"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."
CHAPTER SIX
Near Hanover, Pennsylvania
August 24, 1863 4:00 A.M.
‘General, sir, I hate to wake you, but this could be important.’
Gen. George Armstrong Custer groaned and sat up, confused for a second as to where he was. A staffer stood in the doorway holding a lantern.
Custer sat up, holding his head. He realized now he had indeed taken a little too much Madeira with dinner. "What the hell is it?"
"Sir, a civilian just came in. I think you should talk to him."
"Couldn't it bloody well wait? What time is it?"
"Four in the morning, sir, and frankly, no, sir, I think you need to hear this man's story."
"Go on then, bring him in, but it had better be good."
The staff lieutenant disappeared for a moment. There was muffled conversation out in the corridor of the house he had requisitioned as headquarters, and then the lantern reappeared.
A strongly built man, with massive shoulders, stood behind the lieutenant.
"Who the hell are you?" Custer asked.
"James Donlevy, I work in the B and O rail yards down in
Baltimore." "So?""Well, if you don't want to hear it, General, the hell with it."
Custer sat back down on the edge of his bed. "Lieutenant, get me some damn coffee. Now, Donlevy, tell me why you're here." "I was sent up by my boss." "Who's that?" "Mr. McDougal." "Never heard of him."
"Frankly, sir, he's most likely never heard of you."
Custer took a deep breath and exhaled. This wasn't getting off to a good start at all. Wasting time being irritated with civilians was not going to get the job done. Patience, George, he told himself.
"All right, James. Just tell me why it was so important this Mr. McDougal thought I should be woken up at four in the morning."
"Well, Genera], he had a little information about the rebs and their movements he thought you should be aware of. Or at least General Grant should be."
"And that is."
"Something about pontoon bridges being moved about on the railroad."
This finally caught Custer's attention, and he looked up. The lieutenant came back in, bearing a cup of coffee. "You want some, Donlevy?"
"Wouldn't mind if I do."
Custer motioned for him to take the cup and sent the lieutenant out for another. "Go on, then."
"Yesterday afternoon a damn surly rebel officer came to the rail yard for the B and O, looking for engines and flatcars to pull what he called pontoon boats to Frederick."
The lieutenant came back with a second cup and Custer sent him back out.
"How many cars did he want?"
>
"At least forty, he said."
Custer did a quick calculation. That was enough bridging to span more than a quarter mile. Not enough for the Suesquehanna but definitely enough for the Potomac. This was interesting, damn interesting.
"I heard something about the boats being captured from General Meade."
Custer knew that was true. The pontoon train had been overrun in the retreat, some of the equipment destroyed, but word was the rebs had captured enough for at least one good bridge.
"Where did they want to move these pontoon bridges to?" "Mr. McDougal said they want to use the B and O to move them at least to Frederick." Custer took that in.
Frederick. Once there the rebels could move the bridging down to Point of Rocks, to half a dozen different locations along the Potomac. It'd give them a bolt hole back across the Potomac without having to rely on a ford.
Now he was fully awake. Does this mean Lee was retreating?
"How and why did you get here?"
"My boss is a Union man, same as me."
"So why aren't you in the army?" he asked, just to see how this civilian would respond, and he watched him carefully.
"My brother was," Donlevy said quietly. "I'm all my mother has left now. My brother died at Fredericksburg with the Seventy-second Pennsylvania, the Philadelphia Brigade. After that I promised my mother I'd stay home and take care of her."
The man seemed slightly embarrassed by the admission, and Custer nodded.
"How did you get up here?"
"The rebels took over the railroads yesterday. Mr. McDougal said something about them seizing all the lines. A train was coming up to Westminster to check the track and perhaps to establish a depot for supplies. Mr. McDougal got me on the train, told me to steal a horse once into Westminster, and ride north till I ran into your patrols."
"What about the rebs? How did you get around them?"
"Wasn't too hard. There aren't many out there. I had a good horse and outran one of their patrols.
"I avoid the rebels, then almost get killed by your men, General," Donlevy said indignantly. "Your damn men are trigger-happy. They fired a couple of shots at me before finally letting me come in."
"Sorry about that, but a healthy-looking man like you, on horseback at night. It would rattle a patrol."
"Still, what would have happened to my mother then, damn it? Precious poor gratitude I call it."
"If your information is correct, I'm certain our government will show proper gratitude, Donlevy."
He didn't add that Donlevy would be a guest of his headquarters until the report was confirmed. If it turned out he was a rebel agent, sent to sow false information, he'd soon be dangling from a tree.
"Make yourself comfortable, Donlevy. We'll be moving out in a few hours and you can ride with me."
"I didn't plan to join the army."
"You are now my guest."
"I see," Donlevy said quietly. "But if I get docked pay for not going back, well, I expect someone to take care of that."
"We will. Consider yourself on my staff for the moment at a pay equal to your railroad pay."
Custer left him and stepped out into the corridor, where his lieutenant had obviously been eavesdropping.
"What do you think?" Custer asked.
"He seems real enough. He's right, our boys almost shot him. His horse is outside, blown and lathered. He's dressed like a rail worker, greasy as hell, no look of a cavalryman to him. I think he's telling the truth."
"If true, that means Lee is pulling out," Custer said. "By damn, he's pulling out of Baltimore. He means to skedaddle back to Virginia and hold us off from there."
"It does look that way."
"Damn all. We got to get that bridging material. Burn that and we can block him."
Custer slapped his hands together with sudden glee.
"I want the entire brigade mounted and ready to move within the hour. Get the fastest rider you can find and send him back up the line to General Kilpatrick with this report."
Custer grabbed a sheet of paper and a pencil from the lieutenant, who then held a candle while Custer leaned against the wall and jotted out a note:
Headquarters, Second Brigade, Third Division Hanover, Pennsylvania
Aug. 24 4:00 A.M.
Have received word from civilian who took train to Westminster, stole a horse, and rode into our lines, claiming to work in Baltimore and Ohio yards in Baltimore. States that Army of Northern Virginia pontoon train, loaded on forty rail cars, to be moved by rail to Frederick and perhaps beyond. States as well, same railroad now taken over by rebels. Will set out this morning, moving west and then south to Frederick to intercept.
Signed, Custer
“Sir, what about our orders to hold here and screen Couch?" 'The hell with that now. We can sit back and do nothing, waiting a day for orders, or show some dash and, with that, win glory. Now what's it to be?"
The lieutenant knew better than to respond to that question. He saluted, dashed out the door, and in less than a minute "boots and saddles" broke the early morning silence. Within seconds the camp began to stir.
Custer stepped out the door and in the twilight of dawn took in the scene, the sight of the men of the First Michigan standing up, cursing and muttering, but answering the call.
It was going to be a great day for a ride, Custer thought with a grin.
Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna Near Shippensburg, Pennsylvania
August 24 11:30 A.M.
The early lunch under the canvas awning had been simple army fare: hardtack, salt pork, some roasting ears purchased from the farmer whose yard they were camped in, and, of course, coffee, plenty of hot coffee, Lincoln taking his with some cool sweet cream.
A hundred yards away, down on the Valley Pike, the troops continued to move, a seemingly endless, procession, regiment after regiment passing by, these men the tail end of Ord's Corps, General Ord having ridden over to join them for lunch.
The talk around the table had been on anything but the war, perhaps a mess tradition, Lincoln thought, and, if so, a wise one. A young lieutenant proudly showed off a daguerreotype of his wife and newborn son. Grant shared a story about California and its beauty, his hope of perhaps settling out there after the war. Ord told of how some eastern men had challenged his men yesterday, asking what their corps badge was. One of his men had proudly slapped his cartridge box, proclaiming, "Here's our corps badge, a cartridge box with forty rounds."
Ord had already decided that this would be the insignia for his command, a black cartridge box with the gold U.S. oval in the middle.
From there they had talked about military standards of old, Napoleon's famous eagles, the eagles of Rome, the horsetail standards of the Mongols. A captain shared the story of Varus and the lost eagles of the legions, taken by the Germans during the reign of Augustus, and how Augustus wandered the palace crying out, "Varus, give me back my eagles!"
The group fell silent at that story, some looking sidelong at Lincoln, wondering if he might have done the same after Union Mills. And yes, he knew that story, and it did indeed haunt him when he thought of those bloody slopes, the thousands of dead and dying. He thought, as well, of the story already circulating across the country—how, several weeks after Union Mills, a rebel soldier had slipped through the picket line at Washington, calling for a truce, taking from under his jacket a green banner stained with the blood of the Irish Brigade. He said he had retrieved it on the battlefield, taking it from a dying Union officer's hands and pledging he'd return it. The reb, a son of Ireland as well, refused any offer of money, or even food, and was escorted with honor back to his own lines, where his comrades gave him three cheers.
As he was sipping his second cup of coffee, realizing that his mission here was completed and it was time to leave the pleasant comradeship of the army and return to the turmoil of Washington, an officer came galloping along the roadside, leapt a fence, and rode straight toward the group. His stallion was sleek, jet black,
the officer astride it cutting a sharp figure in a neatly fitting uniform. He reined in hard and dismounted with a flourish.
Lincoln's first instinct was a dislike of this man. He had the look of George McClellan about him, his uniform a little too neat when contrasted to Grant's simple four-button private's jacket, or Ord, covered with dust and sweat, and other officers begrimed. The man was short, about the same height as McClellan, and perhaps that was a trigger for Lincoln, who like many who were tall, saw military men of diminutive stature and too much braid as being "little Napoleons."
The officer came up to Grant, grinning, and saluted.
"General Sheridan, may I present you to our president?"
Sheridan turned and actually looked startled. He had not seen Lincoln sitting in the shade, slouched in a canvas-back chair, sipping coffee.
The man instantly snapped to rigid attention and saluted.
"Excuse me, sir, I mean, Mr. President, I didn't see you, sir."
He looked a bit flustered, and Lincoln's first sense of dislike dissipated. He stood up, nodded, and extended his hand, which Sheridan took warmly.
"Sir, an honor to meet you," Sheridan said enthusiastically.
'Thank you, sir."
"I heard you were with the army. I was hoping to be able to see you."
"You came here in what seemed to be a hurry, General Sheridan. Do you bear important news?" "Yes, sir." "Report then."
Lincoln was caught by the fact that Sheridan pulled a dispatch out of his breast pocket and handed it straight to him. With McClellan's army there would have been all sorts of secrecy, officers huddled outside, McClellan with a touch of pomposity excusing himself to go confer in whispers before coming back to tell Lincoln what was occurring—and often distorting the news. This openness was refreshing. The note, he saw immediately, was addressed to Grant, yet Sheridan had handed it directly to him. A small issue to be certain, but one that was. telling.
"I think this is for our general," Lincoln said, handing the note over to Grant, who opened it up.
Grant scanned the memo and stood silent for a moment, as if lost in thought.
"Interesting news?" Lincoln asked.
Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 Page 11
