Grant Comes East - Civil War 02

by Newt Gingrich; William Forstchen

  Another explosion rocked the room, but he did not even bother to look up.

  Outskirts of Baltimore

  July 21,1863 4:00 P.M.

  General Lee, I think we should hold back here for the moment," Walter Taylor announced, coming up to the general's side.

  Reluctantly, Lee found he had to agree. They were into the edge of the city, a district of neatly built homes. He did not recognize the neighborhood; it must have been built after his tenure supervising the building of fortifications for the defense of Baltimore. So ironic that the very defenses he helped to build and upgrade were now the object of his attack.

  If the fortifications were properly garrisoned, he knew there would be a formidable battle ahead. So far, however, his hope that the outnumbered, second-rate garrison would take flight seemed to be coming to pass.

  He always had a fondness for this town, Southern in so many ways, but also bustling, sophisticated, with orchestras, theaters—a place of culture. It had been a comfortable posting.

  He did not recognize any of it now.

  Crowds were out in the street and panic was in the air. McLaws's men had stormed up and over the outer perimeter of fortifications with ease; barely a shot was fired. The men were exuberant, for the works were indeed extensive though nowhere near as well designed as Washington's, and to the last instant there had been fear that somehow it was a trap, that the guns, visible in their emplacements, would suddenly open up, turning an easy advance into a shambles.

  The only Yankees to be found were drunks and a few sick and injured who had been abandoned by their terrified, retreating comrades. There had been a few shots from houses at the edge of town, the advance line of skirmishers rushing in, the shooters bursting out of the homes, casting aside their rifles, and running for their lives. He had already intervened personally at the sight of a couple of young boys, not more than fourteen or fifteen, surrounded by an angry knot of his soldiers. The boys had apparently decided to try and hold back the Confederate army on their own and shot a soldier, fortunately only a graze to the arm, but the wounded man's comrades were getting set to string the boys up.

  "Give them a good spanking," Lee had announced good-naturedly, his suggestion breaking up the angry mood. "Then send them home to their mama."

  He could hear the two boys howling as the men set to them with a will.

  But as they got a few more blocks into the city, the mood turned darker. Several houses were burning, no one bothering to try and put the flames out, the owners standing outside, shocked, one shouting to the passing troops that the damn Loyal Leaguers were burning the town, a half block farther on another victim hysterically screaming imprecations at the soldiers and at "all goddamn rebels."

  An occasional report of a rifle or pistol echoed ahead. Walter and his guard detail looked around nervously. Though Lee hated to put a special distinction unto himself, he felt the need for it now. He had no hesitation about riding into the storm of battle; there were times that he sought the challenge or knew that his duty required it, but to be gunned down by a hidden assassin lurking in a darkened window struck him as obscene, and inwardly he had to admit that it did frighten him a bit Somehow he still clung to the notion that battle should be fought in open fields and woods. There it was pure, no innocents caught in the middle, the only ones present men who had volunteered to be there, and who in general fought with honor. To die at the hands of a drunken assailant was not a worthy death.

  He reined in and waited, his guards, with pistols and carbines raised, forming a tight circle. Down the middle of the street a regiment from Pickett's division came by on the double, Virginia state flag at the fore.

  "Your orders, Colonel?" Lee shouted as the regiment came abreast of him.

  Startled, the colonel looked up, saw Lee, stepped from the front of the column, and saluted with a flourish.

  "We're leading Armistead's brigade, sir. Our orders are to occupy Federal Hill."

  "Carry on."

  The men cheered as they passed, more regiments coming around a bend in the road behind them

  Their enthusiasm was overflowing, the men yelling, cheering, drummers struggling to keep up while at the same time beating out the pace. A troop of cavalry riding on the sidewalk across the street trotted by, pistols drawn.

  The wind shifted slightly, carrying smoke on it a distant rumble, almost like battle but not quite.

  A courier came tearing back up the street lashing his mount shouting for the infantry to clear the way. He rode straight past Lee, went half a block, then reined in hard, horse skidding. He turned his mount and came racing up to Lee, breathing hard

  "General McLaws's compliments, sir. He begs for you to come forward with as many men as possible."

  "What is wrong? Are the Yankees standing?"

  "No, sir. It's the civilians. Sir, it's a riot like nothing we've ever seen. I'm supposed to find General Longstreet and report this, sir."

  "How bad is this riot?"

  "Sir, I've never seen anything like it Whole blocks are burning; there's people a-hanging from trees. They're fighting so hard neither side will stop."

  "Our men?"

  "They're trying to stop it now, sir, but we're getting hurt some. General McLaws got hit by a rock and is down."

  A thundering explosion suddenly washed over them. Startled, Lee looked up to see a massive fireball climbing heavenward, mushrooming out Windowpanes farther down the street shattered, glass tinkling down onto the street

  "Longstreet's farmer back," Lee said, pointing back up the road. "He might be riding with Pickett's headquarters."

  The boy saluted and galloped off.

  He took a deep breath.

  "We better go in."

  "What was that?" Taylor asked, pointing at the still-mushrooming cloud

  "Might be the powder reserves at Federal Hill; if so, there's going to be a lot of damage down in the center of town," Lee announced

  Taylor shouted for the guard to keep a sharp watch, and Lee did not object as several of the men moved in closer. He knew he had to put on an imperious air, to project a calm authority, but still he found himself looking nervously about After so long in the field this environment was alien, disquieting.

  Crowds were out at every street corner, some cheering the passing troops, others standing by, sullen and quiet Confederate flags appeared at some windows and porches. A lone defiant girl stood in her doorway, holding a Federal flag up in her hands, weeping.

  Moved by her bravery, he saluted, then told Taylor to detail off a soldier to gently take the girl inside for her own safety but offering his compliments as well.

  They turned the corner in the road leading down to Federal Hill, and he reined in again. The scene was apocalyptic, something from the Bible. Fire was soaring up from the center of the old fort, buildings beyond the fort shattered, in flames. But what he saw at the next street corner truly sickened him. A body was dangling from a tree, another lying in the gutter. The house the bodies were in front of was engulfed in flames, the side of the neighboring house already scorched and smoking.

  The body hanging from the tree was a black boy, not more man twelve or thirteen, the body in the gutter a woman, her throat cut, blood spilled out in a dark, ugly pool.

  Sickened, Lee looked over at Taylor.

  "Damn it," he shouted, "this will not be tolerated!"

  The use of even a mild profanity startled Taylor, who, ashen-faced, stiffened in the saddle.

  "I want the provost guard in this town, in force now! This will not be tolerated! I want that boy cut down. His family and that of the woman to be found, our condolences offered, and funerals paid for! I want someone to find out what happened here!"

  Angrily he turned Traveler away. His fear of the moment before gone, he pressed farther into the city.

  Even as Pickett's regiments stormed along the street beside him, he caught glimpses of side streets and alleyways. Some were empty, others lined with nervous groups of civilians watching, and
then the next one would reveal a raging battle, mobs swaying back and forth, storefronts being broken into, looted, crowds fighting with each other, bricks flying, rifle shots echoing. The column of infantry suddenly stopped, half a dozen blocks from the center of town, the men who were now stalled leaning over, panting hard, looking around nervously, not sure of what should be done next

  "General Lee!"

  McLaws, with Stuart by his side, was forcing a way through the columns of infantry. The main thoroughfare just ahead was littered with debris, a rough barricade blocking half of it, a storefront burning. A man came running out of a building directly behind Stuart and began to raise a rifle, aiming at Stuart's back, incredible, since dozens of Confederate infantry stood only feet away.

  A flurry of shots dropped the man in his tracks. Stuart, not even bothering to look back, approached Lee, unaware that in another second he would have been dead. Lee's escorts, seeing the drama, became more tense, most of the men now cocking their revolvers, looking around warily.

  Stuart came up, features pale. McLaws by his side had a bandage around his forehead, left side of his face puffy and swollen, with his eye half-shut.

  "There's hell to pay up there," McLaws shouted. "It's madness. You'd think the entire city's sold itself to the devil."

  "What is the situation, gentlemen?" Lee asked sharply.

  'To be honest, sir, we're not sure," Stuart interjected. "We got in without a fight, as you saw, but about four blocks back it started getting ugly. The fort blew a few minutes ago; guess you saw that. The garrison is making a run for the harbor."

  "I no longer care about that!" Lee snapped. "I want this city intact, not a smoking ruin. And I want it done peacefully. What I've seen so far is barbaric."

  "It's not us, sir," Stuart said defensively. “It's these damn civilians, both sides. You think all the hatred these last two years is boiling out They're killing each other without mercy."

  "I want it stopped now, General Stuart Now!"

  He shouted the last word, half standing in his stirrups.

  "Get your men fanned out along every street and thoroughfare. I want the word passed that everyone is to return to their homes. The city is now under the martial law of the Confederacy and a twenty-four-hour curfew is in place. I want that done now."

  "Sir. I don't think many will listen."

  Lee looked around, exasperated. From a block away, up a side alley, he saw two men pointing toward them One lowered a pistol and fired several shots. At such a range, of course, the rounds missed, but two of his guards set off in pursuit He wanted to shout for them to come back, but they disappeared around a corner. More shots, and no one came back.

  His army was not trained for this, had no experience at all in how to take a city and then control it Even as he thought that, one of his attempted assailants stepped back from around the corner, making a rude gesture and a defiant wave. This time he had a carbine and lowered it to take another shot A volley from some of Pickett's men dropped him.

  We are out of our depth here, Lee realized. For the first time in a very long while he was flustered, not sure how to act, what orders to give. This was not as easy as simply ordering a division out of line and sending them in. They'd done that a hundred times; everyone down to the dimmest private knew his role. But here?

  "General Stuart Cavalry to stay together in troops; do not let your men split up or get lured off. Infantry to move in company strength. I'll establish headquarters ..."

  He hesitated. Where?

  "Mount Vernon Square. It's half a dozen blocks from here. I'll be at the center of the square. General McLaws, you are to advance down to the harbor. I want a courier sent down to Fort McHenry. We will offer a temporary truce. Ask the commander to please cease any thoughts of firing upon the city and to aid us in containing the fires and the rioting. Any Union troops still in organized formations and attempting to maintain order will be granted free passage back to their lines once order is restored."

  "I doubt if he'll go for it sir," McLaws said. "He's a real firebrand."

  "Then that is on his head, not ours. If he goes for it or not any Union troops you see in formation or attempting to control this madness, grant them a truce, assistance if they need it then the right to leave."

  "With arms?"

  "Yes, with arms," Lee replied, exasperated at such a picky detail. "They'll need them against this madness. I want those fleeing to be aided and assisted with safe passage."

  "Sir, what about the..." Stuart began, then hesitated, "the colored?"

  "The what?"

  "The colored, sir. Some of my men just reported that thousands of them are fleeing north. Many of them are slaves, sir, or runaways from Virginia. By right they should be returned to their masters."

  "Like the two I saw several blocks back?" Lee asked.

  "Sir?"

  "I just saw two dead Negroes, one of them a boy hanging from a tree, the other a woman with her throat cut; is that what you mean?"

  Stuart lowered his head and said nothing.

  Another explosion rocked the plaza ahead, debris soaring heavenward, tiny fragments raining down around them long seconds later.

  "I want the colored left alone. Let them flee if they wish."

  "But the slaves?"

  "General Stuart, just how in God's name will you tell the difference?"

  All were again startled by his rage.

  "I don't know, sir," Stuart said woodenly.

  "Then don't bother with it."

  "Sir," Taylor said softly. "Remember, the president is just outside the city. If he hears you've willingly allowed slaves to escape, there could be problems."

  "Then, sir," Lee snapped, "I suggest you go back out of this city, bring the president here, make sure he sees that hanging, and let him pass the order as to what to do. We are a Christian army that has fought with honor, and I still propose that we maintain that honor. I will not tolerate what we just saw back there."

  Taylor, absolutely crestfallen, lowered his head.

  Lee took a deep breath. The fear of earlier, the confusion as to what to do in this strange, new battlefield, then the outrage had overtaken him for a moment He turned away, mastering his passion; and looked back.

  "I apologize, Walter. You were doing your job."

  "No apology needed, sir."

  Lee leaned over and in a gesture of remorse lightly patted him on the arm.

  "Gentlemen. Remember, we are gentlemen," he said softly. "I want this city brought under control. As I said, I will establish headquarters at Mount Vernon Square. General McLaws, pass the message to the commander down at Fort McHenry. General Stuart start moving your men out as ordered. Taylor, locate General Longstreet and ask him to come to my headquarters. Finally, locate Pickett and order him to start spreading his division out and make sure they understand my orders as well."

  The gathering looked at him for a moment trying to process all that he said. Again there was a flash of exasperation.

  "Move!"

  The group scattered.

  With his escort pulled in tight around him, Lee pressed into the city.

  Baltimore

  July 21 1863 5.00pm

  Hey, niggers!" John Miller slowed. At the street comer ahead, a cordon had been set up. A rough barricade of tom-up cobblestones, an overturned delivery wagon, and bits of lumber blocked the way. Behind him hundreds of blacks from his community were surging forward. Behind them the city looked like something out of the Bible, of Sodom and Gomorrah, flames soaring heavenward, explosions rocking the harbor, and now this line of men armed with clubs and guns.

  To his dismay he did not see any indication that they were the Loyal League, who had freely let them pass several blocks back, though more than one taunt was hurled about a black Moses leading his children.

  He slowed.

  "Where you going, boy?" one of the toughs asked, stepping out from behind the barricade.

  "Out of this city. We're going north."

&n
bsp; "Oh, no you ain't. You're runaways. Now git back home where you belong."

  "We're freemen, and we can go where we please."

  "Don't back-talk me." The man came forward, raising an axe handle threateningly.

  All was silent for a long moment.

  "We're leaving the city," John said quietly, looking the man straight in the eye.

  "God damn you!"

  The handle came down. The man was clumsy, obviously not used to the type of dark-alley brawls that John had grown up with. He easily dodged the blow and with a single strike from a curled-up fist knocked the man flat

  "The son of a bitch hit George!" someone screamed from behind the barricade.

  John looked up and saw a rifle being leveled, aimed straight at him. Before he could even begin to react, the gun went off. He heard a scream, looked, and saw his young son stagger backward from the blow.

  A wild madness now seized him. He raced the dozen feet to the barricade, reaching into the haversack by his side, drawing out an antique pistol, an old flintlock that his grand-daddy claimed to have carried against the British in 1814. He cocked it even as he ran. Stopping on the far side of the barricade, he leveled the piece straight at the man who had shot his son, and squeezed the trigger. The gun went off with a thunderous report, kicking his hand heavenward. The rifleman seemed to leap backward.

  The next couple of seconds were mad confusion. Hundreds charged around him, swarming up over the barricade. Shots rang out; the flash of knives glinted in the sun; rifle butts were raised, slammed down; the wild, hysterical crowd pushed forward, clearing the barricade.

  Stunned, he just stood alone and then looked back to where his wife, Martha, knelt in the middle of the road, keening softly, cradling the body of young John, his two daughters standing wide-eyed, looking down at their mother and dead brother.

  He walked back to her as if in a dream, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her back up.

  "We have to go," he whispered.

  "No!" She started to flail wildly at him.

  "For our two who are still alive we've got to go! We stay here now we'll all be killed."