men placed into other units from their home states. They had been allowed to keep their flags, but it had been a tough blow to many, for in this army, like all others in this war, regimental identity was a powerful force.

Even after the reorganization, the division was a light one, not much more than five thousand men under arms. Although lightly wounded men had been coming back into the ranks, there was still the daily toll from disease and from the incessant skirmishing along the fortification lines. Scales had taken to his job of "demonstrating" with a will, moving his men back and forth between the Seventh Street road and the Bladensburg road, probing, making feints at night, detailing experienced riflemen to harass the Union forces. The Yankees had refused to budge from their fortifications, a response that had become a source of derision with wags sneaking out at night and putting up signs made out of bed-sheets, taunting the Yankees to come out and fight. But then again, none of them could blame the defenders of Washington; they were behind heavy fortifications, well fed and housed, and if they had advanced, Scales's division and his two brigades of cavalry would have of course pulled back on the double. Their job was simply to shadow and harass, not seek an engagement where they would be outnumbered six or seven to one.

Morale in the new division was down for more reasons than simply the recombination of units. They had taken a brutal pounding in the campaign from Gettysburg to Union Mills, and finally the debacle in front of Fort Stevens. The graveyard established back behind the lines on the Seventh Street road now had over a thousand crosses and more were being added daily. In the last two weeks some of the Yankees apparently had been issued heavy Sharps rifles, others the deadly, hexagonal-bore Whitworths, which could kill at a thousand yards. More than one incautious Confederate was dead, with a hole drilled into his head when he peeked up over a ditch. One poor soul, hunkered down next to Hazner, died when he had kicked up a nest of yellow jackets, stood up shouting, jumping, and dancing about as he tried to knock off the stinging insects, and seconds later collapsed back into the ditch, a bullet through his chest. That had set up a howl of protests, since it seemed so damn unfair, but then how were the Yankees to know that the poor boy was getting stung and that was why he was dancing around?

The men with Scales had also missed out on the glory of taking Baltimore. Rumors came back of the feasting, the girls, the easy duty, and though the tales were most likely exaggerated, at least the men hoped they were, still it set them to grumbling against the high command for leaving them out here all alone, missing all the fun.

And now it seemed the Army of Northern Virginia was coming back to gather its lost souls back into the fold.

There was a commotion on the road back toward the cemetery, and Hazner casually stood up to take a look. Men were coming out from their encampments under the trees to watch the approach, and those who had been gathered around the campfire with Hazner went off, with the excited young private leading the way.

Though curious, Hazner waited a minute or two, feigning disinterest That of course was part of his job, never to let the men see him getting excited. Finally he could bear it no longer, and he casually made his way up the slope and into the crowd.

Around the bend of the road he saw a team of mules, a long train of them, over twenty at least, straining at their load. Strapped to a heavy wagon behind them was a monstrous gun-from the looks of it, a heavy, eight-inch Columbiad. Behind the first gun was another team of ten mules pulling its carriage, which was resting atop a second wagon, and then yet more mules pulling limber chests, most likely filled with ammunition.

"It took 'em a week to get them down here," the private said proudly, behaving like so many who were the first to announce news, acting as if they were somehow the agents of the event.

"There's six of 'em, six big monsters to knock a hole right through Fort Stevens," the private continued. "Mortars as well, some thirty-pounders; a regular show it's gonna be."

Hazner spat and walked away.

A regular show all right It meant that there would be another throw of the dice, another attack, this one most likely as bloody as the last. And their target would be stronger than last time as well. The fortifications had been all but impossible last time. Now that the defenders of Washington were literally staring the Confederate army right in the face, the Yankees had set to work with a will to make their positions even stronger. Night after night, when the wind was right, you could hear them digging out there, each morning revealing more abatis, deeper ditching, higher walls, and reserve lines going up behind the main one.

Hazner went back to his camp, which was all but empty, looking out through the trees toward the distant dome of the Capitol.

Didn't Lee see this? Surely he understood it. If there was a chance to take this city, it was in the days right after Union Mills and even then the chance was slim. In fact it had turned out to be no chance at all. Now an attack on these reinforced fortifications could be nothing but a suicidal gesture.

He leaned against a tree, studying the Capitol dome, the distant line of fortifications. Up at the front line, a half mile away, there were occasional puffs of smoke, the distant crack of a rifle. A mortar round arched up, sputtered, and plummeted down, exploding without effect. He heard a derisive hoot. It was almost a game, though every day a dozen or so soldiers paid the ultimate price for that game. But overall, nothing was happening. Nothing had happened here for the last three weeks.

Surely Lee would not throw them against those now-impregnable fortifications in yet another frontal assault. The Columbiads might excite the fervor of amateurs, but against heavy fortifications they would have little if any effect. Nothing more than a lot of flash and noise.

Though the generals might not realize it, after two years of war there was many a sergeant or corporal who knew how to read a map, could surmise much from little, and figure out what the bigwigs were thinking far better than the reporters, the armchair generals back home, and even some of the generals themselves.

"Hazner."

He looked up and smiled. It was Colonel Brown coming up to join him.

Brown had figured out long ago what had happened at Fort Stevens, how Hazner had knocked him cold with a single blow and dragged him from the line. The colonel still had an arm in a sling from that fight, the wound healing slowly. The only comment he had ever made on that terrible day was an offhand "Hazner, at times you are one hell of a headache," a tacit acknowledgment and no more that Hazner's direct action had undoubtedly saved his life.

"Lot of hoopla down on the road," Brown ventured.

"Yes, sir, the heavy-siege train is here."

'Took long enough."

Hazner chuckled. A cavalryman had joined the regimental mess for dinner one night and regaled them with stories about the serpent-like crawl of the heavy guns, the need to rebuild bridges so they could pass, the endless delays, all this effort to drag half a dozen guns only thirty miles to the front line.

"Think we'll attack?" Hazner asked.

Brown smiled and shook his head.

"Sergeant, perhaps I should ask what you think."

"Sir, you're the colonel; I'm just a sergeant"

"You have as much sense of all this as I do, Sergeant; please educate me as to your opinion."

"Well, sir," Hazner began expansively, inwardly delighted at the deference Brown now showed him, "there's only eight rows now of abatis to go through, a ditch half a dozen feet deeper than it was before, fortress walls half a dozen feet higher, and maybe fifteen thousand more Yankees behind it. Do you honestly think, sir, that General Lee will go straight in again?"

Brown smiled.

"The Yankees could have moved those guns in a couple of days," Brown said, thinking of the power of the Union railroads and steamships.

"That's the Yankees, not us."

Brown shook his head.

"Damn war, thought it would be over by now." "We all thought that, sir," Hazner said absently, chewing and spitting a stream of tobacco juice.

He remembered his old friend, killed at Union Mills, his journal still in his haversack. How together they had marched off two years ago, two boys ardent for some desperate glory, believing that it would be over by Christmas and they'd come home heroes. His friend was dead, buried in some mass grave in front of Union Mills, and now he stood here, looking at the Capitol dome, so close and yet such an infinity of death away.

"Maybe those six heavy guns will start something," Brown opined. "I just pray to God it doesn't mean we go in against that fort again."

"Amen to that, sir, amen to that."

Washington, D.C. The White House

August 15,1863 3:00 p.m.

President Lincoln turned away from the window and looked back at his Cabinet. Another thumping sound struck the windowpane, rattling it, all else in the room silent.

The bombardment had been going on since dawn, every two to three minutes another salvo, deeper-sounding than the fire of the previous weeks, clearly the pounding of heavy artillery against Fort Stevens. At night the sky to the north flashed and glowed from the bombardment, civilians out in the street, gathering in small knots, looking expectantly northward, talking nervously.

The city had been under siege for nearly a month and the strain was showing in every face. Every day rumors swept the city that the rebs had broken through, were falling back, had crossed the Susquehanna, had retreated back to Virginia, that renewed riots were sweeping the cities of the North, that France had declared war… and throughout it all he had learned to remain calm, sphinx-like, detached from both the rumors and the emotions.

He returned to his chair and sat down. Beside him Stanton rustled some papers and Lincoln nodded for him to continue.

"As I was saying, Mr. President. It appears that General Lee is advancing on Washington with his entire army now reinforced with the men brought north by Beauregard."

"And you anticipate an attack?"

"Yes, sir."

"How soon?"

"Within two to three days. Their siege batteries are giving an unmerciful pounding to Fort Stevens."

"How unmerciful?" Gideon Welles, secretary of the navy, asked.

"Several guns have been dismounted." Welles sniffed derisively.

"Edwin, modem weapons simply are not effective against well-dug-in positions. Fort Pulaski in front of Savannah proved that older masonry forts are vulnerable to rifled guns, but a heavy earthen position, you can waste twenty tons of powder and shell against it, and in a single night a regiment of engineers armed with shovels can make it right again. I think we are overreacting."

"I beg to differ," Stanton sniffed.

"Gentlemen, we've conducted a dozen such operations with the navy since the start of this war, and always the situation favors the defenders," Welles replied forcefully. "Until someone comes up with a new way of attacking or a new explosive that can level forts like Stevens, this is an exercise in futility, and I don't see General Lee engaging in such futility."

"So why would he bother then?" Stanton replied heatedly.

Lincoln held out his hand for silence. "Gentlemen, we are at the crisis," he announced. Gideon Welles smiled and nodded in agreement "Indulge me for a moment please," Lincoln continued. No one spoke.

He settled back in his chair, tempted to put his feet up but in such a formal setting that was of course impossible.

"Some thought that Gettysburg and Union Mills were the crisis, but I realize now that they were not. Terrible as those four days were, they were but the opening of the first act in the confrontation that will decide this war.

"Yes, the Army of the Potomac was savaged in that fight, and God forgive us, ten thousand or more families will forever mourn those terrible days, but that was not the confrontation that would decide this crisis. It is now, this day and the next month, that will decide it."

"Sir. There might very well be seventy thousand or more rebel troops just outside the city this morning," Stanton announced. "In that I agree with you, the crisis has arrived, but I must beg to ask, what do you propose to do?"

"Nothing."

Stanton, flustered, set the papers he was holding back down on the table.

"We have forty-three thousand troops in the city, nearly a third of them well-seasoned veterans from Charleston. Frankly, if they can't hold the city, then I would venture to say we don't deserve to hold this city or win this war."

Gideon smiled in agreement.

"And those men are backed up by a dozen ironclad gunboats, a thousand marines, and three thousand sailors," the secretary of the navy threw in.

"And I still maintain that we should shift the Nineteenth Corps down here," Stanton replied heatedly. "They are doing nothing but lounging about up on the Susquehanna and I don't see Grant using them to any effect."

"I queried General Grant about their use in my last letter," Lincoln replied calmly, "and he said he preferred to keep them under his direct command. Gentlemen, I will not gainsay our new commander of the armies on this issue."

Stanton started to open his mouth to speak, but a sidelong look from Lincoln stilled him.

"That is final," Lincoln said softly.

Stanton nodded, crestfallen at this near-public rebuke.

"Anything else? I'd like to go up to Stevens to have a look around and then to the hospitals."

"Mr. President, the French," Secretary of State Seward said. "Go on."

"We know for a fact that the French consul in Baltimore sent a report out under a French flag. It should be in Paris by now."

"Wish we had that ocean telegraph line up," Welles interjected. "I'd love to know what is happening over there today. Perhaps the dispatching of some of our ships to the coast of France as a show of force might be required."

"I would advise against that at the moment," Seward replied. "It would only serve to provoke."

"Provoke, is it? He's the one meddling in Mexico. The English and French are helping to keep the Confederacy alive. Talk about a provocation!"

"Go on, Mr. Seward," Lincoln interrupted.

"Sir, I think we'll be at war with France by autumn," the secretary of state replied.

"How so? All based on one letter?"

"The news for Napoleon from Mexico has not been good. He thought he could seize the country in a quick coup and then put his puppet on the throne. Part of his or his wife's dream of a renewed Catholic empire. A mad delusion, but it has gained a following in France and Austria. The campaign has not gone well. Juarez, though still bruised, at this moment is gaining strength in the back country and within a year, two at most, he will be ready to counterattack in strength. Especially if we can help him. Napoleon must see, at least from his reasoning, that if ever there is a hope for him in the New World, it is now, this moment. Union Mills and Baltimore will give him the pretext to recognize the Confederacy, and I suspect he will do it."

"Napoleon's half-mad," Stanton sniffed.

"We all know that," Seward replied.

"Where will he intervene then?" Lincoln asked. 'Texas?"

"That would be my assumption. I don't see them trying a main force attack on the blockade at Charleston or Wilmington. I would venture at Brownsville, right at the border. First land some heavy guns on the Mexican side and establish fortifications. Then the main fleet moves in to engage ours. There'll be the usual claim of a provocation of some sort. Once Brownsville is secured, they'll try to roll our blockading force off the coast, clear up to New Orleans. For the French, a so-called liberation of New Orleans would have a special symbolic meaning as well, having once been French territory."

Lincoln turned to Gideon.

"Your response?"

"I'd love nothing more. Rear Admiral Farragut's job is done on the Mississippi, though he'll need to hold some forces at New Orleans to support the weakened garrison there. But we could have him shift down to Texas now. Some of our new oceangoing monitors and ironclads could move down there as well. I doubt if the French would risk their new ironclads on a transoceanic voyage. If not, our navy could pound theirs to splinters. Once that was finished, I'd love to see a blockading force off Le Havre."

Lincoln smiled.

"One thing at a time, Gideon. First, all our efforts must be to win this war. Second, to block the French if they should be so foolish as to join in. And, Mr. Seward, the English?"

"Still the same, as I said before. The sticking point is still slavery. That, and frankly, if I were the English, I'd love nothing more than to see the French make that sort of foolish mistake. We keep the war out of European waters, bloody the French noses here in ours, and it weakens Napoleon at no cost to the English. I say, let them come, and the English will stand back. Besides, they don't want to risk Canada, or some of their holdings in the Caribbean, which we would most certainly move on if they should try to challenge us. No, the English will stand clear, unless the campaign of the next month presents them with a foregone conclusion."

Lincoln nodded approvingly.

"Insightful as always, thank you."

Again the windowpanes rattled and all looked up.

"I still don't like our loss of Port Hudson," Stanton grumbled.

Lincoln nodded. Word had just arrived this morning of that reversal on the Mississippi. Such setbacks were to be expected with the concentration of forces here in the East.

"What good will it do them?" he replied. "They can't ship supplies across the Mississippi. Our navy will continue to patrol the river."

"Still, to have taken that ground and then lost it."

Lincoln, feeling exasperated, lowered his head, not letting the outburst come.

He had learned that as well in recent weeks. To concentrate solely on what was of the moment, and what would win this campaign and, from that, the war. Grant had impressed that upon him. Hundreds of thousands of troops had been used up these last two years in scattered operations that in the long term might bring results, but as of this moment were nothing but wasted efforts. So what if Port Hudson fell back into enemy hands? The statement had already been made that, so willing, the Union could take the entire Mississippi basin and do it again. A thrust by a desperate force might for the moment look fancy in the newspapers, but better for the Confederacy if those ten thousand men involved were here, in front of Washington, or at least moving to contain Sherman, who continued to sweep through Tennessee, bent on linking up with Rosecrans.

As for this defense of Washington, the panic of the previous month had faded. Food moved freely up the Potomac, as did troops. Gideon's brown-water navy moved up and down the river at will. There had been some concern that Lee might try to cut down to the east, to place Alexandria under bombardment, but again it was Gideon who pointed out that half a dozen Columbiads could do little, and to move his forces in that direction would place him twenty miles farther away from Baltimore, from Sickles, and from Grant.

Heintzelman had also been in a bit of a panic over that threat Lincoln had said nothing, but his patience was indeed wearing thin with the man. His last dispatch to Grant had expressed that, and he sensed that when the time came, Grant would address that problem as well.

The Cabinet started to talk among themselves again, used now to his silent lapses, filling the space until he bestirred himself again.

Finally he looked up.

"Gentlemen, I think that is all for today. If Lee should launch an all-out assault, I will call for you to discuss the situation, but I seriously doubt that will happen now. Yet again I must caution you. Calmness, gentlemen, calmness at all times. Remember, how we act is observed by others. If we should appear rattled, it would spread like a flash throughout the city, and we do not want that Regardless of what the newspapers say, what Congress says, what anyone says, it is our example at this moment that will set the mood for this city. Go about your business as usual."

The group stood up to take their leave. Lincoln made eye contact with Stanton and nodded for him to stay. The secretary of war came over to the chair by Lincoln's side and sat down as the others left, several of them looking back, curious as to what might transpire.

Lincoln smiled, trying to set him at ease.

"I'll come straight to the point, Edwin. I feel you do not like our General Grant and his plans."

The secretary of war ruffled slightly.

"Honestly, Mr. President, I don't He is taking a risk here."

"Edwin, it has always been you who told me war is risk."

"Yes, sir. But to risk the capital? Twenty thousand more men in this city would secure it beyond all doubt."

"I do not want Washington secure beyond all doubt," Lincoln replied calmly.

"Sir?"

"Just that"

"I don't follow you."

"Ever watch a cat in the barn, sitting on a beam, waiting for a mouse?"

"No, sir," Edwin replied coolly. Obviously he was not one to appreciate Lincoln's homespun examples.

"He only sits there because he thinks he can get the mouse. If there were no mouse, he would not stay." "Sir?"

"We're the mouse, Edwin. If Lee did not feel that he had some hope of taking this city, he would not be here. That is what we want. Heaven forbid if after all this, come autumn, Lee withdraws back into Virginia. He will escape, having savaged the Army of the Potomac. He might even detach Longstreet or Hood to regain the situation in Tennessee. And then we face another long, hard campaign next spring. Given the reversal at Union Mills, if we face a protracted campaign next year, I daresay that you, I, the whole kit and caboodle, will be out come next November. Our political opponents, both North and South, see that now.

"In the South they are hoping for a victory by the end of autumn. They thought they might have had it on that terrible night of July 4, but we stayed the course. Grant and that railroad man Haupt have worked a miracle across the last five weeks. Now we must continue to stay the course. We have shown Lee that even if he defeats an army, it does not mean he has won the war.

"The days of single great victories deciding wars are forever over. War now is the will of nations, of ordinary people. Granted, few in the North fully endorse our efforts. Many would rather walk away, but as long as we can hold but a quarter of the populace to our side, as long as we can hold four hundred thousand patriots in our ranks, we can prevail. But that means risk as well, and I'm willing to gamble Washington for that chance."

"Has Grant shared his thoughts with you?" Stanton replied sharply.

"Not fully. He was willing to, but I told him I trusted his judgment.

"As long as he holds the trust I've given him, I will leave him to do his job unless he obviously fails. Our job at the moment is to take the heat. If some senators want to run off, half-cocked, crying about defeat, let them. And let us hope that come next election, after we have won, their cries are remembered."

"If there is a next election."

Lincoln raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"There is the smell of Napoleonism around Grant," Stanton said sharply. "He keeps his own counsel. He has followers in the ranks that are too worshipful. I prefer to know what he is doing."

"Edwin. Say that about McClellan or even Hooker, and I might have listened. But not Grant. He is as common as prairie dirt. The same as me."

Lincoln chuckled softly at the analogy, and Stanton did not reply.

"I will ask you a direct question, Edwin, and will only ask it once."

"Sir?" There was a slight nervous tone to his voice.

"Will you support me, and will you support Grant to the utmost in the weeks to come? The crisis is upon us. In the next six weeks we shall either win or lose this war. There can be no half measures. General Lee is a formidable foe. He might not follow at all the path we assume. He rarely does. If Lee should at least hold even in the coming battles, or even escape back into Virginia, there to present a strong front yet again, I fear that the defeat at Union Mills, and what Seward has told us about France, might collapse our political base once and for all. It might prove to be impossible to sustain the fight come next spring, and the bitter harvest of death that more fighting will create. So, my friend, will you support me?"

Edwin sighed.

"Of course, sir."

"Good then."

Lincoln studied him carefully. The look in his eyes, the flat crease of his lips-he wondered what Edwin might say later to Seward. But at least he had wrung out of him this concession of the moment Though he did not voice it, nor would he voice it to anyone, he had reached a decision about

Stanton: Either he fully supported the campaign to come, or he was out of a job, no matter what political heat that might generate.

The windowpanes rattled yet again from the bombardment, and neither man spoke.

Along the Susquehanna

August 15, 1863 7:30 p.m.

The coup had gone flawlessly. A dozen of his troopers, posing as farmers driving cattle, accompanied by several patriotic young women of Baltimore dressed in homespun and acting like frightened young wives, had come to the southwest bank of the river in mid-afternoon. They had signaled the ferryman on the opposite shore, who had, at first, refused to cross over. One of the men had then swum the river, and, gaining the northern bank, had offered the man five dollars in gold to help save their cattle from the "damn rebels." The man had complied and, once on the southern bank, was confronted by a dozen grinning troopers with revolvers.

The first dozen went across, seized a second ferryboat, and by dusk an entire regiment was across the river, fanning out, setting up a cordon. A third ferry had been seized as well, which even now was bringing over a battery of horse artillery.

Wade Hampton, standing on the north bank of the Susquehanna River, was filled with pride. His boys had pulled it off without a shot being fired. Even now, the town of Lancaster, but a dozen miles away, was unaware of what would come sweeping down upon them by dawn, a full brigade of Confederate cavalry, hell-bent on raiding, disrupting, and sowing panic.

The campaign was on again, and after the bucolic three weeks in Baltimore he was eager for the fight His orders from General Lee personally had been clear and concise.

They were no longer in need of supplies, Maryland had yielded up her bounty to them, and the lean, hungry Army of Northern 'Virginia was a thing of the past. His job, first and foremost, was intelligence, to ascertain what exactly Grant was up to in the Harrisburg area. Was it merely a marshaling area, or was it to be a platform for him to try and sweep down the Cumberland Valley, and perhaps march on into Virginia? Next task for him would be their old adversary, the Army of the Potomac. It was time to rattle them yet again, a task he looked forward to with pleasure. Finding the location of the powerful Nineteenth Corps was high on the priority list as well. If they were with Grant, that would indicate much as to the possible Union actions. If not, it would mean they could support a renewed thrust by the Army of the Potomac. Though there was the chance now, with Lee marching toward Washington, that the Yankees, always in panic over their capital, would ship that corps down there by water to reinforce the defenses of Washington. Finally, Lee had emphasized his role of disruption, to cut telegraph lines, to spread rumors, and to work to isolate Sickles from Grant.

Of course, though he had not discussed it too much with Lee, now was the chance to win some glory as well. Lancaster would be in their pockets tomorrow morning. A day's hard ride could even take them to Reading and what a treat it would be to cut the major junction of so many rail lines, in effect all but isolating Grant from the Eastern seaboard. It would be a whirlwind of chaos for the Yankees, exceeding anything Jeb had done the year before in the Peninsula. To think even about venturing into the outskirts of Philadelphia was not beyond reach, tearing up tracks and burning bridges as they advanced. His boys would certainly enjoy the ride in such a rich countryside, and enjoy even more the chance to wreck some locomotives along the way.

The ferryboat down below on the river docked, and twenty more of his troopers got off, leading their horses, whooping and hollering as they mounted and galloped up the slope.

It was a grand day to be in the cavalry and Wade soaked up the moment with joy. The campaign had begun.

Paris, France

August 16,1863 3:00 a.m.

Emperor Napoleon III studied the dispatch carefully, sitting alone. There would be time later to sit with advisors, his wife, and confidants to discuss all that it implied. The dispatch had arrived from the coast only the hour before; advance word of its coming via the semaphore link to Le Havre had kept him awake in anticipation.

News had come at the start of the month about Lincoln's defeat and the shattering of his army. The newspapers, as usual, had overblown the details but he could surmise that though nothing could ever rival his uncle's victory at Auster-litz, still it was a worthy victory for the Southern cause.

But this news now, of the fall of the Union's third largest city, the secession of yet another state, that was news indeed. Could it finally signal that the Yankee cause was unraveling?

He sipped from his glass of wine, reading the dispatch yet again, the evaluation of the Confederate army, the appraisal of President Davis and of this General Lee. Yes, he would have made a worthy marshal of the empire. He had breeding, strength, audacity, and luck.

He knew what his own generals and admirals would say. That there was too much risk. That Mexico was proving harder than first anticipated, that other countries in Europe might take advantage of the situation if France committed more resources to the Americas.

Did that ever stop his uncle? The name of Bonaparte was not made through caution.

He could see it clearly. Here was a chance to forever establish French dominance. Help the South, let them win, and that contemptible American nation divides and in short order divides yet again into internal squabblings. Within a generation, a new empire of his own creation would flourish, as that of the old empire should have flourished fifty years ago.

As for the Yankees' much vaunted ironclads, they had yet to meet a true ship of Europe. Le Gloire, the pride of the French navy, and her sister ships, ironclads as powerful as anything the Yankee tinkers might fashion, would leave nothing but wreckage in their wake. Land a few brigades of troops, engineers, artillery on the border with Texas, and there build a base to operate from. Then sweep northward.

Perhaps even Spain could be Coaxed into the coalition. Cuba could offer a fine port to help sweep the arrogant blockade from the coast of Florida and perhaps even as far as South Carolina.

He smiled as he contemplated all that was possible. A new coalition, Catholic Austria and Spain, with France in the lead, reversing all the misfortunes that had befallen the world since 1815. For the slaveholding South he cared not a whit; they were just a means to an end, a humbling of England, a realignment of the balance of power. His fleets, operating out of Vera Cruz, Brownsville, Havana, would re-establish the glory that should be France's. The other European powers, except for England, would see the rightness of this as well. Russia, which had sent its pathetic fleet to New York City the winter before, would stand back, not wishing to risk yet another humiliation like the one he had dealt it in the Crimea. Those tradesmen across the Channel, so intent on their profits, would not stir. They will not come into the fight for the South, but they most certainly will not align themselves with that damnable uncouth lawyer from the frontier. They will sit it out and by the time they realize their folly, it will be too late. Mexico will be taken, perhaps even gains in the Caribbean.

Yes, he would commit to this. It was time.

In Front of Fort Stevens

August 16, 1863 8:00a.m.

General Lee looked around at the gathering of officers. They were camped in nearly the same spot that had been his headquarters the month before. Yet the feeling was different now. The men were rested, the weather fair, though promising an intense heat by later in the day.

Longstreet had just ridden in; Beauregard and Hood were already present. Stuart was fifty miles to the north, deployed toward the Susquehanna. He had privately given Jeb his orders the night before, the cavalier grinning as he rode off. Lee smiled as Longstreet rode up and dismounted. "Good marching weather," Pete said, coming under the awning and taking a cup of coffee. "Roads are good, weather's fine, the men know something is up." "It's hard to keep it hidden at times," Lee replied. He looked around at the gathering and began. "We're not going to attack this city again," he announced. Beauregard stirred in his seat but held back from comment.

"I know this seems like an elaborate effort for nothing, putting all but one division on the road again. At the very least, let us say it's given our army a chance to stretch its legs again, to not turn into garrison troops. But an attack on Washington is out of the question now."

"Then I hope you will inform us as to your intent, sir," Beauregard said calmly, looking straight at Lee.

"Yes. I think I should. We will demonstrate along this line today, tomorrow, and the day after, if need be. I want increased activity. I want all three of you to move cautiously when it comes to your personal safety. The Yankees have sharpshooters in their works, yet I want you to be seen, as if surveying the line for an attack. I want night probes; don't hesitate to burn off some powder; we have plenty of captured Union powder in reserve now. I want them to think that we are preparing a full-scale assault across the entire front."

"Sir, if we should see some promise of success, I'd counsel going in," Beauregard offered. "Perhaps another night attack; my boys are up to it."

Lee emphatically shook his head.

"General Beauregard. We have no more reserves. I will not venture the horrific casualties it will take to storm this city."

"Even if we did take it now," Longstreet interjected, looking at Beauregard, "we couldn't hold it for long."

Lee nodded his thanks. The relationship with Beauregard had been stiff ever since the man's arrival. Though Davis had made it clear that Lee was in command of this campaign, Beauregard was already chafing at being subordinate to a man he had outranked little more than a year ago. Twice he had requested independent command since his arrival, and each time Lee had reined him in, the first time with soft diplomacy, the second time more sharply, with a clear statement of who was in command. It would be like Beauregard to let a probe or reconnaissance turn into a full-pitched bat-tie, and Lee looked straight at him.

"My orders are clear. Absolutely no general engagement is to be initiated. Demonstrations only. I don't want some hot-headed brigadier or division commander getting carried away, and, gentlemen, I will hold the three of you directly responsible if such a situation does develop. Do I make myself clear on this?"

Again the harsh tone that since Union Mills and the firing of Dick Ewell had become more and more his way of managing this army. He looked straight into the eyes of each man and waited until they nodded in agreement. Beauregard nodded and lowered his head.

"Then why?" Beauregard finally asked.

"I'll discuss the details in due time, gentlemen," Lee replied.

Longstreet, ever the poker player, revealed nothing. Hood simply smiled, used to how Lee preferred to run things.

"For the moment, gentlemen, demonstration only. You are not to discuss anything with your subordinates other than the orders just given.

‘I want all of you to be ready to move at a moment's notice, to move fast and light."

"I think I know what's coming," Hood finally ventured.

"In due time, General. We all learned our lesson last fall at Sharpsburg when it came to the security of our operations. This next effort might entail a serious risk. Do not think my reticence is out of mistrust; rather it is simply out of concern for our safety and ultimate success."

"I wish we had thirty thousand more men," Hood said quietly.

"We don't," Lee snapped. "All we will ever have is what now marches in our ranks. There is no sense in wishing for more. We have a preponderance of artillery now, and I plan to see that used." He looked around at the gathering.

"Any questions?"

No one spoke.

"Fine then, gentlemen. Let us see to our duty. The moment I feel that all is ready I will pass to each of you detailed orders, which are to be followed to the letter. Remember though, when it starts, it must be done with speed."

He stood up, indicating that the meeting was over.

The generals walked off, all except Longstreet, who lingered by the table.

"I think you ruffled up Beauregard," Pete said.

"Perhaps, but all it takes is for one loose-mouthed staff officer to spread the word; it leaks into Washington, and then an order goes out forbidding Sickles to move. I'm hoping now that the exact opposite will happen, that Sickles might very well get the order to move, and when he does, we are ready. Walter and Jed have done a magnificent job of drawing up routes of march, deployment of supplies, even possible positions for the bulk of our artillery so they can move quickly to where they are needed. This one is well planned, General Longstreet; all I have to do is give the word to go. I'm confident on this one."

Longstreet nodded back to the map and pointed at Harrisburg.

"Suppose he doesn't do what you expect. Then what?"

"Sickles?"

"No, Grant, sir. That is now our main concern."

"He will," Lee replied. "Grant will hesitate, caught off balance by Sickles, and then the administration will force him to detach troops to cover here. No, they will tie his hands as they have all the others."

"I hope so," was all Longstreet could say.

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

August 17,1863 9:00 p.m.

Haupt, good to see you." Grant came out of his chair, extending a hand as the frail figure of Gen. Herman Haupt stood by the open flap of his tent

The appearance of the man shocked him. He was wasting away by the day; by the light of the coal oil lamp he had a pale, yellowish cast to his skin, his cheeks were hollow, eyes sunken.

As Haupt took a seat across from Grant, the general made a decision, uncharacteristically, without reflection or contemplation of the impact it might have on his plans.

"Haupt, I think I should relieve you of your office. Send you home for a month or two."

Haupt looked up at him angrily and shook his head.

"I respectfully decline, sir."

"Damn it, man, you are dying."

Haupt smiled.

"Not yet, and besides you need me."

"Yes, I need you, but a lot of good you will do me or the army if you are dead."

"Not by a long shot yet, sir. Give me a few more weeks, let me sort out a few things, and then I'll take the leave you suggest."

"Suppose I order you to go home now, tonight?" Haupt chuckled.

"I'd refuse. And then what? Court-martial me for insubordination?"

Grant shook his head and laughed softly. "No, I'd never do that, Herman." "It's getting better, sir."

He could see the lie in that but decided that for the moment he could not push the issue further.

"What do you have for me?" Grant asked.

"I barely got through. It's chaos not fifty miles from here. Hampton's taken Lancaster and is even now riding toward Reading. I'll confess, he's made a mess of things for us. He caught a number of supply trains in the rail yard at Lancaster. Wrecked nine locomotives."

Grant could see that such wanton destruction of his precious machines troubled Haupt. At heart he was a builder, not a destroyer.

"We'll take care of him. But what else?"

"I've got ten more batteries of guns coming down from Albany. I'm routing them around Lancaster and Reading and they should be here late tomorrow. Remounts are still coming in via the Pennsylvania railroad."

Haupt paused for a moment, reached into his haversack, and pulled out a notebook, thumbing through the pages.

"Let's see now. Two thousand, three hundred and fifty horses from Ohio, eight hundred and seventy mules from Ohio and Indiana as well. Seventy-five more wagons out of Lancaster before Hampton hit it. Two regiments from Illinois and one from Indiana should arrive here in three days. The colored regiments from Philadelphia will transfer here starting tomorrow. I'm routing them up to New York and then across to the Pennsylvania and Susquehanna through Pottsville, yet again to avoid Reading. Replacement bridging is in place at Wheeling for the Baltimore and Ohio, and a million rations should be stockpiled there by the end of the month. Vouchers to all the rail lines involved have been drawn as well."

He thumbed through his notes.

"Shoes. I've got fifty thousand more coming down from

Massachusetts and Vermont, but that will take another week. We're still short of tentage; one of the trains Hampton took was loaded with them, and of replacement rails and some bridging material."

"The pontoon bridges?"

Haupt shook his head.

"Only enough for five thousand feet so far. I'm pushing it hard, sir, but the routing of trains is still something of a tangle from the Midwest. We've yet to successfully shift all the rolling stock back out there, and it's causing problems."

Grant extended his hand and patted Haupt on the arm.

"You're doing fine, just fine, Haupt."

Herman said nothing, eyes glazed as he stared off.

"I'd like you to get some rest Haupt If I lose you, I lose the one man I'm relying on most right now."

Haupt's shoulders seemed to sag, as if the words of comfort had placed upon him an additional burden.

"Sorry, sir. Sorry I took sick at this time."

"No apologies should be offered, Haupt."

"I'll be on the pontoon bridges first thing in the morning."

Grant sighed. There was no way he could simply detach this man, to send him home, to let him take a month to recover from his bout with dysentery. Even if he wanted to, he could not, not tonight

"Go and get some rest, General. And that is an order."

"Yes, sir."

Haupt legs visibly trembling, stood up and saluted. Grant guided him out of the tent and watched him walk off. As Haupt disappeared, he caught Parker's eye.

"Call for my surgeon again," Grant said. "I want that man taken care of."

Parker saluted and followed Haupt.

Grant stood by the open flap of his tent The night was cool, pleasant, a gentle breeze wafting in as he lit another cigar, coughed as he drew the first deep breath, inhaling the soothing smoke.

In the open fields beyond, hundreds of campfires illuminated the night He could hear distant laughter, songs, a banjo playing. Nearby several officers were passing a flask, laughing.

It was all so soothing, and in this moment, alone, he realized yet again that in spite of the horror, the tragedy of it all, he did love it. The scent of wood smoke on the breeze, mingled with the rich smell of hay, horses, a gentle August evening camped in the fields of Pennsylvania. Better, far better than Mississippi with its hot, sultry evenings without a breath of fresh air. This was good, a moment of pleasure regardless of all that had transpired in the last day.

As he looked out over the encampment, the men, his men, victorious veterans of so many hard-fought campaigns, he was captivated yet again by the sense of destiny, of power.

He knew they were ready for the task ahead. It was strange how one could sense such things, as if the will of seventy thousand could become but a single voice, a voice that said that together all would see it through to the end, no matter what the cost.

He closed the flap to his tent and returned to his desk. The urge for a drink was suddenly upon him. Strange how it would come when unexpected, unanticipated. Just one drink, a soothing taste to relieve the tension.

But he had made the promise to one whose trust he desired, and though he knew that he could find the bottle easy enough, hidden away in his trunk, he gave it not a second thought.

The latest dispatch from Washington had come in just before sunset Enemy fire all along a five-mile front heavy artillery bombardment, fear that a night assault might be launched.

A copy of the New York Herald was on the table, declaring that Washington was on the brink of collapsing, a paper from Philadelphia decrying the continued slaughter, calling for Lincoln to meet with Davis to end the war.

It was strange. He and Lincoln were separated by not more than a hundred and fifty miles, but they could, in one sense, be as far away as if Lincoln was in China. Dispatches had to be routed through Philadelphia, to Port Deposit, and then by courier boat to Washington. Here again Haupt had set up such an efficient system that the secured envelopes moved efficiently, for their communications could not be trusted to any wire, where along the way a telegrapher could accept ten dollars from a reporter to divulge what the two were saying to each other.

And yet it was as if Lincoln was sitting with him now, in this tent, telling him to stay the course, to hold fast, to do what they had discussed in their brief meeting of a month past.

If anything, the cutting off of Washington was perhaps one of the great blessings of this campaign. Unlike McClellan, Burnside, Hooker, or Meade, he was, in fact, free. He was not tied by hourly telegraphs bombarding him with orders, counter-orders, demands, and entreaties. And yet he knew that something had changed in Lincoln as well. He remembered sitting in the White House, the two of them talking, Lincoln sharing the story of the colored White House servant who wanted to fight.

"That man focused the war for me, Grant," Lincoln had said. "He had not lost his nerve. He had seen the history of our republic across fifty years. He had seen the failure of the promise, but also the hope of the promise. I learned from him that we cannot fail, we will not fail, as long as men like him are willing to stand for what they believe in, to give the last full measure for what this dream of our republic can be."

And in that meeting he had learned that Lincoln's will, combined with his determination to see it through no matter what the cost, could indeed prevail.

Lee might very well attack Washington within the next day or two. He doubted that the man would take the risk. If the situation was reversed, he knew he would attack, regardless of loss, but the South could no longer afford that. But even if Washington did indeed fall, he would stay his own course and within a fortnight he would be ready to proceed.

He chafed at the waiting. Ord, Logan, Burnside, even Banks were ready to go, but it still depended on Haupt, the gathering of the supplies, of horses and mules, wagons and limber chests. Lee had the preponderance in artillery, a strange reversal of the moment, but even that could be overcome.

The waiting was painful, but it had to be endured till all the pieces were in place.

Only when all was ready would he move. He would not make the mistake he had made last autumn in front of Vicksburg. Lee was too savvy an opponent to give him that opening. When the time came, Lee would have to be so soundly defeated, in the field, in an open fight, that the hopes of the South would be forever dashed. It was not just a battle on the field of action; it was a battle that would have to shatter, once and for all, their will to fight Otherwise this conflict could drag on for years, fought in the mountains and bayous, a bitter fight that would forever pollute any hope of reconciliation.

He had to win, not just the battle, but the peace as well.