Grant Comes East - Civil War 02 (28 page)

"Yes, sir. Whatever you wish."

"Fine then. Are you hungry?"

Grant smiled and nodded his head.

"Yes, sir, to tell the truth I'm starving."

"We have an excellent cook. Perhaps some flapjacks with maple syrup, a good slice of fried ham, and some coffee?"

"I'd be delighted."

"We'll talk more later, when we are alone. But let's relax for the moment. I just met this remarkable fellow I'd like you to meet Hope you don't mind that he's colored."

"Of course not, sir."

"Been learning a lot of history from him these last few days; he's known every president since Madison. Has some delightful insights."

'It would be a pleasure to meet him."

"Good then. Elihu, I know you're looking for a meal as well at taxpayers' expense."

"Thank you, Mr. President."

Lincoln started to lead the way again, but then stopped and it seemed as if a visible weight had suddenly come back down upon his shoulders. He looked back at Grant, eyes again dark, careworn.

"May I ask a question, General Grant?"

"Yes, sir, anything."

"Can we win? Can we end this madness before it destroys us all, North and South?"

The intensity of the question, the look in Lincoln's eyes struck him. Rarely given to sentiment, he found his own voice choking for a moment, and he was unable to speak. It was as if a mystical bond was, at that moment, forged between them. As if in whatever way possible, he had to lift some of the infinite burden off this man's shoulders, and even as that thought formed he felt the weight, the awesome responsibility of knowing that the republic, its very survival, its fate over the next hundred years, rested on him as well.

He slowly nodded his head, looking straight into Lincoln's eyes.

"Yes, sir, we can win."

Ch
apter
Ten

Near Leesborough, Maryland

July 20, 1863 2:00
p.m.

T
he last of the storm was passing to the southeast, dark clouds bristling with lightning. Stepping down off the porch of a pleasant frame house whose owner had offered him coffee and biscuits while waiting out the blow, Lee stretched, looking around, breathing deeply of the cool fresh air that came sweeping down out of the northwest.

After three weeks of unrelenting heat, humidity, and rain, he could feel that the weather had indeed changed, that this last blow had swept the air clean. The rain had come down in torrential sheets for a half hour, swamping the road, but now, as a column of men from Pickett's division were filing out of the woods where they had sought temporary shelter from the blast, he could see their renewed vigor. The temperature had dropped a good fifteen to twenty degrees, the air was crystal clear, sharp, a pleasure to breathe. It sent an infectious mood through the men, who were joking, laughing, splashing around in rain-soaked uniforms, boots tied around their necks. For a few minutes they seemed almost like schoolboys again.

He mounted Traveler, staff falling in around him. He waited patiently for President Davis and Secretary Benjamin to come out of the house, the two climbing into an open four-horse carriage that had been "borrowed" from a wealthy landowner near where they had camped the night before. The owner was furious about the requisitioning until he heard who would be using the carriage, then simply asked for a receipt, along with an affidavit to be given back with the carriage, confirming who had ridden in it. It was obvious he planned to make a commercial venture out of the carriage when it was finally returned.

Lee edged out onto the road, Traveler kicking up muddy splashes. Behind him the lead brigade of Pickett's division, Armistead's men, were forming up. Turning, he headed north, the road clear for several hundred yards ahead. His staff, the headquarters wagon, and the president's carriage followed. With Taylor and his guidon-bearer just behind him, he urged Traveler to a slow canter, enjoying the ride, the cooling breeze, a shower of heavy droplets cascading down around him as he rode under a spread of elm trees that canopied the road. Reaching a gentle crest he saw the village of Leesborough, a small, prosperous community with several stores, a couple of dozen homes, rich farmland surrounding it. The winter wheat had been brought in, but the orchards, especially the peach orchards, had been severely damaged by the passing army, nearly every tree plucked clean. Fences were broken down and gone as well, wet circles of ashes and partially burned wet wood marking where men had camped the night before.

At the intersection with the Rockville Pike in the center of town a regimental band stood, playing patriotic airs. A spotter for the band, having seen the approaching cavalcade of the army headquarters and the president, was running back to the center of town, waving his arms.

Lee slowed, looking over at Walter.

"It's good for morale," Walter said with a smile.

Lee nodded and waited, letting his staff ride on, then edging back on to the road alongside the presidential carriage.

"It's turned into a lovely day," Benjamin announced, gesturing to the sparkling blue sky overhead.

"That it has, sir. By evening the roads should dry out a little, and hopefully tomorrow we'll make good time."

Up ahead the band struck up "Bonnie Blue Flag," and a cheer rose, a regiment that had been coming down the road from Rockville stopping, men spilling out of column to swarm behind the band.

Lee said nothing, though this would play havoc with the marching order, stalling the troops farther up the road, but it couldn't be helped now. Besides, Walter was right. They needed a boost after the misery and frustration of the last week.

The reporters traveling with Davis were off their mounts, notebooks out; one of them produced a large sketch pad and, with charcoal stick in hand, began to furiously scratch at his paper.

Lee fell in behind the carriage, Walter at his side, as they rode into the small village. Cheer upon cheer greeted them. From the rear, Armistead's men were splashing through the mud, coming up on the double to take part in the show, slowing at a respectful distance, breaking ranks, holding caps in the air, and yelling.

Davis, obviously pleased, ordered the carriage to stop in the middle of the intersection and stood up. Lee reined in behind him, and troops from the two columns edged closer, yelling and waving. Davis held his hands out and the men fell silent.

"Gallant soldiers of the Confederacy. I salute you!"

Another roar went up, the roads now clogged with men breaking ranks, pushing in closer.

"You, the victors of Union Mills, have crowned your reputation with undying glory. You march now to yet a greater victory. A victory that shall soon end this war. And then, as conquering heroes you can return to your homes and loved ones, where you shall be forever honored for what you did here."

Yet more cheers greet
ed this statement. General Long
street approached the edge of the crowd from the west, coming down the Rockville Road. He pushed his mount through the crowd, falling in alongside of Lee, saying nothing, but his gaze was anything but happy over this disruption. Lee smiled softly and said nothing.

"I have a request of our wonderful band," Davis cried.

The bandmaster saluted with his staff.

"An honor, sir. What do you request?"

"In honor of our gallant friends, who even now are rallying to the cause of Southern freedom, I would appreciate hearing 'Maryland My Maryland.'"

The bandmaster turned with a flourish, passed the command, instruments were raised, and the band began to play. It was obvious after several measures that they were not as well practiced with this tune. Davis stood solemn, listening, ignoring the more than occasional off-key notes. The newspaper artist, standing on a porch, sketched away furiously.

The band finished. Davis was about to continue to speak but Longstreet, with less than the required diplomacy and politeness, loudly cleared his throat. Davis looked out of the corner of his eye toward Old Pete and then Lee.

"Perhaps our gallant General Lee would care to address you," Davis offered, pointing toward him.

More cheers erupted, and under the cover of the noise Lee moved to the side of the carriage.

"Sir, I think General Longstreet was reminding us that we have an army on the march and this crossroads needs to be cleared if we are to continue."

Davis flushed slightly but then nodded. Benjamin, obviously enjoying himself, just smiled and said nothing.

Davis extended his hand again; the men fell silent.

"God bless and keep all of you." He sat back down and told the driver to move on. The driver hesitated and looked at Lee, obviously not sure of what direction to take.

"North," Walter said, and with a crack of reins the carriage passed through the crossroads, escorts arid guards galloping ahead.

Longstreet turned to a provost guard standing mud-splattered in the middle of the road.

"Clear the rest of this division from Rockville," Pete said angrily, pointing back to the west. "Then, have General Pickett file in behind it."

The provost saluted and started to turn.

"And tell that damn silly band they can play but get the hell off the street, move them out of the way."

Anxiously, the provost saluted again and ran off, shouting orders.

"Shouldn't be too hard on them today," Lee said. Longstreet shook his head.

"The roads are still a mess and we're funneling not just my corps, but Hood's as well through here. That little demonstration tied things up for a mile in each direction."

"Still, the men needed it and so did the president."

"Sorry, sir. I think once we're clear of here, I'll feel better again."

"I know. I feel the same way. It was a bitter march to here and a bitter defeat, but now we are moving again, doing what we do best."

He could again see the movements on the map engraved in his mind's eye. The army was reduced to but six divisions, and all of those were under strength to varying levels. Longstreet, with four divisions, Pickett, who was coming up even now, McLaws, who was behind Pickett, Johnson, and Doles, commanding the division coming down from Rockville, formerly Rhodes's division (Rhodes died in the final moments at Union Mills), were to push on toward Baltimore until twilight Once they had cleared Leesborough, Hood would follow, leading Early's tough veterans and Robertson, who was now in command of Hood's old division. Hood's corps would turn east from here, move to Beltsville astride the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, turn north, then east again to Annapolis.

The shattered remains of Perrin's and Pettigrew's divisions would stay behind just north of Fort Stevens as they were being reorganized into a single division under Scales.

Stuart's command was being split up as well. Half his strength was to shadow Washington, probe, demonstrate. The other half was to sweep north up the two lines of advance, cutting telegraph lines and securing the way clear up to the outskirts of Baltimore and Annapolis.

He looked back up at the sky. If the weather should hold like this, sunny with a dry, cool evening, by midmorning tomorrow the roads should be dry enough to swing his massive artillery reserve, usable guns captured at Union Mills, and his regular artillery train on to the roads as well. He could have them in position to bombard Baltimore's defenses by nightfall.

The march would be a leisurely one, only thirty miles in two days, nothing at all like the blistering pace of the previous campaign. Officers had been told not to push the men hard, keep a standard pace of two miles to the hour, with ten-minute breaks. Forage parties were to move ahead and, following proper custom, offer payment vouchers for any supplies taken. His general order of the previous evening had emphasized that yet again. They were here to entice Maryland into the Confederacy, not to come at bayonet point, strip away its rights, and then rob it, as the Yankees had done throughout Virginia.

He hoped that Baltimore could actually be taken without a fight. Once his lead division was in place, a message would be sent in to the mayor offering full protection to the city if the civil authorities would surrender without a fight. He knew the army garrison would most likely refuse, but directing his appeal to the civilians might help win their support when they pushed in.

The band, now standing in a field at the edge of the village, broke into a cheery polka. Longstreet looked over at them with displeasure.

"Rather see them carrying rifles. Better use of those men than their tooting away like that; they can't even carry a tune."

"They're hospital orderlies when the fight is on," Lee said soothingly, "and besides, the men do like them." Longstreet shook his head.

"I'm going to push on, sir, move up to the head of the column. My staff will be back here to keep an eye on the crossroads."

"I'll ride with you then, General Longstreet." "A pleasure, sir."

He looked over at Longstreet and felt a surge of approval. Old Pete was now the aggressive one. The victory at Union

Mills, with praise heaped upon him for the brilliance of the flanking march throughout the South, was overshadowing the legend of Jackson at Chancellorsville. This last campaign had transformed the man. He was more confident, aggressive in movement, hard-driving the way Jackson had been.