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

by Newt Gingrich

  “Merciful heavens, James, how are you?”

  “Doing fairly, sir,” he lied, as he stepped into the President’s office. He had not slept in more than three days, and it had been weeks since he had shaved, let alone bathed or even changed his clothes. Ground into his trousers, duster jacket, broken-down slouch cap, and every pore of his body was the accumulation of two months of Virginia clay and sand and the stench of battle and trenches.

  A more rational voice in his head had whispered that, before coming here, he should have gone straight to the Willard, ordered the best room in the house with the new-fangled plumbing—which included a tub that could actually be filled straight from a tap with hot water and an indoor toilet that flushed—and had someone sent down to the Brooks store with orders for a complete new set of clothes.

  But, he decided, the hell with that; he’d do it later and charge the bill to Harper’s. If they hollered, they could take it out of their payment for his sketches. That is, if they accepted any … and if they didn’t, the hell with them, too.

  Lincoln looked at him appraisingly and James felt a slight embarrassment—coming to the White House like this, as if he had put on some sort of costume. Another part of him, however, no longer cared. Let this man, his old friend and benefactor, the man who commanded all the armies of the Republic, see what battlefield reality looked and smelled like.

  “Sit down, son,” Lincoln said softly, gesturing to a sofa of green velvet.

  James hesitated; it looked far too clean.

  “Oh, don’t worry. Mary picked it out and personally, I think the thing is an overdone gewgaw. Mess it up all you wish, it’ll be an excuse to get rid of it.”

  That simple gesture and comment disarmed him a bit, deflating some of the anger that had begun to smolder as he came up the walkway. He had reacted to the neatly trimmed guards blocking his way and a captain wrinkling his nose as if confronted by a beggar. He had wanted to ask the man if he had ever seen an actual Reb coming straight at him with bayonet leveled or if he had held a dying comrade—but he already knew the answer. The captain had gazed suspiciously at the precious pass he always kept concealed in his wallet, signed by Lincoln, to admit this bearer to his presence whenever and wherever presented.

  The captain had made him stand outside in the evening drizzle for twenty minutes before returning, obviously a bit surprised by the order to escort him straight to the President’s private office on the second floor.

  “Coffee?” Lincoln asked as he came into the room, grabbing hold of James’s hand as he guided him to the sofa.

  “Yes, sir, thank you.”

  Lincoln pulled open the door to Hay’s office and called for a fresh pot. Before Lincoln could close it, James walked over to stand by Lincoln and saw a clerk, crutches set to the side of his desk, left pant leg empty below the knee.

  The resemblance was there.

  “Mr. Vincent?” James asked.

  A bit startled, the clerk looked up at him, gaze shifting from Lincoln and then to Hay, and he nodded.

  “Your brother, Captain Vincent, sends his regards, though I’ve not seen him in a couple of weeks.”

  The clerk said nothing for a moment.

  “He went back to Rhode Island with General Burnside,” the clerk finally replied, “and from there back to our parents’ home in Lafayette, Indiana.”

  “He’s safely out of the war then, that’s good.”

  Lincoln looked at the clerk and confusedly back to James.

  “Mr. Vincent, there,” James said, “is actually a rather good spy, sir.”

  Lincoln started to bristle and James shook his head.

  “No, sir; no, don’t blame him. He was curious about me and as the saying goes, ‘tipped off ’ his brother on Burnside’s staff that I might be more than just an artist. My compliments to him. It might actually have helped me … and you, sir.”

  There was an awkward moment until a colored servant came in, bearing a silver tray with a steaming pot of coffee, two delicate china cups, and silver bowls for cream and sugar. The servant edged his way into the office and set his burden down.

  It was obvious that Vincent was nervous over the encounter, and James finally went over and shook his hand.

  “You did the right thing, both as a man working for the President and for a brother in service to General Burnside. In the end it actually helped me with my own duties.”

  He looked back to Lincoln, who finally nodded an approval, and he followed the President back into his office, the tall gaunt man forcefully closing the door.

  “Don’t blame him; that was rude of me to bring him out like that. I guess I’m just tired.”

  “Frankly, James, you look like a cat that’s been dragged through a gutter and then chewed on a bit for good measure.”

  James tried to smile, rubbing what was becoming a red beard flecked with streaks of gray and then looking down at his stained, grime-encrusted trousers—some of the stains from the blood of comrades.

  “Face of war,” James finally whispered.

  “You wanted me to see you like this, didn’t you?”

  James suddenly felt embarrassed.

  “I went to Antietam a couple of weeks after the fight there. I saw thousands of boys like you; smelled it, too, not just them but the graves washed out by the rains.” Lincoln looked off. “You didn’t need to try and show me something as though I am not already aware of it.”

  As he spoke the President played the proper host and poured a cup of coffee, motioned to the cream and sugar, which James refused, and handed the cup over. He was grateful for the hot brew; it was real coffee, damn good coffee, and he took a sip.

  At that instant there was a brilliant flash of light outside the window, a split second later a window-shaking boom. Startled, James crouched down, as if ready to dive to the floor, dropping the cup and breaking it.

  Another boom and then another and another …

  Lincoln put a soothing hand on his shoulder.

  “I should have thought of that and warned you. You must have heard the news by now, confirmed today that General Sherman has occupied Atlanta. The siege is over, an enormous victory won. A hundred-gun salute, along with fireworks, has been ordered for tonight in Lafayette Park.”

  Embarrassed, James looked down at the fine china, lying in fragments, the coffee soaking into the carpet.

  Lincoln stood up, went to the door, cracked it open, and a moment later the servant returned bearing towels and another cup. James looked at the man closely. He was elderly, perhaps in his sixties, his white hair offsetting dark ebony features, which lent him a certain dignity.

  “Sorry to trouble you with this, Quincy,” Lincoln offered.

  “Oh, no trouble at all, Mr. President, no trouble at all.”

  He was down on his knees, spreading out the towels, soaking up the coffee, and scrubbing hard. He glanced up at James and made eye contact, and then started to lower his eyes.

  “Quincy, is it?” James asked.

  A bit startled, the man looked at him and just nodded.

  He thought of Garland, a few short years ago. That man, of such courage and dignity, would have been performing the same task at the Washington home of Senator Toombs, mopping up the spilled drink of a guest who was a bit too rattled, or more likely, a bit too drunk, and he would have done so with eyes averted.

  “I’m sorry to have caused you trouble, Quincy,” James offered.

  “Oh, it’s no trouble at all, sir.”

  “Quincy, do you have any sons?”

  “Sir?”

  “Do you have any sons?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Why, in the army, of course,” and there was a note of pride, but he could sense something else.

  “Which regiments?”

  “Both with the 32nd USCT.”

  “So they were in the battle at Petersburg a month ago?”

  “Yes, sir,” and the old man paused.

 
“Have you heard from them?”

  Quincy hesitated.

  “My oldest, yes. He got through fine, but my youngest…” and his voice trailed off.

  James looked up at the President, who emphatically shook his head not to pursue the conversation further.

  “I was with them in that fight,” James said, ignoring Lincoln’s warning. “I have never seen men go forward so gallantly.”

  “Perhaps, Lord willing, he is simply a prisoner and all will still be well,” Lincoln whispered.

  James knew it was most likely a lie, remembering the crater at night, the torches and the bodies being mined out to be thrown into unmarked graves behind Rebel lines.

  Quincy could only nod. Finished with scrubbing up the spill, he stood and looked straight at James.

  “You were there, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been reading the papers, things people are saying, and…”

  James stepped forward and put a hand on Quincy’s shoulder.

  “Believe not a word of it. I was there; I saw it all. Your sons went in like heroes, like men of war, and the truth will come out in the end.”

  Quincy lowered his head, and James felt a stab to the heart, for it was obvious the man was struggling not to cry.

  Without a word, clutching the soiled towels, he left the room.

  James looked back at Lincoln.

  “Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have done that.”

  The booming outside continued and this time James only filled his cup halfway.

  “The whole town is going wild with celebration tonight,” Lincoln said, and James could detect a certain note of happiness in the man’s voice, “more so than after news of Vicksburg.”

  “Makes it rather clear, doesn’t it?” James replied.

  “What?”

  “You will win the election in November.”

  Lincoln sighed and looked at him, eyes a bit cold.

  “You know how I would prefer to win, and that is without the blood of one more soldier being spilled.”

  “Sorry, sir,” and James shook his head. “Maybe I should have waited till tomorrow to come here.”

  “No, James. I sent the order for you to report back immediately, before the trial was finished, and you did as ordered.”

  “At least changed, perhaps?”

  Lincoln chuckled, “I’ve smelled worse…”

  “So where do we start?” Lincoln finally asked, breaking a long silence while outside the window the guns continued to fire. A band struck up a series of jaunty patriotic airs, voices joined in … something he had not heard in a long time from the soldiers back at the front … Except for the day the men of the Fourth had crossed the bridge over the James.

  “I don’t know, sir,” James whispered.

  “The trial, it wraps up in a few days. What do you think will be the conclusions? What happened? I have time tonight; I was never one for impromptu speeches out there,” and he gestured out the window toward the celebration.

  “You should have the full printed transcript within a few days, sir.”

  “But it is your impressions I seek.”

  “A whitewash, a complete cover over.”

  “Go on.”

  James poured another cup, again only half full, and sipped it, glad for the warmth as he spoke. He described the impact of starting the testimony at the top ranks first, making clear to all subservient ranks the way events should be reported; how, halfway through the trial, one brave colonel of a Connecticut regiment dared to defy the entire process, denounced all the previous testimony, and announced that the black troops had fought with valor and if the plan had been left unhampered, victory would have been certain.

  “And what happened to him?”

  “Oh, he is still with the army of course; his regiment’s enlistment is nearly up anyhow, and he’ll go home and be forgotten in a few more weeks. Someone described it as the ill-judged observations of a volunteer without any professional skills.”

  “But Burnside?” Lincoln asked. “From what I heard the evidence is damning. Drawing straws, for heaven’s sake, and then not personally following through to see that proper orders were followed?”

  James nodded, sadly.

  “An eccentric man.”

  “I don’t need eccentric men in command,” Lincoln said coldly. “I need fighting leaders if we are to finish this war.”

  “Please, sir, let me finish.”

  “Go ahead then.”

  “Eccentric, yes, but I think his plan was brilliant, and if properly followed, there would be a five-hundred-gun salute being fired tonight to celebrate the ending of this war. Richmond was in our grasp if Burnside’s plan had been followed.”

  “But it wasn’t.”

  “No, sir, it was not. I’ve seen it before with men who had been in one too many battles, sir. They get this strange look in their eyes, as if gazing off to some distant place others cannot see unless they themselves have endured the same nightmares. Too many scoff and say they are just cowards but they are not. They have seen one horror too many, seen one plan too many. So full of promise, they go astray for whatever reason, and then they just inwardly collapse. That is what happened to Burnside. When he was given that order to change the plan at the last second, he just inwardly collapsed, and then, without a leader, the battle went out of control.”

  “So, it is his fault.”

  “No, sir,” James said and now his voice was cold. “Sir, I will make a recommendation, but before I do so, I want you to look at these.”

  He reached into his oversized haversack and drew out a bundle, sealed with waxed paper and bound tightly with a wrapping of twine. As he looked at it before handing it over, he thought it did look a bit absurd. He had compulsively spent an hour or more wrapping this package up, piling on the layers of wax paper to protect it from the elements, so that even if he should fall into the James River, the papers would remain untouched. He had showered greater care on it than on many of his drawings, the cords woven and tied in such a way that he could tell if someone had tried to tamper with them.

  Lincoln looked at the heavy package dubiously, reached into his trouser pocket for a pen knife, pulled it out, and cut the cords. James watched a bit nervously as he carefully sliced open the side, reaching in and pulling out the sheaves of papers.

  “What is this?”

  “Sir, just take a few minutes to scan through them. They were handed to me by one of Burnside’s staff, in fact the brother of that clerk in the next room. If he had not figured out who I was, I doubt if he ever would have entrusted them to me; he most certainly wanted them laid before you.

  “They’re primarily copies of records of orders and correspondence between Generals Meade and Burnside from just prior to the assault until the day after.”

  Lincoln picked up one sheet, a telegraph slip.

  “No one is talking about it, but both generals refused to even stand together during the entire battle, remaining in separate bunkers just eight hundred yards apart, connected only by a telegraph wire. This is a record of what was being sent back and forth between them just before the battle and while it was under way.”

  Lincoln picked up a bundle of the telegraph sheets, which James had taken the time to sort out into proper sequence when possible and tied together separately. Lincoln cut the cord binding them together and began to read through them, one after another. After the fifth or sixth one, his features began to cloud.

  From long ago James could remember that look. Many a case had come into his law office back in Springfield seeking counsel and, as a young lawyer hungry for business, Lincoln had taken on more than a few cases with little promise. But on occasion, while a potential client was pouring out his version of an event—making extravagant claims for compensation from whomever he wished to sue, which Lincoln would of course have had a fair share of upon winning—the prairie lawyer’s face would darken. He would suddenly stand and, with voice strained, suggest that the man seek o
ther representation. On the few times where words of defiance and even threats were fired back, his youthful reputation as the best wrestler in the county would all but come out, Lincoln stepping forward and making it clear that the man had but two choices as to how he would descend the flight of stairs to his office.

  He saw that look now.

  The President scanned a telegram, dropped it into a pile, went to the next one, and then, at times, went back and picked up a previous telegram to compare.

  “Are you certain, James, that these are authentic?”

  “Sir, some of them did get into the minutes of the court of inquiry, but some you are now reading did not. General Meade ordered the arrest of Burnside’s telegraphers and confiscation of all records of communication. Several of Burnside’s staff jotted down copies of these before the records were confiscated, and in turn, a copy was given to me.”

  “Could there have been more that you did not see?”

  James shook his head.

  “I can’t promise on that one, sir. I was in and out of the headquarters for the first two hours or so of the battle until word was sent up that the colored troops were to go in. That’s when I left the headquarters to go in with those men, so I overheard more than a few of these telegrams being discussed.

  “I have no reason to believe Captain Vincent is deceiving me by passing along these records or has held some back because, as you can tell, more than a few do not cast his own superior in the best light. I’ve dealt with a lot of men during the years, sir, as you have. You can tell when a man is playing you square and when he is hiding an ace up his sleeve. I believe in what Captain Vincent gave me, but there might have been more that even he missed.”

  Lincoln continued to scan through the telegrams and then the various courier notes, orders, and counter orders.

  “Tell me about the colored troops,” Lincoln stated, even while continuing to look at the papers. “All reports are now saying they behaved poorly.”

  “That is a damn lie, sir,” James snapped, embarrassed by his own flash of anger and heated response to his president.

  Lincoln looked up at him with a bit of surprise.

  “Calmly, James, calmly. You learn in court there are times to get excited and times to present your case softly; softness often carries more weight and truth.”