Never Call Retreat

CHAPTER FIVE

Baltimore and Ohio Rail Yard Baltimore

August 23 1:00 P.M.

You mick son of a bitch, come back here!" The yard boss turned, glaring at Maj. Zachariah Cruickshank, commander of the pontoon bridge train, Army of Northern Virginia, with a dark eye. Several of his fellow workers gathered around behind their boss, one of them hoisting a sledgehammer and swinging it one-handed. Cruickshank's men, a hard-bitten lot themselves, stepped closer to their major, one of them unclipping the flap on his revolver, another beginning to uncoil a bullwhip.

"Go ahead and shoot me," the yard boss snarled, "but I'll be damned if I'll take your ordering me around like some damn slave. This is my rail yard, not yours."

Cruickshank was tempted to do just that, shoot the son of a bitch. Not kill him, just blow a hole in his foot or arm to make the point. General Longstreet had ordered him to get the pontoon train loaded up, and by damn he had to do it. Now this dumb Irish Yankee was giving him back talk.

He looked around as more of the yard crew came over. Tough-looking men every one of them. Some were grinning, expecting the start of a donnybrook, and were picking up sledges, pickaxes, pieces of ballast.

"Most of 'em are goddamn Yankees," a sergeant standing next to Cruickshank whispered. "Let's go at 'em and take this damn place. I can get your trains for you, sir."

The men around Cruickshank muttered agreement.

Kill some of those sons of bitches, Cruickshank thought, and it will be my ass hauled before Old Pete again, the threat of court-martial real this time.

CruIckshank wearily shook his head, reached into his haversack, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whiskey and held it up.

"Let's you and me talk," Cruickshank said, glaring at the yard boss. It galled him that he had to be reduced to making this offer, but damn all, he had orders from Longstreet himself and had to see them through.

The yard boss looked at the bottle, then nodded his head, turned to his men, and yelled at them to go back to work. Cruickshank ordered his men to back off, walked over to the yard boss, and together they climbed into an empty boxcar and sat down.

The two sides, like two street gangs waiting to see if it would be work or fight, stood apart, watching as their chiefs negotiated. A gesture from either would mean a bloodbath.

Cruickshank handed over the bottle; the yard boss uncorked it and took a long pull.

"Good stuff," he gasped. "This town's been dry as a bone ever since you rebs came in and confiscated all the liquor."

"There's plenty more where that came from"-Zachariah hated to say the words but had to-"if you help me out."

The yard boss looked over at him and grinned.

"So, got you by the short hairs, reb. One minute I'm a son of a bitch and the next you're trying to bribe me."

"I got a barrel of Tennessee's finest if you can help me work things out."

"This is my yard, not yours. You don't come in here ordering me around, especially in front of my men. Damn you, even the boss calls me Mr. McDougal, not 'Hey, you.'"

"I understand. Listen, McDougal-"

"Mr. McDougal." Cruickshank sighed.

"All right then, Mr. McDougal. It's hot, I'm tired, and I got my orders."

"Listen, Major. I've had no word from the office about this. You just come wandering in here and demand four engines and forty flatcars. You have to be joking."

"I'm not."

"And I expect an apology for that son-of-a-bitch comment, you son of a bitch."

Cruickshank swallowed hard. Anyone else, at this moment, he'd have dropped him with one good punch.

"All right, one son of a bitch to another, does that satisfy you?"

"Barely," the boss said, taking another drink. He all but drained the bottle and tossed it out on the ground, where it shattered, then looked over expectantly at Cruickshank. Cruickshank motioned to one of his sergeants, who reluctantly came over, opened his haversack, and pulled out another.

For the first time, McDougal smiled, uncorked it, took another drink, then passed it back to Cruickshank, who took a long one as well.

Outside the boxcar this was read as a signal that things were simmering down. A few of his men, as Cruickshank had hoped, took out bottles and passed them to the work crew facing them.

"Let me guess," Cruickshank asked, "you're a Union man, aren't you?"

"And if I admit to that, do I get arrested?"

"No. We're not like Lincoln, who's arrested thousands."

"Well, before you and your men came and took over Baltimore, we had business here. Good pay. I've let go of nearly all my crews. Men of mine are starving, thanks to you."

"I don't see any colored around here," Cruickshank said.

The yard boss laughed.

"With you graybacks coming? Every last one took off, most likely working the yards up in Wilmington or Philadelphia now. I lost some good men, thanks to you."

"I could say the same thing," Cruickshank replied. "Look, you and I are stuck in the middle of all this. I drove wagons before the war; you put together trains. I've got orders, and I'm told you'll get orders, too. Our civilian boss, Mr. Benjamin, is supposed to be meeting with your boss right now to set up the contracts, but I was told to get over here right now and start things moving. So either we work together, or I'll shoot you here and now, say you attacked me, then get my men to take over."

"You do that, you'll have a riot on your hands," McDougal replied with a smile. "Besides, what kind of gentleman are you to give a man a drink, then shoot him?"

"I'm no gentleman."

"I thought all you Southern officers were gentlemen. And besides, you sound a bit like a damn Englishman."

"Listen, McDougal. Someday I'll tell you my hard-luck story. I'm not Irish, but the slums of Liverpool are just as tough for a working-class English boy. I'm an officer because I was a civilian teamster before the war running supplies to army posts out in Texas. You name the place and I'll run a hundred wagons to it, and be damned to whoever gets in my way. I've killed more than my share of Comanche and a few drunken Irish, too, when they tried their hand at thieving from my wagon train."

McDougal looked at him and burst out laughing, taking the bottle back, and after a long drink, handed it back.

Outside the boxcar the laughter was a signal for everyone to relax, and more bottles came out. Cruickshank watched them for a second. It was fine that they mingled, but get them too drunk and maybe a brawl would start just for the hell of it, unraveling all the concessions he had been forced to make so far.

"Four trains it is that you want?" McDougal asked. "That's what I figure. Actually would prefer six, but figure I'd start with four." "What the hell for?"

There was no sense in lying about it. Once they started loading up, the whole yard would see it. "Ever seen a pontoon bridge?" "You mean a bridge on boats?"

"Yes, damn them. Boats that you lay planking across. I hate the damn things." "That's your job?"

"My curse. Each boat is nearly thirty feet long. It takes a dozen mules to move but one on a road, and if the road is too narrow or twisting… well, it makes you want to shoot yourself or get drunk. I got forty of 'em, plus the bridging lumber, and I need to get them to Frederick."

"Frederick?" McDougal laughed. "Between you and the Union boys, that line is a mess. Water tanks toppled, temporary bridges ready to fall apart, a helluva mess. The bridge over the Monocacy was blown last year during the fighting around Antietam, and she was a beauty. I helped put it up before the war, and then some dumb rebel blows it apart. The one we got up now is just temporary. You got a helluva job, Major. I wouldn't want it."

Cruickshank pushed the bottle back.

"I'll have a barrel for you tonight if you can at least get things moving."

McDougal picked up the bottle and looked at it.

"Your boys cleaned out every bottle of whiskey in town this last month."

"Like I said, I got barrels of 'em stashed in one of my boats."

"A deal then it is," McDougal announced loud enough that all could hear. "A barrel to get started, a barrel when you get loaded up."

Cruickshank nodded and stood up. Between one drinking man and another a deal could always be reached-when one had liquor and the other didn't.

The two shook hands. McDougal's grip was tight, rock-solid, and for a few seconds they played the game, the two looking straight at each other, neither relenting.

Finally, McDougal relaxed his grip and smiled.

"Guess you're not a gentleman after all," he said. "You're damn right," Cruickshank replied without a smile.

He jumped down from the boxcar, McDougal by his side.

"I'll be back in an hour," Cruickshank announced and walked off. His second in command, Captain Sigel, fell in by his side.

"So you made the deal," Sigel asked. "Two barrels. Supposedly the good stuff." "Sir?"

"You know what to do. Empty the good stuff out and refill it with some of the white lightning you boys brewed up. Get some strong tea into it to color it right. That old Irishman will never know the difference. I'll be damned if he'll guzzle down my ten-year-old whiskey."

Cruickshank walked on, stepping around a pile of barrels leaking molasses, cursing as the sticky fluid clung to his boots.

"Damn job," he sighed. It was better than getting shot at, but moving those damn boats, what a rotten way to fight the war.

Baltimore

1.30 P.M.

Mr. Secretary, you realize the difficult position you are placing the Baltimore and Ohio in with this request?"

Judah Benjamin, secretary of state for the Confederate government, smiled at James Garrett, superintendent of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, but the smile hid an evergrowing frustration. "Sir, we are simply talking business," Judah replied warmly, putting on his best negotiating smile, "a business deal for which the B and O will be fully compensated."

"I could take a strictly business approach to this, Mr. Secretary, and ask how my company will be compensated. Are you prepared to pay up front for our services? Contracts with the federal government are paid for in cash, and on time. I am in no position to accept payment in Confederate money, which both you and I know has no real value."

"I understand your concern, sir. My salary is paid with that same money."

Garrett did not smile at the joke.

"Sir, I'll personally sign a promissory note, payable in gold upon the ending of hostilities."

"And suppose you lose?"

"Given our current position, the successes of the previous months, I think that unlikely," Judah replied.

Garrett was silent and Judah could almost read his thoughts. If Garrett agreed to contract with the Confederate army for troop and supply movements and the North then wins, he could very well find himself out of a job at the very least, perhaps even in jail if Lincoln was feeling vindictive. If the South should win, cooperation now would bring advantages after the war, but even then payment might take years, and the North could very well turn around and seize Baltimore and Ohio property outside of the Confederacy.

"I know you are in a difficult position, Mr. Garrett," Judah said smoothly. "I don't envy you at this moment."

"And if I don't cooperate?" Garrett asked coolly.

"Sir, I am afraid we will have to seize your line. There will be no payment, and after our victory the Confederate government might not be in a position to look favorably upon your property and the ownership by stockholders outside of the Confederacy."

"That does sound like a threat," Garrett replied sharply.

"It is not intended to be," Judah lied. "It is just a simple reality."

"If you do seize the line, realize that many of my workers will not cooperate. You'll have to man the lines with your own personnel."

"I know that, and we can do it."

Judah did not add that at this very moment one of Longstreet's officers was already down in the railyard negotiating with the workers there. He had suggested to Lee that the two meetings take place at the same time. Garrett was a known Union man, and it was best to be ready to move quickly if he refused to cooperate.

It was now Garrett's turn to smile.

"You don't have the logistical know-how," he replied, voice even and soft. "You don't have an organization like the United States Military Railroad, nor a man like Haupt or Dodge to run it for you. Is there a single man with your army now who can organize and run scores of trains, perhaps a hundred or more, as you've requested? I don't think so."

"That is why I am appealing to you," Judah said, still forcing his diplomatic smile.

"I think I will have to convene a meeting of the board of directors for this," Garrett announced.

Judah sighed. Garrett was taking the standard dodge. He will not make a decision either way and therefore will come out clean. If the South wins, he can claim his hands were tied by his board, fire a few of them, and come out of it position intact. If the North wins, he can claim to have made a heroic stand.

"And how long will convening this board meeting take?" Judah asked.

'To get a quorum? A week or two, and it will mean obtaining passes of transit through your lines for our members who are now in Northern territory."

"We don't have weeks," Judah said, an edge of anger to his voice now. "We need the line starting today."

"Then, sir, I am afraid I cannot help you at this moment," Garrett said, folding his hands across his waist.

"Then, sir, I must inform you that by the authority I hold in the government of the Confederate States of America, I am seizing control of your line for the duration, and compensation will not be offered."

"Be my guest," Garrett said calmly. "And I wish you luck with it."

Ten Miles South of Carlisle, Pennsylvania, on the Cumberland Pike August 23, 1863 6:30 P.M.

It was impossible to conceal who he was. The word had raced down the column hours ahead of his approach, and cheer upon cheer greeted him as he rode along the side of the road. His escort, a troop of cavalry, guided him around side paths, through cuts in the fence, and across fields to try to disrupt, as little as possible, the flow of the march moving at flood tide down the Cumberland Pike.

Passing an Illinois regiment, he got a resounding cheer. All semblance of marching discipline broke down as the men swarmed off the road to the fence flanking the pike, calling out his name.

He did not want to slow their advance, but at the sight of the Illinois state flag the emotion he felt was too much to ignore, especially when he recognized a captain in the ranks. He had once been a boy hanging around the law offices, running errands for a few pennies, then grown, gone off to school, and now to war.

Lincoln trotted over, reined in, leaned over the fence, and extended his hand.

"Robert Boers, isn't it?" "Yes, sir!"

"How are your folks?" "Just fine, sir." "And you?"

"Delighted to see you, Mr. President," the captain cried excitedly, the men of his company pressing in close, extending hands as well.

Lincoln couldn't resist. He dismounted and climbed onto the top rail of the fence and sat down, grateful when one of the men offered up his canteen. "Hot day, isn't it, boys?"

"Sure is sir," a sergeant cried, "but we'll make it a dang sight hotter for Bobbie Lee before long."

A resounding cheer went up with that, and Lincoln couldn't help but grin.

As he gazed out at their upturned faces, a smile creased his lined features. For the moment he would not think of all that was still to come, what these boys would have to face in the days ahead.

They were a tough-looking group. These were not the baby-faced recruits that he used to see on the drill fields back in the winter of 1861. These men had endured two hard years of campaigning in some of the worst climes in America. They reminded him of the line from Shakespeare in their appearance, having a "lean and hungry look," and in those hardened eyes and bronzed features he saw men of war and yet, down deep, neighbors, friends, still quintessentially American. They were professionals at what they did now, but given their druthers, all of them, to a man, would rather be back home tending their fields, working in their shops, perhaps getting some more schooling, perhaps trekking farther west to find new land to break to the plow and grow crops on, to raise a family on.

Several shouted out names of their kin he might know, one said he was born in New Salem and remembered him as postmaster, another proclaimed Lincoln had won a suit for his daddy and then, laughing, said his daddy had yet to pay the bill.

"Well, son, tell your dad the debt is canceled and you did the canceling for him." More laughter.

He looked back toward the road. A brigade commander was watching, indulgent but also obviously impatient at the delay that had stopped the column.

"Boys, you gotta get back on the march now. That general back there, usually he's got to salute me, but on this day I think I better salute him and follow what he wants."

Lincoln offered a friendly salute and the general, grinning, returned it. Officers herded the men back onto the pike, shouting for double time, for them to pick up and fall back in with the next regiment in line, which was now several hundred yards down the road.

" 'Bye, Abe, God bless ya, Abe!"

The years had fallen away from them for a moment: They were boys off on an adventure, acting as if they had just met a favorite schoolmaster, who now had to shoo them along back to their work, the work of killing.

The brigade commander nodded his thanks, then, a bit shyly, rode up to Lincoln and formally saluted and extended his hand.

"Sir, it's a mighty big surprise to see you up here in Pennsylvania. Rumors have been coming down the line for hours that you were on the road behind us."

"Just thought I'd come up for a little look around," Lincoln said, again smiling.

"How did you get here, sir?"

"Well, General, let's just call that our military secret for now. But between us I rode over on one of Thaddeus Lowe's balloons."

The general looked at him for a few seconds, almost believing him, and then, shaking his head, broke into laughter.

"I'll remember that one, sir, you had me going for a second."

"Glad I can still do it at times."

"God bless you, sir. I better get moving. I think you'll find General Grant coming back shortly. Word came down the line from headquarters that if you were seen to have you escorted in. I think he's right in front of us."

"Then I think I'll wait right here," Lincoln said. "It's been a long day of travel. I'd like to sit for a spell."

The general saluted again and rode off.

Lincoln passed the word to the commander of his escort regiment for the boys to take a break and dismount. The colonel detailed men off to line the road to keep the men back and moving.

To Abe's delight, a sergeant came up grinning and shyly offered him an apple. It was still a bit green, but he didn't care. Taking out his paring knife he opened it up and studiously began to peel the fruit, doing it with skill, one continual loop of reddish-green skin coiling down from the apple as he turned it in his hand.

Another regiment came by, boys from Ohio whom he had passed at a near gallop minutes before. They broke into "Three cheers for Old Abe!" as they marched by. He looked up and nodded, smiling, enjoying the moment.

Something inside him whispered that what he was doing now was exactly what he was supposed to be doing. He was president of the United States, and far too many took that office far too seriously. Not serious on the points that mattered, but rather in all the folderol, all the ceremonies, all the scraping and bowing, all the maneuvering and backslapping and backroom dealing.

These boys constituted the army created by his words, his dreams, his hopes. They were a part of him and he was a part of them. Being president for them at this moment meant he was to sit on a rail, peel an apple, cut it into slices, and munch them slowly to savor the tart flavor-and be seen as president doing it.

It was not so long ago I used to do just this. Sit atop a fence or lean on it, chatting with a constituent, or when riding the circuit, to stop at a farm for a drink of water, ask for directions, talk of weather and wind, summer heats and winter storms, find out who was dying and who was being born.

He ran his free hand along the fence rail and smiled inwardly. Just such a rail had helped him win the presidency, at the moment when loyalists carried it onto the convention floor in Chicago, claiming it was a rail Old Abe had split with his very own hands as a youth.

How I used to hate that work, he thought. Backbreaking labor for a few bits a day. A friend had once said if you were a failure at everything else, or too lazy for anything else, there was always schoolteaching or law. Schoolteaching was out, what with the few months of education he had ever received, so law it had been.

And yet, at times, he longed for moments like this, to sit on a fence, smell the honeysuckle and late summer flowers, the scent of ripening corn, and feel the warm, gentle breeze.

He was lost in such thoughts for a few moments until another regiment approached, more Ohio boys, who shouted with joy at the sight of him, taking off their caps and waving as they passed.

Someone had told him that, at Fredericksburg, Lee had said, "It is well that war is so terrible, or we should grow too fond of it."

At this moment he found he was fond of it, in fact, inwardly thrilled by the sight of it, if but for a moment he could suppress all that was implied behind this ceaseless parade marching by.

Where he had stopped was atop a low rise, just a gentle elevation of a few dozen feet that the pike came up and over, straight as an arrow. Looking either way he could see for miles, the road choked with men, artillery, wagons, all flowing ever southwestward. The steady tramp of the men echoed, almost timed to the beating of his heart.

They looked like tough campaigners. He always felt that the boys of the Army of the Potomac were too burdened down. Those darn foolish French caps, the kepis which did a man little good; a broad-brimmed felt hat was far better and to his mind looked far more American in spirit. These western troops carried blanket rolls slung over shoulders, rifles slung as well, though as the regiments passed him, officers called for the men to come to port arms in salute. The sound of marching, the rattle of canteens and tin cups, the shouts, the clatter of hooves on the macadam pavement, all blended together into what could almost be music for his soul.

"Sir, I think the general is coming," a lieutenant from his escort cried, pointing south.

Lincoln turned his gaze against the setting sun and shaded his eyes and sure enough, he could see a flag standing out in the evening breeze, moving along the side of the road.

The lieutenant drew out his field glasses and focused them. "That's him all right, sir. It's General Grant."

Someone was riding ahead-the inexhaustible Ely Parker, his mount lathered.

Lincoln nodded his thanks and then had a moment's quandary. I can sit here, as informal as can be, or I can fall back into the role once more. Given the gravity of the moment, he decided on the latter and stepped down from the fence, folding up his pocket knife.

Parker saluted. 'The general is right behind me, sir."

"I can see that, Ely. Now why don't you just relax? You've done an admirable job getting me here and finding General Grant."

Ely sighed and leaned forward in the saddle, uncorking a canteen and took a long drink.

Grant leapt a low fence, rather than go around to an open gate, in a beautiful display of horsemanship. He came on at a near gallop, headquarters flag flying behind him. He reined in, snapping off a salute, Lincoln looked up, unable to hide a smile at what could only be taken as surprise on Grant's face.

"Mr. President, I hope this does not sound impertinent, but may I ask just what it is you are doing here?"

"Just thought I'd come up this way and see how you and the boys were doing."

Grant was silent for a moment, obviously caught completely off guard, and then dismounted. Lincoln extended his hand, and Grant, a bit shyly, took it.

"How are you, General?"

"Well, sir, to be honest, rather startled. Rumor came to me a couple of hours ago that you were in Harrisburg. Then that you were across the river riding aboard a supply train on the Cumberland line."

"Remarkable work those engineers are doing," Lincoln exclaimed. "I understand they've replaced bridging for fifteen miles just since yesterday." 'They're Herman Haupt's boys. They know their business."

"Yes, unfortunate loss. I heard of his passing," Lincoln said.

"Sir, if I had known you were coming, I could have arranged better accommodations for us to meet."

"General Grant, right here is just fine," Lincoln replied, and nodded toward the road.

The men of his escort, staff from Grant's headquarters, and provost guards were now having one devil of a time keeping the men moving, forming a cordon on the other side of the fence. The cheering was near to deafening.

'To be truthful, General, I think if we wish to sit and talk a spell, we better go someplace else. I don't want to inconvenience your march or you."

"No, sir, no inconvenience at all, though I do agree we should move. Perhaps up to a creek I just crossed."

"Lead the way then."

Lincoln climbed back into the saddle, Grant easily mounting and coming to his side. They rode south for a few hundred yards, between the fence bordering the pike and a farmer's orchard, gradually angling away from the road. The trees closest to the road had nearly been stripped bare of fruit but once back a dozen rows the trees hung heavy, and on impulse Lincoln plucked one. Grant saw him do it and smiled.

"That's foraging in friendly territory, sir." Lincoln laughed softly.

"I'll tell the farmer he can call it a war tax if he should inquire about my indiscretion."

They reached the edge of the orchard, staff having opened a gate that led to a narrow path sloping down between elms to spreading willow trees.

Someone on Grant's staff had obviously been thinking, in spite of the surprise. A blanket was already spread under a willow, a small fire burning under a pot, two camp chairs set up.

The cavalcade reined in, eager hands reaching up to take the bridle of Lincoln's horse as he dismounted. Stretching, he looked around.

It was a charming spot. A narrow creek gurgled by not a dozen feet away, the bank grown high with rushes and cattails. The path was a shallow ford, perhaps tracing the original road, long since abandoned when the pike came through. All was shaded by willows, long branches hanging down in a canopy. It was all so peaceful, the air rich with the scent of moisture, cooling and relaxing. The shadows were already deepening, providing a diffused golden light to the setting.

Looking downstream, he could barely see the single-arch stone bridge which leapt the stream, men continuing to cross over it. But here under the shade of the trees the two of them were all but invisible.

"Some coffee, sirs?" the sergeant tending the fire asked.

"Yes, Sergeant McKinley, that would be fine," Grant replied.

Seconds later Lincoln had a battered tin cup in his hand, and he sat down on the camp chair, blowing on the rim before taking a sip.

"You keep fine accommodations, General," Lincoln said, pointing to the small fire, the blanket, and the two chairs.

He sighed and leaned back in the folding chair made of carpet and a few pieces of wood.

"This is actually a luxury, General," and he nodded to their surroundings. "I wish I had such a place on the grounds of the White House, a brook, some willows, and a bit of solitude."

"Well, sir, if you came to the army to seek solitude, I dare say you have come to the wrong place. We have over seventy thousand men on the march around us and a staff always in earshot."

Lincoln saw the dozens of staff that stood around expectantly. As he gazed at them, they stiffened, some saluting, some bowing, others just looking at him wide-eyed.

"Gentlemen, may I ask an indulgence," Lincoln said.

No one spoke.

"I'd like to talk with General Grant for a while. There'll be time enough later for us to chat a bit. So would you please excuse us?"

There were hurried excuses, and within seconds all had scrambled off, drawing back, moving away.

Lincoln leaned forward, staring down into his cup of coffee as if lost in thought.

"Your Parker is a good man," Lincoln said, breaking the silence. "I don't think he's had a wink of sleep in three days."

As he spoke he gestured across the stream, where Parker was sprawled out under a willow… fast asleep.

"One of the best. I'm glad he took it upon himself to report straight to you after being with Sickles."

"I assume he told you about Stanton."

"Yes, sir," Grant said noncommittally.

Again, there was a long silence, Lincoln sipping his coffee and then stretching his legs out.

Grant stirred, coughed a bit self-consciously, and Lincoln looked over at him.

"Well, sir, I guess I do have to ask you then, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" Grant asked.

"I could be flippant and say that it is nothing more than a courtesy stop, General Grant, but you and I know that is not the case."

"No, sir, I assumed not."

"I need to see certain things clearly, General Grant. It has been nearly a month since we last met, much has changed, and the portents of what is to come are profound. I thought that was worth the journey to discuss these issues with you."

"Whatever you wish to know, sir, just ask."

Lincoln drew his legs in and then leaned toward Grant, so close they could almost touch, the president looking straight into the eyes of the general.

"General Grant, I will cut to the core. No foolery, no mincing of words. Win or lose, the fate of the Union now rests with you and those men marching across that bridge."

He motioned toward the pike, where the troops continued to pass, flowing endlessly, the men oblivious of the meeting taking place less than a hundred yards away.

Grant leaned back in his camp chair, the front legs lifting from the ground. After a long sip of the scalding coffee, he set the cup on the ground. "Sir, I understand that, and so do my men."

Lincoln fixed his gaze upon Grant's eyes. This is what he had traveled so far to gauge. It was one thing to meet Grant a few days after his appointment. It was another thing to see him now, a month later, a month after he had had time to contemplate the responsibility placed on him.

He had decided upon this long journey for precisely this moment. The original plan that Grant had devised to destroy Lee-an overwhelming advance using the Army of the Potomac and at least ten thousand additional troops-had gone out the window. And Grant, without any prior notice, had jumped across the Susquehanna. He had come all this way to see why. To see if Grant was going off half-cocked. And to see if this was indeed a man he could trust with this winner-take-all move.

"What do you wish of me, sir?" Grant asked.

"First of all, I need a straight answer. No speaking in vague terms, no concern for self. I want you to consider the future of our republic, the debt in blood owed to all those who have already died.

"I want a straightforward answer, sir, without puffery or the bombast so many others have given me.

"General Grant, are you and your men up to this task?"

"Yes, sir," Grant said quietly. He did not look at Lincoln. His shoulders were hunched, his gaze fixed on his cup of coffee. But his words were strong, filled with conviction.

"I cannot afford another mistake, another defeat, or even half a victory. Lee must be crushed," Lincoln said urgently. "Congress is on the point of rebellion. I've held them off as long as possible but they will soon reconvene, and when they do, there will be a call to end the fighting and negotiate a settlement. There's renewed rioting in half a dozen cities. Secretary of State Seward is constantly at my doorstep with warnings that Europe might soon intervene. This war cannot drag out any longer.

"General Grant, I need to know that you fully realize that and can rise to the occasion."

The years in courtrooms, the years of watching others, of leaning against fences and talking, had taught him much, taught him about when men lied and when they spoke the truth, when men had strength or did not, when men thought far too much of themselves and not of others. The last two years of war had sharpened those insights with bitter lessons of military failure and bombastic generals unable to match their deeds to their self-esteem when it came to fighting Robert E. Lee.

Grant stirred then. He looked into Lincoln's eyes. "I can bring it to an end, sir. I can win this war."

At that the tension Lincoln had suppressed uncoiled. He had come to this encounter with a terrible intent he had voiced to no one. If in this meeting he had doubts, he would not have hesitated. Lord knows, he would have had difficulty in that decision, but if need be, he'd have removed Grant and found someone else. Was this the voice of the naysayers, those who had planted the thought? Of Halleck, of Stanton, even Seward, saying, "Replace this man." If forced to, he would have.

Could I? He realized he would have. This decision, at this moment, he realized, was as momentous as the decision to relieve Stanton. One had been fired; the other was to be kept.

It wasn't just the statement, "I can win this war," that had laid to rest any lingering doubts; it was the look in the man's eyes, something he had never seen in any general before. There was a determination, a confidence that settled the issue once and for all. He trusted now that the plan Grant had would be one he would endorse.

Grant was, indeed, his man.

Both seemed to sense that a moment had passed that neither need worry about again.

There was a dropping off of tension. Grant stood up, going over to refill his tin cup and then to light up a cigar, which he had refrained from doing since they first met.

Lincoln was silent as he waited for Grant to settle into his chair.

"A few more questions, General." "Anything, sir."

"Sickles, for starters. I know that derailed your plan. Why did you move so quickly after his defeat and why did you not inform me?"

"Sir, after such a blow I knew Lee would expect me to wait, to replenish our numbers. That would mean waiting well beyond September, more likely October. That would have risked winter weather stopping the campaign and forcing us into winter quarters with Lee still owning Maryland."

"We can't wait that long," Lincoln said forcefully.

"Sir, I know you cannot wait. The country cannot wait. We have to resolve this now and that is why I decided to make this move and do it with or without Sickles in support."

"Fair enough," Lincoln said.

"And besides, sir, though Sickles lost that battle, he bloodied Lee. I understand that Pickett's Division is a hollow wreck. To achieve his victory, Lee force-marched his army a hundred miles in killing heat and in the end was forty miles north of a line that he would choose to be on, right along the banks of the Susquehanna. With Washington as a barrier Lee is actually farther away from Virginia than we are, and we have better roads and railroads to support us. I knew that this first move had to be taken, and I took it, regardless of Sickles."

Lincoln nodded thoughtfully.

"Go on, sir," Lincoln said.

"By moving first I knew it would push Lee off balance. My reports are that he has force-marched once again, falling back into Baltimore. To march troops such distances, day after day, takes its toll. My men are moving fast, but doing so through friendly territory, and they are filled with confidence."

"Confidence in you?"

"Yes, sir. To be frank, yes," and he said so without any display of undue pride.

"Half this army marched with me across the Mississippi, abandoned our line of supplies, went to Jackson to block Joe Johnston and then doubled back on Vicksburg, bottling up Pemberton. They were there when Pemberton surrendered his garrison and reopened the Mississippi. They're good men. McPherson is superb, and Ord, though new to corps command, is a hard driver I trust My boys are confident; they feel they have something to prove here, to go up against Bobbie Lee and thrash him the way they thrashed Johnston, Pemberton, Beauregard, and Buckner. Upon that confidence and desire to prove something much can be built."

Again Lincoln liked what he heard. It was not confidence in him personally, it was confidence in his men, which Lincoln sensed was mutual from what he had observed while riding down here.

"Coordination, General. I've always felt we never truly coordinated all of our strength. Before coming here Elihu showed me a roster of total strength. Good heavens, General, we have nearly three quarters of a million men under arms. Can you bring additional strength to bear?"

"I agree, sir. But realize this. Half of those numbers are nonexistent. Take off ten percent or more just as deserters. Then add in governors holding back pet units filled with their political appointees. Many of those hundreds of thousands are ninety-day militia, of no value in a stand-up fight against Lee's veterans. There is an old saying I learned at West Point-it dates back to the Romans-'To send untrained men into battle is to send them to their deaths.'"

Lincoln nodded in agreement, remembering the tragedy of First Bull Run.

"I have nearly twenty thousand militia under Couch. To send them straight into a fight would be cruel and wasteful. If I had six months with those men, they'd prove to be as good as any, but we don't have that time, sir. But they are serving a valuable purpose right now, which I'll explain when we go over my plans in detail, but don't expect them to stand on the volley line at seventy-five yards and trade it out with an elite, well-trained unit like the Stonewall Brigade.

"Others are sitting out garrison duty as far north as Portland, Maine, and as far west as Council Bluffs, Iowa. Sir, what I am marching with is all that I will have for this campaign. But I should add, sir, that General Lee faces the same crisis. Governor Vance in North Carolina is notorious for keeping men back as home-guard units in the western mountains. Every other governor does the same down there. That is the paradox and the curse of their system even more than ours, states' rights. Each Southern state is doing right for its own purposes, but making it impossible for Davis and Lee to organize Southern resources for the common purpose. With your leadership and the strength of our Constitution we can do a far better job of mobilizing all our assets over time than they can."

He was warming to his subject, and Lincoln nodded for him to continue.

"For every man on the front line we need at least one more to guard our lines of supply, to shepherd along ammunition, food, fodder for horses, medical supplies. That eats up our numbers rather quickly. That's a second service Couch's men will give us once their first mission is completed. They'll provide security to our rear and the relaying of supplies. That means that every man that marches with me now will be in the fight."

"And your other fronts?"

"On other fronts I can tell you this, sir. Sherman has driven Bragg out of Chattanooga. That is a major victory for us. I have ordered him to not stop, to relentlessly press southward now and invest Atlanta before the end of autumn. I have confidence in Sherman. He's grown and is ready for independent command, and I think he'll make the most of it. He has seventy thousand men with him, I wish it was a hundred thousand. He'll need fifty thousand more just to secure his supply lines back to Memphis and Louisville.

"We've abandoned our operations before Charleston, as you know. The navy can handle that. Bottling it up is all we needed, nothing more, along with Wilmington. Additional troops still need to hold Vicksburg, Port Hudson, and New Orleans. When you get right down to it, sir, that comes to less than two hundred thousand on the front lines, though heaven knows I'd give my right arm for fifty thousand more right now."

"The colored troops?" Lincoln asked.

"Yet to be proven in battle, sir, but I think they'll fight. I understand their training has been intensive, unlike most white regiments, and all their officers are handpicked volunteers with extensive experience in the field prior to promotion to command those regiments.

"I just worry that their spirit will continue when they get hit by their first volley."

"They'll hold," Lincoln said forcefully. "I saw that when our line was broken at Fort Stevens and the colored men from Massachusetts charged forward. They'll do their duty when the time comes."

"And that regiment is still in Washington?"

"Yes, along with over forty thousand other men," Lincoln said. "Why do you ask?"

"Sir, I'd like to replace General Heintzelman as commander of the Washington garrison."

"Why?"

"Because that is part of my plan, sir." "This is something we did not discuss before, General Grant."

"Sir, if you have come this far to talk, now is the time to talk about it. I did not want to trust the core of my plan to dispatches. That is also the answer to why I did not promptly inform you of my change of plans. I simply could not at that moment. Too many dispatches have been lost in the past, or leaked to the newspapers before the ink on them was barely dry."

"Nor did you want Stanton to interfere," Lincoln said, a cagey smile lighting his features.

Grant said nothing.

"That's over with. You will answer to Elihu Washburne. The two of you know and trust each other. General Grant, you still must answer to the civilian government, but I agree with your keeping your cards close in this opening stage. It was a sound move, and I would have done the same if in your shoes."

"Thank you, sir. I did not want to hold information back from you, but at the moment I felt the risk was too great. It was utter chaos at the Port Deposit transfer, and things could have gone awry there. General Sickles was doing everything possible to intercept any information I would pass along. Also, I cannot trust a civilian telegraph network with such sensitive information. That is why I am glad you are here. In the future, sir, knowing our lines of communication are secured, I will keep you posted on all issues and follow your orders. I have some plans I'd like to share with you to insure a speedy transfer of information in the days to come."

Lincoln nodded, liking what he heard. In contrast, he remembered his visit to McClellan after Antietam. The general was obviously disturbed by his presence, giving him the runaround, in subtle ways actually moving to insult him to the point of giving him a horse far too small for his stature during a review of the troops. In contrast he and Grant were now sitting alone, talking. Grant, though a bit nervous at first, was now obviously relaxing and being open. He was impressed as well by Ely Parker, who had held nothing back during their long journey together.

"General, I do not want you to wait for orders from Washington or worry about any day-to-day interference. Lord knows we had too many generals in the East looking over their shoulder for political manipulation and strict instructions. Stanton is gone, and Washburne will support your every effort. You will issue orders both here and to the armies throughout the country. I want you to keep your eye on Lee, and Sherman to keep his eye on Bragg. I will keep my eye on Washington and the politicians.

"As commander in chief I have to know what you intend to do. That is my duty. However, as long as I give you the command, you must give the orders. All I ask is that you keep me informed so I know what your plans are both here and throughout the country, then I can support them and get reinforcements where needed. That also enables me to answer the newspapers and the politicians." He paused.

"That is why I came here to see you. And, General Grant, I think we see eye to eye on these issues." "Thank you, sir," Grant replied.

"Now, how do you propose we end this terrible conflict?"

Grant stood up, and taking several puffs on his cigar, he began to explain his plan, Lincoln sitting quiet, hands folded in his lap as he leaned back in his camp chair.

"You are asking a lot, sir," Lincoln finally said, when, after fifteen minutes, and a tracing of a map with the toe of his boot on the ground, Grant at last fell silent.

"I know that, sir."

"It means a trust in your decisions, sir, that I've given to no other before. Washington would be stripped bare, something I've never allowed in the past."

"Sir, if I might be so bold. To quote you, you once said, 'The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate to the stormy present.'"

Lincoln could not help but smile.

"Did you ever consider politics, General Grant"

"Heaven spare me that," Grant said with a weary chuckle.

"You are asking for a winner-take-all shake of the dice. You are talking about some very hard fighting within a week, perhaps the hardest of the war. The losses might very well be appalling, and Washington itself could fall if things turn against you."

"Something like that, sir. The loss of Sickles means having to draw on every reserve in this theater of operations. I no longer have a reserve as was originally planned. But I will tell you my greatest fear."

"Go on."

"That General Lee does indeed flee south. That he abandons Maryland, crosses the Potomac, fortifies the river crossings, and then drags this war into another year. Sir, I do not want to imagine another year of this contemptible war. We'll have to fight him to gain that river. From there into northern Virginia, cross the Rappahannock, and most likely into where Hooker fought at Chancellorsville. From there across the North Anna, and then crawling and fighting every inch of the way to Richmond. No, sir, I want him to stay here, in Maryland, or better yet even in Pennsylvania. His victories here, sir, I want them to be a trap that will enable us to destroy him in the end."

"But suppose, General Grant-dare I say it-suppose it is Lee who wishes the same thing, who seeks that same battle with you and in the end we lose both you and Washington."

"Then, sir, we have lost the war," Grant said quietly.

"And do you believe that can happen?"

Grant smiled.

"No, sir, we are going to win this one."