“I beg to disagree, General Lee.” Hardee was staring fixedly at the fire. He turned to face Lee. “In my opinion, Grant is nothing but a butcher. I’ve spoken to soldiers who fought at Pittsburgh Landing. Many of us have. The man made no effort at maneuver or tactics. He simply continued funneling men onto the field as into a meat grinder. One unit after another, the livelong day. And his mad assistant there . . .”
“Sherman,” Longstreet said.
“I thank you. Sherman did nothing to interfere.” Hardee shook his head. “He is a butcher and nothing more. His actions seem irrational because they are irrational. And we know how to handle that type. We’ve done it before.”
There was a rumble of agreement from around the table. Lee was pleased at Hardee’s words, much as he might disagree. It was difficult to gain any kind of meaningful dissent from his lieutenants. All too often, his officers would take whatever he said as the final word. That was not a good situation for any commander—consider Napoleon and his marshals. Ney, MacDonald, Soult . . . had any of them advised against the Russian adventure? And would Bonaparte have listened if they had?
He looked at each of his generals in turn. They were confident. He could feel it. Plainly, this last victory had raised their spirits, made new men of them, the same as all the other victories before it. They believed that they were invincible, that they were forces of nature, like Alexander’s Companions, like the Imperial Guard. They wanted to go on, to sweep Lincoln’s armies aside, to take Philadelphia, Baltimore, or Washington, and give the hated Yankees a drubbing they would never forget.
It was catching. Despite himself, Lee felt it too. At this moment he half-believed he could lead them anywhere, against any enemy, and prevail no matter what the odds. After all, look at what they had accomplished already.
He knew better. Their time in Pennsylvania was limited. Soon they would have to decamp and return to Virginia. But not quite yet. He had received a message from Richmond yesterday. President Davis had asked him to hang on as long as he could. They were awaiting an answer from Great Britain. Another week, perhaps two . . .
With these men, Lee could give Davis his necessary weeks with ease. He felt the hard knot of anxiety within him fade away. At least Lincoln had not done what had most concerned him—reappointed McClellan, the one northern general whom Lee viewed with trepidation. Those final moments at Sharpsburg, with his right being rolled up and the reinforcements from Harper’s Ferry not yet arrived . . . Lee wondered if the Yankees had any idea how close it had been.
Grant might be a mystery, but Lee had no fear of mysteries.
“Very well, then.” He turned to Jubal Early. “How is your army, sir?”
Early sat up straighter. “Well fed and ready to march, General Lee.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. Gentlemen, we are not going to wait for General Grant.” He bent over the table. “General Early, here is what I would like you to do . . .”
★ CHAPTER 18 ★
Cassie went to her room to check on Mariah. She had insisted that she be given her own bed, and her mother had concurred, though her father had made some noises about “her own quarters” being sufficient. Cassie had spent the night on a cot in the guest room.
The poor thing was fast asleep. She had been given another dose of laudanum this morning to ease her pain. Cassie bent close to see more clearly in the dim light. Nearly three days later, the blisters were still visible on her face. Cassie bit her lip and let out a sigh. Mariah made a small noise and wriggled underneath the blanket. Reaching out, Cassie stroked her forehead. The girl quietened. Cassie hoped she wasn’t dreaming about those men. The doctor had said it would take several weeks for her to heal. He had been rather huffy about being called on to treat a Negress.
She closed the door carefully and paused in the hallway. She cast her gaze at her mother’s room. Her mother too lay in a drugged sleep. Seeing Mariah in her brutalized condition had shaken her considerably, and the news that the Rebels were attacking Washington had pushed her into a state of near hysteria that only grew worse when she awoke this morning—if she’d slept at all. According to Mother, Jubal Early was going to smash his way into Washington, hang the President and the Congress, and then run wild across Maryland. None of her father’s patient explanations concerning the defenses of Washington and the unlikelihood that Early’s bandits were carrying much in way of supplies or ammunition had any effect. At last she had agreed to return to bed until the great Confederate invasion was finally turned back.
It had been quite a relief for Cassie. Ministering to hysterical females was a daughter’s duty, but she had grown a little tired of the poor dear’s overwrought theatrics.
She put on her bonnet, quickly tied the bow, and then pulled on her gloves. At the top of the stairs she paused, not looking forward to what was to come. She listened for a moment. She could not hear her father anywhere.
She descended the stairs. About halfway down, the bow came loose. She gritted her teeth to hold back a man’s curse. She hated it when that happened. Holding the bonnet on her head as she reached the first floor, she swept into the kitchen.
As she’d suspected, all the food she had packed earlier remained on the kitchen table. “Bridget!”
The girl emerged from the larder. “Yes, missy?”
Cassie pointed at the table. “Why aren’t those on the buckboard?”
The girl’s eyes grew wide. “Well . . . the colonel said . . .”
“Forget what the colonel said. Call the boys and have them load it immediately. Right now.”
“Cassie!”
Her father’s voice boomed from the front hall. Cassie glanced once in that direction. The girl walked toward the back door, shaking her head miserably.
“I’m not angry with you,” Cassie called after her.
“Cassandra!”
For a moment Cassie considered ducking out the back door, but instead she took a deep breath and headed toward the front of the house.
Her father was waiting in the hallway. He had neither stick nor cane but, feet spread wide, was trying to balance on his one good leg along with the new one, and not doing too impressive a job of it. He had his head thrown back and was glaring down his nose at her.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Cassie paused to tie the bow once again. “Father—don’t play pretenses with me. You know full well where I’m going. We discussed it this morning.”
“And I made my wishes clear at that time, did I not?”
“I believe that I did the same.”
He made an effort to stamp his foot. For a moment it seemed that he was about to keel over, and Cassie had to hold herself back from running to help him.
“Young lady, you are not leaving this house.”
“Sir, that is not your decision to make.”
He pointed a finger at her. “As long as you are under this roof, you will do as I say.”
“Then perhaps I shall not return at all.”
Her father gave a sharp shake of his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Cassandra. Confederate troops on the march, Copperheads roaming the fields and highways . . .”
He gestured over his head. “Think of that girl upstairs. Do you want that to happen to you?”
All of Dover’s crew had vanished except for the younger boy, who had been captured leading his horse aimlessly though the woods. “Those Copperhead Democrats have trotted off to Virginia with the rest of the trash. As for the Rebels . . . what did Captain Kemp say?” The captain had stopped by while leading a patrol yesterday to reassure them after the news of Early’s attack had arrived. Confederate foragers were sticking close to Early’s column, and were unlikely to bother them. Evidently, Early didn’t have enough troops to provide cover for them.
“Nonetheless, you are going nowhere.”
“I am going to Hadrian and his people, where I am needed. They must be fed, and reassured about the Rebels, and that is what I intend to do.”
“
You are not needed . . .”
“Everyone is needed . . . .” She said in a singsong voice. “Everyone must put his hands to the wheel. The nation calls in its hour of need, we all must do our part, carry our share of the burden . . . where did I hear those words, Father? From a patriotic Union Army colonel, or in a play, perhaps?”
“You are not going to endanger yourself over a gaggle of . . . rogue Negroes.”
“Rogue Neg . . .” She yanked her skirts from the floor and advanced toward him. “What an awful thing to say! I suppose that’s how you lost your leg, fighting to set free some rogue Negroes?”
He blinked down at her. She could see that the words had hurt him, and wished she could take them back, but it was too late to retreat now—for either of them.
“Young woman,” he said in a low voice. “You will return to your room and wait to be called to supper. Or I will send for the boys and have you carried there by force and locked in.”
“Will you now, Colonel?” A buggy whip lay upon the sideboard, something that Cassie’s mother would surely not have allowed had she been awake. She strode over and picked it up. Swinging back to her father, she lifted it high and gave it a shake. “Then do so, sir. But I warn you, you will see them thoroughly thrashed before your very own eyes.”
She gave the sideboard a sharp whack. It left a mark, something her mother would not be happy about either. Her father visibly started and stood blinking at her. He, who should have been the first in the world to have been aware of it, had finally arrived at the simple realization that he was facing Josiah Baird’s daughter.
They stood gazing at each other for a long moment. Then Cassie negligently dropped the whip and swept past him. He made no move to stop her.
“Cassandra . . .” His voice was nearly a whisper.
She halted at the door and looked back. He stood there with his shoulders hunched, staring at her as if at some being he had never before seen and could not imagine actually existed.
She cut him off as he opened his mouth to speak. “Best not to wait supper for me.”
He followed her out onto the porch. “Cassie . . .”
At the buckboard, Lemuel, a local farm boy hired to help with the chores, was loading the last of the boxes. She thanked him and stepped up onto the driver’s seat.
“Uhh . . . Miss Baird . . . .”
“Yes, Lemuel?”
He gaped at her from a luxuriantly spotted face, then touched his hat. “Nothing, miss.”
She looked back the house. Her father stood at top of the steps, leaning against the post as if it was the only thing keeping him from falling over. “Good day, Father. We will speak later.”
Turning to the horse, she snapped the reins and started off.
★ ★ ★
Dean trudged down Pennsylvania Avenue eating candied fruit from a paper sack. He had spent the early afternoon at the battle line out past the 3rd Ward, eager to see his former colleagues in blue get a good mauling from Jubal Early’s forces. He had been disappointed—all that was visible were a few rifle exchanges and a desultory cannonade or two. The Confederates seemed reluctant to come to grips with the Union troops behind the fortifications at Fort Stephens.
They had proven themselves already, that much couldn’t be denied. Early had burst across the Pennsylvania border and crossed the width of Maryland to D.C. without a single move made to delay him. Not one Union soldier had raised a musket in defiance. The Union forces in Maryland had evidently skedaddled straight out of Early’s way. That was the only logical explanation. Dean shook his head. It was pathetic. From his point of view, the Union army had shot its bolt. It was a good thing he’d got out when he had.
Some kind of rumpus was breaking out in front of the White House up the street. Dean hastened his step, stuffing fruit into his mouth. He paused across the street at Lafayette Park. A carriage was pulling up at the mansion steps, with a number of mounted troops at either side. And . . . lo and behold! Here came none other than the Great Ape himself, lumbering down the White House steps toward the carriage.
He was wearing his customary high stovepipe. Dean wondered how he’d get it inside the enclosed carriage. Maybe he’d have to squat down. Dean chuckled at the image.
Beside him walked another man, one of his Cabinet, evidently. Dean couldn’t put a name to him. His knowledge of Lincoln’s circle was perhaps not as deep as it should be.
Lincoln swept off his hat as he entered the carriage, the other man following him. Dean ran his eyes across the horsemen. He frowned to himself, chewing a little more slowly. Then it came to him: there were only a few cavalrymen in the escort. Six . . . no, seven. That was it. Usually, it was a squadron or more. Dean would bet that most of them were up at the front lines, reinforcing the city garrison.
He had been largely at loose ends since returning to Washington. Security was a lot tighter now than it had been—something about a spy ring in the Treasury Department. Booth had been keeping his head low. He discussed many plans, but put nothing, really, into effect. Dean could understand that, as restless as it made him after his exploits in Baltimore.
Booth kept putting off his plan to strike at Lincoln, surrounded as he always was by troops often numbering in the dozens. These days he spoke of it offhand, as if it was a daydream he’d like to see come to pass. Now the scheme was to kidnap one of the Cabinet, Seward or . . . Stanton, was it.
And yet here the Gorilla was, with only a handful of cavalry to protect him.
The horsemen were lining up ahead and behind the carriage. Their commander shouted a single word and the horsemen began trotting toward the avenue. The carriage jerked into motion. There were a few catcalls as it appeared on the avenue.
Dean looked around. A man in a checked suit and a derby was writing something in a notebook. A reporter? Discarding the empty sack, Dean wiped his hands on his trousers and walked over to him. “Where’s the President headed?”
“Up to the battle line,” the man said without looking up.
Dean’s eyes followed the carriage as it passed, but he failed to take it in. Instead, he saw an image of something totally different: the magnificent raid that would bring the war to a close, the bold stroke by Booth and Dean that no one had considered possible, the smiling face of Jefferson Davis as the Confederate crowds cheered themselves hoarse, Booth’s firm hand on his shoulder, his own grand but quiet heroism.
Turning away, he went off in search of Booth.
The sun was nearly touching the horizon as Lincoln unfolded his lanky frame from the carriage. He put on his stovepipe as he waited for Stanton to clamber out. General Heintzelman, the XXIInd Corps commander, was waiting along with several officers. Lincoln reflected that he couldn’t recall seeing Heintzelman without his saber before.
Heintzelman saluted and then shook Lincoln’s and Stanton’s hands before introducing his staff. He seemed to be in a jollier mood than might be expected of a man at grips with an enemy army right at the edge of his country’s capital city, but Lincoln supposed that meant good news.
“He’s not getting any farther, Mr. President. He’s smack up against our fortifications, and that’s where he stops.”
Lincoln could hear the crackling up ahead of them. A cannon boomed; a small-bore weapon, from the sound of it.
“He just doesn’t have the manpower,” Heintzelman went on.
“How many, would you say?” Stanton wanted to know.
“Four thousand or so, five thousand at most.”
Lincoln nodded to himself. That had been the big question back at the White House. Estimates of Early’s manpower had ranged from five to ten thousand. His lips quirked. If it had been McClellan, he’d have been claiming twenty or thirty thousand, with a dozen Pinkerton spy reports to prove it.
They were nearing the parapets of Fort Stephens and the battle line beyond. Some troops resting up ahead sprang to their feet as they approached. Lincoln waved while they saluted. A few of them cheered. That was heartening to hear. On th
e drive over, the catcalls and jeers had easily outnumbered anything else.
“I’d take off that stovepipe if I were you, Abe.”
Heintzelman glared behind him. “No . . . quite right.” Lincoln reached up and swept off the hat. “We don’t want to make it easy for Johnny, now do we?”
They reached the fortifications, if that was the proper word. Hastily-dug trenches with mounds in front of them, piles of wood and brush, the occasional stone wall. More cheers rose from the men in the trenches. He waved the hat as he stepped down into the nearest trench.
Lincoln leaned against a rail bulwarking a mound of dirt and peered carefully over the top. It was the first time he’d ever truly laid eyes on a battlefield. There wasn’t much to see, actually. The Rebels across from them were keeping their heads down as well.
A sudden burst of rifle fire broke out to his left, flashing brightly in the gathering darkness.
“It’s been like this all day,” Heintzelman was telling Stanton. “Random firing, and that’s about it. There was brief demonstration early this morning, but I wouldn’t even call it an attack.”
“So this is just a raid,” Lincoln said.
“Yes, sir. A welcoming party for General Grant.”
So Grant had been right. He had dismissed the attack when they’d first gotten word of Early’s approach yesterday. The Cabinet had clamored for him to detach some troops from the Army of the Potomac and send them here. He had adamantly refused, saying that was exactly what Lee wanted. The troops already in Washington could easily hold Early back. After a brief inspection of Heintzelman’s lines, he had headed north for Pennsylvania, upsetting a number of the District’s inhabitants, as well as the city’s press. Lincoln had to admit that he admired Grant’s cool.
“I just wish we had a bigger force out there now,” Heintzelman said. “We could put a bit of a nutcracker on our old friend Jubal.”
“What of General Wallace?” Stanton asked.
“Lew Wallace has a brigade. He’s being reinforced steadily from Baltimore and Pennsylvania. That’s all I know, Mr. Secretary.”
The Day After Gettysburg Page 26
