by Gore Vidal
“If it was not your plan, General, whose was it?”
McDowell pushed away the mountain of green melon rinds that had accumulated on his plate. Chase wondered how it was that a man who ate so much could still remain somewhat less than stout. “The plan, sir, was the President’s.”
Chase was startled. “But, surely, he said that it was yours …”
“No, sir. He’s never said that. But he has said all along that we must use the troops before the three-month enlistments are up. Well, a great many are up on July the twentieth. He’s also sensitive to the press. All that ‘Onward to Richmond’ noise of Horace Greeley.” McDowell’s jaw set. “I’d like to send him on to Richmond. That man is always wrong.”
“On abolition, he is right.” Chase still could not sort out precisely who had done what. “It was Mr. Lincoln who put you up to this?”
“No, sir. That is not the way things are done. The President told General Scott that the country could not wait. So General Scott told me to make a plan for an invasion of Virginia, while training thirty thousand men, so that they could then take the field in eight weeks’ time.”
“Has he the right?” Kate was sharp.
“Has who the right?” Chase waved his handkerchief at a wasp.
“Mr. Lincoln. After all, he is not a military man, to say the least …”
“He is Commander-in-Chief,” said Chase, glumly.
“He has every right,” said McDowell. “He also has every responsibility. I don’t envy him. He will learn, of course. But then, I suspect, that we will all learn many things that we never knew before. At the moment, he is a politician playing soldier—with real men who are also playing soldier but know nothing of this kind of warfare.”
“But you studied in Paris …” Kate began.
“I studied strategy, Miss Kate. I did not study war.”
On that note, the boy-governor of Rhode Island strode toward them, yellow plume shining like a redundant flame in the sunlight, pince-nez on a cord about his neck.
“General McDowell!” Sprague saluted the general, who was now on his feet. “I hear you’re moving to Richmond. I want to go with you.” Sprague turned to Chase, whom he did not recognize. He is as blind as I, thought Chase. “Sir, I’m Governor Sprague. Of Rhode Island.”
“Sir, I am Governor Chase. Late of Ohio. My daughter Kate …”
“Oh,” said Sprague, putting the pince-nez on his nose; thus transforming himself from military chieftain to chief accountant. “Oh, it’s you. And you,” he said, turning to Kate.
Kate smiled. “That must mean then that this is, also—you!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” said Sprague, turning back to McDowell. “I came straight from Providence to the White House. I don’t know what’s happened to my commission. But they say I can go with you when you go.”
“We’ll be honored, Governor. Deeply honored. You can go with your own Rhode Island regiment.”
“Who else would I go with? When are you starting?”
Chase intervened. “That is still a secret of state, Governor.”
“I usually read those in the New York Herald.” Sprague sat beside McDowell and ate some strawberries from a wicker basket. The juice stained his lips a most girlish red, thought Chase, wondering what Kate really thought of this potential consort. She had not mentioned Sprague to him after their ride together in the woods, shortly before his return to Providence. Chase was under the impression that letters had been exchanged but it was not his way to ask questions. When she was ready to tell him, she would.
As the wasps and yellowjackets helped the boy-governor eat the remains of the fruit, they discussed how it was that newspapers sometimes knew all sorts of secrets that they ought not to have known—and certainly ought not to publish, when the rest of the time they had no interest in facts at all. “Whatever sounds as if it might suit the prejudices of the reader, that is what will be published,” said Chase.
McDowell agreed. “But imagine what we in the military must now face. Thanks to the telegraph, journalists can make our secrets known to all the world, even while a battle is in progress.”
“I’m sure the President will put a stop to that,” said Chase.
“Do you think that he is strong enough to engage both Mr. Greeley and Mr. Bennett in battle?” Kate shook her head. “He’s terrified of them.”
“I would,” said Sprague, eyes on Kate, “shoot them.”
“So would I, Mr. Sprague,” said Kate. “We are—in this—as one.”
Chase smiled benignly. Captain Sanford presented General McDowell with a stack of orders. The general was on his feet. “I must now invent a strategy,” he said.
“Can I help?” Sprague looked keenly martial.
“In due course, Governor.” McDowell looked sadly at the rinds of the vast watermelon he had eaten. “That was monstrous fine, I must say.” Then he saluted his guests and walked down the shaggy lawn to the second of the four small tents. Chase was awed to think that there, at his feet, was the headquarters of the Army of the Potomac, the largest American army ever assembled. But then he was distracted by a company of infantry that marched, ineptly, even to his civilian’s eye, past their table. The lieutenant in charge was a huge blond red-faced brute, who shouted his commands to the men in German.
Kate blinked. “Have we a German army, Father?”
“So it would seem.”
Sprague replaced his pince-nez and stared at the sweating men. “They’re out of step,” he said. “They need drilling. And look at those rifles! They need cleaning, the lot of them. This isn’t an army.”
Chase did not enjoy hearing this sentiment expressed twice in a day so close to the advance on Richmond, which his friend Sumner predicted would promptly fall.
“Well,” said Chase, rising, “the Hessians fought very well in the Revolution.”
“For the British,” said Kate, unfurling her parasol in all its green and yellow splendor, “who lost.”
“Are Hessians German?” Sprague stood very erect.
“Deeply German,” said Kate. “Give me your arm, Governor. And show us to our carriage.”
Walking slowly, Chase followed the young couple; he enjoyed the coolness of the Arlington Heights. He was also impressed by the vast military display all about him; or what he could see of it, which was mostly color—white and gray and brown tents against the dull green of grass and the darker green of woods. Troops of every sort at drill. Horses being shod and curried; fed and watered. Artillery being polished to mirrorlike brass-brightness. He took a deep breath. He was growing used now to the acrid smells of an army—sweat, both human and horse, saddle wax, kerosene, burnt gunpowder, all mixed in a not-displeasing, even exciting sort of perfume, dedicated to Mars. But thought of that pagan deity restored Chase to his Christian senses. Guiltily, he thought of Christian love, and murmured to himself the last verse of the First Epistle of John. As he did, he wondered if General McDowell had already decided upon the day that he would begin his advance on Richmond.
Naturally, General McDowell had already determined upon the day; and twice postponed it, due to the unreadiness of the troops. Now the day’s date, and the hour, and the line of march were all encoded on David Herold’s scrap of paper.
Mr. Thompson had not wanted David to leave early, but talk of heat prostration had excited the Aesculapius who resides in every druggist’s bosom. David was obliged to drink several potions; ingest a number of salts; and go straight home. But, instead, David boarded the streetcar at Fifteenth Street for Georgetown.
The sky was violet behind the White House, which looked more leaden than white in the dying light. At the War Department, a crowd of officers was standing on the sidewalk, in deep discussion. Even they seemed to know that the war was about to begin at last.
At the end of the line, where the red-brick houses of old Georgetown came to an abrupt end, David got off the cars. The street was now the so-called Upper River Road, which proceeded parallel to the detest
ed-by-all canal. The River Road itself ran between canal and river bank. Fortunately, the canal was not as foul as it was in the center of the city.
Unpainted shacks lined the road. Here darkies lived, their children everywhere, playing in the dust. As this was washday, ropes tied to trees were hung with clothes like banners in the failing light. Just as David recognized the small frame house which was his destination—“Three willow trees in the backyard, of such enormous size and sheer romance,” Mrs. Greenhow had said, “you cannot miss them”—a cavalry company clattered from out of nowhere, obliging David to leap out of their path and into a raspberry bush. He swore silently, heart beating fast, as the horsemen vanished around the bend that hid Chain Bridge up ahead. Then when David got to his feet and straightened his clothes, he saw in the half-light berry stains like blood on his linen trousers; and he swore again, this time aloud.
Bettie Duvall was no older than he; and no prettier, either, he thought, sadly, as the thin, wiry girl showed him into the parlor of the frame house where a single lamp illuminated a room that looked to be half furnished or half unfurnished. The last was the case. “This is my aunt’s house,” said the girl. “She’s still here. She’s upstairs now. But all the rest—my uncle and everyone—have gone South.”
“Will you go, too, Miss?”
“Oh, yes.”
“When?”
Bettie Duvall smiled. “In about an hour.” She had already received Mrs. Greenhow’s message, which was now wound in a coil of her thick dark hair. “Thanks to you. Thanks to Rose Greenhow. Thanks to Mr. Lincoln. I’m to cross Chain Bridge at eight o’clock.”
“You going to stay in Virginia?” David wondered whether or not he should ask to go with her. If she had had so much as the sign of a curve anywhere, he would have insisted. Unfortunately, she looked like a highly intelligent, even handsome crow; and crows were not to his taste.
“No, I’ll be back. Long as I can be useful, I’ll stay in Washington.” She pronounced the city’s name the way that all its true citizens did—Wash-none.
“Like me,” said David, feeling somewhat heroic. A warm wind stirred the one window curtain, and he was almost overwhelmed by the smell of honeysuckle.
“Just like you, Mr. Herold. With luck I’ll be in Fairfax before midnight.”
“General Beauregard?”
But Bettie Duvall only smiled.
“How do you cross over to Virginia?” David was curious. “I mean I got me this military pass because I work at Thompson’s, but you …”
“An innocent young farm girl never needs a pass. I dress up like … like an innocent young farm girl and join some real farmers that I know, two families, who bring food in to Washington from the other side, and I travel with them, among the lettuces and the melons.”
“They taking you to Fairfax?”
Bettie Duvall laughed; and started to shake her head. Then, plainly, she thought better of it as she recalled the importance of what was hidden amongst her braids. “I’m given a horse, a post-horse, and I ride all night. Once I rode two days and one night without stopping. They had a fresh horse for me at each junction.”
David wondered if anything so exciting could be true. But he was not allowed to brood much longer in that honeysuckle-scented room where a million gnats were now attacking the single lamp’s flame; and burning themselves up.
“I must go, Mr. Herold. I thank you. The Confederacy thanks you. Pray for me tonight.”
“When do you think the fighting will start?” David paused at the door.
The girl touched her braid. She smiled: “When the great guns go off at Centerville and Manassas, you’ll know it’s started, and you’ll hear the guns all the way to Thompson’s, because when a cannon’s fired among those hills, the sound is going to carry all round the world, I should think!”
THE SOUND of doors slamming, one after another, awakened Mary Todd Lincoln in her carved wooden bed. For a moment she lay, neither asleep nor awake, and wondered who was slamming doors in the Mansion, and why they were allowed to make so much noise on a Sunday morning. Then Mary was fully awake; and knew that what had been doors slamming in her dream was cannon-fire across the river; and the real war, begun at last.
“Father!” Mary called. But there was no answer from the small bedroom next to hers where Lincoln often slept when he slept at all these days. But Keckley had heard her. She came into the bedroom and drew the curtains. Mary could tell that it was early morning from the light. They were supposed to go to the Presbyterian church at eleven o’clock.
“Has it begun, Lizzie?”
“Yes, ma’am. At six-thirty we heard the first shots fired. Mr. Lincoln’s already at the War Department. But he says he’ll still be going to church with you.”
As Keckley helped Mary into a dressing gown, Lizzie Grimsley peered into the bedroom. Lizzie was also in morning-dress—or un dress as the ladies called it among themselves.
“Mary, did you hear all that racket?”
“How could I not? They sound so near.”
“Let’s hope they’re not,” said Lizzie, large and pale. “I’m hungry.”
“Well, I’m sure that even if they should seize the White House they’ll let us have our breakfast before they shoot us.” Mary was excited; and wished that she was not. The war was serious. Men would die, even as that poor boy Ellsworth had died. But the sense that the familiar world was now dying obscurely delighted her. What was about to be would not be like anything that ever was before. She was certain of that. She was also certain that Mr. Lincoln would prevail, which meant that the new world would be better than the old. When she was young, she had feared change; now she embraced the very idea. Is this age? she wondered.
At the first sound of artillery, Hay tumbled out of bed; washed his face but did not shave; dressed quickly to the sound of distant cannon-fire, almost as loud as Nicolay’s snoring in the bed. Hay let the First Secretary sleep on. In these matters, they were often competitive with each other. After all, this was history; and nothing like it was apt to befall either of them again, much less the country, thought Hay, as he entered the President’s office, which proved to be empty. The small telegraph room next to the office looked as if someone had stepped, temporarily, away from the transmitter. Hay then went to the waiting room, where he found a young officer, who was reading a Bible at Edward’s desk. The young officer came to attention when he saw Hay. “Sir, the President’s at the War Department.”
“What’s the news?”
“General McDowell is advancing on Manassas. From Centerville. That’s all we know, sir.”
In the cool morning air, Hay ran from the White House to the War Department, where a dozen carriages were already drawn up, and two companies of infantry stood guard. Breathing hard, he returned, casually, the commanding officer’s salute, and entered the building. He found the President in General Scott’s office. Aides ran from room to room, while down the hall the telegraph transmitter clattered.
Lincoln nodded, absently, at Hay. Scott ignored him. The general stood like a pyramid beside the map of Virginia. Hay noticed that silver stubble glistened like flakes of mica on the dark red cheeks: the commanding general had not shaved either. “General Beauregard’s here on this side of a river or creek that is known, thereabouts, as Bull Run. General McDowell has just moved into position here, to his left.”
“Has only just moved?” Lincoln was as attentive as a prosecuting attorney in a capital case.
“Yes, sir. He was to have moved at half-past two this morning. But he was delayed and now …”
“This is the second delay.” Lincoln began to twist his legs around the rungs of the chair. “He was supposed to have arrived in Centerville Wednesday. Instead he stopped at Fairfax. He’s already lost two days. That means there’s been time for Johnston’s men from Harper’s Ferry to join Beauregard at Manassas.”
“Time, sir. But not occasion. Remember we have General Patterson at Harper’s Ferry. He is a superb commander. He
has Johnston penned in. We are now face to face with the enemy here at …” An aide gave General Scott a message. Scott glanced at the message; then gave it to Lincoln, who held it close to his eyes. The Ancient sighed. “That’s two thousand men who won’t fight?”
“Yes, sir. The Pennsylvania Fourth Regiment and the artillery battery of the New York Eighth … Their three-month enlistments ended at midnight last night, and now these brave citizen-soldiers are going home just as the battle is to begin.”
“That is why,” murmured Lincoln, “I prayed that McDowell would not lose those two precious days. Well, the fault is mine. I should have said three-year enlistments from the beginning.”
“You could not have known, sir.”
“It is my task always to know, particularly when I don’t.” Lincoln unwound himself from the chair. As he did, a second message arrived.
Scott read, with a smile that broke his face in two, like a harvest moon neatly halved, thought Hay, feeling lightheaded. He prayed the ague was not about to visit him again, today of all days. “We are successfully crossing Sudley Ford, to the enemy’s left flank. The rebels are falling back. We are now in a position to attack. The plan proceeds, sir, as desired.”
“If not on the day designated.” Lincoln motioned for Hay to accompany him, and they left the old general at his map, explaining to his aides the similarity between today’s complex operation and his own strategy at Chapultepec.
As a hundred men saluted, the President raised his hat, eyes on the road, head and neck pushed slightly forward, always a sign of anxiety, Hay now knew. If Hay could not read the Ancient like a book, he had at least committed to memory a number of much-thumbed pages.
They crossed to the White House without interception. Even the most intrepid office-seekers were still abed. As they entered the President’s Park, Hay asked, “Is there no way you can hold those men in the army, the ones who decided to go home last night?”
“Of course I can hold them. I can oblige them to fight a thirty-year war if I want. But if I do, I’ll never get another volunteer ever again, will I?”
