Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (3 page)

The minutes dragged by, Lincoln silent by the window, Elihu drifting into sleep, the clock striking seven. Finally, Lincoln stirred.

"He's here."

The president turned away from the window, picked up the memo from the table, while nudging Washburne awake, and then stood in the center of the room.

Washburne stood up, and Ely did as well. Not sure of his place, he stepped back a few feet while Elihu walked over to stand behind Lincoln.

There was a knock on t
he door. When it opened, Ely im
mediately recognized Edwin Stanton, the secretary of war. The man came into the room, a bit of a smile on his face, which froze when his gaze rested on Lincoln, Elihu behind him. He shot a quick glance at Ely, who again felt self-conscious. He suddenly realized what a sight he must be, not having changed uniforms in over a week, mud splattered, face streaked with sweat, mud, smoke.

Stanton regained his composure and actually bowed slightly to Lincoln.

"Mr. President, you sent for me?"

"Yes, Edwin, may I introduce you to Maj. Ely Parker of General Grant's staff?"

Edwin spared another quick glance at Ely, who came to attention and saluted. Edwin did not reply and then turned back to Lincoln as if Ely was not even there.

"Sir, may I inquire as to the nature of this early morning call? I was over at the War Office reviewing dispatches when your summons came."

Lincoln extended his hand, offering the memo that Ely had delivered.

"Sir, let us not beat about the bush," Lincoln said coldly. "I just wish for you to explain this dispatch. Major Parker delivered it to me less than an hour ago. I should
add that
Major Parker was with Sickles at Gunpowder River, bearing a message from General Grant to General Sickles ordering him to withdraw. An order which General Sickles refused to comply with. Now, sir, please read what I've just handed you."

Edwin visibly paled, coughing, then held the memo up, adjusting his spectacles. He scanned the message.

"Sir, I am not sure of the meaning of this inquiry," Stanton said even as he read.

"When finished, please turn it over," Lincoln said.

Stanton did as requested, reading Grant's addendum, "Mr. President, did you authorize this?" and handed the message back to Lincoln.

"Sir, I think, yet agai
n, there has been some miscommu
nication."

"Miscommunication?" Lincoln said softly, and shook his head. "Miscommunication? The Army of the Potomac all but annihilated and you call it a miscommunication?"

"Sir. I suspect here that General Grant failed to properly coordinate with General Sickles regarding the intent of the plans for the campaign. I warned you of that last month when Grant first came to Washington. If he had stayed here as I requested, this never would have happened."

Lincoln actual
ly sighed and then chuckled softl
y.

Ely, outraged, struggled to contain a retort. Elihu looked over at him, and with a shake of his head communicated for him to stay out of it.

Stanton saw the gesture and cast a withering glance at Ely.

"Mr. President, I think we should discuss this in private." Now his gaze swept over to Elihu as well.

"No, sir, we will discuss this now. If you wish, you can sit down and listen to all that Major Parker has told me about what happened."

"I think, sir, there are better uses of our time than the report of a major obviously biased in favor of a general who has placed our cause in jeopardy."

Lincoln sighed again and raised his head.

There was a cold light in his eyes. All that Ely had heard of Lincoln never mentioned this. It was always "Old Abe," or just "Abe," but there was something different at this moment, a terrible anger that seemed ready to explode.

"Mr. Stanton, I expect your resignation before you leave this building," Lincoln said softly.

"What?" Stanton reddened.

"Just that, sir. Sickles moved on your authorizatio
n. I made it distinctl
y clear to all that when Grant took command in the field, all orders of troop movements were to be routed through him for his approval as well. You did not do so. Nor, for that matter, did you inform me of these orders you sent to Sickles."

He held the memo up, clenching it in a balled fist, shaking it at Stanton.

Stanton started to speak but Lincoln cut him off.

"We lost maybe thirty thousand or more at Gunpowder River. A fine army destroyed. What in Heaven's name am I to say to the nation about that, sir? You, sir, have placed the plans of the last month in grave jeopardy; in fact, we might very well lose this war thanks to what you did."

"What I did?" Stanton fired back. "What I did? Mr. President, if you had but listened to me all along, we would not be in this fix. You have placed a drunkard in command of our armies."

"That is a lie, sir," Ely snapped, no longer able to contain himself and instantly regretting his words as all three turned to gaze at him.

"Damn you!" Stanton shouted. "You are relieved of your rank, Major. How dare you call me a liar."

Ely did not know what to say. Stanton turned to advance on him, but Lincoln stepped between the two.

"Mr. Stanton, you no longer have the authority to relieve anyone as of this moment. Now, sir, do I have your resignation, or do I fire you and release that information to the press waiting outside?"

Stanton looked back at Lincoln, breathing hard.

"I will not resign, sir."

"Then I shall relieve you of your posting, effective as of this moment."

Stanton now paled. For a second Ely thought he would collapse, as the man began, to wheeze, doubling over to cough.

"Which shall it be?" Lincoln pressed, even as Stanton continued to cough.

Stanton looked up at him.

"Which shall it be?" Lincoln pressed.

"Go ahead and fire me," Stanton replied coldly. "I'll take this before Congress and the Committee on the Conduct of the War. Then we shall see."

"See what? Are you threatening me?" Lincoln snapped angrily. "Congress is not in session, nor shall I call it back into session until this crisis is finished. You can go to the newspapers and I shall counter with a copy of this memo, a direct violation of my own orders."

"It will ru
in you, sir," Washburn
e interjected. "If you resign, you can claim reasons of health, your asthma. It's that or a fight you don't want and cannot win."

Lincoln sighed again.

"Or one the nation needs at this moment."

His tone softened and Lincoln drew closer.

"Edwin, you did fine to a point, but you overstepped yourself. Not just here but in the orders you sent to Meade during Union Mills. I am asking, as someone who once worked alongside you, please resign."

Edwin continued to cough, wheezing hard, then finally straightened back up.

"I'll resign," he whispered. - "Fine, then." Lincoln led him over to his desk, took out a sheet of White House stationery, and offered him a pen.

The stationery already was filled out with a statement of resignation. Stanton read it over once, then quickly signed it, straightening back up.

"And I assume my replacement is your friend there," Stanton asked, nodding toward Elihu.

"Yes."

"I figured as much."

Stanton looked over at Ely.

"Major Parker you said your name is?"

Ely felt a
cold chill with the
way Stanton looked at him.

"Yes, sir."

Stanton said nothing. "Good day, Mr. President." He turned and walked out.

Lincoln's shoulders hunched over, and wearily he walked over to his desk and sat down on the edge of it.

Again there was a long silence. Lincoln finally reached into a pigeonhole of his desk and drew out a sealed envelope.

"Elihu, this is your authorization to assume control as acting secretary of war until such time as the Senate reconvenes to confirm your appointment. I expect you to go over to the War Office right now. Take an escort with you. Edwin's office is to be sealed. He is not allowed back in till such time as you review all records contained in there. Personal items will be returned to him once your review is complete."

"Yes, Mr. President."

Lincoln looked back over at Ely, who stood rooted in place.

"Don't let that little threat bother you," Lincoln said. "Threat, sir?"

"His asking your name like that. Rather ungentlemanly of him."

Ely did not reply. After all he had seen the last few days, the threat of a former secretary of war seemed almost inconsequential.

Lincoln fell silent again for a few minutes, Elihu standing by the desk as if waiting.

"You know what to do," Lincoln said.

"What we talked about, sir," Elihu replied.

For the first time Ely realized the drama he had just witnessed had been planned out long before his arrival. His messages were simply the confirmation the president had been waiting for.

"Elihu, I'll drop by your new office a bit later this morning. I want all the arrangements made for my little adventure."

"Sir, I still caution against it. Stanton is on his way to the newspapers even now. It will cause an explosion in this town once the word hits. Plus the risk involved."

"Don't worry, Elihu, I'll have a good escort with me. I think Major Parker will serve as an excellent guide and traveling companion."

"Sir?" Parker asked, now thoroughly confused.

"I think it's time I paid a little visit to your general," Lincoln said.

Lincoln looked at the two, his features serious.

"Gentlemen, I think that the crisis is truly upon us now. Lee has outmaneuvered us again. Major, it is obvious that the word you bring to me is that General Grant has launched his attack prematurely, forced to do so because of Sickles's disastrous actions."

"Yes, sir, that is obviously the case."

"So the risks are far higher now. I must confer with Grant upon them before giving my
own approval. The choice is ul
timately mine."

He lowered his head as if speaking to himself.

"I am now convinced we shall either win or lose this war in the next two weeks."

CHAPTER TWO

Headquarters, Army of Northern
Virginia Seven Miles South of Hav
re de Grace, Maryland

August 22, 1863

I

t was the noonday lull, the cool breezes of morning giving way to a still midday heat. Gen. Robert E. Lee, commander, Army of Northern Virginia, rode in silence. The road before him was packed with troops, men marching at a vigorous pace. He trotted past the troops, edging along fencerows, cutting out into pastures and orchards to make speed.

The men were moving, maintaining a grueling pace of three miles an hour, hunched over, rifles balanced on shoulders or slung inverted, hats pulled down over brows to shield eyes from the noonday glare, faces sweat-streaked, dust kicking up in swirling, choking clouds. Some saw him and gave a salute or shout as he cantered along; others, sunk into the hypnotic rhythm of the march, were unaware of his presence.

These men had marched over a hundred miles in the past week and fought a brutal three-day running battle in killing heat, and it showed. The usual banter of a victorious army on the march was gone; the high spirits that should have echoed after their overwhelming victories over the Army of the Potomac were not showing this day. Exhaustion had overwhelmed exhilaration.

He rode in silence, lost in thought. Walter Taylor, his aide-de-camp, the staff, even the secretary of state, Judah Benjamin, sensing he wished to ride alone to think, trailed a respectful distance behind him.

After the smashing defeat of Sickles he expected Grant to wait, or perhaps even to start transferring his army by train and boat down to Washington, there to assume a defensive posture through the fall and winter.

But to take an aggressive path? To cross the river and move south, perhaps straight at him. No, he had not expected that. After every defeat dealt the Union Army over the last year, his opponents had always retreated, regrouped, and waited several months before venturing another blow.

It was like facing an opponent in chess. The traditional opening of a king or queen's pawn is expected, but then, instead, the man across the table puts his knight out first. That was usually the move of a fool
...
or could it be that of a
master
or someone who sensed or planned something Lee could not yet ascertain.

Who was Grant? In that tight-knit cadre of old comrades from West Point, the old professional army of the frontier, of Mexico, or garrison duty in East Coast fortifications, Grant was one man he could not remember. He knew the man had served in Mexico and gained distinction there for personal bravery and leadership, but as an army commander? He had beaten Beauregard at Shiloh, captured an entire army at Fort Donelson and Vicksburg. He was used to victory
...
perhaps that could be turned against him.

There were the rumors as well about the man's drinking, but then again, the army had always been a hard-drinking lot. In the case of Grant, the few who knew him said it had been brought on by a fit of melancholia when stationed out on the West Coast, separated from his wife and children.

Longstreet, who did know him, dismissed the drinking, saying that it was a demon his old friend would have overcome, especially when he had returned to the army and given the responsibility of command.

All the others he had faced so far, McClellan, the fool

Pope, the slow-moving Burn
side, the hard-driving but morally weak Hooker, even Meade and Sickles, he could read them, and he could read as well the thinking, the rhythm, the mentality of the Army of the Potomac
...
reft by internal dissent and political maneuverings, hampered by even more political maneuverings in Washington.

But he was no longer facing the Army of the Potomac, and even in Washington he sensed a change. Halleck was out, and just this morning Judah Benjamin had suggested that perhaps Stanton's days were numbered as well. A staff officer of Sickles's, a prisoner, had bitterly complained that his general had moved without coordination with Grant, and everyone at Sickles's headquarters knew that Stanton had sent out contradictory orders for which "someone would pay."

And Grant's corps commanders—Ord, McPherson, Banks,
Burnside
. He knew the mettle of Burnside, knew the fumbling reputation of Banks, who survived due to political influence. Word on McPherson was his men worshipped him and declared him to be the best corps commander in any army.

And he knew him as well, as superintendent at West Point. The memory of McPherson caused him to smile. McPherson had risen to become the top-ranking officer of cadets. He was a moral man, honest, open-handed, respected by all. John Bell Hood had been his roommate and he loved him like a brother.

Of all the potential opponents this war had forced him to confront, James Birdseye McPherson was the one opponent he wished he did not have to face. There was a deep bond of affection, that of a mentor for a beloved student.

Now I will have to face him, and turn all that was good between us into a tool, a weapon to defeat him in battle.

Edward Ord, new to his rank of corps commander, was a man who supposedly loved a good head-on fight, a man like Hood.

And their troops. These Union soldiers from the West were used to victory; they were used to tough fighting in the scorching heat and bayous of Mississippi, the tangled forests of Tennessee, the swamps of Louisiana. They were fighters—and filled with a belief in themselves. In battle, such belief is often what tips the scale between victory and defeat. Though tough soldiers, the men of the Army of the Potomac seemed to carry an innate sense that defeat would always be their ultimate fate, and that had come true at Union Mills and Gunpowder River.

He wished he had another
month, time to evaluate, to ma
neuver and observe Grant, to spar with him to get a taste of him, before moving in for the kill.

The pasture ahead dropped down into a glen and he welcomed the momentary pause as he loosened Traveler's reins and gave his companion a chance to drink in the shade of the willows lining the shallow creek. There the air was damp and rich, the brook rippling and sparkling with reflected light.

To his left a battery of guns was clattering over a rough-hewn wooden bridge, troops left the road to wade across the knee-deep stream. A few men playfully splashed each other. Sergeants called for canteens, handing them off to details to fill while the column pushed on, the water bearers enjoying their work for a few minutes, some tossing off packs, haversacks, and cartridge boxes and collapsing into the water to cool off, before picking up their gear and filled canteens to double-time back into the column.

More than a few men lay in the shadow of the trees, barefoot, soaking their feet, one of the men gingerly wrapping torn strips of cloth around his bleeding and blistered heels. At the sight of the general some came to attention. A provost guard watching the group nervously declared the men» exhausted troops from a Virginia regiment, had been given passes to fall out of the march for a few minutes but would catch up to their unit.

Lee said nothing. He nodded and then, gathering Traveler's reins, trotted across the stream and up the bank through the high river grass, birds kicking up around him.

Old Thomas Jackson would never have stood for the boys falling out like that. He'd have shouted for them to get back in the ranks and march till they dropped, but today was not the day for that. Reports from the previous week's march were that hundreds of men, listed as missing in action, had actually collapsed and died in the forced marching in hundred-degree heat. He therefore had sent word down that those unable to keep up today were to be treated leniently.

As he came up out of the streambed he saw a low church steeple, a small village of a few dozen homes, the windows of some showing limp Confederate flags, others shuttered and closed. Longstreet's headquarters flag fluttered out in a gentle breeze near the church, an awning set up in front of it, with staff gathering around.

Uniforms showed gold braid. He saw Stuart still astride his horse, leaning over, talking with Beauregard. Hood, sitting on a chair under the awning, head back, was obviously asleep. Seeing him coming up, men began to stir, staff moving about, setting chairs around a table.

A corporal offered to take Traveler's reins, and Lee with a sigh dismounted. On stiff legs he walked toward the gathering, returning the salutes of those waiting for him.

Someone nudged Hood, who looked around sleepily and then stood up. Stuart dismounted, taking off his plumed hat as he stepped under the awning.

These were his old warriors and Providence had been kind in this fight, sparing all of them yet again. Not a division commander had been lost in this last fight, thank God, though Pickett had lost three of his five brigade commanders and the others were wounded. He caught a glimpse of Pickett standing nervously to one side, the man breaking eye contact when Lee looked at him for a moment.

Under the awning Longstreet pointed to a chair at the head of the table. Lee settled down, a servant bringing to him what appeared to be a miracle, lemonade that was actually iced, and he gladly took it, draining half the glass. Benjamin sat down by his right side, Taylor moved in behind

Lee, while his cavalry escort dismounted, the men then walking their mounts back down to the stream to water them.

The corps commanders gathered around the table and sat down, division commanders stood behind them.

"General Stuart," Lee began, "what is the latest news?"

"Well, sir, we lost our outpost and telegraphy connection at Carlisle."

"When?"

"Shortly after six this morning, sir. Yankee cavalry hit them hard. Our men were forced to retreat and we lost all connection."

"And what other word is there?"

"Sir, all our telegraph connections that can report quickly on Harrisburg are down. The outposts we still have are at Shippensburg, Hanover Junction, Frederick, and Gettysburg."

As he spoke he pointed out the positions on the map.

"We had a report at midmorning that the Yankees were also crossing by ferry at Wrightsville, cavalry," he paused, "and infantry. It is also reported they are starting to build a pontoon bridge as well at that location. We then lost our outpost at York about two hours ago."

"Grant's first move," Longstreet interjected, "is to cut our telegraph outposts, blind us."

"We'd have don
e the same," Lee replied noncom
mittally. He had hoped they could have held contact for most of the day. The use of telegraphs for such reports was something new for the Army of Northern Virginia, but given the vast front they now operated on, literally all of eastern Maryland and south central Pennsylvania, he had hoped to keep these precious lines up awhile longer.

"So any information we have now, sir," Stuart continued, "is nearly as old as our first reports, couriers have to carry them back to our remaining posts."

"And those reports?"

"The same, sir. Grant pushed the bridge across during the night at Harrisburg, and they started moving before dawn.

Railroad equipment was sighted as well. Moved by train up to the bridge north of Harrisburg, across the river, and down the right bank. Apparently they are already laying track and replacing bridges we'd torn up." "Units?"

"Definitely corps strength or more. McPherson's Corps was in the lead. The report I just mentioned from York indicated infantry in corps strength preparing to cross at Wrightsville. That's it, so far."

"He'd lead
with McPherson," Hood said softl
y. "We all know he is a good man."

Lee nodded in agreement.

"And that is it?" Lee asked.

"I'm sorry, sir, but that is all I can report now."

"It is not your fault, General Stuart," Lee replied, holding his hand up.

He did not add that now, more than ever, he regretted the audacity of the raid attempted a week ago by Wade Hampton. He had felt some reluctance to adopt Stuart's bold plan, to launch Hampton on a raid up toward Reading to gather intelligence on Grant, sow panic, disrupt rail transportation, and perhaps even skirt the edge of Philadelphia.