Grant Comes East

Chapter Seven

In Front of Fort Stevens

July 18,1863 10:15 pm.

General Lee walked with infinite sadness and weariness through the hospital area. As he passed, those around him, even the most hideously wounded, fell silent.

General Pettigrew had been found, just before dusk, when Lee had asked Heintzelman for a truce. Contrary to the first reports, the general had still been alive. He was no longer; Lee had held Pettigrew's hand as he died.

Perrin had been more fortunate, hit twice, in the arm and leg; the limbs had not been broken. Perrin had wept at the sight of his commander, asking forgiveness for not going in "more sharply."

How did one answer such a statement when it was obvious where the fault truly rested?

Lee finally broke the silence, looking over at "Pete" Longstreet, who respectfully walked by his side.

"It was my fault, General Longstreet."

"General Lee, you did all that any man could do."

"I should have waited another night. I attacked too soon, I asked too much of these men."

"Sir, the reason you attacked this morning was clearly confirmed. Reinforcements are pouring into that city." He nodded in the direction of Washington. "If you had waited another night, the results would have been the same, perhaps worse."

"Then I should have realized it was impossible." "Sir, how? The only way to confirm the impossibility was to attempt it. If we had not attacked at all, what would we

have then thought? It would have haunted us, the thought that we might have been able to take it. It would have undermined morale. What would all have said across the South if we had not tried?"

"A terrible confirmation, General," Lee sighed. "Eight thousand or more dead, wounded, or captured. I might as well strike the divisions of Pettigrew and Perrin off the roster. After the losses suffered at Gettysburg and Union Mills, and now this, they are fought out."

Longstreet nodded in agreement. The two divisions, since July 1, had sustained over eighty per cent casualties. All of the original brigade commanders, except for Scales, were dead or wounded. All but three of the regimental commanders were down as well. As fighting units, the two divisions were finished. They would have to be pulled from the order of battle, rested, consolidated, and reorganized.

The two walked back toward the grove that had been his headquarters for the last two days. With the truce, the enemy had stopped shelling the position, but when morning arrived Lee would have to move. As they approached the roughly fashioned bridge of logs and barn siding, the two stepped aside as a convoy of a dozen ambulances passed. The shrieks and groans of the wounded within cut to Lee's soul and he stood with hat off as they passed, in the darkness no one recognizing him.

The grove was illuminated by several dozen lanterns, officers and staff standing silent. There was no frolicking this evening, no banter or music. All were silent. All were oppressed by the cost of this day's fighting and the friends dead and dying. At his approach whispered commands echoed, men coming to attention, some taking off their hats, others saluting.

He looked around at the gathering he had called- Longstreet, who was already at his side, Hood, arm in a sling from a rifle ball that had nicked his shoulder, Stuart, Walter Taylor, Jed Hotchkiss the cartographer, Scales as the senior surviving officer of the first two assault waves. Staff retreated to a respectful distance as Lee stepped under the overhanging tarpaulin and sat down in front of the rough-hewn table that had been dragged over from a nearby house.

"A terrible day, gentlemen," he opened without fanfare.

No one spoke.

"I take full responsibility for what happened here today." "General, we all must take responsibility for it," Hood interjected.

"I will hear no more on that, General Hood. I ordered the attack, it was my decision and mine alone."

He held his hand up for silence and Hood lowered his head.

Yet Hood was right to a certain degree. It was his first attack as a corps commander. The assault waves should have been better coordinated, sent in directly one after another. The attack had kicked off an hour late, the second wave going in late as well.

Hood should have informed him of that confusion before the attack commenced. But oh the other side of the ledger it was a night attack, something the Army of Northern Virginia had never before attempted, except after already being committed to action at Chancellorsville, and that was against a beaten foe … and in the confusion that action had cost him Jackson. The single road up was indeed a quagmire; the fog and friction of war were at play. He should have sensed that, made closer watch on the preparations, but he knew that he, too, had been exhausted and in his exhaustion had trusted the judgment of those beneath him.

That was his responsibility and his alone.

"There was no alternative," Pete said even as he puffed a cigar to light "We had to try and strike before reinforcements came in. The men that counterattacked us in the final assault were veteran units pulled all the way up from Charleston. We knew they were coming and had to attack before they arrived. If they are moving the entire besieging force up from there, that could mean twenty thousand additional men are now in the city or will be within the next few days. General Lee, that is why you had to attack today, and not tomorrow. Today was our only hope of taking the city by a coup de main."

"Is it true there was a regiment of niggers with them?" Stuart asked.

Lee looked up at him sharply. "You know I don't like that word, General."

"I'm sorry, sir. Colored then."

"I saw them," Hood interjected. "It must be that regiment from Massachusetts. Now we must deal with that as well."

"If we take any of them prisoners," Lee said softly, "they are to be treated like any other soldiers. I want that clearly understood. I disagree with General Beauregard's statements and that of our government that they will be sold as slaves and their officers executed. I will not have that in my army and I want that clearly understood by all."

No one spoke.

"We drift from our topic, gentlemen," Lee announced. "And that is to decide our course of action."

He looked at the men gathered at the table.

'Two of our divisions are no longer fit for service, at least for a fortnight or more. What is left of Anderson's division is still in Virginia, escorting prisoners back. In our remaining six divisions of infantry I would estimate that we have barely thirty thousand men under arms."

He looked at Taylor, who sadly nodded in agreement.

"That does not include artillery and cavalry, sir," Stuart said.

"No, of course not, General Stuart, but when it comes to siege operations and assault, it is infantry we need." No one replied.

"It is safe to assume that their garrison in Washington, now receiving yet more reinforcements, numbers at least thirty thousand, perhaps as many as forty thousand by tomorrow. Their heavy artillery, well, we saw what but three forts defended with heavy artillery can do to our men out in the open."

"Are you saying, sir, that the hope of taking Washington is finished?" Stuart asked.

"Do you see any alternative, sir?"

"They are still strung out defending thirty miles of front, sir. We can maneuver, feign, probe. Sooner or later, we'll find the weak spot and push in."

"That will take days, maybe weeks," Longstreet replied, "and every day means yet more men in their garrison to repulse us. They have the interior lines. Even if we did break through, they can muster a force sufficient to face us at the edge of the city or inside of it.

"I must say this now, sir," Longstreet continued. "Our army, unfortunately, is not an army that can fight a siege, or take a city the size of Washington; we are a field army that survives by maneuver, surprise, and agility. That other type of warfare fits our enemy, with their limitless numbers."

He sighed. "It doesn't fit us and never will."

"Then you believed we would not take that city?" Lee asked.

Longstreet hesitated, then finally nodded his head. "I didn't think we could take it if they were prepared to fight block by block and house by house."

"I wish I had heard that from you yesterday, General, or a week ago before we even marched down from Westminster."

Longstreet could sense the rebuke and his features reddened.

"We had to try, sir. After all, their army might have lost enough morale after their shattering defeat at Union Mills. The green troops in the forts might have broken down. The reinforcements might have come a day later. We had to try, General Lee. Maybe it was a forlorn hope, maybe not. But we had to try. Everyone, our men, the government, the people of the South, expected it and therefore we had to try."

Placated, Lee nodded and leaned back in the camp chair.

History would have expected it, he realized. After the triumph at Gettysburg and Union Mills history itself would have expected him to march on Washington and take it. He had to have tried.

The dream of taking Washington had been the goal ever since the start of this campaign, the thought that with the final defeat of the Army of the Potomac, Washington would fall and then it would be over. Was that itself an illusion?

If so, what now? Was everything this campaign was predicated upon an illusion? Was there nothing that could force the North to negotiate a peace?

Walter stepped away from the group for a moment and returned with a tin cup brimming with coffee. Lee nodded his thanks, lifted the cup, blew on the edge and took a sip, then set the cup back down.

Hotchkiss had already spread the maps of northern Virginia, Maryland, and southern Pennsylvania out on the table. Lee examined them. At Gettysburg this had been a defining moment, when the map seemed to come alive with movement, of troops marching on roads, enemy positions marked, all leading to a place where victory awaited.

But nothing stirred within his heart and mind. All was still and silent, except for the creaking of the ambulances passing nearby on the road, the distant cries of the wounded piercing the night.

"We have three choices," he finally said, rubbing his eyes, then taking another sip of coffee. "We either stay here and continue the action or we pull back into Maryland, maybe toward Frederick, and in so doing reorganize, see to our logistical needs, and then perhaps consider Baltimore. We can also retire back into Virginia and reorganize and refit until Grant and his new army come after us."

He had laid it out cleanly and no one spoke, though he could see that all were now forming their responses, each ready to set forth his opinion.

"Continue it," Stuart said sharply. "I still maintain that we can maneuver, shift some of our forces toward Blandensburg, others down along the Potomac, stretch them out using my cavalry, then when the weak point is found, go in."

"Not again." This time it was Scales. Though he was only a brigade officer, now in command of a shattered division, all looked over at him respectfully. He was the only general to come back out of today's inferno.

"Go on, General Scales," Lee said politely.

"Sir, as you know, I was there today and saw it all. My men, sir, they did everything humanly possible, beyond humanly possible. They stormed through six rows of abatis, waded a moat, charged a muddy slope, and finally took Fort Stevens. We lost two divisions just doing that, and now it, too, is back in their hands.

"I actually thought that after two hours of firing, the garrison inside would run out of ammunition. I looked in one of their bunkers once the fort was taken, sir; they could have kept up that rate of fire with canister alone for another three or four hours, and with shell and solid shot for the rest of the day.

"Sir, taking those forts is pitting mere human flesh against earthworks and steel. Maybe if we had a hundred thousand more men, and, God forgive us, the cruelty to use them without thought or compassion, we could do it, but I for one, sir, could not give such an order ever again."

"I agree, General," Lee said softly. "I will not order such an assault, ever again, unless I am certain that the sacrifice is worth the final reward."

Stuart started to raise an objection, but Lee's tone indicated that this line of debate was finished. The attack on Washington was over.

He could see though that what he had just admitted was that the raison d'etre of the entire campaign was now in question and he could not leave it there.

"If we had reinforcements, and with them the proper equipment to conduct a successful siege, only then would I now consider it. We took the gamble, we did our best, but things have come out against us."

A gloom settled over the group.

"I cannot believe," Hood finally interjected, "that to withdraw back to Virginia is our only remaining option."

Grateful for the comment, Lee nodded for Hood to continue.

"That would be the ultimate admission of defeat. All our people's hopes coming out of our triumph at Union Mills will be dashed if we now turn our men south, especially after this defeat. The Yankee press will crow that we've been turned back without hope of ever returning. It will give them time as well to rebuild the Army of the Potomac once more and to combine it with Grant's new force. I think, sir, if you do that now, you will lose the war."

"I agree," Stuart announced and there were nods around the table.

"We have good supplies here," Hood said. "If we can maintain ourselves here through the fall harvest, it will give all of Virginia, especially the valley, time to recover and then, if need be, support us through the winter and following spring. We still have a good stockpile of ordnance supplies taken from Union Mills as well, so there is no concern for that at the moment."

"Our numbers though," Longstreet said, and his words dampened the first sign of renewed vigor.

"Go on, General Longstreet."

"As we already discussed, we are down to roughly thirty thousand men in the infantry. We know that on the Yankee side thirty thousand or more are, or shortly will be, in Washington. Though we might scoff at them now, the Army of the Potomac will rebuild. Perhaps as many as thirty thousand got out and are somewhere north of the Susquehanna. They are undoubtedly funneling men into that army even as we speak. And then there is Grant. He is bringing in troops as well. We might very well be facing a hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand in fairly short order."

"Grant?" Hood snapped. "An amateur from the West compared to the caliber of what we have here in the East. At this moment, I think McClellan would be a bigger threat."

"An amateur who defeated Johnston and then took Vicksburg? I wouldn't call the victor of Pillow, Donelson, Pittsburgh Landing, and Vicksburg an amateur, General Hood," Lee commented.

"It will be months before he can marshal a force capable of meeting us," Hood pressed.

"General Hood, they brought up troops from Charleston in a matter of days. What is to prevent them from bringing troops to Grant from as far afield as Texas, Florida, or even his own army from Vicksburg, battle-hardened men fresh from a major victory?"

"That would strip every other front clean," Stuart replied, coming to Hood's support

"This is the only front that matters now," Longstreet countered. "If we take back the Mississippi, New Orleans, and all of Kentucky, what does it matter if this army is defeated and, by logical deduction, Richmond then falls?"

"Then we take it to the hills, the mountains, and down into the deep south until they finally give up."

"A dozen or more years, is that it?" Longstreet snapped.

"Gentlemen," Lee interjected, extending both hands in a calming gesture.

The arguing generals looked to him.

"Both of you are right. We must be concerned about this Grant, the potential that he can form around him another army. But I do not see that happening tomorrow, or even in a month. We still have time to consider that when the time comes. Let us hold ourselves to the immediate, to our concerns of tonight and the next few days."

Hood and Longstreet gazed at each other and then looked back to Lee.

They both nodded in reply.

"I think, gentlemen, that we have some sense of things this evening. We cannot storm Washington, nor is retreat back to Virginia a viable choice."

No one raised an objection.

"Then let us rest our men in place tomorrow. General Longstreet, pass the word back to your corps to stop where they are on the road. General Stuart, continue to observe their lines to either flank; if something remarkable develops we will of course act on it, but by that I mean they all but abandon their lines. I do not want you to bring on any sort of general engagement without my direct orders."

He shifted and looked over at his aide.

"Colonel Taylor, meet with our medical staff and see to arrangements for the proper evacuation of our wounded.

General Stuart, you will have to detail off at least two or three regiments to escort our injured back to Virginia. The truce along this front lasts till dawn and I expect all to observe that Colonel Taylor, at dawn I want a letter to be sent to General Heintzelman extending my thanks for his courtesy. If need be, we might ask for a truce till noon but we'll decide that in the morning."

He looked around at the gathering.

"Any other questions?"

"Sir," Hood pressed. "I understand that we have decided to stay in Maryland, but to what end now, sir?"

Lee sat back with a sigh. In truth he simply didn't know. Ever since crossing the Potomac he had moved with the next goal clearly in sight, first to find the Army of the Potomac and position it on suitable ground for a decisive blow. After that to try and take Washington. That had been decided this day.

What next? Hold in place and hope they attack? They would be fools to do so until their strength was again overwhelming. Pull back up into central Maryland, toward Frederick perhaps? That would significantly shorten his lines of communication, but for the moment that was not a major concern. The windfall at Westminster, and the richness of the surrounding farmlands, could support them right into early autumn. Try for Baltimore? It would extend him, widening his flank to the north, and leave in his rear a gathering enemy strength in Washington. His instinct of the moment was to draw back toward Frederick, but he was not yet ready to give that order.

He could not decide that tonight, not after this bitter day.

"We'll talk again at dusk tomorrow, gentlemen," was all he could say. "I think we all need a day of rest."

One by one they saluted and stepped away from the table. He could see that Pete wanted to continue the conversation, but a gentle shake of his head was signal enough. Pete saluted and withdrew until finally only Walter was left

"Sir, your bed is ready," Walter said. "May I suggest some sleep."

"In a little while, Walter."

Walter made as if to argue. The general touched his aide lightly on the arm.

"I think, Walter, I'm going to order you to bed. You can see to your duties before dawn."

"Yes, sir."

Walter knew better than to press the issue. He touched the brim of his hat and withdrew.

Alone, at least as alone as he could ever be with this army, Lee sat back down but then, after a restless moment, he stood up and walked out of the grove. The ever-present troopers who served as his escort stirred.

"Just walking," Lee said. "Stay off your mounts, let them rest at least"

A sergeant with the detail saluted, called for a dozen men, but then kept them back at a respectful distance.

Lee slowly walked up the slope. The tangled grass, brambles, and corn had all been trampled down in the assault, the debris making his footing somewhat difficult As he went along he could see dozens, perhaps a hundred or more lanterns, now pale and ghostlike in the light mist that was rising, ambulance crews and stretcher parties sweeping the ground for the fallen.

In the faint glow of starlight he finally saw the outline of the fort, easy to pick out by the lanterns atop it, several signal flares sputtering on the breastworks, casting a sharp, metallic light.

He could hear distant moans, cries, a hysterical shriek, "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" He lowered his head.

"Merciful God, forgive me my many faults," he whispered. "Grant repose to those who fell here this day. Grant peace to the families of the fallen, and lay Your gentle hand of peace upon those who suffer this night Forgive us, Oh Lord, for what we have done to each other this day. Amen."

He looked back up at the fort Beyond it he could see the unfinished dome of the Capitol, the lights of the city. For a moment he wondered if a more distant light was the front porch of his own home, but knew that was fanciful illusion, though the thought of it caused his eyes to sting. He turned and walked away.

Fort Stevens

July 18,1863 11:45 p.m.

Lincoln slowed his pace as he walked into the fort. Now he was seeing it up close for the first time. Torches flickered on the parade ground, which had been turned into a temporary hospital, the men waiting for the ambulances that would take them back into the city and out of harm's way if the battle should resume tomorrow.

It was a enamel house, thick with the stench of torn flesh, vomit, excrement, gun smoke, with the faint whiff of ether and chloroform. He wanted to shut out the sound of a surgeon at work, taking a man's leg off, operating on a rough plank set up on sawhorses right out in the open, two assistants holding lanterns to either side of him.

He spared a quick glance; the surgeon did not even see him, so intent was he on his work, struggling to loop a string of catgut around a hemorrhaging artery. A male nurse, middle-aged, white-flecked beard, was beside the surgeon, ready to hand over more looped strings of ligatures. The man looked somehow familiar, and their eyes met It was the poet he had heard so much about and read. The poet smiled, and the gesture was strange until he realized it was a look of encouragement, an almost fatherly gaze. Lincoln nodded and turned away, fearful that if he actually saw the operation in its entirety, the leg dropping off, he would become ill.

He carefully stepped around the wounded, most of them so preoccupied with their personal hells that they did not know who was walking past them. To the east side of the parade ground there was a long row of still forms, the dead; a couple of orderlies staggered by, carrying a body away from where the wounded were spread out. They dropped the body and went back, walking slowly.

He saw a knot of officers gathered on the parapet, and approached. One of them turned, whispered, and the others came about, coming to attention. He recognized Heintzelman in the middle of the group, arm in a sling.

He had not held much confidence in this man, and still had doubts as to his fitness to manage an independent command, but Heintzelman had proven in the moment of crisis that he had courage, personally going back in to lead the countercharge, getting wounded in the process.

Heintzelman fumbled for a second to salute, grimaced, letting his right arm drop back into the sling, and then saluted with his left hand as Lincoln carefully ascended the steps to the gun platform where the officers were gathered around the thirty-pounder.

"They're still out there, bringing in their wounded," Heintzelman said.

The president didn't need to be told. The ground before him at first glance looked like a summer meadow covered with fireflies. The lanterns swung back and forth, bobbing up and down, some not moving, resting on the ground, casting enough light to reveal a stretcher-team bending over to pick up their burden. Ambulances were lined up alongside a row of torches, men being lifted into the back. Cries of anguish echoed across the field.

Bright flares were set along the top of the fortress wall, illuminating the moat below and the wall of the fort. Men were sloshing through the muck, pulling out bodies, dragging them up the opposite slope.

"Sir, perhaps it's not wise for you to be this close. Those are rebs working out there," Heintzelman whispered.

A bit surprised, Lincoln suddenly realized they were indeed rebels, not thirty feet away, moving like ghosts in the dark. One was humming a hymn, "Rock of Ages," as he helped to pull a wounded man up out of the moat. But his hymn was all but drowned out by the low, murmuring cries, sounding like the damned trapped in the eternal pit below.

"I'm safe here," Lincoln replied softly. "General Lee is scrupulous about a truce, his men will honor it"

"Sir, I took the liberty of loaning them twenty ambulances with teams; they were short"

"Short?"

"One of their doctors told one of my staff that their army was bogged down on the roads, leaving all their baggage and nearly all their artillery behind. The ambulances were left behind as well. They only had a few dozen with them."

"It was right of you to do so, General."

It was an interesting bit of intelligence, explaining perhaps why they had not attacked with more strength.

"I also sent over several wagons of medical supplies. We've got warehouses full of ether, bandages, medicine; I just couldn't stand to see brave boys like those out there suffering needlessly now that they are out of the fight"

Surprised, Lincoln looked over at the general and nodded his approval.

"You did the proper thing, General, and I thank you."

He stood silent and no one dared to interrupt.

"If they want more time after dawn, do not hesitate to give it to them. The same stands for ambulances and medical supplies. I will not have wounded men out there suffering."

"Yes, sir," Heintzelman lowered his head, "and thank you, sir."

"Thank you?"

"This morning, sir. What you did on the road. The entire army is talking about it."

Lincoln felt himself flush. He had done nothing out of the ordinary and he was still a bit shocked by the terror he had felt when the enemy battle line came into sight, flags held high, that terrible screaming yell resounding. Certainly his three months in the militia years ago had not prepared him for this moment of crisis and the overwhelming emotions that came with it. That was play soldiering. This was the real thing. It was not just terror for himself, but terror as well that here was the ending of it, that he had lost the war, that the republic would be forever sundered, and centuries of division, woe, and yet more war were now the fate of this world.

He had hardly been able to think of anything else, even as the reinforcements stormed up the road, deployed, and then struck with such terrible fury, losing a third of their numbers, but hitting with such ferocity that the enemy attack had faltered and withdrawn.

He started to turn and leave but then recognized a diminutive officer standing at the edge of the group. He approached, the officer stiffening, saluting. Lincoln extended his hand.

"Shaw, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"I know your parents."

"Yes, sir, they are honored to have your acquaintance."

"As I am now honored to have yours, Colonel. Your men were magnificent this day. The entire nation shall know of them."

"Thank you, sir, but we were just one regiment out of many who did their duty here today."

He could sense that the other officers were watching. Some might be jealous of the attention, but Shaw's words had the proper diplomatic effect and he could see a couple of the generals behind Shaw nodding with approval.

"Your men proved something today, Shaw. In this time of crisis I hope we can raise a hundred thousand men of color in short order. Your example will open that way."

"Thank you, sir."

"Once the crisis of this-moment has passed, Shaw, I'd like you and several of your enlisted men to visit me in the White House."

Shaw grinned.

"An honor, sir."

"I will confess to being exhausted tonight. I might forget this invitation, so please send a messenger to the White House. Have him ask for Mr. Hay, and an appointment will be made."

"Thank you, Mr. President"

Lincoln lightly took his hand, shook it, and then left the gun position. He could hear the chatter behind him, one of the generals offering Shaw a cigar, telling him that he was certainly the "trump card" tonight.

As he stepped off the ladder, the horror was again before him. Half a dozen ambulances were lined up, stretcher-bearers swinging their loads in, four men to an ambulance on stretchers, one or two lightly wounded sitting up and riding the buckboard, another upright wounded man forward on the seat with the driver. As the ambulances jostled into motion, cries and groans erupted. Men who had struggled so hard to hide their pain as they believed soldiers should, once inside the confines of the ambulance and concealed by the canvas walls, could at last give voice to their pain-and most did.

He took his hat off, watching as the ambulances moved out of the sally port. "Mr. President." He turned. It was the poet "Yes?"

"Mr. President, I was just helping a boy. He saw you come in and asked to speak with you. He says his ma knows your family."

The escort of cavalry that had trailed behind him at a respectful distance came in a bit closer. A lieutenant, who had replaced the young captain who was now dead, tried to interrupt

"The president has had a hard day, sir, perhaps another time."

"Mr. President, he won't live much longer. I feared to leave his side to help that surgeon you saw me with even for a moment. He's dying, shot in the stomach."

Lincoln nodded.

"Yes," was all he could say, not sure if he could bear what was coming.

The poet led the way, weaving past hundreds of wounded lying on the ground, makeshift surgical stations set up under awnings, a pile of arms and legs stacked on the ground so that he slowed, wanting to offer a protest; decency demanded that these shattered limbs should be hidden away. But how can you hide away a hundred limbs when every second was precious, every orderly staggering with exhaustion, the surgeons slashing and cutting as fast as they could to stop hemorrhaging, plug holes in gasping chest wounds, dull the pain of a chest so badly shattered that the broken ends of bare ribs were sticking out, push back in loops of intestines, or still the hysterical babbling of a man whose brains were oozing out?

The poet slowed, then looked back at the president "Sir, one thing." "And that is?"

"He's a Confederate soldier, sir." Lincoln slowed, paused, and then nodded his head wearily.

"That doesn't matter now."

The poet offered a reassuring smile, took him gently by the arm, and guided him the last few feet

The boy was curled up on his side, panting like an injured deer, in the flickering torchlight his face was ghostly pale, hair matted to his forehead with sweat. His uniform was tattered, his butternut jacket frayed at the cuffs and collar, unbuttoned. The boy was clutching a bundle of bandages against his abdomen. In the shadows the stain leaking out seemed black. He looked up, eyes unfocused.

"I brought him to you," the poet whispered, kneeling down beside the boy.

The boy looked around, a glimmer of panic on his face, and he feebly tried to move, then groaned from the pain.

'I can't see."

Lincoln knelt down, then sat on the ground, extending his hand, taking the boy's hand, touching it lightly. The skin was cold.

"I'm here, son, I'm here." "Mr. Lincoln?" "Yes, son."

"Private Jenkins, sir. Bobbie Jenkins, Twenty-sixth North Carolina."

"Yes, son. You asked for me?"

"My ma, sir. She was born in Kentucky. When she was a girl she took sick with the typhoid."

He stopped for a few seconds, struggling for breath.

"Your ma, Mrs. Hanks, helped take care of her. You were a boy then, sir, she told me, she remembered you bringing some soup to her. Do you remember her?"

"Of course I do," he lied. "A pretty girl, your ma."

The boy smiled.

"Mama," he gasped, and curled into a fetal position, panting for air.

"It hurts," he whispered.

Lincoln looked at the poet sitting on the other side of the boy.

"Anything for the pain?" Lincoln whispered.

"As much as we dare give him," the poet replied softly, leaning over to brush the matted hair from the boy's brow.

"In spite of this war," the boy sighed, "Ma always said you and your kin were good folk."

"Thank you, son, I know you and your ma are good folk, too."

"The man here, he told me I'm going to be with God soon."

Lincoln looked up at the poet and was awed by the beatific look on the man's face as he gently brushed back the boy's hair, using a soiled handkerchief to wipe his brow.

"I'm afraid, sir," the boy whispered. "Please help me. Will you write to her? Tell her I died bravely."

"Yes, son."

"Help me," the boy whispered, his body trembling. "I'm afraid."

Lincoln lowered his head, slid closer, and took the boy into his arms.

"Do you remember the prayer your mother taught you? The one you said together every night when she tucked you into bed?"

The boy began to cry softly.

"Let's say it together," Lincoln whispered.

The boy continued to cry.

"Now I lay me down to sleep," Lincoln began.

The boy's voice, soft, already distant, joined in.

"I pray the Lord my soul to keep…

"If I should die before I wake …

"I pray the Lord my soul to take…"

Even as the last words escaped the boy's lips, he shuddered, a convulsion running through him.

Lincoln thought of his own boy, of Willie, his last strangled gasp for air.

There was a gentle exhaling, the tension in the boy's body relaxing, going limp, his last breath escaping, washing over Lincoln's face.

He held him. He tried to stifle his own sobs as he held him. He knew others were watching, watching the president, not a tired, heartsick old man; they were watching the president, but he didn't care.

He felt a gentle touch on his shoulder, the poet, up on his knees, leaning over the body.

"I'll take him, sir."

He didn't want to let go, but knew he had to.

He leaned over and kissed the boy on the brow, the way he knew the boy's mother had kissed him every night.

"God forgive me," he whispered.

He sat back up, letting the poet take the body. The poet ever so gently closed the boy's eyes, folded his arms. He reached into his pocket, took out a notebook and a pencil. He scratched the name of the boy and his regiment on a slip of paper. He drew a pin out of the binding of the notebook and fastened the name on the boy's breast pocket. Lincoln realized that this little ritual was an attempt to identify a body so it would have a marker, something the poet had done innumerable times before. The boy, however, would most likely go into a mass grave with hundreds of his comrades.

The poet took another piece of paper and again wrote the boy's name and his hometown in North Carolina upon it, and handed it to the president

"You promised him, sir," the poet said. There was no reproof in his voice, no questioning, just a gentle reminder.

"Thank you," Lincoln whispered.

The poet stood up and Lincoln came up as well. He looked around and saw that all were silent. Dozens had been watching, Union and Confederate, lying side by side, all silent, some weeping.

He lowered his head, struggling to gain control of his voice.

"Let us all pray together," he said, his voice suddenly calm.

"Oh, God, please lift this terrible scourge of war from our land. Let all here return safely home to their loved ones, and together let us learn to live in peace."