The Battle of the Crater: A Novel (George Washington Series)

by Newt Gingrich

  “That bad?” Lincoln whispered.

  “Yes, sir. Of course, Harper’s will never publish it.”

  “Of course,” Lincoln whispered, exhaling with a shuddering gasp. “I did see they published one of yours, a charge taking a Rebel fort the first day in front of Petersburg.”

  “That’s what they want. That’s what they publish.”

  “At least Harper’s is still supporting the war,” Lincoln replied. “Most of the press is howling now that word about the losses of the last two months is leaking out.”

  James looked at him with a penetrating gaze.

  “Leaking out? I’ve been up on the front, so I haven’t kept an eye on what is being published.”

  Lincoln hesitated.

  “It seems some in high command have withheld the full casualty lists, and only now are they becoming apparent.”

  “Did you know about this, sir?” James asked.

  The President sighed.

  “I was told it would give the Rebels too much information if they knew the accurate numbers of how many men Grant has lost these last two months.”

  “How many?”

  “At least seventy thousand,” he whispered. “At least fifteen thousand more lost with Sherman.”

  “My God,” James sighed. “I knew it was bad but…” and his voice trailed off.

  “While you were back at the front, the country was getting into an uproar,” Lincoln continued. “We have lost more than at Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, and Chickamauga combined. Support for the war effort is at an all-time low, worse even than after Fredericksburg.”

  He looked off for a moment, sighed, and then focused his attention back to the sketchpad, turning the pages.

  “Good likeness of Burnside,” Lincoln said, trying to smile. “How is he?”

  “One of the reasons I’m here, sir.”

  “And that is?”

  “Perhaps you should turn the pages first.”

  Lincoln did as requested, reaching the drawings devoted to the Fourth Division of Burnside’s corps. He smiled at the first ones, a rough draft of a long column of troops coming off the “mile-long bridge of boats,” as some now called the wonder that had been flung across the James in a single day. Then he came to a more polished version, which Reilly would obviously forward back to his paper, with a note across the bottom: “Proud men of the Negro division pass in review before Generals Meade and Burnside as they join the Army of the Potomac.”

  He turned the pages to the sketches of the division practicing an assault on fortifications.

  “This isn’t a real battle, is it?” Lincoln asked. “I haven’t heard word of their being in action.”

  “No, sir. They’re being drilled for an assault. I spent most of yesterday and the day before watching it.”

  “How did they do?”

  “As to be expected of green troops. Enthusiastic but confused.”

  He said nothing, again half straining to lean over and watch Lincoln’s reactions.

  “I think you are trying to tell me something,” Lincoln finally said, closing the pad and handing it back to Reilly.

  “Never could hide anything from you, sir,” and Lincoln chuckled in spite of the seriousness of the conversation, looking up affectionately at James.

  “Trying to hide the truth, are we?” Lincoln asked with a smile.

  James tried to smile and both knew the event to which James was referring. Several weeks after he had started to work in this man’s office, while cleaning and polishing his desk, he had come across a hidden drawer, within a handful of coins, obviously petty cash that the new lawyer tossed in there at the end of the day from his pockets. He had lifted forty cents from it, never figuring it would be noticed. A week later, after nights of wrestling with temptation, he had pried it open to take just a quarter, no more. There was more money than ever in the drawer, but also a note: I THINK YOU OWE ME FORTY CENTS. YOUR FRIEND, A. LINCOLN.

  Abashed, he had slammed the drawer shut. Lincoln had paid him his fifty-cent wages without comment the next day and as soon as he had closed the office James had put all fifty cents back in with a note. PAID IN FULL WITH INTEREST. THANK YOU, SIR. IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN.

  Never a word was said between the two about it and yet both obliquely referenced it often.

  James smiled at the memory, as did Lincoln.

  “Something is up, sir.”

  “What do you mean?” Now they were serious again.

  “I think a major assault is being considered, and these men will lead it.”

  Lincoln did not reply.

  “Sir, are you being silent because you do not know, or because you cannot talk about it.”

  Lincoln just smiled.

  “Sir, I hope this decision was a wise one.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I have seen too many charges go straight in at a well-prepared Rebel position. In every case it has been a debacle. I’ve come to know some of those men. They’re good men. In fact, in one sense, too good.”

  “How do you mean that?”

  “More than any white troops, they feel they have something to prove. Where veterans or even new troops who are white would hesitate, they’ll go forward.”

  “Perhaps it is exactly what is needed.”

  James nodded.

  “But against a well-prepared line? I just wanted to give you that caution. I think, at heart, General Burnside is a good man, even if he does carry the burden of Fredericksburg. I think he has deliberately selected this division to prepare for something daring and complicated and done so with good reason. I just pray that whatever it is, it works.”

  Lincoln nodded, saying nothing.

  “I’ve noticed a few other things. I tried to go up to the front line and provosts stopped me, even though I showed them my pass from General Burnside. Said, it was orders. Then on the packet boat, I met a regimental commander with the Ninth Corps. A good man, name of Pleasants; I have run across him before. Solid regiment of coal miners.”

  “And?” Lincoln said, chin resting on folded hands, staring straight at James.

  “Well, sir, this Pleasants was as tight as a drum. I couldn’t get a word out of him as to what was going on. I tried my usual bribe of offering to sketch him and his men for Harper’s and he flat out refused. I mentioned that General Burnside had given me permission to observe the training of the division of black troops and sketch them, as long as I kept the sketches secret until I was told they could be released. That made Pleasants downright nervous, it seemed. He cut me off and wouldn’t say another word.”

  James smiled.

  “I’m not complaining. He’s a good officer and did the right thing, but it did get me curious.”

  “And?”

  “Sir, we walked up from the dock together, and he checked into the Willard as I did. And well, sir, I was curious.”

  “So you played spy?” Lincoln said with a smile.

  James nodded sheepishly.

  “He came out a half hour later, dressed in civilian clothes, and I just sort of tagged along behind, just curious mind you. He went straight to a shop.”

  “What shop?”

  “McGregor and Sons, Makers of the Finest Instruments for Surveying and Navigation.”

  Lincoln stared at him intently.

  “I went into the shop after he left. One of the shopkeepers, maybe it was one of McGregor’s sons, was very pleased. In minutes I was hearing how he had just sold three hundred and fifty dollars of surveying equipment, finest quality mind you. Something called a theodolite.”

  Lincoln leaned forward with a smile.

  “It’s an instrument for taking precise angles to measure distances. If you know the length of your base line and use a theodolite to shoot the precise angle from two other points along that base line to a distant object, you can calculate within a few inches just how far away that object is from any point along your base line. But you need a darn good theodolite to do it right and that th
ing costs a lot of money.”

  Lincoln sat back, a bit proud of himself.

  “Before I decided to study law, I looked at being a surveyor, but found too many numbers to calculate for this thick head,” he chuckled in his self-deprecating way. But then he was suddenly all seriousness again.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Reilly returned his gaze.

  “Something big is being planned for the Fourth Division, and all I’ll say is, sir, I hope it is well thought out this time. Surveying equipment bought in secret? Someone is trying to calculate something out, precise distances, maybe a new way to attack or…”

  “Or what?”

  “Maybe a tunnel?”

  Lincoln did not bat an eye; he just continued to gaze at Reilly.

  “I thought it curious as to how the troops were being drilled as two separate columns a couple of hundred yards apart. And smack in the middle between them is a fort. It is suicide to try and push a charge past either flank of such a fort; the enfilading fire would rip any attacker apart. So, it is either some massive bombardment being planned and someone wants to calculate the precise distance to a Rebel position so that the first volley of shells will hit with maximum effect or…”

  His voice trailed off.

  “Or what, James?”

  “Well, sir, I thought about it and frankly that will not work against earthen works that are well prepared. Then it hit me that this Pleasants commands a regiment of Pennsylvania coal miners, and if anyone understands tunnels and digging it would be those men.”

  “James, all I will say is, not a word of what you think to anyone, not a word. Lives depend on it. Indeed the outcome of the war may depend on it.”

  “I know that, sir,” and there was a slight note of reproach in his reply.

  “Even if I did know something, you realize at times I cannot discuss it.”

  “I was not pumping you, sir. It is just that I wanted to put a caution in front of you.”

  “And that is?”

  “Don’t let this one be in vain. Too many times I’ve seen indecision, incompetence, or outright politics destroy a well-made plan. This might be a well-made plan or it might be insanity. I am suggesting you keep a careful eye on it, and that alone is the reason I felt I should make this trip to see you.”

  Lincoln nodded sagely, but said nothing.

  “And also, sir, if I could so easily hit upon it, I daresay the Rebels will, too. We all know Willard’s is a hotbed of drunken officers, and ladies a bit too compliant, who listen to every word and constant boasting.”

  “Was Pleasants drinking at the bar?” Lincoln asked sharply.

  “No, sir. I went back, looked around, made an inquiry about him, claiming I was his brother, and was told that he had given strict orders not be disturbed; that he wanted to sleep until four and be awakened in time to catch the next packet back to City Point.”

  “Good for him.”

  “Though maybe someone should go and have a talk with Mr. McGregor that in the future his staff should keep their mouths shut as to what other customers are buying. Sir, I’m trying to say that if I could ferret this out, the Rebs will, too, at some point and then God save those men.”

  “I’ll make sure it is taken care of.”

  Lincoln stood up, a signal that the interview was drawing to a close.

  “I have another visitor shortly,” he announced. “I’d like you to go back on that packet this evening and do as you’ve just done.”

  “Sir? I was hoping for a few days here.”

  “A certain Congressman’s daughter?” Lincoln asked with a smile.

  “Sir?”

  “Maybe I have spies watching my spies,” Lincoln chuckled.

  James looked at him with surprise. Lincoln moved to reassure him.

  “No, no. You know how gossip is. Mary told me of it months ago. Of course she doesn’t approve, says you two come from different social classes.”

  James said nothing, for after all she was right.

  “I agreed, telling her that the young lady in question is the daughter of a Democrat from Maryland, but I wouldn’t hold it against her.”

  James smiled as the President showed him to the door.

  Lincoln stood for a moment and then went to the window to look out, deep in thought, the drawing of the dead artillerist from Maine refusing to leave his mind.

  There was a tap on the door.

  He turned to look.

  It was his secretary, Hay.

  “Sir, we just got a message from General Grant. His courier boat had some boiler problems, and he won’t arrive till this evening.”

  “No problem,” Lincoln replied softly. “It’ll give me time to think.”

  ON THE WAY TO THE FRONT

  Having cast off, the small packet boat began to pick up speed, water foaming up from under the stern. The small deck was packed, mostly with officers returning to the front line. What space was still available was stacked with crates and barrels. At least the weather promised to be fair, because except for a few of the higher ranks, most would be sleeping out on the deck tonight for the run down to City Point.

  A few joked that they preferred the night boat; those running during the day would, on occasion, draw some long-range fire from Rebel militia. The militia, far behind the lines, enjoyed taking potshots at anything that steamed by. Recently, a major had been killed by just such a random shot.

  “Damn bushwhackers, we should hang ’em when we catch them,” someone announced, and there was a chorus of agreement.

  “Aren’t you Pleasants with the 48th?”

  James saw a colonel approach and extend his hand.

  “I’m MacArthur, 33rd Ohio. We were on your right in the Wilderness.”

  He extended his hand, Pleasants took it, and for several minutes MacArthur tried to engage him in conversation but was met with only monosyllabic replies. The Ohio man finally drifted away, and as he did, James realized that Pleasants was staring at him. There was no sense in pretending he had not seen him, so James smiled and came over to his side.

  “We were on the same boat this morning,” James said, extending his hand, which Pleasants shook for a brief instant. “James Reilly with Harper’s Weekly. Remember?”

  “Yes.”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “Mr. Reilly, I am tempted to ask if there is a provost guard on this ship and have you put under arrest.”

  “Sir?”

  “You followed me today.”

  “I don’t quite understand what you are saying, Colonel.”

  “You most certainly do,” Pleasants replied, his voice cold, tense. “We checked into the same hotel.”

  “No crime in that,” James said easily. “I was in town to make sure my drawings went to a courier to take them to New York. Sometimes you have to do that yourself.”

  “Then why did you follow me when I left the hotel?”

  “Sir, I am afraid you are confusing me with someone else,” James replied, staring the colonel straight in the eye.

  “You make a rather poor spy, Mr. Reilly. At least change out of that long duster you insist on wearing when following someone. I spotted you when I walked out of a particular shop.”

  James did not reply for a moment.

  “I am a correspondent with Harper’s,” James finally said. “But I can assure you I am not some damn Rebel spy.”

  “Then why did you follow me and go into that shop?”

  “I will confess curiosity took hold. I’ve been with your corps for two weeks now.”

  “I haven’t seen you.”

  “I am not allowed to see you. Your sector is sealed off from any reporters.”

  “With good reason, damn it,” Pleasants snapped.

  “I’ve mostly been with the Fourth Division since they joined the corps.”

  Pleasants looked at him with a good poker player’s gaze.

  “If you doubt me, sir, when we dock at City Point, call over a provost
, have me put under arrest, take me to General Burnside’s headquarters, and check directly with him.”

  Pleasants did not reply.

  James sighed, drew out a flask, offered it, which Pleasants refused, and took a drink.

  “All right, I was curious as to what you were up to. I think I have it figured out.”

  Pleasants looked past him and there was a nervousness about him.

  “Sir, I am a Union man. I’ve been covering this war ever since McClellan’s Peninsula fiasco. I hate loud mouths, boasters, and especially reporters who don’t know when to keep their mouths shut as much as you do.”

  He hesitated and tried to smile.

  “And officers who talk too much as well.”

  There was an ever so slight nod from Pleasants.

  “And I lost a brother at Cold Harbor.”

  Already that battle was being buried and forgotten. No one spoke of it the way they did of Gettysburg, Antietam, or even the two Bull Run fights. Cold Harbor would be forgotten. It was too bitter and painful a defeat to be remembered or glorified. Its memory had been buried with its dead.

  “The desk clerk told me that someone claiming to be my brother asked for me at Willard’s as I checked out,” Pleasants retorted. “He described you perfectly.”

  “That was me.”

  Pleasants gazed at him coldly, then finally nodded.

  “So why are you interested in the Fourth Division of my corps?”

  “The boys with one of the black regiments were doing burial detail at Lee’s old mansion. I went there to see my brother buried, got to know a couple of their men, and asked if I could draw them as they got ready for whatever was coming up.”

  “Coming up?”

  James extended his hand in a calming gesture.