by James Devine
The thought of the big guns made Twiggs smile, then frown. Those damn Yankees have to be kicking themselves at the thought that we’re getting ready to hit them with their own artillery. But the whispers that his action in turning over Fortress Monroe to Gaines was, somehow, tainted burned. Tainted! By God, I’ve delivered the “Gibraltar of the Chesapeake” to the CSA without the loss of a single Confederate soldier and that, damn it, is less than honorable? He knew what it was all about: that damn little Gratiot! They had rubbed each other wrong as far back as their mutual posting in the Michigan Territory 25 years ago. And they had clashed about Monroe’s design every time Gratiot had come down to Hampton Roads. Now, incredibly, the bastard is Secretary of War and even Gaines reports to him. The other day, ol’ Ted all but admitted Gratiot intends for Taylor to command the field army, if Zach gets up here in time!
Well, we’ll see about that. Scott isn’t going to wait to see if Zach’s in Virginia before coming after us! He’ll come when he’s ready…which could be as early as next month. If Taylor has arrived and Calhoun puts him in overall command, so be it. I’ll be the good soldier and follow orders.
Because, unlike most everyone else in Richmond, I don’t believe this will be over in one day or one fight! We can’t quit, not now. And we’d have to just about annihilate the Yankees---another Cannae even---before Winfield Scott quits. Well, let old Scott march into Virginia in a few weeks. Whether Zach’s here or not, I’ll be waiting for him. Maybe conduct a Cannae of my own…
___________
Albert Sidney Johnston was a big man who in a short time had carved a big reputation. Maj. Robert E. Lee had graduated from The Point only three years after Colonel Johnston but looked at him with a certain degree of awe. That was because the Kentuckian had rocketed through the USBAA ranks, serving as a captain and chief-of-staff in the Black Hawk War just six years after his 1826 graduation. Even General Scott had considered Johnston an officer apart, entrusting him with responsibilities far beyond his years and experience.
Johnston was a natural leader of men and the obvious choice to oversee the CSA Army’s training. He had a hand in assigning the resigned Old Army officers and had concurred with Lee’s appointment to command the 1st Virginia Infantry. There were other officers commanding regiments who Johnston had his eye on; if he couldn’t have them replaced---for political reasons---he had already decided to influence the design of the order of battle to keep them under his thumb as much as possible.
It was Johnston who, in traveling east from Missouri, had brought the first word that Tennessee had exploded in its own mini-civil war. He had thought about staying on to fight Colonel Crockett and his Dominionists. But the issue would be decided in Virginia and so he had hurried on to Richmond. Calhoun and Gratiot had welcomed him with open arms and General Gaines had quickly arranged for him to assume direct responsibility for preparing the Army for battle. It was going to be strange, going up against the blue uniform…
But the South’s destiny was south and southwest: Mexican Texas and beyond, Cuba, even California. He was a soldier and he was a Southerner. The choice had not been difficult…
___________
Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania
September 28, 1833:
Sylvanus Thayer was worried. Not about the build-up of the Army; the volunteers were arriving in surprising numbers. Even Ontario had sent a regiment after successfully appealing to Van Buren about Scott’s decision to restrict its participation to what amounted to occupation duty in Quebec.
Regulars were also coming in from the Northern and Western posts. The Chief-of-Staff agreed with Scott’s plan to build the Carlisle army around this tough core; only enough officers and non-coms to establish order in the most out-of-control volunteer regiments were to be detached. Though that might be more difficult that Scott expects, Thayer thought.
That’s why Brian Judge had been transferred from his Fort McHenry command to take over the 1st New Jersey. The Dutch farmers from Bergen and Passaic counties were not mixing well with the Irish-born volunteers from Newark and Jersey City. Well, Judge is a Jersey native; they’ll respond to his brand of discipline.
Lt. Col. Savage was that rare officer who had risen from the ranks. Thayer didn’t know where he had been born. But John Wool had taken one look at the 1st New York and removed its elected commander. Damn it, these volunteers have to be taught that command isn’t a popularity contest. Thayer himself had suggested Savage when Wool’s request had reached the War Department. Scott had grumbled a bit---“at this rate, my orderly’ll be the ranking Regular in the defenses”---but had ordered Savage to Pennsylvania himself.
No, what worried Thayer was the weakness he had spotted that gorgeous day last May when Scott had unveiled his plans in the Commandant’s Quarters at The Point: Wool and Worth were oil and water.
Wool was a crusty old veteran who guarded his prerogatives jealously. He had done a fine job of establishing the training facility here. Everything had run surprisingly smoothly, in fact, until Worth arrived to begin building II Corps. Worth had naturally begun issuing orders, diverting men and supplies. The key argument was over the Regulars, naturally. Wool had enjoyed first crack as the closest ones came in from Plattsburg, Fort Hamilton and other posts of the East. Now Worth was claiming the companies arriving from the Western outposts, men fresh from combat conditions and presumably tougher than troops “softened” by “easy” garrison duty back East.
That’s why Thayer had traveled up from Georgetown; the first full-dress parade of the Carlisle army was good for morale, of course. But this situation had to be ironed out. The answer might be to reorganize the Regulars into two regiments…and assign one to each Corps.
And there was the nagging question of how heavily to rely on the half-pays. Thayer understood the concept but also wondered if he had detected the fatal defect: exactly why were they on half-pay anyway? Individually, that is? Why had London singled them out? For the overwhelming part, they had proven good peacetime officers. But how good were they at leading men when the lead was flying? If there were character flaws that had led London to place them on half-pay status, the heat of battle would expose them. Only then, it would be too late…
The Old Man thinks I worry too much. Maybe he’s right; after all, he did serve with the British army in Spain and I did not. But worrying is what this damn chief-of-staff job is all about.
That and coaxing certain one-stars to act like field commanders, not children…
___________
Richmond, Virginia
September 29, 1833,
1 p.m.:
One of the advantages of delegating authority, thought President Calhoun, is that it frees up time to think and plan long-range.
Calhoun utilized his freed-up time to take a daily ride. Out of the stuffy White House office and in the clear air, he could think and consider his options on any number of issues. Usually, that is.
Today Count Ignatieff was riding with him. The President didn’t personally care for the Count---the man radiated danger---but as the official representative of the Confederacy’s only ally, he had to be tolerated. That Ignatieff was indeed the Czar’s representative was no longer in doubt; enough official paperwork had secretly arrived in Richmond from the Georgetown Consulate to verify his bona fides.
The two men rode within a protective cohort of CSA cavalry. Calhoun uncomfortably accepted, in light of Jackson’s demise, his advisors’ insistence that he be provided round-the-clock protection.
The irony was not lost on his companion…
“Well, Mr. President, rumor has it that General Scott is expected to begin his advance as early as next week. May I ask if your intelligence service has confirmed that as fact?”
Calhoun smiled his dark smile: “Rumor also has Wellington awaiting the arrival of a British army of immense size and power, my dear Count. Yet we have not confirmed that report, either…”
Ignatieff laughed as he tugged at his horse’s reins. They
were now moving out of the city and toward Camp Washington on its eastern outskirts. “I believe we are both comfortable with the fact that no British army is within 3000 miles of northern Virginia, Mr. President.
“In fact, one of my reasons for intruding on your ride was to report that the British are finding it exceeding difficult, apparently, to raise a coalition to force us out of Syria. As expected, Prussia has publicly declared its disinterest in the crisis; Asia Minor and the Balkans have no charm for Berlin. Louis Philippe likes being King of France; he intends no serious foreign entanglements. Only the Hapsburgs, apparently, can see further than the length of their very prominent noses. Vienna has joined with the Lion to seek our withdrawal…”
“Can you blame them? They’ve been waiting to grab the Balkans from the Ottomans themselves. And if you get long-term right-of-way through the Bosporus…”
The Count pulled off his hat and, bowing, swung it cavalier-fashion. “I salute you, Mr. President. Your grasp of European geopolitics, at this critical time…”
Calhoun was grim. “European geopolitics formed a part of the equation which resulted in our declaring our independence at this time, Count Nicholas. All such factors demand my grasp…” He pulled up slowly and leaned forward to pat his horse gently. “Much farther and we’d be at the Camp, sir. My presence causes too much of a fuss. I suggest we proceed northward instead.” He indicated this to the escort commander.
Ignatieff nodded and pulled his own animal around. “Certainly, Mr. President. And if I may be so bold…will your army also be proceeding north…in force?”
Calhoun was silent for sometime. Finally, turning to the Russian, he grimaced: “Unfortunately, I’m told that will be the case sometime next month. All indications are that Scott is training a massive force to lead against us before winter sets in. The Northern press is screaming for a march on Richmond. The pressure on Van Buren must be enormous. And I’m sure Wellington is adding to it.”
He looked over at Ignatieff and flashed his trademark dark smile: “The Great Man’s reputation is at stake, you understand. Lord Grey sent him here confident his prestige alone would be enough to see emancipation through. It’s all blown up in front of his hook nose. Now he needs a quick and thorough Dominion victory. Otherwise, he’ll be looked upon as having thoroughly botched his assignment. On top of his rather ill-regarded term as Prime Minister, it would negate Waterloo and those other military campaigns he came so agonizingly close to also botching.”
Ignatieff pulled up and looked Calhoun in the eye. “Can you defeat the Dominion army, Mr. President? And is there anything I can do to help?”
Calhoun shook his head. “Unless you can speed us those military supplies you’ve promised---and get them through the blockade that’s reported to be forming off the coast---I fear not, Count Nicholas.
“As for our chances for success? Well, I am relieved that General Taylor has arrived to take active command. It has boosted morale among our professional officers. And I am told our professionals---officers and non-commissioned officers alike---are pleased with what they’ve seen of our troops. However, the Yankees do have one major advantage, as my Secretary of War keeps reminding me.
“They have General Scott.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
War Department
Georgetown, D.C.
October 1, 1833, 12:30 p.m.:
An exhausted Capt. Thomas Wilder rode a tired Bay Ridge, as hot, dusty and thirsty as he was, up to the War Department and gratefully handed him over to a private who volunteered to take the magnificent animal to the rear stables.
Looking up the steps, he discovered Generals Scott and Thayer coming down, apparently heading for dinner.
“Well Captain. Looks like you’ve been doing some hard riding. Anything new for General Thayer and me to chew over, or can we enjoy our noon meal for once?” The two generals paused at the bottom of the steps and casually returned Tom’s hasty salute.
“I don’t wish to spoil the generals’ appetites, Sir, but the Rebs have advanced as far as Fairfax Court House. I ran into their pickets about dawn.”
The two senior officers stared at each other. “Fairfax Court House! Why that’s only 12 or 13 miles from here. In what strength?” Even startled, Scott got immediately to the core of the issue.
“Closer to 15 miles, sir. Right behind the Court House itself, on Old River Turnpike. It was cavalry, about 30 men, but they camped there last night. It wasn’t a scouting patrol, General. More like an advance party. Had to get out of there after a couple of their pickets spotted me... but they didn’t follow. Looks like they are setting up their line right there.”
Thayer licked his lower lip and looked at Scott. “So they’re over Bull Run, eh? Looks like they want to make the fight as close to Georgetown as possible…”
Scott indicated at Tom’s holstered pistol. “Use that thing?”
Tom nodded. “Yes Sir. I was a little north of the Court House, off the connecting road. I think they call it Ox Trail or Ox Road, I’m not certain. Was trying to work my way down to get a closer look at the camp when they changed guards around 8 a.m. The fresh Reb saw me and they both got off a shot. Didn’t come close, though. I don’t think either one was very familiar with their muskets. In any case, I fired back and they both hit the ground. Gave me enough time to get back to Bay Ridge, who was tied up about a quarter mile back in the woods. They never chased me.”
“Did you hit either one?”
“May have winged one of them, Sir. Hard to tell, they both hit the ground almost simultaneously. Someone got off a couple more shots, but I’m pretty sure it was from a hand gun. As I reported, there was no pursuit.”
Thayer nodded. “Sounds like they’re setting up a defensive line, all right. Orders likely are to protect the perimeter, but don’t advance any further. Cavalry, you said. Were they this 1st Virginia we’ve heard so much about?”
“I don’t think so, Sir. I got close enough to make out their flag. The reports from Harper’s Ferry and Fortress Monroe mention blue flags. This outfit was flying a red flag with a white star in the middle.”
Scott wiped his brow. The equatorial summer heat showed no signs of abating; in fact, the humidity today was July-like. “Maybe they’ve adopted a common banner. Or maybe they were from another state. That could account for the non-pursuit: they aren’t that familiar with the area and are proceeding cautiously. In any case, they’re bound to have more than one mounted unit by now…
“Very well, Captain. I’ll expect a full report when we return. Then get some rest. I want you back across the river by 3 a.m. With a full patrol. This solitary scouting is very romantic and has been somewhat fruitful. But if the rebel army is moving up in force, I’ll want reports sent back from the field. Be prepared to stay out 72 hours. Get up and down their line. How long is it…are they anchored or in the air…and in what force?”
The two generals began to head down the street before Tom could get off a salute. But Scott quickly turned.
“You omitted something of critical importance, Captain. How were these rebels uniformed?”
Tom reddened. Damn, how could he? “In blue, Sir. Not exactly our blue, a bit lighter. But blue.”
“Keep that in mind when you get back across the Potomac, Captain. Your’s won’t be the only Dominion patrol over there. But just because you or your men see blue, it won’t necessarily mean they’re friendlies.”
___________
Camp Washington
October 1, 1833, 3 p.m.:
Twiggs was seated on the hard chair his orderly had brought from Monroe, bent over a portable desk the sergeant had somehow acquired for him. All this damn paperwork, he thought, the sweat dripping from his forehead onto the official report he was preparing for Gaines. We picked some year to secede... This isn’t even Indian summer! Just a continuation of the real thing. If this weather doesn’t break, Scott’ll have a nice long campaign season. Till Christmas, maybe…
There was a commoti
on outside his tent but he ignored it. Sergeant Reynolds would pop his head in if it’s something I need to attend to.
The grizzled old sergeant, his black beard now half-gray, did open the tent but came to full attention once inside. “Sir, Colonel Johnston is here to see you. Should I bring him in?”
“No, Sergeant, too damn close in here for one man, let alone two. Tell the Colonel I’ll be right out.”
When Twiggs emerged, blinking in adjustment to the brilliant sunshine, Sidney Johnston saluted, a strange look on his aristocratic face.
“Pardon the intrusion, General, but a new unit has arrived. I thought you would want to greet them personally.”
Twiggs squinted, his face quizzical. “Colonel Johnston, I thought we had agreed that all incoming regiments would be mentioned singularly after the Saturday morning parades…”
“I realize that, General. But this case is somewhat, ah, unique.”
Twiggs could see that Johnston was trying to contain a smile. “Unique…Colonel Johnston?”
“Yes Sir. A truly unique opportunity, General. To welcome a new regiment…
“In French...”
Johnston pointed into a nearby field to a force of about 500 men in shiny new uniforms of dark blue coats and red trousers, the majority at attention with their muskets sparkling in the sun. Their apparent officers were also drawn up at attention, their swords extended upward at arm’s length. Facing the formation was a single burly individual holding a stanchion harnessed to a belt around his waist. A royal blue banner divided into quarters by a thick white cross hung straight down from the pole’s far end. Each blue quarter was centered by a single white fleurs-de-lis.
