★ CHAPTER 4 ★
Abraham Lincoln, a good horseman, could have ridden back to the White House, but he knew that his long legs made him look foolish, as they dangled almost to the ground. Besides, he was getting old. Thus, and at his wife’s insistence, he rode in a carriage to the Soldiers’ Home a few miles from the President’s House. He was fifty-four years old but felt much older. The war had aged him dramatically. He liked going to the Soldiers’ Home because it allowed him to get away from the political stress of Washington. At the White House, there were always people lined up to see him. He’d been told by his secretaries and others that he could always shoo them away, but he had no heart for that. They had elected him and he would hear them out, no matter how exhausting it was and no matter how foolish their requests.
But going to the cottage in the summer months provided a degree of comfort in the suffocating heat. He was not the first president to so utilize the building. His predecessor, James Buchanan, had made it his summer residence. It was also where Lincoln had drafted the Emancipation Proclamation, an action he had hoped would bring an end to the war. It hadn’t.
While the slaves in the South were still slaves, any who made it to Union lines were free, at least in theory. The North now had many more thousands of mouths to feed and that brought resentment. The fact that Negroes could form their own volunteer units and serve and die for the United States had toned down some of the angry rhetoric, but not all of it.
He entered the cottage by a back door in case someone was watching. General Meade had been summoned and was waiting, doubtlessly angry. Lincoln smiled at the thought. General Meade was always angry.
They sat at a plain kitchen table. This was the first time they’d spoken since the disaster after Gettysburg. It distressed Lincoln to see Meade looking like a beaten man and not his usual combative self. That was not good.
Meade glanced up at him and then lowered his eyes. “Are you going to dismiss me?” His tone seemed to indicate that such a course of action would be most welcome.
Lincoln shook his head. “No, General. I told my Cabinet, and I will tell you: I take responsibility for what happened. I should not have forced you and your army to chase Lee after suffering such appalling casualties. I should have realized that Lee would not let himself be captured.”
Meade was puzzled. “Then do you wish me to resign to save you the trouble of removing me from command?”
“What would you do if Lee attacked you?”
Meade bristled, showing a spark of his old ferocious self. “Throw him back and defeat him, sir.”
“But what would you do if, after rebuilding the army, you were ordered to find him and bring him to battle? Could you do that and defeat General Lee? No, not just defeat him, could you do find and destroy General Lee?”
General Meade hesitated before answering. “Mr. President, I think we have all become aware that it is possible to defeat an enemy by forcing him from the field of battle or by inflicting more casualties on him than he has inflicted on us, but the destruction of an enemy army might not be possible, at least not without incredible strokes of luck and fortune. Armies are too large to be annihilated and even the victor, like my army was for a few glorious days, would suffer enormous casualties in any battle or campaign.”
“I have seen the reports, General, and I concur. Perhaps as many as twenty-five thousand Union soldiers were killed or wounded during the three days of fighting at Gettysburg and another fifteen thousand or so in the fighting north of the Potomac. At least most of those casualties suffered near Hagerstown were captured and not killed.”
Meade winced. A full twelve thousand Union soldiers had either surrendered or been captured. “Will you arrange to have them exchanged?”
Lincoln nodded solemnly. “We will have to do something. I cannot abide the thought of all those thousands of young men being cooped up in those horrors that the Confederacy refers to as prisons. Of course,” he added sadly, “our own prison camps are wretched places as well. Yes, we will have to do something.”
“And what, sir, shall I do about the contrabands?” Meade was using the common term for the many thousands of slaves who’d escaped and were now camped close to the Union army. “There have been reports of slavecatchers trying to round them up like cattle and ship them back down to their southern owners.”
“Former owners,” Lincoln insisted. “The Emancipation Proclamation has freed them and nothing will change that fact. And we will not tolerate slavecatchers. The mere thought of it is distasteful. You will do what you can to protect the contrabands. I have not quite given up on my idea to send them back to Africa where they can join the Liberians, or perhaps even create a new nation of free blacks.”
Lincoln’s grand idea had run afoul of reality. The overwhelming majority of blacks in both the north and south were generations removed from Africa, had no true knowledge of the continent, and absolutely did not want to leave the sometimes dubious safety of the United States for the terrors and perils of Africa.
Meade continued. “Then I shall continue to ensure that the army grows stronger and able to defend itself. But I shall not venture out against General Lee until and if ordered to do so by you.”
“That’s probably the wisest course,” said Lincoln. But, he thought, it would be highly unlikely that George Gordon Meade would be the one leading an attack against Lee. He knew a man who could, but not just now. He and the rest of the country would have to be patient. Patience was a virtue, the President thought, but he didn’t feel terribly virtuous, at the moment. He wanted the damn war over.
With her father well on his way to recovery, Cassandra Baird and her mother, along with Mariah, rode several miles out to a field where several hundred Negroes were camped. Tents were well constructed and laid out in lines. It looked military and was run by the largest Negro she had ever seen. His name was Hadrian and he was well over six feet tall and must have weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds. He was as black as night and there was a jagged scar across his left cheek. He had a rope belt tied around his waist and a Bowie knife stuck in it. He eyed them coldly.
“Are you fine ladies here for a good reason or are you just going to stare at us like monkeys in a zoo?”
Rachel flinched at the man’s impertinence. She introduced herself and her daughter. “We have come here to offer you some assistance in learning to live and prosper as free men and women. It is our goal to set up schools so that your people can learn to read and write. Perhaps you’d like to join a class?”
Hadrian glared. “What makes you think I’m illiterate? I can read and write as well as the next man.”
Cassandra blushed. “Sorry, we just assumed.”
“Don’t ever assume, miss,” he said gently. “My father was a blacksmith for some rich folk down in Virginia. He learned his letters by watching his white master read instructions and such. Then he would teach me and I caught on fast. He shouldn’t have taught me nothing. I got caught reading a book and the white folk gave me a good beating. Beat my father too. He couldn’t stand that. He run away, tried to get to the north. He didn’t make it.”
“But you did.”
Those stern eyes looked her over. “I suppose.”
“So, will you support us with our school?”
Hadrian thought it over. “Why not? Wouldn’t hurt to get something inside their wooly heads.” He eyed her once again, and Cassandra blinked despite herself. “Just don’t be too obvious about it, eh? White folk around here are as bad as the Rebs. Just like down South, they don’t like colored people being smarter than them.”
“Well, that’s their problem,” said Cassandra. “We would like to start out with a group of about twenty or so. We will have enough teaching materials for that many. If this goes well, we will ask benefactors to donate to the cause.”
“Benefactors.” Hadrian smiled to himself. It was just as fierce as his regular expression. “How long will it take to teach someone to read, at least enough to get by?”
Cassandra could only smile. “That depends on the person. You say you caught on quickly, but, really, how long did it take? Weeks? Months? And by the way, you are right that many of the people around here don’t like what Negroes like you are doing. Should it come to it, just how will you protect us and your people? Do you have guns?”
“You should know that white people frown on colored people having guns. It makes them very nervous, even though we are up here in the north.”
He said that so solemnly that Cassandra was certain he was lying. “If there is trouble, I will assume that your men all have knives like that one in your belt. Is there a military detachment near enough to here if things should go bad?”
“A small one, missy. But really, we’re pretty much on our own and besides, there’s dozens of camps just like this one. Hell, maybe there’s hundreds of them. We will take care of ourselves and as long as you are in this camp, we’ll take care of you.”
Cassandra forced herself to smile. Yes, she would be safe in Hadrian’s camp, but what about when she was not in his camp?
“. . . the flanking attempt was stymied by Union troops holding the high ground of the elevation known as the Little Round Top . . .”
Jefferson Davis sat with his eyes half-closed, resting his head on one hand as he listened to General Chesnut read the most recent report on General Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia.
It was, of course, nothing new to him. He’d read the originals as they had come in. But it was a true pleasure to hear it read aloud, dealing as it did not only with a victory but perhaps the victory—the battle that won the South its independence at last.
“. . . at that point, Pickett’s division collapsed, and Longstreet’s charge was turned back with extremely heavy casualties . . .”
Davis frowned as he recalled hearing that news. For a time, it seemed that all had been lost. Another Sharpsburg, if not worse, with Lee and his army forced once again to skulk back home across the Potomac.
“. . . Meade chose to strike, evidently without properly marshalling his forces . . .”
But then Lee had turned it around completely, with one of the master-strokes that the Confederacy had come to expect from him. A swift riposte against Meade’s scattered forces that routed them as completely as had occurred at Manassas and Chancellorsville, in the process demonstrating absolutely and finally, to anyone who cared to debate the matter, that the true spark of martial genius lay within Lee and not the poor dead Thomas Jackson.
“. . . for the large part not even attempting to regroup until they had been driven well beyond Hagerstown. Fatalities among the Union forces are estimated at over 2,500, wounded at nearly twice that number, with no less than 12,000 prisoners taken. Confederate casualties were minimal. Under these circumstances, and considering the magnitude of the defeat, it is unlikely that General Meade and the Army of the Potomac will be fit for further operations for the balance of the summer.”
“Excellent.”
That was Memminger, secretary of the treasury. Davis opened his eyes to glance among his Cabinet. James Seddon, War, was beaming as if he was personally responsible. Mallory applauded with two fingers, as well he might, considering the record of the Navy in this conflict. Reagan and Bragg both smiled benignly. Judah Benjamin, as was his custom, kept his counsel at the far end of the table. Only Alexander Stephens, his Vice-President, was not present. He was back in Georgia, which was where he belonged as far as Jefferson Davis was concerned.
General Chesnut nodded to them and reached for a second sheaf of papers. “I have here the report on Vicksburg . . .”
Davis sat up. “That won’t be necessary, General.”
The men before him chuckled. Davis looked sharply around the table, but there was no real malice to it, as far as he could see. Still, what was the point in dwelling on setbacks? True, the loss of Vicksburg would render communications with Texas difficult, but what did that matter? Everyone knew that the war would be decided in the Virginia theater. The result would be determined here and nowhere else.
Besides—imagine if they had lost Vicksburg and Gettysburg in the same week. He was not sure how he would have taken that. Best not to dwell on it more than necessary.
“Robert E. Lee, the Alexander of our day,” Seddon said.
“Yes, and a man of Virginia as well.”
Davis retained his smile as best he could. He could clearly recall the comments about “Granny Lee” and “General Sandbags,” some of them from the lips of the men sitting here before him, and not so long ago either. Davis had not doubted him at the time, and he did not doubt him today. Few who had met the man ever did. Sometimes it seemed to Davis that these years would feature in the histories to come as the Age of Lee, with all else appearing only as footnotes. But that would be all right. There were worse fates than becoming a footnote to the saga of Robert E. Lee.
“I wish he was here this moment,” Mallory said, “that I might shake his hand.”
That gained him a number of nods and grunts of agreement. Memminger turned to Davis. “When will Lee be returning, Mr. President?”
For a moment, Davis pretended he hadn’t heard. Memminger repeated, “Mr. President?’
“What was that, Mr. Secretary? ‘When,’ did you ask?” Davis shot a glance at Judah Benjamin. “Not for some time.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He’s not remaining in Pennsylvania, is he?”
“That would be foolish.”
Davis leaned over the table. “‘Foolish,’ Mr. Mallory? Is that your choice of words? And who, may I ask, is the fool here? Myself, or General Lee?”
Mallory had the grace to look abashed. Davis considered tossing in a few words about the Navy’s inability to field a single ironclad against the Federal blockade, but thought better of it.
General Chesnut licked his lips. “I think a more suitable term would be ‘militarily inadvisable,’ sir. Pennsylvania is the enemy’s heartland. Our troops there are effectively surrounded, and beyond the assistance of any other forces. If we were to lose the Army of Northern Virginia, why . . . we would lose everything.”
“I am inclined to agree,” Siddons said. “I was under the impression that this operation was on the order of a raid.” Several of the others nodded.
“Militarily inadvisable, General?” Davis put a slight but noticeable emphasis on the first word. “On the face of it, perhaps. The Army of Northern Virginia is in the midst of enemy territory, surrounded by foemen, with not a single secure supply line. That is your argument . . . General. Secretary Siddons.”
He sat back, taking in the whole table. “In other words, Lee and his army are in the same position as Winfield Scott in the late Mexican war. You will recall, after Scott began his march on Mexico City, the entire world proclaimed his inevitable doom. No less than the Duke of Wellington exclaimed that ‘Scott is lost.’”
He waited a long moment. “And what occurred then? General? Mr. Secretary?”
As he had expected, there was no answer. “He prevailed. He drove the Mexicans before him like rabbits, and took their capital with greater dispatch than Cortez did centuries before him. And I ask you, if the likes of Winfield Scott can bring off such an effort, who could doubt General Lee?”
No answer was forthcoming now, either. It never failed. No matter how trivial the matter, or how inexperienced and ignorant they might be, they had to bicker about it. What did they know of military affairs? Which one of them had commanded a regiment in battle? Which one of them had served as secretary of war for Franklin Pierce, the last capable President of the United States? There were times when he truly wished he had the dictatorial powers the Yankee papers accused him of exercising.
He recalled Scott himself, dismissing his request to arm his regiment with rifles. But as a congressman, Davis had the ear of the great James K. Polk. He got his guns despite Scott, and the Mississippi Rifles became renowned as one of finest regiments in the entire army—largely due to those very rifles. He’d shown Scott to be the fool he actually was. If Scott hadn’t been fighting against Mexicans, Wellington might well have been proven right. Davis had been in no way surprised when the Federals had dropped the old fool only months after this war commenced . . .
“But Mr. President . . . at least Scott had a goal.” It was as if Siddons had been reading his mind. “He was out to conquer the city and bring the war to an end. What can Lee accomplish in Pennsylvania?”
“What can he accomplish? What kind of a question is that, sir? General Lee can accomplish anything he sets his mind to. A day’s march puts him at Harrisburg, the state capital. Two days puts him at Philadelphia. Three days to the west lies Pittsburgh. He also threatens Baltimore and Washington, along with the lines of communication between Washington and New York, and the middle west and the New England states. Nor need he move anywhere. Simply by remaining where he is, he drains Yankee goods and supplies, as well as making Lincoln and his junto look like mountebanks before the entire world.
“What can he do? Better to ask what he cannot do. What could he do in Virginia? Let his army live off the Yankees while acting as a threat in being behind their lines. We can be certain that as long as he remains, there will be no Federal effort against Richmond.” With the last two words he rapped harshly on the tabletop. There were nods of agreement, some reluctant. At the far end of the table, Benjamin sat with a half-smile on his face, but then he generally did.
“Wars are not won by military means alone,” Davis continued. “There are other aspects as well, political and diplomatic . . .” He caught a slight gesture from Benjamin. He’d best cut it short. If this crowd became aware that negotiations with the British had been resumed after the death of the crown prince, it would soon be all around Richmond and in short order in the hands of Abraham Lincoln himself. “So we had best maintain our faith in General Lee.”
“I never meant to suggest otherwise,” Mallory said.
“I didn’t imply that you did, sir.” Davis decided this meeting had gone on long enough. “Now that we have settled this matter, perhaps some refreshment is called for.” He gestured to James, his valet, who nodded and turned to the door.
Benjamin began conversing with Seddon and Memminger. Davis busied himself with some papers before him. He could sense Mallory’s and Chesnut’s eyes resting on him. Could they be considering one question that had not arisen—what did Robert E. Lee himself think of remaining in Pennsylvania?
At last, the coffee cart clattered through the doorway. Davis got to his feet, glad he was not going to be put in the position of answering that question.
For reasons he didn’t understand, Thorne had been ordered to take his men on patrol near a place where a Union supply column had been ambushed. A captain from General Montgomery Meigs’ Quartermaster Corps awaited him at the place where there the action had taken place. The remains of a number of wagons littered the field even though they’d been stripped of much of their wood and anything else that could be useful. Crows and other birds pecked in the dirt looking for foodstuffs that had turned into garbage.
Most compelling was a line of fresh graves. The raw earth mounds were mute testimony to the one-sided fight.
Thorne had brought two platoons of his mounted infantry, about forty men. The captain gestured, and a puzzled Thorne rode forward. A moment later, Brigadier General Meigs himself emerged from the shadows. A very surprised Thorne saluted sharply. The stern-looking Meigs was considered by many to be a genius for the manner in which he had organized the Quartermaster Corps’ sometimes thankless work. Now soldiers were fed, even though they often didn’t like what they had to eat, and they had decent uniforms, boots, shoes, and, most important, weapons and ammunition.
“Welcome to the scene of the slaughter,” said Meigs. “I assume you know what transpired here.”
“I do, sir. Twenty men guarding a wagon train full of supplies were overrun and killed.”
“Are you aware that three of them were murdered?”
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“The rumors are true, Major. If you count the graves, there are only nineteen and not twenty. One man, one very lucky man, survived the fight by pretending to be dead. Apparently he was so covered with a comrade’s blood as well as his own that no one thought to check if he was alive. He said that three men survived and were shot in the back of the head by a Rebel sergeant. He believes the name was ‘Blandon.’ When our troops realized that the supply wagons were very late, they sent out a patrol and found the bodies and the badly wounded survivor. The officer in charge of the patrol confirmed that three men appeared to have been executed, shot in the back of the head.”
Thorne’s curiosity was piqued. But what did all this have to do with him and his men?
“Major, at some point in time there will be another titanic battle between Lee’s army and the Army of the Potomac commanded by whatever unfortunate soul is nominated by President Lincoln. Until that time, there will be scores of skirmishes, perhaps even hundreds of them. This is just one example. We are seeing to it that Lee is aware of the murders. Killing in battle is accepted, but massacring prisoners is not. The wounded man was close enough to hear the sergeant who did the killing arguing about it with the commander of the Confederate unit, something called Wade’s Tennessee Volunteers. If nothing else, they are a long way from home.”
“Yes sir,” Thorne said. “May I ask just what this has to do with me and my men?”
“Major, there will be many more wagon trains like this one. I want them to go through to their destinations. I am assigning a number of smaller regiments like yours to function as escorts. As circumstances warrant, I may attach other units to your regiment. But don’t get your hopes up about another promotion. It isn’t going to happen.”
“I’m fine with what I have, sir.”
The two men had wandered away from the main body and were now out in the middle of a small field where no one could hear them. “General Meigs, the idea of using good troops as guards is necessary, but I like to think they can be better utilized.”
“And how is that, Major?”
“I would like to set traps for the Rebels. It is one thing to have a number of guards who can deter an attack, but another to be able to ambush the attackers. If an attack is simply deterred, the rebels can strike again at another time and place of their choosing and perhaps even succeed. If we defeat, or even destroy them, they won’t do it again.”
Meigs smiled tightly. “If you’re asking for permission to be creative, it’s granted.”
Thorne was dismissed. He saluted and rode off with his men. Meigs watched them disappear. He had been told that the Indiana men had suffered enough at Gettysburg and should be given a chance to complete the war in relative safety. Too bad nobody thought to tell the aggressive young major, Meigs thought. Ambushing the ambushers seemed like a marvelous idea.
He turned to his aide. “Captain, let’s get the hell out of here and back to Washington, the seat of all lunacy.”