Under other circumstances, Hancock would be a logical choice to replace Meade, but he’d been badly wounded in the fighting. He would recover, but it would take time.
So who did that leave? Stanton was a burly man who was used to having his way, and it was frustrating to be unable to solve a problem for his President and his country. Therefore, he would take a trip and see a man.
Travelling across the country was an ordeal, especially if it was to be done in secret and without interference from the Confederates. Stanton boarded the USS Mohican, a steam sloop, at the mouth of the Potomac. He promptly took over the captain’s cabin and the ship sailed for New Orleans at a steady ten knots per hour. The better part of a week later the Mohican anchored off Fort Jackson at the mouth of the Mississippi. He did not disembark. That night, a large slope-sided City-class ironclad, the Carondelet, brought a short and rumpled man on board the Mohican. Stanton came to his feet as the man entered the captain’s cabin.
Stanton had been prepared to be disappointed and initially, he was. Ulysses Grant was short and slight and dressed in a well-worn uniform without insignia. For a moment, Stanton thought that perhaps someone was playing a joke on him and that the real Ulysses Grant would somehow emerge and say “surprise.”
But no, Stanton had seen enough photos and drawings of the man to know that this was no imposter. Grant’s eyes betrayed him. They were of a man who was in total control and who did not need the trappings of power that so many high-ranking officers in the Union Army considered their due. Stanton had come to the unwelcome conclusion that a surfeit of vanity was a prerequisite for high command and Lincoln had laughingly concurred. McClellan, the Little Napoleon, was only one example—if one of the more extreme.
“He fights,” had been the comment by Lincoln when Halleck had wanted to fire Grant based on rumors of his drinking.
The two men shook hands firmly. As host, Stanton waved Grant to a chair. “May I get you a drink, General?”
“Are you testing me, Mr. Stanton?” Grant said with a smile. “Regardless, no thank you, but go ahead if you wish.”
Stanton flushed. He didn’t like being on the defensive. “Perhaps some cold water would be appropriate,” he said and Grant concurred. “But please don’t light one of your famous cigars. The air circulation in this floating prison is bad enough. Now, sir, do you understand why I am here?”
“I do. But first, let me tell you that I had an interesting and lengthy letter from retired General Winfield Scott. I was astonished when I received it because I thought he had no recognition of me when I served with him during the Mexican War. Either I was wrong or he was being exceedingly polite. He said that I would soon be offered command of the Army of the Potomac and that I should decline the honor.”
Stanton was shocked. “But, sir, there is . . .” He bit off the words.
“No one else?” Grant smiled. “I hope this doesn’t sound too conceited, Mr. Stanton, but I agree. However, I would insist on preconditions before taking the position. General Scott, whose early and initially reviled strategies are being vindicated, told me what one part of the problem is. It is General Halleck, a man who despises me and who is incompetent in high command. If I were to report to him, he would be looking over my shoulder every hour of every day, questioning my decisions and even reversing them. I would be willing to report directly to Mr. Lincoln out of respect for him and his office, but I would not permit even him to change my strategies.”
“General Grant, are you saying that you already have a plan for defeating Lee?”
“I have a rough draft, yes, and I am confident that it will succeed.”
“Will you tell me what it is?”
“No sir, I will not. The simple fact that General Scott found out about your errand and was able to contact me is proof that there are no secrets in Washington City. To tell you the truth, sir, I will not even tell the President the plan until it is too late for him to do anything about it. Since it is highly unlikely that he will agree to this, I will respectfully decline the command of the Army of the Potomac under the current circumstances.”
Stanton took a swallow of his chilled water and wished there was some bourbon in it. He waited for him to go on, but Grant said nothing further. He sat back and invited General Grant to dinner.
It was not a sumptuous feast, little better than what could be scraped up by the ship’s cook. But there was no complaint from Grant. They spoke desultorily as they ate. Stanton inquired about Rosecrans’ chances against Joseph Johnston in any advance from Chattanooga. Grant was noncommittal. Only when they spoke of General Sherman did he show any sense of liveliness. “When you require something of General Sherman,” Grant said. “It will be done, and it will be done as you wished it, if not better.”
Afterward they went up on deck to allow Grant to smoke. “So what are your plans now, Mr. Secretary?”
“I was considering a brief stop at New Orleans. I’ve never visited that city.”
Grant nodded. “Well worth the trip. Nothing like it anywhere else in the Union.” He took the cigar from his mouth and examined the glowing tip. “Within living memory, New Orleans was a polyglot city, home to the French and Spanish as well as Americans. The streets are divided by walkways. These represented neutral ground. You see, different neighborhoods were held by different nationalities. The walkways were where they met when they wished to do business. If they took a step into the territory of another nation, they were fair game.”
“Somewhat representative of our current situation.”
Grant took a puff of his cigar. “Yes it is.”
The night was quiet, nothing more than the sounds of a river and the surrounding swampland. The only lights were those of the Carondelet, riding low on the water.
“That ship was originally built for the Army, and transferred to Navy control last year.”
Grant raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know that.”
The order had crossed Stanton’s desk and the time and somehow stuck in his mind. “I know very little else. I am the secretary of war. I have little to do with the Navy.”
“With respects, sir, perhaps you should learn a little more. The Carondelet is one of a number of City class ironclads. The ship is short, squat, ugly, brutish, and very dangerous.” Grant smiled engagingly. “Some will say I fit that description and they may well be right. Of greater importance is the fact that she and her sister ships draw only about six feet of water and her load can be lightened so that she would draw even less. One Navy engineer bragged that he could sail her in a puddle.”
Stanton was intrigued. “And that capability interests you?”
“Yes it does. We couldn’t have taken Vicksburg, or advanced down the Mississippi valley at all, without ships of this type. Right now, though, it’s just a thought.”
He knocked the ash off the end of his cigar and then butted it out. The two men shook hands. Stanton watched as the general climbed over the side and was rowed back to the ironclad.
The secretary of war was again surprised at how strong Grant’s grip was. He would inform the President of Grant’s response and Mr. Lincoln would be upset, even angry. But Stanton understood Grant’s reluctance to work under the thumb of Halleck, or even Abraham Lincoln. Yes, Grant would decline and Lincoln would have to abide by that decision.
But Stanton wondered if the time might come soon when the President would accept the small but intense man’s conditions. McClellan was a short man, too, but Grant inspired confidence, even a degree of fear, while McClellan did not. Still, there were large numbers of soldiers who remembered how the “Little Napoleon” had trained them and cared for them. Stanton could not ignore the fact that a presidential election would take place next year, 1864. Who would those soldiers support? Would it be the man who promised them continued war or the man who pledged peace but at a terrible price? Lincoln had to achieve at least one major victory before the election if he and the Union were to be victorious. And what the devil did Grant plan to
do with an ironclad with a shallow draft?
When Otto Bauer emigrated from Bavaria to the United States in 1858, he thought he would work on a farm or even in a store. Not for one minute did he think he would become a soldier. But history had caught up with him, and he’d found that he made a good one. In large part, he knew, it was because of his skills with a rifle. In Bavaria, he’d been a hunter. Most of his catches he’d taken legally, but there were other kills that could have gotten him flogged or even hanged by the representatives of the dictatorial king of Bavaria, Maximilian II. After one close brush with the authorities, he’d taken his savings and shipped off to New York. He’d finally moved to Pennsylvania where he got a job in a machine shop, mainly repairing rifles and shotguns. He also joined the state militia to show that he wanted to be a good citizen. His new neighbors had welcomed him warmly.
Another reason he’d left Bavaria was the fear that it was going to be swallowed up by Prussia. Along with many Bavarians, Otto was a Catholic, and Prussia was Protestant. When he found that Protestants were dominant in the U.S., he’d been dismayed. But he’d quickly learned that most people didn’t much care about anybody’s religion and that freedom of religion was a real thing. He’d never thought much about freeing blacks, but this new thing called the “Confederacy” threatened the nation he now called home. True, he’d never even seen a black person until he arrived in New York. But slavery—that was a terrible thing, an offense against both God and man. He fully supported ending it. Still, he couldn’t see how the problems of dark-skinned people affected him. He wanted stability and a chance to prosper. He was thirty and time was running out on his ambitions. He had a job, an income, and a couple of the eligible women in the area had been very friendly towards him.
But now, he had more important things on his mind. The Rebel army was south and west of his position along the Susquehanna River near Harrisburg, the state capital. The militia was commanded by a Major Granville Haller, who reported to a general named Darius Couch.
Otto’s problems with the English language had largely disappeared. He still spoke with a heavy accent that some found amusing, but he understood what was written and what was said and most people could understand him just fine.
Otto had been named a temporary corporal commanding a dozen militiamen. Many were immigrants like himself. Their job was to cover a ford across the river and west of Harrisburg that would permit an army to cross the Susquehanna. Just how a handful of poorly trained part-time soldiers would hold off the rebel army was not his concern.
Otto understood the lay of the land and positioned his men well. Even the major had complimented them on their skills. They had dug trenches in the soft soil and would give their best if and when the Rebels came. Then, they all joked, they would run like the devil was after them, and he likely would be. Before that happened, Bauer hoped he would be able to use his skills as a rifleman to shoot at least one of the damned Confederates. He’d seen a few of them. Their patrols had come to the river, but not close enough to take a shot. He’d seen motion and movement and believed that at least one Rebel was in the bushes examining their position. Otto swallowed. He wondered what would come of that fact. He thought about firing into the bushes but discarded the idea. He might not hit anything. That would be a waste of a good bullet. Otto hated wasting rounds.
Sergeant Jonah Blandon looked through his telescope at the laughable Union position. Shallow trenches did not make a fortification. He counted a dozen men with no one else close by. Jeb Stuart would be pleased with the information.
Blandon patted the shirt pocket by his heart. In it was a letter from Stuart absolving Blandon of all his sins and welcoming him and his men back into the good graces of the Army of Northern Virginia. He had promised to be a good little boy and help Stuart again be the army’s eyes and ears.
Blandon had done so in part because pickings had become very scarce indeed. He had no firm idea why the generals wanted information about this and other river crossings but guessing was obvious. The army was either going to cross the Susquehanna or pretend to cross it. Either way they needed solid intelligence and he could now provide it.
Armed with Stuart’s letter, he had presented himself to Colonel Wade, who had initially been none too pleased to see the prodigal returned. But Blandon’s apparently sincere act of contrition had won the colonel over. Blandon tried not to laugh. The colonel was such an innocent little shit. One of these days, Blandon was going to help himself to that nice watch Wade was so fond of.
Blandon froze. There was activity on the Union side. A group of horsemen rode over a low hill, dismounted, and examined the trifling Union position. It was obvious that they were officers. They said something to the large man in charge, a corporal or a junior sergeant. Whatever questions were asked were answered to the officer’s satisfaction. They mounted, exchanged salutes with the corporal and rode off.
Blandon penned a brief note to be taken up the chain of command. He and his small group would stay put until told to move elsewhere. He could not imagine the Army of Northern Virginia crossing at this miserable point, but he could visualize Wade’s Volunteers storming ashore and raising hell in the rear of the Union positions. He liked that thought. The confusion would give him a chance to do some real looting. With a little bit of luck, he might find some plump Pennsylvania farm wife to do his bidding, willingly or not. He smirked at the thought. It had been so long since he’d had a woman.
“Steven, I am more than pleased to see you again, but I am also a little embarrassed. I have come to the conclusion that my parents are pushing us together and I’m not terribly comfortable with that fact.”
Thorne smiled and let the swing sway very gently. He and Cassie were seated side by side on the swing on the front porch of the Bairds’ rented home. Since it was broad daylight and there was a discreet distance between them, there would be little hint of scandal. Even so, he could sense the perfume she was wearing and almost felt her thigh against his. He wondered what she’d do if he reached over and put his hand on her knee. He did not think she would scream, but he believed she would move it away and scold him. But how long would it be before she removed it?
As always, he was full. Too many more dinners cooked by Rachel Baird and he would have to have his uniforms sent to a tailor. “Well I don’t mind it at all,” he said with sincerity. Cassie Baird was totally out of her shell and he’d found her to be a most engaging woman. Not a traditional beauty, whatever that was, but a vivacious and intelligent lady who intrigued him.
“This can’t last forever, can it, Steven?”
“What can’t?”
“This prolonged period of peace. We can’t have two huge enemy armies staring at each other from a few miles away. Sooner or later something’s got to give and there’ll be another titanic battle like Gettysburg. Thousands will die and thousands more will be wounded.”
He decided to take a chance. He sneaked his hand over and covered hers. She smiled and did not move it. “Of course you’re right, Cassie. This has to end somehow, some way. Some shocking finale to this war.”
“Are you saying that one more battle and the war will end?”
“Perhaps. Even the Hundred Years War came to an end. I don’t remember how or why. Maybe people just got sick and tired of fighting. But I’m afraid of an Armageddon, an all-consuming battle that will leave next to nothing for the survivors.”
“And who would win that battle, Steven?”
“That’s easy, Cassie. Right now, Robert E. Lee would trample the Army of the Potomac. Our leaders are fearful of him and those that aren’t fearful are incompetent.”
“And you could get hurt, or even killed. I worry for you.”
“Unfortunately, yes. And just as you would worry for me, I’m afraid for you working with those Negroes. They will attract danger and vengeful people if the Union Army retreats and leaves you and your friends stranded.”
“Enough of this sad talk,” she said and stood, determined and unsm
iling. “Come inside with me.”
She took him by the hand and led him to a small storage room off the kitchen and closed the door behind them. The room was empty and dark. Once inside they embraced and kissed. He thought he could feel her heart pounding. He knew his was.
“We can only stay here for a minute,” she said gasping.
“Then find another place for us,” he whispered and tried to hold her even tighter.
“Let me loose. I can’t breathe.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said and his eyes had adjusted enough that he could make out her smile. She took his hand and put it over her breast. “Now try to think of me when you go to sleep tonight in your rude army bunk.”
He gently squeezed her breast, and she gasped. He regretted those insane rules of fashion that dictated that she had to wear so many layers of clothing. “If I do that, I won’t be able to get much sleep.”
She smiled and buried her head in his shoulder. She did not remove his hand.
Hadrian could read the portents as well as anyone. The days of his group being safe on the fringes of the Union-occupied area were numbered. New arrivals were still trickling in. There weren’t many of them and they all reported the same thing: the Confederates were getting bolder.
Toby, a young man in his teens, had been particularly observant. “Everywhere you look there’s Confederate cavalry. They was watching the roads and every trail they could. But they couldn’t be everywhere, so we snuck through. I saw and heard black people getting stopped and caught. They were even stopping and roughing up white people. The Rebs are up to no good and that means bad things for us.”
Hadrian agreed. He didn’t like it one damn bit. The Rebels were about to cause trouble. That meant they would have to move closer to Washington and his group would not be alone. Thousands of now free slaves would be doing the same thing.
The Day After Gettysburg Page 9
