He edged across the square, there was still time before his meeting, and besides it was best to keep his "host" waiting for a few more minutes. On the far side of the square a commotion was erupting, and as he drew closer he could see an angry gathering, a bunch of toughs, brandishing sticks, clubs, cobblestones, taunting the troops.
They moved in and out like an undulating wave, pushing halfway across the street, some just drunk and shouting obscenities, others filled with some wild animal rage, shaking clubs, screaming at the soldiers to come on in and fight, then edging back, and some were just consumed by the madness that comes over a wild crowd, some of the participants laughing, dancing, shouting gibberish.
The men of the Fifty-seventh stood nervously, having formed a front of two companies at an angle just inside the park, bayonets fixed and lowered.
The mob started to grow, more pouring in from back alleys. Looking up, Sickles saw some leaning out of windows, looking down; he was not sure if they were rioters or just onlookers.
Dan rode up behind the two companies, a nervous major looking up at him.
"They just started coming in like this, sir," the major said, voice actually shaking. He couldn't remember the man's name but recognized him, a good soldier when the battle was in a field or woods, but this situation was unnerving him. He could sense it in the men as well.
A brick came sailing across the street, a soldier cursing, dropping his rifle, falling back from the line. A cheer went up from the mob.
"Are your men loaded?" Dan asked.
"Sir?"
"Primed and loaded?" "Yes, sir."
Dan waited. In his years working the wards of New York he knew these people on the other side, perhaps more than one had voted for him for Congress so long ago. He knew their tempers, their moods, their gutter leaders. With luck, one of those leaders would know whom he was facing and call his mob back. But if it was going to start for real, here was as good as any place.
The mob did not disperse, more bricks started to fly, the two companies backed up a dozen paces, and there was a momentary standoff. And then the moment came.
A drunk rioter staggered out, holding a battered American flag aloft, threw it to the ground, unbuttoned, and started to urinate on it, the mob roaring with delight
An angry cry went up from the Pennsylvania soldiers. Among them, even a captured rebel battle flag would have been treated with far more respect. It was a sacrilege to any who had followed the colors forward into battle. Dan stood in his stirrups.
"Boys, we've shed blood for that flag! Our brothers have died for that flag! Take aim!"
With a resolute will, a hundred rifles were brought to the shoulder and lowered.
The mob hesitated.
"Disperse now, you damn bastards!" Dan shouted.
Some of the mob turned and started to run; he gave them enough time to get off and away, but the rest actually stood there, taunting, some beginning to surge forward again.
"Fire!"
The volley swept the street comer. Dozens dropped. "Reload!"
There was a sharp, practiced precision to their work as they drew cartridges, reloaded, brought their weapons to the ready.
The street corner was cloaked in smoke, dozens were on the ground in front of them, the mob was gone. Dan turned to the major.
"If they come back, don't hesitate to shoot. Now get those wounded taken care of, find that flag and have someone clean it."
The major, a bit startled by what had just happened, could only salute.
"Remember, men," Dan shouted. "These are traitors and rebels, the same that we faced in Virginia. The difference is, at least our enemies in Virginia were soldiers like us, who fought with honor."
To his surprise a ragged cheer went up, as if his words had calmed their fears about what they had just seen and done.
He turned and rode back across the square. A bullet hummed by, striking and chipping the brick wall beside him. He looked across the square. It was impossible to see where it had come from.
Hell of a note, he thought, get shot by some drunk Irishman after surviving so many battles.
More troops were continuing to pour into the square; another volley thundered from where he had just been, he didn't bother to look back. Reaching Delmonico's, he reined in and dismounted, several staff waiting there anxiously for him.
"The governor and Mr. Tweed are inside," he was informed. "Sir, they say you're an hour late." Sickles grinned.
"Pass the word to the regimental commanders. I want a cordon around this square, - reinforced companies at each intersection deployed and ready to fight I want some of Berdan's sharpshooters to get into buildings and watch for bushwackers, one almost got me a minute ago, just make sure they don't start shooting each other in the confusion. I'll be out shortly."
Adjusting his sash and saber, Gen. Dan Sickles strode into Delmonico's, one of his favorite haunts since the early days when it had first opened farther downtown. The owner was nowhere in sight, and he chuckled, simply nodding to the maitre d', who even in all this madness was properly decked out in full formal evening wear, though the entire restaurant was deserted except for a small gathering in a darkened corner.
Dan approached, smiling, and "Boss" Tweed stood up, his ever-expanding girth making it difficult for him to get out from behind the table.
Tweed offered a perfunctory handshake as Dan looked around. Governor Seymour with a couple of his staffers half rose, nodded, and then sat back down.
Dan inwardly grinned. He knew Seymour did not want him here. Though the man was terrified, still he would want the credit if the situation was restored.
"The mayor, where is he?" Dan asked.
"How the hell should I know?" Tweed replied. "I guess either trapped down at City Hall, or hiding."
"I sent a telegram to meet me here."
"At three in the morning, Sickles?" Seymour grumbled. "Aren't we getting a little high-and-mighty? And besides, you are the one who is an hour late."
"It took time getting my men across the river and I won't have a spare moment once daylight comes.
"Just be glad that I'm here."
Dan smiled. No sense in getting important patrons upset.
"My apologies, gentlemen, we're all tired, thank you for meeting me."
"Besides, it's a good chance for a free meal."
A waiter brought over a bottle of brandy; Dan nodded. Once the bottle was open, he took it, poured his own glass, and sat down.
"The situation here?" Tweed shook his head.
"I think we've lost control of the city. Maybe if you boys had won at Gettysburg and Union Mills, it might never of happened, or it wouldn't be so bad. But between that, the casualty lists, and the draft, the city just exploded. Except for some areas around City Hall, the financial district, and where a lot of militia were posted in the wealthier neighborhoods, the city is in anarchy."
Dan drained his glass and poured a second one.
Even within the darkened confines of Delmonico's, the air was heavy with the stench of smoke from the dozens of fires raging out of control across the city. An exhausted fire crew, walking behind their hook-and-ladder wagon, limped past the doorway, several of the men bandaged, one nursing a bloody arm in a sling. One could hear a steady rumble echoing, and it quickened Dan's blood; it was the sound of men shouting, so similar to the sound of a battle from a mile or two away. An explosion thundered, loud enough that many of the men in the square stood up, pointing to the north, and Dan could see a glimpse of a fireball soaring into the early-morning sky.
"I could have won it at Gettysburg and we wouldn't now be dealing with that mess out there," Dan announced. Tweed said nothing, intent on his opening course of smoked oysters, pausing between bites to drain his glass of champagne. The governor, flanked by his two aides who actually had more the look of bodyguards, sat with hands folded across his lap.
"I'm telling you, I had Lee square in my sights that second morning at Gettysburg," Dan continued. "I kn
ew he was beginning to flank us. Berdan, God rest him, confirmed it just before he died. They were strung out on that road for miles and I'd of cut through them like a whipsaw. Then we could have turned and destroyed each wing of his army.
"But no, damn him! Meade and all the others just stood there like wooden Indians. Damn West Point bastards. Same thing on the march down to Union Mills. I should have been allowed to move to the right flank as I told Meade, rather than march on Union Mills. But again, no! If I had, Fifth Corps would have been reinforced rather than annihilated. And that last bloody charge, my God, what idiocy, it was worse than Burnside at Fredericksburg."
"That's past and the White House and its patronage are still in the future," Tweed grumbled, looking up from his meal. "I'm worried about now," and he gestured toward the open door.
"We let this continue, we lose this city, the blame will come down square on Tammany when it's done. You know damn well the Republicans will blame us for it, say they were knifed in the back by these riots. They will seize any excuse to blame the Irish and the Democrats."
"That's why I'm here," Sickles said. "Somebody's got to restore order and if I do it we get the credit instead of the blame. I will be the man who saved the Union after our defeat at Union Mills."
"One more day and we'll have that rabble under control," Governor Seymour snapped back angrily.
Dan leaned back in his chair, raising a brandy snifter, and smiled.
"If you wish to give the order, Governor, I will withdraw my troops immediately," and he pointed to the square.
Worried looks were exchanged around the table between Seymour and Tweed, the silence of the moment disturbed by the distant echoes of shots, another fire engine racing past, the cries of those fleeing the anarchy out in the street.
"Let's not be hasty, Dan," Seymour replied.
Dan smiled.
"We have to be hasty, Governor, or we'll lose your damn city and with it the war. For or against it at this point, you don't want to be the one blamed."
"You actually think this goddamn war can be won?"
"Think it? I know it," Dan replied coldly.
"And you're the one to do it?"
"You're goddamn right I'm the one to do it"
"Lincoln will never let you take command, didn't you see Greeley's paper today? It's Grant now."
"A drunkard and yet another West Pointer," Dan announced, loud enough that his staff and the infantry guards at the door could hear.
"You honestly think he can do anything?"
"He did take Vicksburg," Tweed offered. "He's got powerful friends, Congressman Washburne for one."
Dan snorted derisively.
"Fighting against rabble out west is one thing. Let him try and tangle with Bobbie Lee. One fight and he'll be like all the others, running with his tail between his legs...." He paused for a moment, looking into his brandy glass, "or dead."
There was no response. Staring at the glass Dan felt a flicker of pain, the memory of that field at Union Mills, watching good men go in by the thousands, only to be cut down in their turn. If only they had listened, it all could have been avoided. The revelation that had just come out, that Lincoln had actually sent a dispatch advising Meade to use discretion, that he was not required to attack, was useful in his own campaign, but at the same time struck hard into that side of him that wished to see Union victory, to see an end to it all.
If only Meade had listened; his own advice had been a reflection of Lincoln's.
"I can end this war," Dan whispered, as if to himself, taking a sip of brandy and setting it back down.
He looked back up at Tweed and the others.
"I've watched the professionals mismanage this for two long years. They don't understand volunteers. I do, for I am one of them."
"But you are not in command," Tweed replied.
"I can be."
"How?"
"I want Meade to be taken care of by the Committee on the Conduct of the War."
"Good God, man, Meade is dead. Leave it rest," Seymour gasped.
"No. His memory still lingers. John Sedgwick is angling for that job, blaming me for his failure. Get your people in Congress to take down Meade before the committee and Sedgwick is hung with the blame as well."
"You forget about Grant," Tweed said. "Remember, he commands the armies."
"He's new, just a day at it. If the word comes from the White House that I now command the Army of the Potomac, he'll accept it He can't put his own people in yet"
"What Army of the Potomac?" Seymour asked sadly.
"It's still out there," Dan said heatedly. "Most of my corps is still intact. That's going to be the heart of it. I want that appointment confirmed before Grant gets east. I also want sufficient reinforcements assigned to me, the troops coming up from Charleston, Burnside's Ninth Corps; I can bring the number back up to sixty thousand in a fortnight and have the army ready to fight within the month. Then I'll cross the Susquehanna and drive Lee back into Virginia before Grant can even stir. If the rains hold I might even be able to pin Lee against the Potomac and annihilate him."
Seymour and Tweed looked at him with disbelief.
Dan smiled.
"Damn all of you. Think beyond this city for a moment. I take command of the army, defeat Lee, and all opens up. Lincoln and his cronies will be blamed for all that happened before. Even if the war drags into the following year, come next spring I take the Democratic nomination for president, and then, gentlemen, I give you the White House. Think of all that Tammany could do if we moved our headquarters there."
More than one nodded.
"If," Tweed said meditatively. "That's a very big if."
"It starts here, this morning," Dan said sharply. Draining the rest of his brandy he stood up, took the bottle that was on the table, corked it and then tossed it to one of his staff.
"Gentlemen, I'm putting this riot down and I want your people the hell out of the way."
Dan could see that he had them cornered. It was beyond their control and they knew it
"What are you going to do?" Tweed asked.
"What should have been done two days ago. I have a brigade forming up right now. I'm deploying them across the width of the island; we will seal every north-south avenue. Then sweep north."
"Why north?" Seymour asked. "The worst is in the southern wards, Five Points."
"Because that's where the money is, you idiot," Tweed interjected. "Save their backsides and we're heroes."
"My men are veterans," Dan continued, "and I'm cutting them loose. They're angry as hell after Union Mills, and I've told them this riot is provoked by rebel agents. At this point they will not stop and they will not be gentle."
No one spoke. The implication was clear.
Washington, D.C., Outside Fort Stevens
July 17 1863 9.00am
The morning fog was burning off, revealing a slate-gray sky that promised yet more rain. Taking off his hat, General Lee wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The day was already humid, the air still, warm. Mounted skirmishers rode ahead, fanned out to either side across a front of several hundred yards. A company of cavalry rode behind him, ready to spring forward if there was the slightest indication of trouble. He could see that Jeb was being cautious. During the night mere had been several probes by Union cavalry coming out of the city. There was always the chance that a unit could have slipped around the loose cordon of gray-clad troopers.
Cresting a low ridge he could see the forward line, horses tied, men sitting around smoking fires, springing to attention as word leapt ahead of his approach. Orders had been given that there was to be no fanfare, no recognition, but it was hard to contain the troopers that came down to the road, grins lighting their faces, young boys, old men, trim officers snapping to attention at his approach.
"You sleeping in the White House tonight, General, sir?" a wag shouted and a subdued cheer went up. Lee extended a calming hand as he rode past.
"The boys are eager," Jeb offer
ed.
He could see that Most of them had fresh mounts taken in Pennsylvania; they'd been living off good rations for over a month. They had seen victory and in spite of the painful marching in the rainy fields, they were in high spirits, ready for anything. He knew that if he but whispered a few words, ordering them to form up and charge the fortifications, they would do so without hesitation.
Pressing on, he rode down into a tree-clad hollow, the muddy stream, which for most of the year was most likely nothing more than a brook that a boy could leap, now swollen, dark, coming nearly to Traveler's chest as they plunged across.
Several dozen troopers were at work, fashioning a rough-hewn bridge across the stream out of two logs and heavy planks torn from the side of a nearby barn. An ambulance lay on its side downstream, obviously flipped over when its driver had attempted to ford the torrent.
Traveler, slipping, gained the opposite side of the stream and with a quick jump took the muddy slope. The skirmishers, moving ahead, had slowed and Jeb nodded.
"We're there," he announced.
Lee nodded and without comment pressed on. Walter fell in by his side, as did Hood and Hotchkiss, the rest of the staff staying back under the canopy of trees.
"We're inside the District of Columbia now," Hotchkiss announced with a hint of ceremony in his voice.
That close, Lee thought and there was a memory of his home, of Arlington. Not ten miles away now, ten long miles and then it is oven How many hundreds of miles have we marched from Richmond, to Manassas, to Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, and Union Mills, and now to here? All of that, to gain this moment, at this place. One final lunge and it ends it. This one final lunge.
A couple of the scouts ahead stopped, turned, and came cantering back, the rest of the line slowing to a walk then reining in.
A messenger came up, saluting.
"It's ahead, sir, you'll see their line in a minute. Sir, it's rather close."
Lee smiled at the boy's caution. The message was clear, he'd prefer it if the general would stop now.
"I need to see," Lee said softly. "Lead the way, Captain."
The captain saluted and turned his mount, Lee following, with Taylor, Hotchkiss, and Hood following behind.
Grant Comes East - Civil War 02 Page 5
