Grant Comes East

Chapter Six

In Front of Fort Stevens

July 18,1863 4:45 a.m

In the predawn light Sergeant Major Hazner saw them coming back. One or two at first, then dozens, and now hundreds. Most were wounded, cradling shattered arms, dragging a broken leg, or staggering, bent over, clutching a stomach wound, which all knew was inevitably the beginning of the end.

Moving up to the starting position occupied by Petti-grew's division before they went in, the men of the Fourteenth South Carolina, along with the other regiments of Scales's brigade, had deployed into a shallow defile, cut at the bottom by a flooded stream, and there they had waited for more than an hour. All was confusion, the last mile of the advance through brush, an orchard, a farmer's woodlot. At least a third of the men in the regiment had disappeared in the advance, to be replaced by men from several other regiments. He had simply pushed them into formation with his own companies. They could fight now and sort it out later; he promised them that the colonel would give them affidavits confirming that they had not deserted or dodged the battle. Some of the men were strays from Pettigrew, and as they saw their comrades coming back, more than one expressed outright relief that they had become lost during the advance to the final line before going in.

The roar of battle ahead was continuous. When the first shots had been fired, a wild, hysterical cry went up, the rebel yell, but gradually that had been replaced by the more disciplined, almost mechanical "huzzah" of the Union troops.

Colonel Brown was gone, called forward to an officers' meeting, and, now alone, Hazner paced the line, moving from company to company, offering reassurance to the men, who looked up anxiously, faces pale, as they heard the inferno roaring just ahead.

A panicked lieutenant came staggering back through the lines, blood from a head wound covering the front of his jacket

"Gone, all gone. My God, my men! My men!"

He staggered through the ranks, spreading dismay, no one touching him or offering help, for they were forbidden to do so.

Hazner watched him disappear into the mist and smoke. Young Lieutenant Hurt came up to join him, obviously nervous.

"It looks bad."

"It always does, Lieutenant. Watch a battle from the rear, it always looks like defeat."

"Pettigrew should have broken through by now." "Most likely he has."

Hazner knew it was a lie. Someone would have come back down the road by now, proclaiming victory, the rebel yell echoing through the fog from the battle line. All that could be heard was the continual staccato of musketry, cannon fire, and the whirl of spent canister cracking through the trees overhead, clipped branches raining down.

Mortar shells were coming down at random, detonating in the treetops, some crashing down into the assembled ranks of the division, screams following each explosion. It was obvious that their gunners knew of this defile, assumed it was packed with troops, and knew the range to hit it. Though sporadic, the shelling was unnerving.

"Fourteenth South Carolina!"

He looked back to the front rania and saw the color company standing up, the regimental flag bearer shaking out his colors, holding them aloft Without comment to Hurt, Hazner pushed his way back through the ranks of men still lying on the ground.

Colonel Brown was back, sword drawn. Hazner came up and saluted.

"We're going in, Hazner." "What's the news, sir?"

Brown looked at him appraisingly and then wiped his face. In spite of the morning chill, he was sweating.

"Bad. Pettigrew was repulsed all along the line. Some of the men broke through into the fort, we were almost sent in to expand it, but they were thrown back. Pettigrew is down, they say he's dead. A bad day for North Carolina."

He hesitated.

"Now it's our turn. We'll set it right."

Brown stepped past Hazner and held his sword aloft

"South Carolina! Men of the Fourteenth! Up men, up!"

The regiment came to its feet, officers and sergeants moving through the packed ranks, which were deployed in a solid square, the men of A Company in two ranks forward, followed by B Company, and so on, back to the last line, three hundred men in a small phalanx, fifteen men wide and twenty deep. To either flank were their comrades of the other regiments of Scales's brigade … men who had taken every field of battle they had ever advanced across.

"Fourteenth South Carolina! Now is our time! We will advance in column and take that damn Yankee fort. Once we are into it, Washington will be ours and on this day this war will be won. Do you wish history to remember that it was South Carolina that won this day?"

A shout went up from the ranks. Hazner looked around and saw that the hours of silence, of watching, of fear, were swept away. The battle lust was upon them again.

"Parson. Say some words!"

A graying captain, unofficial minister of the regiment, stepped through the ranks and took off his hat, the men following, all lowering their heads, even Hazner.

"Hearken to the word of our Lord. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day…"'

As the preacher continued to recite from the Ninety-first Psalm, Hazner looked up. Most of the men stood with heads bowed, eyes squeezed shut. Many had their Bibles out, clutching them fervently. More than one was shaking. A young boy, ashen-faced in the dawning light, suddenly bent double and vomited; a comrade, his older brother, reaching out and gently rubbing his shoulders. A few of the men, those without faith, stood in respectful silence, one meditatively chewing on a wad, waiting to spit, a couple of others silently passing a nearly empty bottle back and forth. A sharp look from Hazner caused the one holding the bottle to shrug, take the last sip, and then without fanfare quietly lay it down on the ground.

"Have faith in our Lord this day and remember that they who do not camp with us this evening will sup instead in Heaven."

"I'll skip that meal if I can," one of the drinkers whispered, and a few of the men around him chuckled, even as they continued to keep their heads lowered.

In the regiment beside the Fourteenth, a group of Catholics, men from Ireland, were on their knees, reciting a prayer "… Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen." They made their sign of the cross and stood up, many of them taking their rosaries and hanging them around their necks.

Hazner found he could not say anything, he could not pray, he could not beg for intervention now. If the preacher said that a thousand shall fall by one's side, then surely someone who prayed here would be among those fallen. How could one beg God now to change that? To save his miserable hide while one of the devout stood praying, Bible in hand. Williamson had spent many an hour contemplating that and what did it get him in the end? … a bullet in the head and now he was gone.

He wanted to have faith, but found that now, standing here, waiting to go in, he did not. He wished with all his heart that he could have the simple faith and the calm assurance of the preacher, who, as he went back through the ranks, took the hands of many a man, smiling, as if what was to come was no longer a concern, for all had already been decided.

A muffled shout went up. It was General Scales, riding across the front of the column, sword out, held aloft, pointing toward the fight He swung down off his mount slapped its rump, and sent it running.

"Follow me, boys! Guide on your colors!"

"The Fourteenth!" Brown roared. "Remember, don't cap your muskets till ordered. Keep your ranks closed and guide on the flag of South Carolina!"

A shout went up as the column stepped forward, the line lurching at first, men in the forward ranks taking half a dozen steps before the men at the back finally began to move, double-timing until they caught up. The regiment to their left stepped off a bit late and then raced to form a solid front Hazner ran to come up to the front of the column and fell in just behind Brown, who was walking backward, sword aloft

"Hazner. To the rear of the column," Brown announced. "I want you back there, keep the men moving, no matter what!"

Hazner breathed a sigh of relief, for he knew what would happen to the first rank once they were within canister range. And yet, as he looked at Brown, he felt regret The man was caught up in the moment He was at the center of the charge, out in front, and Washington was before them. If he survived this day, if they took the fort, it would be remembered forever.

Impulse seized him, and before moving back he ran up to Brown and extended his hand. Grinning, Brown took it "I'll see you in the fort, Sergeant!"

"Yes, sir."

Hazner ran to one side, to the gap between his regiment and the one on their left flank, and stood awestruck as the column passed. They were wide-eyed, rifles at the shoulder, already hunching forward slightly as if going into a storm, but they came on relentlessly, some of the men shouting, others cursing; even the ones trembling with fear staggered forward, for none would dare to turn back now. The column passed. He ran to fall in at the center rear, where two drummer boys were beginning to tap out a beat He shouted for them to stop and go to the rear, but both looked at him defiantly and pressed on. He could not stop them, they were fey.

They swept up past an open grove of trees where a tarpaulin was spread, glistening with the heavy dew of morning. Coming out from under the tarpaulin was a knot of officers, and all immediately recognized who was in the center of the group. In spite of orders a shout went up

"Lee … Lee… Lee!"

The column swept along the edge of the grove and there he stood, hat off, hand raised in salute.

Hazner saluted as they marched by, and for an instant he thought the general was looking straight at him. He had a foolish thought that perhaps Lee would remember him, the meeting on the road, the first day at Gettysburg when he and Williamson had brought the word about the enemy guns on the Cemetery Hill. He knew that Lee most likely did not even see him, but nevertheless he felt a renewed strength. If Bobbie Lee was ordering them in, then surely victory was ahead… for when had they ever failed?

The first casualties dropped, a mortar shell, most likely fired at random, exploding in the air above the middle of the column, men collapsing. The ranks behind them opening, pushing to get around the bodies, then closing back up. He watched carefully. Nearly a dozen men were down, but once the advance had cleared the fallen, six stood up and started to run. The usual cowards, taking advantage of the first shots to try and get out.

He let them go. To try and kick them back into the ranks was a waste of effort They'd bolt again once the real fighting started. But he recognized several and would be certain to remember their names, along with the name of one of the men lying there dead, Tom McMurtry-he had once fished with him in summer and hunted in the fall, years ago-the top of his head smashed in by the exploding shell.

The gradual slope began to shallow out into level ground All ahead was smoke, fog, shadows. To the east the horizon was a dull gray, a bit brighter than the rest of the heavens, the ground fog having risen during the night, obscuring the stars.

The grass beneath his feet was trampled down, soaked with dew. Bits of equipment littered the ground, a blanket roll, a discarded musket, and now the first casualties, men crawling back, the column opening then closing to step. around them. One of the wounded held up an imploring hand, only one, for his left arm was torn off at the shoulder, the man begging for water. All ignored him, pressing on.

Bullets snicked the air overhead, fluttering by like angry bees, random shots from the fight up ahead; a shell fluttered over, fuse visible, sputtering and trailing sparks.

More men on the ground, dead, twisted up, torn apart, blood streaking the grass. A lone artillery piece, how it got there was a mystery, abandoned, its team of six horses dead, the column having to slow for a moment as it moved around the wreckage, then double-timing to move back up to the fore.

"Double time!"

The cry echoed up and down the swaying columns. The drummer boys picked up the tempo of their beat. Up at the head of the column the flag bearer was holding his banner high, waving it back and forth. A man at the rear went down, the smack of the bullet hitting him in the forehead clearly audible. He flipped over backward, nearly knocking Hazner over. Hazner staggered, then ran to catch up.

Still nothing in the mist. He wondered how Scales knew which way to go. How long had they been moving? Five minutes now, seven, ten? They should be almost there. There was nothing but mist, smoke, scattered bodies. Where were they going?

The tension seemed unbearable again. For a few minutes, in the initial excitement, he-for that matter, all-had forgotten what was coming. Now, as they moved at the double, some of the men beginning to pant for breath, staggering, the fear was returning, the dread of the moment of impact.

And still nothing but mist

As if in answer to a desperate, terrible prayer, the mist seemed to part. The head of the column actually slowed, men in the rear ranks pressing in, some cursing, shouting. Hazner moved from the center over to the side of the column, looking up through the twenty-yard gap between his regiment and the one to their left.

A dark line seemed to be traced across the low horizon ahead. He caught glimpses of men moving along the top of it. The ground before them was nothing but a mad tangle of bodies, men writhing in agony, others lying prone, hunkered down, curled up, hands and arms covering their heads, a few with poised rifles raised, continuing to fight. The ground was a shambles of torn-up grass, mud, blood, thousands upon thousands of torn cartridge papers, twisted rifles, dead horses, an officer lying against the stomach of a dead mount, head bowed, weeping hysterically.

"Charge, boys! Charge!"

A wild shout erupted from the column; the drummer boys, all sense of tempo gone, began to beat furiously. Men surged forward, the spine-tingling rebel yell rising up in a wild shriek, Hazner picking up the cry, which sounded like wolves baying at the scent of blood.

A flash erupted from atop the parapet, then another and another. The first spray of canister, two hundred iron balls fired from a thirty-pound rifled gun, tore into the flanking regiment, cutting a murderous swath across the front of the line. A second later the next blast struck the Fourteenth. Something slapped into Hazner's face. Warm, sticky, and he was momentarily blinded. Horrified, he wiped his eyes clean, feeling bits of flesh between his fingers, the taste of blood salty in his mouth. He fought down the reflective desire to gag, to vomit, as the realization dawned that it was the entrails of a man he was wiping away.

"Come on!"

Amazingly he could hear Colonel Brown screaming. He was still alive.

"Come on!" Hazner picked up the cry, now edging in, pushing the man in front of him as the column regained momentum, pressing up and over the torn remains of a score of comrades cut down by that first blast.

He caught a glimpse of the preacher, gasping, sitting up, blood gushing from his chest, the man feebly holding his Bible and pressing it to the wound.

In the smoke just ahead Hazner saw the first lines of the abatis. In many places the sharpened stakes had been torn out or pushed down. There were six rows of them, the outer rows broken or knocked down, but the inner rows still intact in many places, here and there with narrow lanes cut through them. More than one dead man was impaled on the stakes. To his horror he saw a wounded man pierced through the stomach, but still alive, screaming.

The column slammed into the first line of stakes. He had heard that some of Pettigrew's men had gone in armed with axes, but they had not fully cleared the way, and he caught glimpses of them, dead, some with axes still in their hands. He was tempted to toss aside his musket and pick one up, but decided against it. He needed to stay with the men, not get diverted.

By sheer brute strength the column was forcing its way through, men slamming at the stakes with the butts of their muskets to knock the barriers aside, squeezing through the openings. The column stalled; men from the rear ranks began to spill around to the flanks of the column pushing up against the stakes.

Rifle fire now erupted from the wall of the fort with deadly effect, men dropping to either side of Hazner as he ran along the flank of his regiment, pushed through the remnants of the first two lines of abatis, and pressed his way into the third.

More cannon fire. He heard a strange, hollow rattling and looked back. One of the drummer boys was standing there, gazing down. His drum had been blown in half but he was still alive.

"Get down, boy! Get down!"

The boy looked up at him, then, without a sound, collapsed. The shot that had destroyed the drum had all but torn off his leg at the knee.

Turning, he began to batter at the stakes, screaming with rage, pushing his way through. A stake directly in front of him was all but split in half by a rifle ball that would have hit him in the stomach. He pushed it aside.

"Come on!"

A mortar shell, fired with only a few ounces of powder, came down silently, striking the ground in front of him, the fuse going out in the muck.

"Come on!"

He looked to either side. The regiments were swarming together, any semblance of formation gone, officers screaming, waving swords, men cursing, heaving, pushing, many- far too many-falling, shrieking, clutching at arms, heads, chests, stomachs.

They surged through the last barrier line. The moat was before him. It was a sight of horror. The filthy, muddy water was pink, the color clearly visible even in the dim light… filled with the dead, wounded, and dying. The wounded looked up imploringly, some shrieking for them to go back, those still game urging their comrades forward, a few still unhit rising up, struggling to claw their way back up the muddy wall of the fort.

He saw the flag bearer of the Fourteenth go down. Before the colors had even begun to fold up and drop, someone else held them aloft, screaming for the men to follow, Colonel Brown at his side. The colonel and the flag bearer jumped, skidding down the outer slope of the moat, the regiment surging after them.

Hazner was knocked off his feet by a man behind him jumping. He skidded face-forward down the slope, hitting a body on the way, turning to slide feet-first into the slime.

"Keep your cartridge boxes up!" he screamed, even as he clawed at his own and dropped waist-deep into the moat. Some of the men were already doing that, but far too many, caught up in the madness, simply waded in. With the first two steps he lost his shoes, sucked off in the mud.

He felt as if he was running in a nightmare, each slow step an eternity, water geysering around him. He stepped on a body pressed down into the mud, his bare feet sensing the back, the man's head, and he was glad the body was there, giving him enough footing to leap the last few feet on to the inner wall of the moat.

The nightmare sensation was still there. He tried to stand, to run up, but the ground had been churned into a morass by Pettigrew's men, whose bodies littered the slope.

He looked up and saw the barrel of a thirty-pounder being run back out, barrel fully depressed. He flung himself down, the roar of the gun stunning him, the deadly impact striking the far slope of the moat, cutting down dozens.

He stood up.

"Now! Now!"

He repeated the cry over and over as he staggered up the slope, losing four steps for every one gained. Stepping atop a legless body he gained enough footing to fling himself up nearly to the crest. He paused, looked back, saw that Brown was still up, sword still held high. The flag bearer was up as well, pressing forward; then he dropped. Another man picked up the flag, following Brown, a wedge of men, like an inverted V, pushing behind them.

The crush of men pressed up beside him and Hazner fell in with them. They were almost at the embrasure. He pushed up the last few feet to one side of the gun opening, clawing his way to the top. He caught a glimpse of heads, some wearing blue kepis, most of them hatless, the rammer for the gun withdrawing the staff, screaming for the crew to run the piece back out.

He stood up, aimed at the man less than five feet away, and squeezed. Nothing happened; his rifle was still uncapped.

A gunner, shouting, raised a revolver, and he dropped down atop the crest of the wall, the pistol round cutting a neat hole into the brim of Hazner's hat

He lunged forward, tumbling over the wall and into the fort. All was madness, confusion. Landing on the firing step, a Yankee, standing above him, screamed, using his musket like a club, swung down, trying to crush his skull. Hazner rolled, avoiding the blow. Kicking with his bare feet, he caught the man on the knee; the Yankee, cursing, staggered back. He tried to stand up, but then was knocked down as another man landed on top of him. He caught a glimpse of the inside of the fort, bodies sprawled everywhere, many of them in gray or tattered butternut A line of infantry, bayonets poised, were in the center compound, light field pieces deployed across the small parade ground, aimed straight at the wall.

The man atop him grunted, cried out, then rolled off. He came to his feet, saw the man that had been atop him thrashing, screaming, a bayonet stuck in his back, the Yankee who had caught him fighting to pull the bayonet back out

Holding his musket at the butt, Hazner swung it like a club and brained the man, who collapsed, falling off the firing step into the compound below.

It was now a murder match, men fighting like primal animals, no quarter given or asked. Fumbling, he pulled out a percussion cap, thumbed it on to the nipple, cocked his gun, and swung it around, firing from the waist into the stomach of a man lunging at him.

More men were swarming over the top of the parapet; the few Yankees atop the firing step began to jump off, running. He was about to jump down after them and then saw, to his right that the crew of the thirty-pounder were still at their position, a sergeant slapping a friction primer into the breech, pulling the lanyard taut screaming for the crew to jump back.

Colonel Brown was up into the embrasure, turning, looking back, shouting incoherently. He was so close that Hazner could almost touch him. Lunging out he grabbed Brown by the arm, which was covered with blood, and then fell backward, dragging the colonel with him. Behind Brown the flag bearer was coming through the embrasure, colors still held high.

The gun went off with an earsplitting thunder crack, the flag bearer disappearing, screams echoing up from beyond the wall.

Dropping his grip on Brown, Hazner crouched, animal-like, looking around, taking it all in, his senses suddenly sharp, clear, the world momentarily focused.

Trie infantry in the center of the fort's parade ground were firing away, independent fire, picking their targets as they came up over the wall. One of the field pieces erupted with a sharp kick, leaping backward, canister sweeping the top of the fort to Hazner's left, sweeping down a dozen or more men, some of them Union, on the open parapet.

Yankees deployed along the far side of the wall, facing in toward Washington, were turned, crouching down, firing as well; a light field piece over there was turned, pointing straight at them, ready to sweep any charge that came into the parade ground.

He stood up for a brief instant, looking back over the parapet, back across the ground they had just stormed. It was carpeted with the dead and wounded of two divisions. Scattered groups of men were still pushing forward; down in the moat, hundreds, perhaps a thousand or more, floundered about. Any semblance of command was lost in this nightmare.

Where was the next wave? The mist revealed nothing.

"We're getting out!" Hazner shouted. He stood up, pushing his dazed colonel up on the wall. The gunners, not ten feet away, were furiously reloading their piece. For an instant he thought of taking them, but knew it was useless. Bullets were smacking into the earthen wall to either side, fired from the troops assembled below.

He violently pushed Brown, who was still dazed.

"No!" Brown cried, but Hazner ignored him, leaning down, lifting him up with his blacksmith's strength, slamming him over the parapet.

He leapt up, grabbed Brown, and rolled off the top, skidding halfway down the slope. Brown tried to stand back up.

"Goddamn it, Colonel. Lay down!"

"We can still take it!"

"Not yet, damn it. Wait for the next wave!"

"We can still take it!"

Brown tried to stand up, blood pouring from his wounded arm. Exasperated, Hazner reared back, punched him with a numbing blow on the side of the head, and Brown fell, tumbled into the mud, and was still.

Fumbling into his cartridge box while lying on his back, Hazner reloaded, awkwardly pulling out the ramrod, pushing the charge down while his musket lay on his stomach, then rolled over, capped the nipple, and poised his weapon.

Pressed flat against the slope, he knew that for the moment he was safe, though those on the far side of the moat were trapped in hell. Hundreds of men, thinking as he did, had pressed themselves down into the forward slope of the fort, the ground defilade that could not be hit. The thirty-pounder, only feet away, could sweep the far slope and the fields beyond, but it could not touch him, though the roar of it would leave him deafened. Any infantry that tried to pick him off would have to stand atop the parapet, and several did try in the next few minutes, only to be riddled, as a hundred or more fired on them, offering back some small measure of revenge for the carnage. It was a stalemate.

Hazner looked around, recognizing some faces from his regiment.

"We stay here!" he shouted. "Stay here, don't fall back, or you'll be slaughtered. Stay here till the next wave comes, then we go back in!"

He reached down to his canteen. Uncorking it, Hazner lifted it up. It was light, empty. A bullet had cut it nearly in half.

Cursing, he flung it aside, and then hunkered down to wait for what would come next

He looked back to the east The sun was breaking the horizon, dull red as it shone through the smoke and the fog, which would soon burn away. It was going to be a hot day. It was going to be a very long day.

July 18th 1863

6.30a.m.

The smoke of battle was drifting down Fifth Avenue. A gutted mansion to his right burned fitfully, its brownstone walls scorched black, glass from the broken windows lying scattered along the sidewalk, smoke pulsing out of the empty window frames soaring up in coiling plumes. Two bodies dangled from a lamppost in front of the mansion, hand-lettered signs tied to their feet… rebel arsonists, the signs twirling slowly as smoke drifted around them.

The artillery fire had stopped just after dawn, only the occasional rifle shot echoing now in the gloom. The haze of smoke hung low on the street, a fitful rain splashing down, the rain thick with soot, ash, the smell of wet wood smoke.

Maj. Gen. Dan Sickles walked purposefully down the middle of the street, his escort, a company of green-clad Berdan's sharpshooters, fanned out around him in a circle, moving like the veterans they were. Instead of stalking through woods and fields they now moved from doorway to doorway, rifles poised, scanning rooftops, open windows, abandoned barricades, racing forward, going down on one knee, then up again. Disdaining such caution, he walked upright, unafraid, setting the example he knew had to be set. Twice assassins almost got him, one of the shots nicking his hat. Of course he made sure that an illustrator from Harper's Weekly knew about that event; with luck it might be on the cover next week, with him standing as a hero in the middle of the street, the skulking coward leaning over from a rooftop. He had made a point of drawing his revolver and firing several shots back-missing, of course, but still it set the right pose. The country needs a hero in a time of crisis, he thought, and I am going to give them one.

A scattering of cheers and applause greeted him as he strode down the avenue, frightened civilians peeking out of windows, then coming outside to greet him. A beautiful young girl in a soot-darkened silk dress of bottle green came out from a doorway, carrying a flower. Shyly she curtsied and handed him the blossom.

Smiling, he bowed gallantly, took the flower with one hand, and then, taking the girl's hand, he bent over and kissed it gently.

"Thank you, my dear."

"The honor is mine, General."

She scurried back into her house, several of the veterans accompanying him looking at her, grinning slyly. He turned, handed the flower to one of his adjutants, and smiled at the knot of reporters walking behind him.

"You're a popular man this morning, General," a reporter from the Tribune shouted.

He smiled, thinking the nation needed a modest hero.

"It's the men, my men who deserve the credit," he replied diplomatically, saying it loud enough so his escort could hear it

They crossed Thirty-fourth Street, heading south. The four corners of the intersection were piled high with barricades, torn-up cobblestones, upended wagons, dead horses, a streetcar pushed over on its side… and dozens of bodies, many of them hideously riddled from the blasts of canister and solid shot, which the evening before he had directed into this rebel stronghold.

He paused at the middle of the intersection to watch as a company of infantry, New York State Militia, and several dozen firemen and policemen emerged out of the smoke and passed by, heading west. The lieutenant leading the group saw Sickles, slowed, and saluted.

"Where are you coming from, Lieutenant?" Dan asked.

"Over on the East Side, sir, down by the docks. Hard fighting, I lost half a dozen men, but we routed them into the river."

"Good work, son."

"We've been ordered over to the West Side now."

Dan nodded. There were still a few pockets of resistance down toward the Hudson, and apparently some of the rioters were trying to seize boats to get out of the city now that the insurrection was collapsing.

The lieutenant motioned to the back of his column. Four bedraggled civilians, hands tied, were being prodded along at bayonet point

"We captured these men, sir, in a burning warehouse. They claim they're innocent. I'm not sure, sir, what to do with them."

Dan looked over appraisingly at the four. One was fairly well dressed, broadcloth jacket velvet vest, looked like a clerk or young merchant in his early twenties.

Dan walked up to him, ignoring the other three, who were obviously ruffians, Irish street-sweepings.

"What's your story?"

"I got trapped in the mob, sir," the young man said nervously. "I don't know how I wound up in that warehouse; I was trying to get out but couldn't."

"Why aren't you in the army?" Dan asked pointedly. "Men your age should be up at the front, serving their country."

As he spoke, his gaze shifted to his escorts. They were looking at the young man with cold eyes. It had not been difficult at all to unleash his men, survivors of the Union Mills disaster, on this mob. The resentment that had been building for two years against stay-at-home slackers was already at the boiling point before the riots had even started.

The young man said nothing, eyes a bit unfocused, obviously still drunk.

Dan turned away and looked at the lieutenant.

"If he were an honorable soldier of the South, like those my comrades and I faced openly on the battlefield, I would risk my own life if need be to save him if he were wounded."

He looked at the men of his escort, who were now watching the drama.

"You there, Sergeant," he nodded toward a veteran, beard flecked with gray, an ugly crease across one cheek from a bullet that had almost killed him the night before.

"Should this man be treated the way we treated prisoners after Antietam or the other battles we were in, where we shared our canteens with wounded rebs?"

The sergeant glared at the captured man, chewing meditatively on a wad of tobacco.

The dazed man looked at him hopefully.

"Hang the son of a bitch," the sergeant growled and spat, the juice striking the man's boots.

Sickles turned away with a dramatic flourish.

"Hang them all."

"Sir?"

"You heard me, Lieutenant. They are insurrectionists not in uniform. The rules of war are that they are to be hung."

Without waiting for a reply Dan started to walk away, ignoring the young man who, stirring out of a drunken stupor, began to hysterically scream for mercy.

He did not even bother to look back and, scrambling over the barricade, pressed on south. The Tribune reporter came up to his side.

"Isn't that rather harsh, sir? Resistance is collapsing."

Dan pulled a cigar out of his pocket and offered it to the reporter, who refused. Dan then bit off the end and paused to strike a match against a lamppost.

"Harsh?"

"The rioting is all but finished, sir. Isn't it time now for some mercy?"

"Riot? Sir, this was not a riot, it was an insurrection in support of the Confederacy. I wish you reporters would get it right. The size of it, the sheer destructiveness-no unorganized mob could do what was done here to our city, three hundred miles away from the front lines. You see around you the hand of the Confederate government and their secret agents. New York has become just as much a battlefield as Union Mills or Washington."

The reporter did not reply.

"Write that down if you please, son."

The reporter complied

The screaming of the young man was suddenly cut short, and they looked back up Fifth Avenue. At the corner of Thirty-fourth Street, a body seemed to leap into the air, half a dozen men pulling on the rope, the young man kicking and thrashing. A rifle shot exploded, one of the other three trying to escape, scrambling up over the barricade, collapsing, then half a dozen more shots, the soldiers deciding to dispatch the rest without the ceremony of a hanging.

Dan turned away and continued to walk.

"It doesn't seem to bother you," the reporter said, his features now pale.

Dan took off his hat, which was rain-soaked and covered with greasy soot He looked up at the morning sky, breathing deeply. It did smell like a battlefield; the smoke, the faint whiff of rotten eggs from the volley just fired, a distant thump of a cannon counterpointed by more musketry.

"You ever seen a battle, son?"

"No, sir."

"You should. Young man your age." "Are you going to hang me, sir, because I didn't join the army?"

Dan looked over at him and laughed. "You think that's it? Why I hanged that scoundrel back there?"

"I think it contributed to it."

"At Union Mills I saw the ground carpeted with our dead, and we lost. I saw the same at Chancellorsville, Fredericksburg, where the bodies froze into the ground. Dead, wasted dead, and still the war continues."

He fell silent, the memories sharp, crystal clear. The stench of the field at Chancellorsville, bodies bloating in the heat Waste, all of it waste. Back here it was just numbers, names in fine print filling page after page of the papers. He had seen it and felt the anguish as men, his men, died. They were his men being wasted, and if ever there was a chance to change all that, it was now. By God, the republic had to be saved, and the saving of it would start right here, in the streets of New York. Set the example here that traitors stabbing the army in the back will not be tolerated And then let his men who fought here return back to the Army of the Potomac and spread the story of what he accomplished. That will affect the morale of all his men for the better.

"If I had but one day in command," he whispered, "and fifty thousand more men, men even like that slacker back there, who I could have turned into an honorable soldier, the war would be over."

He puffed on his cigar for a moment, still looking at the dark-gray sky.

"These are hard times, son. Hard times. We've lost two hundred thousand men in this war and still it goes on. I want what happened here to be a message to our nation. The times have changed forever, the traitors down South forced that on us, and now I shall finish it"

"You, sir?"

He looked back over at the reporter and smiled.

"After today? I saved this city, son. Saved it from becoming a wasteland."

As he spoke, he gestured up and down Fifth Avenue. The refuse of the riot was everywhere-broken storefronts, gutted buildings, bolts of cloth trampled into the filth, smashed-in barrels, broken bottles, torn-up pavement dead horses, and, from a lamppost at the comer of Thirty-third Street, two more bodies dangling, one with trousers burned off to the knees, the skin blackened.

"If we had lost New York we would have lost the war."

"Isn't it lost already? There's reports that Lee will take Washington today."

Sickles took the cigar out of his mouth and blew a ring in the still air.

"I don't like that kind of talk, son."

"Sir?"

"Just what you said. 'Reports,' you say? Who filed these reports? The government, or some newspaper?" The reporter was silent

Not wanting to antagonize this important mouthpiece to the public, he smiled.

"Son. When we see an official dispatch from the government declaring mat the capital has fallen, then print it, but not before. Such talk might only lend encouragement to the rebels here in this city. That girl who gave me a flower back there. Do you want her to fall into their hands?"

"Of course not"

"Fear is the enemy here this morning. We've got it under control; let's leave Washington out of it for now and wait until there is official word."

The reporter said nothing.

"And if by chance, if by remote chance the capital does fall, I will lead the Army of the Potomac, in its fury, across Maryland and teach Bobbie Lee a lesson he will never forget"

"Sir, what Army of the Potomac?" another reporter interjected, coming up to join the two. Sickles smiled dismissively.

"That, young man, is a military secret Believe me, the Army still exists, I know, for even while here, I am working to rebuild it You will see it crowned with the laurels of victory before all is done."

Before another question could be asked, he walked away, continuing his inspection tour. Inside he was seething. If Lincoln did allow the capital to fall, there was more than a good chance that peace would be the end result, and then his own aspirations would be dashed. The capital had to hold out so that ultimately he could march into it as its liberator. Of course he had to be the one that was in command.

At first there had been rumors that the Army of the Potomac would be folded into Grant's new Army of the Susquehanna. Congressional pressure was putting a stop to that Grant was bringing Westerners in to fill up his new army. Eastern congressmen and senators weren't about to have the East's contribution to the Union cause submerged in a western command.

Lincoln was being forced to accept that. There would have to be a reconstituted Army of the Potomac which, yes, would serve under Grant, but which must have its own commander. Now Lincoln was considering whom to appoint to that position.

That hash would be settled before the week was out, of that he was certain. In the end Lincoln would have to turn to him to command the Army of the Potomac. Lincoln needed the War Democrats more than ever, and Dan was their candidate to command the Army of the Potomac. Yes, he thought to himself with satisfaction, in the end it will come out just fine and I will command the army.

Once he was in command and the army reconstituted, the stage would be set for him to whip Bobbie Lee… that would end the war as it should be ended.

Reaching Twenty-third Street and the intersection of Fifth Avenue and Broadway, he saw a knot of men, infantry, a section of guns, two bronze Napoleons, a troop of cavalry, and an ornate, black-lacquered, four-horse carriage, curtains drawn, a militia colonel leaning against the side of it, talking with someone inside. At his approach the colonel stiffened, saluted, and whispered a comment.

The door to the carriage popped open and Dan stepped in, the carriage swaying slightly as he settled in across from Tweed. The carriage was filled with cigar smoke and the scent of whiskey.

"Have you seen the reports?" Tweed snapped angrily, waving a sheaf of papers.

"Which reports?"

"My God, Dan, it states here that over two thousand bodies have been picked up for burial. They're getting hauled over to Brooklyn, even loaded into barges to get dumped at sea."

"Fine. Two thousand less ruffians terrorizing the streets."

"This will cost us a hundred thousand votes, Sickles. They'll blame us!"

"Not when I'm done," Sickles replied calmly.

"The war was a Republican war. We could always hang that on them. But now?"

"We can still do that. I was acting under orders, Tweed. Did my military duty."

"But two thousand dead. The entire Five Points burned to the ground. And what's this about military executions?"

"I wouldn't call it that. Military executions are for soldiers. These were secret agents, insurgents hiding in civilian garb."

'Two thousand of them?"

"Goddamn it, Tweed, what the hell would you have me do? Slap them on the wrist? Give mem a nursery bottle filled with brandy and send them home to their mommas? This is a war, damn it A war."

He shouted the last words, and Tweed, slightly intimidated, fell back into his seat.

"You don't see the broader picture. Back up on Fifth Avenue a girl gave me a flower."

"Channing sentiment, did you get her name?"

"You don't see it. To those Uptown I'm the savior this morning. Not a Republican, just a general doing his duty. Besides, we broke the back of the gangs that have terrorized this city for too long. They're on the run now and I plan to drive them straight into the East River and the Hudson. The average citizen of this town will turn out a week from now and offer us a victory parade. The times are changing, Tweed; this is a new age, an age of power, of industry, of the men who drive them. We saved their hides and they will remember that; I will be certain to remind them when the time comes."

Tweed said nothing.

"We can still play the lower classes, and the best way to do that is to bring this war to its conclusion without the draft. Hang that on the Republicans, that they let it drag on too long, they created the draft while lining their pockets from it and all the wartime graft. We will end the war and then see who is in the White House after the next election."

Tweed puffed on his cigar.

"You heard about Washington?"

"That Lee is attacking."

"That's the word."

"Just rumor for now, but he does have to strike and do it now."

"And if it falls?"

"Heintzelman is no genius, but he's no fool. Put twenty-five thousand into those fortifications and even he can hold it, as long as he doesn't panic."

"But Lee."

"Goddamn it. Everyone always talks about Lee. He can't fly over the fortifications, he has to go through them and it will cost him. All I am worried about now is getting confirmed as the new commander of the Army of the Potomac."

"It's a wreck, Sickles."

"It's all we got now here in the East. Do you think Grant will give me a command? I doubt it. In three months' time those damn Westerners will be dominating this entire region. I need that army command now. I need to act now, to achieve what we should have achieved in front of Gettysburg, or even, before it was thrown away completely, at Union Mills. I need that army, Tweed, and you will put the best face on what happened here in New York and make sure it happens."

"The governor is furious over the destruction and the losses. Said you were like Napoleon in Moscow."

"Well, maybe this country needs a Napoleon right now," Sickles snapped.

He hesitated, pulling back the curtain to look outside, suddenly fearful that one of the reporters might have heard. They were milling about, talking with the militia colonel, no one looking this way.

He looked back at Tweed and smiled.

"Just tell the governor that in a month this will be forgotten, especially after I've personally defeated Lee and put an end to this war. And when I am in the White House, his state and our city are going to be taken care of, really taken care

of.'

He smiled and patted Tweed's arm.

In Front of Fort Stevens

July 18 1863

6.45a.m.

“General Hood, is your old division finally ready to go in”

Lee looked at his corps commander with unveiled exasperation. The attack was supposed to have been launched with three full divisions in place, instead only two had been ready to go before dawn, and even then, Perrin's division had taken a full hour longer than expected to attack. The third division, Hood's old command, was only now completing its deployment off the road.

"General, the road is a nightmare; I still don't have Law's brigade in place."

"Send everything you have in now or we shall lose our chance!" Lee snapped.

Hood looked over at Colonel Taylor, Lee's most trusted adjutant Taylor gazed back with unfocused eyes, as if he wasn't there.

"General Lee, the attack is failing. I ask that we hold my division back."

"No, sir. You will commit immediately." Hood hesitated.

"Now, General! Now! We've lost two divisions trying to breech their line. Are you telling me that the sacrifice is to be wasted? One more push and we break through."

Hood said nothing. Looking past Lee he saw General Longstreet approach, without fanfare, mount covered in sweat and dismount

"Have we taken it?" Longstreet asked.

"No, we have not taken it," Lee replied sharply, "yet"

Longstreet nodded sagely, saying nothing, looking over at Hood.

"It was not coordinated as well as we could have wished," Hood said softly. "Night attacks on this scale are simply impossible to coordinate well in the dark and the mud."

Lee looked at him sharply and the commander of the Second Corps fell silent.

"You have my orders, General Hood, now execute them."

Hood saluted and without further argument left the grove, his staff running before him, the deployed troops coming to their feet. There was no cheering now, but the men were game, ready for what was ahead.

Lee turned to Taylor.

"Remind General Hood in no uncertain terms that he is not to go in with the assault. I need my generals, we've already lost Pettigrew this day. Keep an eye on him till the attack goes forward."

Taylor saluted and ran after Hood.

"How goes it, sir?" Longstreet asked.

Lee wearily shook his head.

"It was not properly coordinated, General. Pettigrew went in nearly an hour late. It appears the Yankee pickets had advance warning, at least enough so that their artillery opened before the attack had even hit the abatis. Perrin's men got tangled up moving up to the start position. Now Hood's old division is starting late as well; he claims the road was all but impassable."

"It is, sir."

Lee looked over at him coldly.

"Your lead division, is it ready to exploit the breakthrough?"

"Sir, it will be an hour or more before McLaws is in position; they're filing off the road even now on the other side of the creek."

"An hour? I ordered you to have McLaws up by dawn." "Sir, we are trying to move our entire army down a single road, at night, through an ocean of mud."

"We won't win with excuses, General Longstreet"

The rebuke in his voice was obvious to everyone within hearing distance.

"We have fought two major battles in little more than a fortnight. We have destroyed one of their armies, and the capital is within our reach. We cannot lose our nerve this day, General. We must hold our nerve if we are to win. I propose to win this war today, sir, because never again will we have such a chance."

A cheer went up… the rebel yell. Hood's division

was going in.

The Moat in Front of Fort Stevens

Here they come!"

Sergeant Hazner cautiously raised his head to look back to the north. A corporal who had gone up on his elbows to look, only a minute before, was now sprawled in the bottom of the moat, the top of his head gone.

He could hear them, but the smoke was still too thick to see anything. The muzzle of the thirty-pounder ran out again, this time elevated higher, to sweep the field

"Lower, you bastards," Hazner shouted. "You're aiming too high."

"We'll get you soon enough, reb," the taunt came back from the other side, "once we kill off what's coming."

He lay back down, rolling on his back, looking down at the edge of the moat Hundreds of men were still alive, pinned along the slope of the fort and down on the inner side of the moat He held his hand up, risking that it would get shot off, and waved it in a tight circle to draw attention. Some of the men looked his way.

He pointed across the field, to the top of the fort, and then to himself. Some of the men nodded, pulled caps down tighter, clawed at bodies that they had piled up as barricades, fumbling through cartridge boxes to find a dry round and reload.

Colonel Brown, lying beside him, groaned weakly. After knocking him cold, Hazner had feared for a while the blow had been too hard, perhaps he had broken his skull, but the colonel had finally stirred. Brown had tried to get up on to his knees to vomit and he had knocked him back down, and for his troubles the vomit had splattered all over him.

"Hazner?"

"Just lie still, sir. The next wave is coming, then we'll get you back."

"No, I'm going in." "Just lie still, sir."

Hazner looked up at the sky; the sun was far higher, red through the smoke, but already hot. He hoped that one of the men coming up would have a full canteen.

He could see them now, battle flags emerging out of the smoke and mist, again the formation in columns of regiment in company front.

"Fire!"

The heavy guns inside the fort recoiled back, Hazner hugging the ground, arm over his colonel, the shock wave knocking his breath out.

Screams greeted the salvo; he looked back and saw the entire front ranks collapsing, officers, one on horseback, going down, flags dropping, one with a broken staff tumbling through the air, a hundred or more men falling.

God, that was like us, he realized, that was just like us.

The charge wavered then pressed forward, men scrambling over the fallen ranks, color guards picking up fallen flags.

"Volley fire on my command!" The cry echoed from within the fort

Hazner held his arm up, waving it again, and he prayed that someone down below saw him.

"Fire!"

The volley rippled from the top of the parapet, more men dropping across the field less than fifty yards away.

"Now!" Hazner roared. "Charge, Carolina, charge!"

He stood up, cursing himself even as he did so. His own heroics surprised him; it was an act of wild stupidity. And yet something compelled him, forced him beyond all reason or sanity to do so.

For a few seconds he stood there, naked, exposed, and no one seemed to move.

One. man, then another stood up. By his side Colonel Brown tried to come to his feet, sword held feebly up. And then a wild roar erupted from the men of Perrin's and Pettigrew's divisions, who had endured hell in front of Fort Stevens. Officers were up, waving swords. A wild rage was released and a wall of gray and butternut began to surge forward yet again, crawling, kicking, climbing their way up the blood-soaked muddy slope.

"Come on!"

It was only a few dozen feet to the top, the longest yards he had ever attempted or endured. He came up eye-level with the top of the parapet; a rifle slapped down on the top, aimed straight at his face. He grabbed it by the end of the barrel and jerked it hard, pulling it toward him. He heard a curse; the gun did not go off. He pulled harder, using it as a handhold; the owner of the gun released his grip as Hazner came over the top of the parapet. With one hand he hurled the weapon at the gun crew of the thirty-pounder and then used his own weapon to parry a bayonet thrust.

Suddenly more men were up around him, the first few jumping atop the parapet, gunned down even as they leapt up. More came and yet more. He swung his own musket around, aimed at the battery sergeant, and fired, knocking the man backward.

Yet again he rolled off the top of the wall and into the fort. The Yankees lining the firing step were stunned by the sudden onslaught; most were still fumbling to reload. Several turned and jumped off the firing step and ran across the open parade ground to join the companies still deployed in the middle of the field. This time Hazner did not hesitate. He leapt down, knowing that his only protection was to charge right on their coattails.

He looked to either side; several dozen men were with him, all driven by the same realization.

The shock of hand-to-hand battle exploded in the middle of the fort as the feeble charge slammed into the enemy formation.

He heard cannon fire behind him but did not look back as he waded in, dodging, parrying, slashing, kicking, screaming, the madness of battle upon his soul.

A boy charged straight at Mm, bayonet lowered. He blocked the blow, driving his own bayonet into the boy's chest. The young soldier gasped, staggered backward, and Hazner lost the grip on his rifle, letting go.

He caught a glimpse of a clubbed musket and dropped to the ground, the blow missing. All was confusion, feet-some barefoot, others in shoes with sky-blue trousers-and he feigned that he was down and out of the fight. More feet, all with sky-blue trousers, stormed around him. He curled up, as if hit in the stomach.

Looking back he saw scores of men gaining the top of the parapet

"On the wall, volley fire on the wall!" The feet around him stopped; a ramrod came down, stuck into the ground beside him. The men atop the wall paused, rifles dropping down to the firing position. A scathing volley erupted, the man standing within inches of Hazner's face shrieking, falling backward.

Again the rebel yell, this time louder, confident as the men atop the parapet slid down to the firing step, jumped off, and charged across the courtyard.

Another melee, the harsh sound of wood striking wood and wood striking flesh and bone. Screams, men falling, staggering past, cursing, huzzahs, rebel yells, all commingled together into a terrifying roar that seemed to be trapped within the confines of the fort.

A flash of butternut-clad feet this one wearing only one shoe. More swarms of men were coming over the fortress wall, shouting, screaming. A field piece in the middle of the parade ground erupted, canister cutting down dozens. Still the charge pressed in, survivors climbing over bodies.

The carnage that ensued was beyond Hazner's worst nightmares. Driven to madness by the slaughter, the men of three divisions, who had endured hell since before dawn, exploded in rage. The sally port at the rear of the fort was clogged with Union soldiers trying to escape. In the close confines of the fight no one had time to ask or give quarter, nor was anyone capable of it anymore. Hazner stood up, in shock, watching as the garrison was slaughtered, many of the men of the First Maine and First New York Heavy Artillery fighting to the end, many bayoneted in the back, more than a few bayoneted or clubbed even as they tried to surrender.

Sickened, exhausted, Hazner collapsed back to the ground and sat unable to move or speak.

A flag bearer came up to his side and stopped.

"First Texas, rally to me! Rally to me!"

Hazner looked up at the man and caught his eye.

"You got water?" Hazner croaked.

The flag bearer nodded, unslung his canteen, and tossed it down.

He uncorked it, leaned his head back, half the water cascading down his jacket as he greedily gulped it. There was a bit of a taste to the water, whiskey, just what he needed. He emptied half of it, and then fought down the sudden urge to vomit.

He passed it back up.

"Thanks."

The First Texan grinned.

"I saw you. By God, I saw you go over the wall, the men following you! Hell of a thing, took the fire off of us. Got us in here."

Hazner couldn't speak.

"You hurt?"

Hazner looked up at him dumbly, and then at the tangle of bodies, many of them writhing in agony, which completely carpeted the parade ground of the fort

He shook his head. No, compared to them I'm not hurt, he thought

The sergeant from the Texan regiment took his canteen and slung it over his shoulder even as he continued to scream for his regiment to rally on the colors.

The Texan suddenly extended his hand.

"Lee Robinson, First Texas. Look me up after this is over, I'll give you a drink in the White House."

"Sergeant Major Hazner, Fourteenth South Carolina, and thank you."

A knot of men were gathering around the Texan, and with a wild cry he urged them forward, to continue the fight.

Hazner stood up, watching as the Texans reformed, groups of a few dozen here and there, and then pressed forward, little organization left but still game.

He turned and walked back to the parapet that they had just stormed, the tangle of bodies so thick he could barely find ground to step on.

"Sergeant Hazner!"

It was Brown, walking like a drunk, coming toward him.

'Sir.'

"Re-form the regiment, we're going in."

Hazner looked at the parade ground, at the gun emplacement for the thirty-pounder, the crew dead. He actually felt regret at the sight of that. The gunner who had been taunting him, he'd have liked to find him and offer a drink, but they were all dead. — "Re-form?"

"Yes, Hazner, we can't let the glory of the taking of Washington slip past us. We can't let Texas have this moment. Now re-form the regiment."

"Sir, what regiment?" Hazner asked woodenly.

In Front of Fort Stevens

8:30 a.m.

'T'hat's it," Lee cried. "Go, Texas, go!"

He had come forward from the grove, standing where he had first seen the fort the day before.

It was as if a vision was unfolding, a recurring dream that one forgets upon awakening, that yet hovers at the edge of memory throughout the day, only to return again in sleep. For two years he had dreamt of this moment, the final door unlocked, the end now within sight. Washington was there for the taking; it was the end.

"General Longstreet Now, bring your men up now!"

Longstreet was silent and there were tears in his eyes.

"General Longstreet?"

"Sir, it will be another half hour before I can even hope to commit McLaws."

"Then send in what you have!" "A brigade, maybe two, sir." 'Then send them in!" "Yes, sir."

He turned and rode back and Lee watched him leave. His gaze shifted to the east, to the sun.

"Oh, God, freeze it in the heavens as You did for Joshua before Jericho. I beg You please let it freeze, for time to stop, to give me but one more precious hour."

The smoke swirled, obscuring the sun for a moment, and then it came clear again… and to the southeast, he could see the dome of the Capitol.

To the Rear of Fort Stevens

9.15am

I can't let you go any farther, sir!" The captain of his cavalry escort reined around, blocking the middle of the road. Lincoln said nothing for a moment. He had always felt uncomfortable on horseback, and this mount was no exception … a mare, far too small for his long, bony frame, stirrups pulled up too high, so that he was crouching in the saddle rather man sitting.

He had left the White House shortly after dawn in a carriage, but the tangle of troops heading into battle, and the civilians fleeing it, clogged all the roads, making passage impossible. After a difficult argument with the commander of his escort, a trooper had offered a horse, but there had been no time to adjust the stirrups before setting out again.

They were north of the city, close enough to the battle now that the air overhead hummed with shot and spent bullets. A trooper riding at the front of the column had been knocked unconscious by a spent bullet, which had struck him in the forehead. After that the cavalry escort had ringed him in even tighter, using their bodies as shields. The gesture had both touched and annoyed him.

Battered soldiers were coming back, many wounded, all of them panicked, spreading the word that Fort Stevens had fallen.

He could hear the roar of battle just ahead, the sound shocking, a continual thunder, so close now that the rebel yell was clearly heard.

"Sir, we must go back!" the captain shouted.

"No, Captain, we stay here for the moment."

"Mr. President. I am responsible for your safety. I urge you, sir, let's retire to the naval yard; I will send a courier to fetch your family."

He thought of the servant Jim, at this moment most likely rounding up the other servants, telling them to get guns and prepare.

Lincoln looked over at the captain.

"My family will not be fetched," Lincoln said coldly.

"Sony, sir. I didn't mean it as an insult. They will be escorted with all dignity."

"No, Captain. They will not be escorted, nor will I. They stay where they are, as I plan to stay right here."

The captain started to open his mouth. Lincoln forced a smile, leaned over, and touched the captain on the sleeve; the young officer startled, looking at him wide-eyed.

"Son, if I run now, what will my soldiers say?"

The captain looked at him, unable to reply.

"I'm the commander of this army, am I not?"

"Ah, yes, sir."

"Fine then, son. Let's just calm down, stay here, and do our duty. At the moment my duty is to be calm, as is yours. We can't go running about like headless chickens, can we?"

The captain actually forced a smile.

"No, sir," he responded with an emphasis on the "sir."

Lincoln patted him on the arm.

"Fine, son. Let's just stay here for the moment and see what we can do to make sure this wrestling match turns out a victory for the Union."

He smiled again and the captain nodded, turning away, but ordering his men to form a barrier in front of the president, the captain himself taking position directly in front of him.

Lincoln had to admit that inwardly he was terrified. He had only heard battle from a distance before, the two fights at Manassas, the distant thunder from Union Mills. He never imagined it could be so loud, so all-consuming, and so frightening.

His mount, however, did not even flinch as a shell fluttered overhead and detonated with a thunderclap, the captain looking back anxiously to see that he was not harmed.

He smiled yet again.

"Sir, at least take that hat off." And the captain hesitated. "What?"

"Your hat. You're tall, sir, that hat marks you. A rebel sharpshooter might see it"

He realized the captain was right. He had somehow retained his stovepipe hat on the ride out No, if it marked him, others would see it as well; his boys would see it and that was what he wanted.

He shook his head. Exasperated, the captain turned to face front

A cluster of officers came down the road, riding back from the fight, one of the men swaying in his saddle, blood covering the front of his jacket. In the lead was Heintzelman. The general reined in and saluted.

"Mr. President, just what are you doing here?" Heintzelman shouted.

"Watching the battle, General."

"Sir, battle is not a spectator's sport. The rebs are not a quarter of a mile off and coming on fast"

"What is the situation, General?"

"They've taken Fort Stevens; they have a breakthrough across a front of more than a quarter mile."

"The flanking forts?"

"Still holding for the moment, sir, but it's getting shaky." "And you propose?"

Heintzelman did not reply, looking back to the north. "Your plans, General?"

"Sir, we should abandon the line and pull back into the city."

"What has General Lee put in?" "Sir, it's hard to say. Looks like three divisions, but more will be coming." Lincoln nodded.

"Like trying to pour a hundred gallons of buttermilk through a funnel. It'll take him time, General."

"Sir, I know that, but the men are running, sir," and even as he spoke he gestured to the open fields, the battered remnants of defenders heading back into the city.

"Calm, General. Let us be calm."

Heintzelman looked at him wide-eyed, as if about ready to explode.

"Calm, General. If we lead we can rally those men. They will invest their fears in our courage. But they must see our courage and rally to it"

Heintzelman lowered his head, nodded, wiping his eyes, and Lincoln was startled to see that the man was actually in tears.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President Sorry. You are right sir. We can rally them."

Lincoln felt an infinite exhaustion. He thought of the pictures he had seen of General Washington, the forlorn hope of crossing the Delaware, of the bitter winter of Valley Forge when nearly all had given up hope. The mantle of that now rested upon him, the sacrifices made to create this republic now upon his shoulders.

He said nothing, features now stern, bony shoulders braced back.

"Let us just stay here," Lincoln said softly.

Heintzelman looked back up, nodded, and fell in by his side.

Men continued to pass, falling back, but at the sight of the two, here and there a soldier slowed, stopped, a few calling out Lincoln's name, others silent, as if ashamed. Gradually a cluster of men gathered around them. A flag bearer came out of the smoke, carrying the dark blue banner of Maine. The soldier stopped and without comment planted the staff of the flag in the ground and turned to face back North. Within minutes hundreds were gathering. There was no cheering, no singing, no heroic gestures, just grim determination.

As he looked at them he wept inwardly, struggling to hide his tears. Here was the republic, his country, which he had sworn to defend and which those men were now defending, without fanfare, without much hope of seeing the day through to the end, but which they would now die for. The cause of the United States of America was reduced to this band of nearly defeated men who were gathering new courage, reorganizing themselves, and beginning to gird for battle in front of his eyes.

He took heart from these rallying troops, as he had taken heart from a servant of a race who till now were exempt in the minds of so many from that solemn pledge that all men were indeed created equal.

Another flag bearer, from New York, fell in carrying the national flag. A militia regiment, easily distinguished by their bright, clean uniforms, came up the road at the double. Sweat streaked their faces; many were gasping for breath, many trembling with fear, and yet they swung into line.

Heintzelman looked over at Lincoln, nodded, and then, with proper flourish, drew out his sword and saluted.

Lincoln could only nod.

The ragged formation stepped off, following Heintzelman. They went back into the inferno. He caught glimpses of battle, his first sight of that blood-red banner of the South coming forward, a dimly seen line of men advancing. A round struck one of his escorts, the man swearing, turning away, clutching a shattered arm. The wounded trooper looked at Lincoln, then pushed his mount back into the formation around the president, reassuming his post

The roar of battle swelled, expanding, racing outward to either flank, Union huzzah counterpointed by rebel yell.

And then they started to fall back, giving ground slowly, men dropping, but none running.

"Sir, we must move back. Now."

His attention was so fixed on the battle that he had not even noticed the captain by his side, reaching over to take his reins.

"Not yet"

"Sir, they're a hundred yards off, they'll be on us in a minute."

He shook his head.

The captain started to pull his mount around and Lincoln angrily jerked his reins back.

"We stay here," Lincoln said sharply.

The captain looked at him, wide-eyed, and then with a flicker of a smile raised his hand and saluted.

"Yes sir, Mr. President."

And then a distant cheer rose up behind them.

Lincoln looked back over his shoulder; even as he did so, another trooper of his escort collapsed, falling from his horse, dead. Behind them, though, he saw something coming. A column on the road from the city, running, bayonet points held high, tin cups and canteens clanging, an officer riding at the front ahead of the colors.

The officer came on fast, now urging his mount to a gallop and then reining in hard, and with an elegant gesture raised up his sword and saluted.

"Mr. President, I'm Col. Robert Shaw, Fifty-fourth Massachusetts."

"Colonel, it warms my heart to see you and your men; you may be just in time to save your nation's capital." "Mr. President. We're from Charleston. We arrived at the naval yard two hours ago. My brigade commander, General Strong, ordered me to move my regiment to the sound of the guns. He and the rest of the brigade will be coming up shortly."

Lincoln looked back and saw the column of veterans beginning to shake out into battle line, the men professional-looking, moving sharply … and they were colored.

Unable to speak, Lincoln faced Shaw again.

Shaw could not help but smile.

"We loaded up from Charleston the day the message arrived about Union Mills. There's a full brigade of combat-experienced troops behind me, sir. Now just tell me where to go.

He still could not speak.

'To the sound of the guns, sir!" the captain exclaimed, reaching out to grasp Shaw on the arm.

Shaw saluted, turned, and galloped off. A minute later the regiment swept past, and at the sight of the president, the men burst loose with a thunderous cheer. "Lincoln… Lincoln… Lincoln!" The charge went in.

He watched them go forward, still unable to speak. Behind them, back down the Seventh Street road, he saw more troops coming on at the double, a battery of artillery galloping across the open field beside the road, caissons leaping into the air.

He turned back to say something to the captain. But the saddle was empty, the young officer down on the ground, a couple of his troopers around him, kneeling, one looking up anguish-stricken at Lincoln.

He dismounted and knelt down by the captain. The man had been struck in the chest, was struggling to breathe.

Lincoln took his hand.

"Will we hold, sir?" the captain gasped.

"Yes, son, we'll hold. You have helped save the Union this day."

In Front of Fort Stevens

July 18,1863 10:00 a.m

General Lee, I beg you, sir, call it off." He turned to look at Longstreet and Hood, who stood beside him. He could not reply.

"Sir," Hood interjected, "it's finished. They're closing the breech. They have a colored regiment in the line now; one of my staff says it's the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts. General Beauregard reported that same regiment as being in front of Charleston two weeks ago. It means, sir, that they have fresh troops, experienced troops in the city now."

"Can we not sweep them aside?" Lee asked, and even as he spoke he realized his own will was breaking, he was asking now for some final reassurance.

"Sir," Hood continued. "My divisions are a shambles, one of them my own former command; if they cannot take it, no one can."

Longstreet shifted uncomfortably at this unintended slight. "General Longstreet?"

"I agree with General Hood, sir. I'm sorry, sir, but that road, in places the mud is knee-deep; we just can't bring men up fast enough to exploit the breakthrough."

"What about somewhere else along the line? They must have stripped their defenses to the bone elsewhere."

"Sir, we have no infantry along the rest of the line. We don't have enough men as is, even if we do force our way into that city. Sir, we've lost five, maybe ten thousand this day; we'll lose that much again, even more if we press it"

He paused, as if seeking a dramatic effect

"Sir, we just might take the city by the end of the day if you press it, but the Army of Northern Virginia, our last hope, will be destroyed doing it"

"I beg you, sir," Hood cried, his voice close to breaking. "Stop it now, our chance has passed for this day."

Lee looked toward the fort, that accursed fort Wounded, demoralized, pitiful fragments of broken units were coming back out of the smoke.

He lowered his head and nodded.

"Pull them back," he whispered.

He looked back to the southeast. The Capitol was still visible, its nearly completed dome standing defiant.

He turned and walked away.