"Grant Comes East" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forstchen William R)

Chapter Three

New York City

July 17 1863

The ride up from the Jersey City Ferry had been a sobering experience for Gen. Dan Sickles. On the west side of the Hudson River it looked as if all of Lower Manhattan was an inferno. Even from across the river he could hear the rattle of musketry, a sound to be expected on the battlefields of Virginia and Maryland, but here, in his home city?

Coming up West Fourteenth Street he was confronted by chaos, a torrent of refugees, dragging trunks, pushing wheelbarrows, clutching children, pouring down the thoroughfare, trying to get off the island.

Stores lining the street had been looted, bolts of cloth from a millinery were draped over lamp-posts, taverns had been completely cleaned out, shattered glass crunched underfoot as the column advanced, while to either side a dozen or more buildings were burning.

His lead regiment, the Fifty-seventh Pennsylvania, had pushed ahead an hour ago while he waited for the other trains to disembark. He now marched in surrounded by his boys from the Sixty-third Pennsylvania, the other regiments disembarking behind them. Two companies from Berdan's old command of sharpshooters were along, as well as two batteries of artillery. He had originally planned to use his old Excelsior Brigade but then wisely thought better of it; to bring in New York boys to shoot down their neighbors might cause a backlash. His boys from the old Keystone State, having just fought a losing battle on their native soil, would be in a fierce mood to deal with traitors in their backyard. Also, since there were few Irish in these regiments, that would not become an issue as well.

As they marched, the Pennsylvania boys, most of them from farms and small villages, looked around wide-eyed at the towering four- and five-story buildings that lined the street, block after block. He could sense they were nervous. It was dark, except for the glare of the fires; panic was in the air, this was not like hunting rebs in the forest or standing on the volley line.

The column finally turned on to old familiar territory for Sickles-Union Square, Delmonico's at one corner. The Fifty-seventh Pennsylvania was already deployed out into company lines, the men standing at ease, looking about in wonder.

From every direction civilians were swarming toward them, frightened, crying, asking for shelter. Beleaguered policemen and a few state militia were trying to keep order, telling people to head for the ferries, to get out of the city.

Up around what he took to be Twentieth Street it sounded like a pitched battle was being fought, flashes of gunfire, buildings burning, a window shattering above him from a bullet.

His regiments continued to file into the square, the heavy tramp of their hobnailed boots echoing from the cobblestones, a reassuring sound to Dan, a sound of order, of discipline, of his army.

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 knew 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 offered.

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.

He could already see the vague outlines of the fortifications, an unnatural straight line, horizontal, cut like a razor's edge a quarter mile away. Gradually it came into clearer view as he reached the forward skirmish line. Most of the men were dismounted, carbines raised, the troopers looking anxiously toward Lee at his approach.

"Sir, would you please dismount?" the captain asked. "They've got plenty of ammunition over there and they like using it."

As if to lend weight to the argument, there was a flash of light from a gun emplacement, followed a couple of seconds later by the whoosh of a shell passing overhead, to detonate a hundred yards behind them.

Lee nodded but did not get off Traveler, who barely flinched as another shell streaked past

The young captain positioned his mount between Lee and the fort

Lee smiled.

"Captain, you are blocking my view." The captain looked to Stuart who nodded, and the captain moved.

"Sir, if they realize who we are, it means they'll shift troops here," Stuart said.

Lee said nothing, but he knew Stuart was right and, dismounting, he moved down into a shallow ravine, walked up a few dozen paces, and uncased his field glasses.

Stuart and Hood were quickly by his side.

He scanned the fort It was a significant work, a dozen gun embrasures, what looked to be thirty-pounders, perhaps heavier. He caught glimpses of troops along the parapet, Union soldiers curious, looking over the earthen wall in his direction.

A dull thump echoed and he saw the sparks of a mortar shell lazily rising up, trailing smoke, fuse sputtering. It climbed, seemed to hover nearly overhead, then came plummeting down, striking a hundred yards behind him in a splash of mud, the fuse smothered and going out.

Hotchkiss knelt down by his side.

"Fort Stevens. It always has at least one battery of heavy guns, we're told thirty-pounders, rifled. Also a battery of eight-inch mortars as you can see. Garrisoned also with a regiment of infantry. You can't see them in this mist but the forts to either flank are within easy gunnery range, enfilading the approaches with at least one hundred-pound Parrott gun in each. Anyone attempting to cross this field will be hit by guns from at least three fortifications."

Lee nodded, stood up looking to the flanks, but the mist concealed the positions.

"The military road just behind the fortifications links all positions and is well maintained, macadamized in parts or corduroyed. They can easily shift significant reinforcements in and move them back and forth to counter any move. I would assume they are doing so now and will bring up additional troops from the center of the city."

Lee focused his field glasses back on Stevens, ignoring another mortar round as it struck fifty yards to the front, this one detonating with a flash just before striking the ground.

"Good gunners," Hood muttered, "cut the fuse right."

"Might I suggest we move," Jeb said, "they've bracketed you, sir."

That caught him. It wasn't "us," it was "you "

He nodded without comment, cased his field glasses, and walked into the hollow. Seconds later a third round whistled in, striking and detonating within yards of where they had been standing.

He looked over at Jeb and smiled.

"Excellent recommendation, General," Lee said.

"They've been firing away since last night, sir. They're garrison troops but well practiced, at least in gunnery." After mounting up they rode a few hundred yards farther on and, crossing the main road, the group reined in again. Lee raised his field glasses once more, scanning the fort, which was half-concealed in the fog.

Ramparts stood at least ten to fifteen feet high, a dry moat, most likely a muddy swamp now with all this rain, six lines of abatis, sharpened stakes ringing the position like a deadly necklace, earthworks running outward, connecting the position to the next fort to the east, a low blockhouse of logs and rough-hewn barriers blocking the road. It was formidable!

A rifle ball hummed dangerously close and then another. One of his escorts cursed and clutched his arm.

"They might have some sharpshooters over there armed with Whitworth rifles," Hotchkiss said. "Sir, I think we should pull back to safety."

Lee reluctantly agreed, and turning Traveler he regained the road and cantered back into the mists. A parting shot from one of the thirty-pounders shrieked overhead.

Near the stream where troopers still labored to build a bridge over the swollen creek, he stopped, Jeb pointing the way to a tarpaulin spread taut in a stand of chestnut trees, a table and chairs beneath.

Dismounting, the group gathered around the table. Hotchkiss reached into his oversized haversack and pulled out a map on rough sketch paper, folding it out on the table.

"I drew this up last night," Hotchkiss said, "after talking to some of Stuart's men and interviewing some locals who claim to be on our side.

"This is Fort Stevens, which you just saw," he said as he traced out the necklace of fortifications that were like beads on a chain embracing the city.

"Are there any weak points at all?" Lee asked.

Even as he spoke and looked at the map, the moment struck him as strange, tragic. This was once his home. He remembered a Washington without fortifications, lush meadows and fields surrounding the city, blistering in the summer but delightful in autumn and early spring.

Hotchkiss shook his head.

"They've covered every approach. Trees and brush cut back in places for nearly two miles to give clear fields of fire and deny concealment. The Virginia side is even worse."

Lee said nothing. He knew Arlington had been turned into a fortified camp. The approach to Alexandria, where the main military railroad yard was located, was an impossible position to storm.

"It has to be here," Lee said softly. "We must stay in Maryland; to cross back over the river and attempt it from the Virginia side is impossible, if for no other reason than the Potomac cannot be forded."

"It will be the same here or over toward Blandensburg or down along the river. The fortifications will be the same."

He looked over at Hood, who was silent, staring at the map.

"General Hood, do you think you can take that fort?" Hood looked up at him. "When, sir?" "By tomorrow."

There was a moment of silence.

"Sir, I'm strung out along twenty miles of road, my men are exhausted. Pettigrew is in the lead, I could have him up by late in the day, but it won't be until midday tomorrow that I can have all my divisions ready. If it should rain again today, sir, I can't even promise that. You saw the roads."

Lee had sympathy for Hood on this. He had indeed seen the roads, the thorough job that the Union forces had done destroying bridges and mill dams from here halfway back to Westminster.

He thought back to just before Gettysburg, the sense of hesitation in his army in spite of their high spirits, the sense that he was not fully in control. Was that setting in again now that the euphoria of victory was wearing thin because of exhaustion and the unrelenting rains? Am I pushing too hard now, should I wait?

He stood gazing at the map of the fortifications.

This is the only chance we will ever have, he realized. We must take it now. I must push the army yet again.

"It has to be here," Lee said. 'To try and maneuver now would be fruitless. They have the interior lines and maintained roads; wherever we shift, they will be in front of us. That and every hour of delay will play to their advantage."

He looked over at Stuart, who nodded.

"We've had half a dozen civilians get through the lines during the night," Stuart announced. "Reinforcements are starting to arrive in Washington from as far away as Charleston. Their newspapers are reporting that as well. The garrison is most likely at twenty-five thousand now; before the week is out, it could be forty thousand or more."

"Then we have to do it now," Lee replied, "Every hour of delay only strengthens them."

"I can't hope to have any artillery support for at least two days," Hood said, his voice pitched low. "They're stuck in the mud from here clear back to Westminster."

"General Hood, the artillery we have will do little if anything against those fortifications."

"So we are to go in without artillery support, sir?"

"Yes, General, without artillery."

"Sir. Respectfully, sir, you know I'm not one to shy away from a fight," and he fell silent, head half-lowered.

Lee looked at him. I need dissent, I need to listen. It was listening to Longstreet, the first night at Gettysburg, that had set victory in motion.

"Go on, General Hood, please speak freely, sir."

"Thank you, General. Sir, I have a bad feeling about this one.

Hood looked over to Stuart as if seeking support. Lee followed his gaze and could see Stuart lower his eyes. He was troubled as well.

"Why this bad feeling, General Hood?" Lee asked, his voice pitched softly, almost deferential.

"Sir, we won the most glorious victory of the war little more than two weeks ago, but it came at a terrible price. Pettigrew, who will lead off the assault here, took nearly fifty percent casualties. My other divisions, on average, still are down by twenty percent or more."

"Reinforcements are promised," Lee offered and instantly regretted the statement. It sounded like an attempt at justification. Hood was talking about tomorrow, not what Davis had promised and what most likely would not arrive for weeks.

"Go on, General," Lee said.

"Though well fed these last six weeks, the men are exhausted; many are ill from the weather and the heat. If I go in tomorrow, sir, at best I can muster twenty thousand rifles."

"I am aware of that, sir. The question is, with those twenty thousand, can you take those works?" He pointed back toward the city.

Hood looked around at those gathered, the staff standing deferentially in the background. No general ever wanted to admit that he could not do the task assigned. He took a deep breath.

"I can take the works, sir."

"Good. I will leave the details to you, General. Fort Stevens will be the center of the attack; I need this road to move up our following units. General Longstreet's men will push into the city once you have cleared the way."

The look in Hood's eyes made him pause. Yet again it was rivalry, the sensitivity of who would claim what. He offered a smile.

"General, when we take the White House, you will be at my side."

"It's not that, sir." "What then?"

"Sir, I will have no command left to march into Washington." "Sir?"

"Just that, General Lee. I have twenty thousand infantry fit for duty in my divisions. I will lose half of them taking that fort and clearing the way for General Longstreet. The men will be charging straight into thirty-pounders loaded with canister; they throw nearly the same weight as all the guns we faced atop Cemetery Hill two weeks ago. There are some hundred-pounders on that line; a single load of canister from one of those guns can drop half a regiment."

Lee lowered his head, the memory of that debacle still haunting him.

"General Longstreet, sir, has barely twenty thousand under arms as well and, sir, once the outer ring cracks, we might have to fight Washington street by street, clear down to the Naval Yard. I must ask, sir, after that, then what?"

All were silent. Lee looked from one to the other and knew that General Hood had asked the most fundamental question of all. The answer had seemed easy enough two weeks ago; the objective was to destroy the Army of the Potomac, to take it off the field. They had achieved that… but still the war continued.

If we take Washington, then what? For over a year he had fought under the assumption that if indeed Washington fell, the war was over, but now he wondered. The thought of capturing Lincoln, of having Lincoln and Davis then meet, like Napoleon and the czar at Tilsit, to talk and to sign a peace, was that realistic? He rubbed his eyes, picked up a tin cup of coffee someone had set by his side, and sipped from it, gazing at the map, but his mind was elsewhere.

I must keep this army intact. That is what Hood is driving at. If we take Washington but bleed ourselves out, if we have only twenty thousand infantry left, the victory will be a Pyrrhic one. We would be driven from the city and lose Maryland within the month. I must now spend this army wisely. It is all that we have and we cannot form another the way the Union is most likely creating a new one at this very moment.

"General Hood, you were right to ask that, to remind me," Lee said softly, setting down the cup of coffee.

"Our objective is to win this war before autumn. We cannot sustain ourselves at this pace much longer. We must try, however, for Washington. This is the best chance we will ever have to take it"

Hood sighed, then slowly nodded in agreement.

"President Davis will be here within the week. If we can take Washington and present it to him, it will be the fulfillment of the campaign we started a year ago before the gates of Richmond. It will demonstrate to our people, to the North, and to the world that we are a viable nation."

He was silent for a brief moment, then continued.

"But we cannot bleed ourselves to death while doing it"

"Then we attack and pay the price?" Hood asked.

Lee stepped away from the table and walked out from under the awning and back toward the road. The men laboring on the makeshift bridge were still hard at work, struggling to drag the second tree trunk into place. He walked slowly up the slope. The fog was breaking up, swirling coils burning away in the morning heat. The dim outline of Fort Stevens was visible as he reached the top of the low rise.

The ground ahead was clear cut, trees removed; the fields that had once been orderly, planted with corn or wheat, were now weed choked, barren, offering no cover. He could imagine his lines going forward across those fields, the guns of the forts tearing gaping holes into the ranks, the charge hitting the abatis, men tangled up, stopping to cut their way through, stumbling into the moat thick with mud and slime. Even the greenest of troops behind those fortifications would turn it into nothing more than murder, the finest infantry in the world mowed down in a stinking moat by garrison soldiers in spotless uniforms.

He shook his head. Hood was right. His men were too precious for this. Yet he had to do it. If he did not, that in itself would be a victory for the North. Davis would not understand, though that was not his concern at this instant. He had to conceive a victory here, a victory that justified the blood shed at Gettysburg and Union Mills.

He studied the field intently, the open ground free of obstacles, the unfinished dome of the Capitol most likely visible once the fog lifted. It would be lit up with gaslight at night, a beacon, a dream so tantalizingly close, and just beyond that, Arlington and home. How many nights did I sit on the porch, the boys playing in the front yard-not yet soldiers, one of them a prisoner-the lights of the White House just across the river.

He stood there and the plan formed at last.

Looking back over his shoulder he saw Hood and Stuart waiting expectantly, the others standing behind them.

He forced a smile.

"We go in at night, gentlemen. That is how we will take it. At night." He smiled as he gave the order.

"At night, with surprise, we'll be into their works before they know it."

Hood and Stuart smiled and, turning, they left him, already giving orders, leaving him alone with his thoughts and dreams

July 17 1863 7.30pm.

Gazing out the window of the train as it raced across the broad, open countryside of Ohio, Gen. Ulysses S. Grant found his attention wandering for a moment He tried to ignore the pounding intensity of the migraine headache that had bedeviled him since last night. But of course nothing would work except for that oblivion from a bottle, which he most definitely could not indulge.

As the train took a gentle curve, heading southeast, long shadows of the cars, cast by the setting sun, reached out across the open fields. The land was rich, the last of the winter wheat being harvested, fields of corn more than waist-high, weeds and honeysuckle engulfing the split-rail fences that bordered the railroad. The train raced past a barn; a farmer and his two boys driving cows in for the evening milking paused, looked up, took off their hats, and waved.

Thoughts drifted back to his own boyhood as he absently rubbed his temples, to the hardscrabble farm not far from here, and his desire to escape its labors, a desire that had taken him to West Point, an institution that glorified a business that would sicken many a butcher. The army had been, at first an escape, then a burden so intense he had left it Only this war had brought him back into uniform. And now he was in command.

For a moment his mind wandered across the empty years, the war in Mexico, the bitter loneliness of California. He impatiently pushed those thoughts aside. A danger to think of that now; self-pity compounded by the headaches was an almost certain first step back to the bottle, and now was not the time, though the temptation was always there.

"What are you thinking, Sam?"

Grant turned and offered a faint smile.

"Nothing much, Elihu, just drifting."

Congressman Elihu Washburne smiled and said nothing.

He was a good friend. Grant knew that It was through Elihu that he had received his first commission in this war, from a man who was one of the mentors behind the president's rise to power.

Like him, Elihu had come from a farm, up in the bitter cold of Maine. But unlike the Grants, the Washburnes seemed destined from the start for greatness. Five brothers, all of them now in positions of power and influence. One was a general commanding a corps under Sherman, another a captain in the navy, another the governor of Maine.

He envied Elihu for his relaxed, easy air, his nonchalant movement through the halls of power, his urbane manner. He was dressed casually-jacket off, wine-colored vest unbuttoned, linen shirt spotless. Elihu was the type that no matter what the situation would always look and smell clean. And yet he was not a dandy. He had visited Grant during the exhausting winter campaign of the previous year and exclaimed more than once that the rigors of the field were a tonic. He could sit up to dawn with the staff, mount then spend an entire day visiting units, shaking hands, and like any politician, when he came across constituents, make the most of it, passing out cigars and canvassing for votes with vigor.

As Grant looked over at him he realized yet again that he had a true friend in Elihu, an absolute rarity in the game of politics, where too many congressmen would blow with the wind of newspaper coverage and abandon friendship if doing so got them more votes. Elihu had been the one to back him when there was the falling out with Halleck the year before and Halleck's people had openly spread stories about his drinking. The fact that Elihu was one of the men behind Lincoln was a help, not something he had ever deliberately calculated on… but it was a help.

He knew the reasons Elihu was here, riding with him on a train headed east Elihu was an observer from the White House, sent to evaluate him. That didn't bother him. He was also here as a shepherd, to keep an eye on him and the bottle. The last thing the republic needed now was for their new commander to break down. That didn't bother him either. And finally Elihu was just here as a friend, and that was a pleasure. Once he was fully in command, Grant's nature was such that he would take counsel from no man but the president But it was good to have Elihu here now.

Though the president had directed that the war would continue no matter what the cost it was now his job to bring an end to it in the field. Every death, whether it was a death that accomplished something or a death wasted, as so many now were, would be upon his shoulders, and his alone.

As he contemplated this, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a battered cigar case, and drew out a Havana. Elihu struck a match on the side of the table that separated them and, nodding a thanks, Grant leaned over and puffed his twelfth cigar of the day to life.

The open window of the car drew out the swirling smoke and flickering bits of flaming ash.

Grant looked around his staff car, actually a railroad president's car that Haupt had "borrowed" for the "emergency." The appointments were rich: red-silk wallpaper, heavy, ornate tables, stuffed leather chairs, and a plush burgundy sofa upon which Ely Parker, a full-blooded Seneca whom he had just "drafted" on to his staff, was fast asleep. He had known Parker casually before the war in Galena. In his mid-thirties, Parker was well educated, a lawyer by training, articulate, and a paragon of organization, capable of keeping the vast mountains of paperwork moving smoothly. Behind his back, some of the men ribbed Parker about his Indian blood, claiming he kept Confederate scalps hidden in his haversack. Parker took it good-naturedly, to a point then his cold gaze shut them down, something Grant admired.

Since leaving Cairo the day before, Parker had not known a moment's rest until Grant finally ordered him to take a break. Within minutes Parker was out, his snoring almost as loud as the rattling of the train as they raced east

Ornate, cut-glass, coal oil lamps with what looked to be real gold gilding lined the walls of the car, the carpet underneath his feet, also burgundy, had been thick and clean, though tracked dirty now with the constant coming and goings of staff from the other cars.

Elihu had laughed when they first boarded, claiming that the car had a certain look to it. Naively Grant had asked what it looked like, and smiling, Elihu said it reminded him of a bordello in Chicago. That had actually embarrassed Grant. He had never stepped foot in such a place, even during the agonizing loneliness out in California, and though Elihu tried to act sophisticated, Grant knew him well enough to believe that while the man might have been in the lobby of such an establishment Elihu never went "upstairs."

There was even a private compartment in the front, with a real bed. He was tempted to try and find a few minutes' solitude there but knew it would be useless, his head throbbing to every beat of the iron wheels. Besides, like many a man who has been in the field for months, he found a soft bed with clean cotton sheets to be uncomfortable, and a reminder as well of other times, when such a bed would be shared.

There had only been a brief moment to spare with Julia before heading east to take up command. She would come along later, and as always the separations from her were an agony. If nothing else, he missed her soothing touch when the headaches came, how she would hold his head in her lap, whisper softly, hour after hour rubbing his brow with a cool, wet cloth until he drifted to sleep.

The door to the privy at the back of the car opened and Herman Haupt stepped out looking a bit pale.

Elihu chuckled softly.

"Still got it?" the congressman asked.

Haupt nodded grimly as he slipped his jacket back on, not bothering to button it

"General, if you don't mind, I think our railroad man needs a little Madeira; it's good for his stomach complaint"

Grant nodded, saying nothing. Around his headquarters the custom of asking if a drink was all right had evolved. It was a subtle reminder, as well, that he should think twice before indulging himself.

Haupt at first hesitated as Elihu opened an ornate, inlaid cabinet set against the other wall and pulled out a decanter and two thick crystal goblets. Elihu poured the drinks himself, handing one to Haupt, who sat down by his side, across from Grant

"Feeling all right Haupt?" Grant asked.

"It'll pass, sir. I've had worse."

Grant actually smiled, remembering the agony of the army in Mexico, when nearly all the men were down with either dysentery or the flux. More than one man had been reduced to cutting the bottom out of his trousers, so frequent and violent were the attacks, and many a man had died, more than from Mexican bullets. He motioned for Haupt to go ahead and indulge himself with the drink.

Haupt settled back in the leather chair, nodded his thanks to Elihu, and downed half the glass of Madeira. He looked over at Grant

"How is the headache, sir?"

Most of his staff had learned long ago to never inquire on that subject His pale features and the cold sweat should be indication enough and it always set his temper on edge. But he indulged Haupt who was new to working with him and obviously not feeling too well himself.

"It should run its course by tomorrow," Grant said quietly, trying to force a smile.

Grant looked down at the reams of paper piled up on the table between them, accounts from nearly every railroad in the North reporting on available rolling stock, supplies, particularly armaments waiting at factories for pickup, locations of nearly every garrison, training depot, and recruiting station from Kansas City to Bangor.

They'd gone over it for hours, and the sheer waste was appalling. Well over a hundred thousand troops were scattered in remote posts and garrisons up north, or wasted on meaningless fronts. Many of these would not be ready for combat, having lived a soft life for too long, but they could still serve a better function than the one they now occupied, and they'd learn combat soon enough.

Elihu had pointed out to him how damn near every governor would howl when their pet units were pulled into federal service, men occupying forts in Boston Harbor, watching supplies in Cleveland, guarding river crossings in Iowa. The men who had these assignments usually had some friends in politics who had arranged a safe berth for them to sit out the war in comfort.

When Parker awoke, he'd pick up the writing of those letters that would set governors howling throughout the North.

Lincoln had tasked him to end the war and now, after two futile years of watching the stupidity, waste, and outright corruption, he would change anything that kept the Union from winning the war.

For the first couple of days after receiving notice from Lincoln, he had been overwhelmed by the responsibility of it all. For two years the republic had waged war to heal itself, to re-create a single nation, but had done so at cross-purposes with itself, and often to its own detriment.

McClellan had been given the best chance to do so the previous year, marshaling close to two hundred thousand men in Virginia and Washington, then had wasted his supreme effort, with only a fraction of those men ever effectively engaged before Richmond.

The president had not helped, hobbling McClellan with orders to keep an entire army stationed near Washington. Yet it had gone far beyond that Officers had plotted against each other, jockeying for power. Congress had played its usual games of maneuvering and deal-making, even while men died in the swamps below Richmond. Never had there been a single unifying purpose, a single will shaping the republic to this war. A war that had to be fought with brutal, direct efficiency.

He had sensed from the very beginning that this war would be profoundly different from any other in history. After the bloody battle at Shiloh he had often talked about it with Sherman, late at night… that Sherman who had been called mad when he declared that in the West alone a quarter of a million men would be needed. A poet named Whitman, whom Julia would often read aloud and whom he hoped someday to meet, had sung of it, of a sprawling, muscular, urban nation of factories, and riches undreamed of. In some ways, like the poet's, his own vision was of a republic stirring, rising, waging a war not of glory, for he loathed that concept, but doing it grimly and efficiently and relentlessly until the job was done.

Here was the new strength, the new kind of war of men and machines to be forged and then used. He had seen it clearly the night Porter ran his fleet down below Vicksburg. Dozens of ships, sparks snapping from boilers, heavy guns firing, shot bouncing off armor, the sky afire, passing unharmed below the Confederate fortifications powerless to stop them. This was the final extension of power created in the smoke-filled factories of Albany, Cleveland, Boston, and New York, directed by men who but a year before were civilians, drawn from factories, fields, counting-houses, and forests to see it through.

He sat back, rubbing his forehead, looking down at the reports, and then shifted his gaze back, out the window, puffing meditatively on his cigar, a shower of ashes cascading down the front of his jacket

The troops stationed in major cities, however, would have to wait. The dispatches picked up early in the afternoon as they stopped for wood and water at Dayton were grim. All telegraph lines out of New York City had been cut, but indications were that the entire city was in anarchy. A New Jersey newspaper had claimed that the entire lower part of Manhattan was engulfed in flames, and ferryboats, packed with panic-stricken civilians, were docking in Jersey City reporting that insurgent rioters had taken the city.

Riots were reported in Philadelphia and Cincinnati as well, and troops in every other city across the North were on alert. The troops deployed to suppress or prevent rioting would have to be held in place for now, and that thought filled him with frustration.

The train slowed as it approached a sharp curve, and dropped down into a narrow valley to rattle across a trestle bridge. There was a glimpse, for a couple of seconds, of half a dozen tents, troops gathered in formation as if waiting for review, the men saluting as the train raced over the bridge.

Here was yet more waste, but until the movement of troops and equipment from Cairo to Harrisburg was completed, every bridge on this vital line had to be guarded, especially here in Ohio and Indiana, where rumors abounded of Copperhead conspiracies and even of Confederate raiders coming up from Kentucky.

This was the core of the problem. Where could he pull troops out, and yet at the same time maintain some level of safety? The motley-looking garrison on the bridge could do precious little if a real force of raiders showed up, but they were still a deterrent against the lone bridge burner or a drunken mob. It was the problem that had bedeviled the Union cause since the first days of the war, exasperated by panicky governors or, worse, selfish governors concerned only with their own state even if it hurt the Union. The thirty men on that bridge, multiplied a thousand times, could be yet another corps facing Lee.

His frustration was compounded by the entire system of mobilization, of state governors responsible for recruiting troops and only then transferring them over to the federal government The regiments recruited for three years were obviously destined for the front but for each of them created, there would usually be a three-month regiment that never left their state capital, and nine-month regiments that barely had time to learn their jobs before being demobilized.

Everyone knew the three-month regiments were a farce, a dodge for those who had political connections to avoid service yet wanted to be able to thump their chests and claim they had served. The hundreds of thousands of men who so briefly wore the blue uniform were worse than useless-in fact a drain on the entire system, taking uniforms, rifles; rations, and pay, while lounging about in garrisons as far north as the Canadian border.

He smiled grimly at the thought of the reaction that would come when those men were indeed called upon to serve.

Though he had never put much stock in the idea when it was first proposed, he found that now, in this crisis, colored troops might very well have a role to play, and he looked back at the pile of papers spilling off the desk, remembering the report stating that enough colored men for an entire division would soon be mobilized out of the northeast and Ohio. He looked back over at Parker, still asleep. Once he was awake, a message would have to be sent to the training center in Philadelphia. A division was a division and to hell with its color, as long as it would fight.

And thus he thought and plotted, a vision of the vast change that an industrial age was creating, a new concept of war, wherein the application of mass upon a single point would transcend the old vision of the past, of lone armies led by an inspired genius fighting but for an afternoon on sunlit fields to decide the fate of nations. He knew that many would claim that this was unfair, but he had nothing but contempt for those who thought thus and had never seen a battlefield the day after the guns fell silent. The job of war was to achieve victory, and in so doing end the slaughter as quickly as possible. How it was achieved, still within the parameters of some basic humanity, was secondary to the final act, the creation of that victory no matter what the cost or how long it took.

Haupt drained the rest of his Madeira and looked out the window. The shadows were gone now, replaced by a deepening twilight. Already the air drifting in through the open window was cooler, a welcomed relief from the hot, blistering day spent crossing the open farmlands of Indiana and Ohio.

"We should be passing through the station in Columbus in about ten minutes," Haupt announced.

Grant said nothing.

Elihu motioned for Haupt to have another glass, and the general, at first reluctant, surrendered and accepted the offer. Reaching into his own breast pocket, he produced a slightly bent cigar and looked at it.

"Have one of mine," Grant offered and Haupt smiled and thanked him.

They were passing the outer edge of the city, transitioning from open farmland to smaller fields of vegetables, a cluster of homes around a church, a blacksmith shop with sparks swirling up into the evening air, several boys, riding bareback astride a heavy plow horse, waving at the train as it passed.

No sign of war here, no burned-out villages, no rotting abandoned farms with bloated bodies lying in the fields-all was neat, orderly, filled with prosperity.

More homes now, streetlights, a large warehouse, a siding packed with cars loaded down with the freshly harvested wheat, civilians out for an evening stroll, the distant sound of a band, growing louder as a shudder from the brakes ran through the train, its bell ringing, whistle sounding.

Elihu leaned out the window for a second to look and ducked back in, grinning.

"Welcoming committee," he announced.

Grant shook his head and said nothing, looking over at Haupt.

"We're scheduled to keep right on rolling," Haupt said, "just slow to pick up dispatches."

Grant offered a smile of thanks. The last thing he wanted now was a waste of time shaking hands, offering some poor excuse for a speech, and then listening to the endless replies, with every city councilman ready to tell him how to win the war. Other generals, he knew, basked in this.

'Too much speechifying and not enough fighting," Sherman had grumbled to him once when they were caught at such an affair, and the memory of it made him grin, forgetting the headache for a moment.

Sherman was furious at being left behind, swearing up a storm right till the moment he had left. But Sherman knew better than anyone that the decision was the right one, and would throw himself into the task of Commander of the western theater with a mad passion to see it through and not let his friend down. It would have been fine to see Sherman by his side, commanding a corps, but far better to have him out west, commanding an army, cleaning up what was left of resistance along the Mississippi and then, when the time was right, heading east into Tennessee and Georgia.

Three- and four-story buildings now crowded in to either side of the tracks, a rail yard opening out to the right, filled with dozens of lattice-like boxcars. Half a dozen locomotives ready to pull trains were in the yard, several of them wreathed in smoke. Haupt pointed them out, mentioning quietly that they were most likely ladened with rations, pork, cattle, freshly made hardtack, ready to be shipped east In a nearby stockyard several hundred horses were waiting to be loaded.

What Lee would give for this one depot, he thought Just for those half dozen locomotives, the supplies, and an open track to move them on.

A mix of smells wafted in, of the barnyard and steam, oil, wood, and coal smoke.

The whistle of their train sounded again, louder, the engineer playing it, easing it in and out so that it almost seemed to carry a tune, counterpointing the swelling noise of the band.

Haupt stood up, buttoning his uniform jacket, went to the rear of the car, paused, and looked back at Grant

"Sir, I suspect there's a crowd of well-wishers out there. Do you want to greet them?"

Grant looked at Elihu and shook his head.

"In spite of the press reports that give my location by the minute, this move is supposed to be secret," he announced.

Elihu grinned and said nothing, pouring another glass of Madeira for himself. He hesitated, then poured half a glass for Grant

"It'll help with the headache, General."

Grant took the glass and downed it in two gulps. It was sticky, far too sweet, but he welcomed it and nodded his thanks.

The train drifted into the station, its platform and the grounds around it packed with a band, dignitaries-several wearing ridiculous red, white, and blue sashes-a line of troops at attention, and, spilling to either side, a crowd of several hundred or more.

He looked back and saw Haupt leaning off the side of the back platform, reaching out to grab a satchel handed up by the stationmaster, and then waving.

The engineer of their train, seeing Haupt's signal, blasted his whistle again; there was a lurch as he poured in steam, and the train edged forward, rapidly picking up speed.

Grant, sitting in the shadows of the car, did not even give an acknowledgment as they sped up, pulling out of the station, the sound of the band receding, the music falling apart as musicians lost their beat in the confusion. Several of the well-wishers ran alongside the train, waving valiantly. Catching sight of several boys racing to keep up, Grant finally waved back. The boys shouted exuberantly.

Rattling and swaying, the car passed over a switch, more stockyards in the shadows, sidings packed with westbound trains waiting for the express to pass. Turning into a curve, the station was lost to view.

It never ceased to amaze him how so many, even now, thought war was a celebration, a party, a time for speeches and bands. They should have been at Chapultepec, Shiloh, or in the stinking trenches before Vicksburg. That would have disabused them soon enough.

Haupt sat down again at the table and pulled open the small canvas bag snatched from the stationmaster. Twenty or more telegrams, simply marked "Grant" on the envelopes, spilled out.

Grant sighed as he looked at the stack of papers and gazed over at Parker, who had slept through the entire commotion. It was just about time to wake him up.

There was also a copy of the Columbus Gazette and Haupt opened it up.

"Sir, look at this," Haupt said. Grant looked down at the paper but the car was dark. Elihu struck another match, stood up, and lit a coal oil lamp, which flared to life, golden shadows bobbing and weaving as the train raced on.

"Lee Sighted at Washington," a headline in the upper-left corner announced.

"Panic in Capital," a second headline declared in the center of the paper.

Grant picked the paper up and scanned it. The report was from Port Deposit, a ferry crossing on the north bank of the Susquehanna in Maryland, dated five in the afternoon. It was the nearest telegraph station to Washington in operation. Most likely the dispatch had been run up from Washington by a fast courier boat.

"It states, that General Lee, escorted by Jeb Stuart and numerous staff, was sighted in front of Fort Stevens this morning," Grant said, looking back up at Elihu as he put the paper down.

"So he's there," Elihu replied after a moment's pause. "Of course he's there. That's what he has to do." He looked away for a moment. 'That's what I would do."

He continued to look out the window, headache forgotten for the moment.

"The president said he'd stay in the city no matter what," Elihu said.

"He has no other choice now. I just wish I had someone in command there other than Heintzelman."

Neither Haupt nor Elihu replied.

The headache did seem to be fading. Whether it was the glass of Madeira or the newspaper, he wasn't sure.

"It's right where I want him now," Grant said softly.

"Who, sir?" Haupt asked.

"Why, Lee, of course."

In Front of Fort Stevens, D.C.

July 1 7,1863 10:00 P.M.

Sergeant, the regiment will form over here in column by companies."

Sgt. Maj. George Hazner, of the Fourteenth South Carolina, Scales's brigade, Pender's, now Perrin's division, saw the bobbing circle of lantern light and pushed his way through the confusion, shouting for his men to follow his lead. Colonel Brown pointed the way and Hazner saluted without comment

'Remember, Sergeant, keep the men quiet; I'm going over to get some information and will call you when I'm back. Let the men fall out, in position. No fires and stay in place."

Passing along the colonel's orders, Hazner watched with a critical eye as the small regiment staggered off the road and out into the cornfield.

Decimated at Gettysburg and again at Union Mills, the Fourteenth was a shadow of its former self, barely three hundred men under arms. After Union Mills the colonel had promoted him to sergeant major of the regiment, to fill one of the many gaps, a position he didn't really want since it kept him with the color company in battle, a decidedly unhealthy place to be. As for the increase in pay, it didn't really matter, it was in Confederate money anyhow and that kept buying less and less.

Hazner shifted the wad of tobacco in his mouth, nodded, and watched as Brown disappeared into the mist that was beginning to rise up from the damp ground.

The day.had been hot, humid, fortunately without rain. The march, a nightmare. The road was a mad confusion of troops, all funneling down this one pike, which had been chewed apart by the passage of the army, so that the macadamized surface was all broken up, turning into a gummy, white soup.

Every bridge was down, replaced in some cases with roughshod affairs of beams and planking torn off barns, but in several cases the men simply forded through the torrent At the last fording, just at twilight a drummer boy had been swept away, and then tangled under a log, where he had drowned before his comrades could pull him out

Hell of an irony, to survive Gettysburg and Union Mills, and then die in some no-name creek by pure bad luck.

He had no idea where the hell they were, where they were going, or what was coming, though he did have some strong suspicions.

The regiment was drawing itself up in a trampled-down field of corn, the rest of the brigade falling in around them, deploying out into line of regiments in company front. All around him he could hear murmuring, swearing, the muddy, slippery sound of shoes getting half sucked off in the gluey ground, stalks of chest-high corn getting knocked down.

Some stars were out, and by their dim glow he could barely catch the silhouette of their regimental flag being held aloft, marking the front of the column.

"Where's H Company?"

It was a lieutenant. He recognized the voice, Maury Hurt from H Company, wounded at Gettysburg but still in the ranks,, arm in a sling.

"Back of the column, sir."

"Hazner, that you?"

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant."

Hurt drew closer, a match was struck, and Hurt puffed a half-smoked cigar to light, his drawn face briefly illuminated in the glow.

"I think your company is forming up behind us, sir."

"Thanks, Hazner."

He hesitated for a second. "Sergeant, do you know what the hell is going on?"

"Damned if I know, sir, but from the looks of it, I'd say we're forming up for an attack."

"Sure looks mat way."

"But on what?"

Hazner looked around at the confusion, the dim outline of a column continuing forward on the road they had just filed off.

"I think it must be Washington, sir. Heard a cavalry trooper pass by a while ago, claiming he'd seen the dome of the Capitol up ahead."

He didn't need to add that since late in the afternoon everyone had been hearing artillery fire as well, some experts proclaiming that it had a deeper thump to it, meaning heavy guns.

The cigar tip glowed and Hazner looked at it longingly. One thing the Army of Northern Virginia had been well supplied with was tobacco, but they had long ago been disconnected from their supply lines back to Virginia and the coveted weed was now in high demand. The plug he had been chewing on was his last and he had been working it all day.

As if sensing his desire, Hurt took the cigar out of his mouth and offered a puff. The end was chewed, soggy, but Hazner gladly accepted and took a long, deep drag, inhaling the smoke so that his head swam for a moment.

He offered it back.

'Too bad about Major Williamson. I know he was your friend."

"Thanks," was all that Hazner could say.

The memory was still strong, the final moments of the battle before Union Mills, that last look at Williamson and then the ghastly impact of a mini6 ball shattering his skull. He had died wordlessly, not a sound, just slumping backward into the trench.

He didn't even know where John was buried. They had advanced, leaving their dead and wounded behind. Before moving out, he'd gone through John's pockets and found his diary. It was in his haversack now. He had been debating ever since whether to send it home or just simply burn it. The revelations about his comrade's fears, his failing of belief in the cause, even his desire for his fiancee-Hazner just didn't know how to react to it all.

Writing was something special. His friend had the gift for it After all, he was the son of a judge, educated, had even gone to college. Words, written words came easy to him. Writing- for Hazner that was a hard task, to be used simply to tell the folks back home you were all right maybe say how much you love them, but that should be it. To go on for pages about being afraid, confused, somehow it just didn't seem right

Even as he thought about it, his hand drifted to his haversack and the bulk of the diary inside, its cover stained with blood that had spilled onto it from Williamson's gaping wound.

"You write to his folks yet?" Hurt asked and the question startled him, as if the lieutenant were reading his mind. George shook his head. "I ain't got the hand for it."

"I'll help you if you want The judge needs to hear his son died valiantly, facing the enemy." "Yes, something like that." Hurt shifted comfortably, looking about. "Think we go in tonight?"

"Sure looks like it Column by companies usually don't mean we're settling down for the night." The cigar tip glowed again.

"By God, if this is Washington, tomorrow night we'll be eating oysters, drinking wine, smoking some damn good cigars, and the war will be over. Should be back home in time for harvest"-

"If we break through. Word is they've got fortifications all around the city like none we've ever seen."

"They're beat, Hazner. Beat I tell you. You saw them run at Union Mills."

"Yes, sir. I seen them run."

He said the words quietly, not reveling in it the way Hurt did. And for an instant he wondered if the jitters Williamson had were in some way transferred now to him through the diary he was carrying.

"Hazner, company officers' call. Pass the word/'

George turned to see Colonel Brown running back. He offered a hurried salute to the lieutenant and then passed through the ranks, men looking at him as he pushed through the formed lines, some asking what he knew, for Hazner was always one who knew what was going on.

He ignored them, quickly going back through the lines, letting the few company captains know the colonel wanted them. Most of the companies were commanded by young lieutenants, boys filled with ardent dreams of glory. They usually didn't last long.

He followed the officers back up to the front of the column where the colonel stood, holding a lantern but keeping it hooded with his cloak, the regimental color-bearer standing next to him, the flag marking the commander.

The men gathered around. As regimental sergeant major, Hazner knew he was now part of the group, so he edged his way in.

Brown took off his hat and wiped his brow on the back of a sleeve.

"We're in front of Washington," he began. "The outer line of fortifications is less than two miles ahead on this road."

"I knew it," one of the men said, a touch of glee in his voice.

"We go in two hours before dawn." The group fell silent.

"We're the second wave. Pettigrew's division is in the lead, they're already filing into position ahead of us. At one in the morning," he hesitated, opening his watch and holding the lantern up to check, "three hours from now, we move to the forward position in a streambed, six hundred yards short of the enemy lines."

"A night attack, sir?" someone whispered, the surprise in his voice evident.

"General Scales said that General Lee decided it this morning. He wishes to spare us unnecessary losses."

"We don't know this ground at all, sir," the questioner replied.

"Damn it, Jones, I know that. Now shut the hell up and listen to orders." No one spoke.

"Each regiment will have a guide from the cavalry. They've been occupying this ground since yesterday and know their way around. The men are to move in absolute silence. I want every man checked to make sure his musket is not capped. Canteens to be kept full and secured with straps under the belt. Tin cups and anything else that might rattle to be left behind. Again, we must have absolute silence."

He looked around and the men nodded.

"If some damn fool drops a musket and it goes off, I'll run him through and come looking for you later. General

Scales made that clear to me. No talking, not even a whisper. Absolute silence.

"As I said, Pettigrew will be in the lead. They will move out at exactly three and storm the enemy line. We are to be in reserve to follow up, or lend support Once the line is broken, Hood's division will follow through and expand the break. Longstreet's entire corps is behind us and will be up by early morning. They will exploit the break and then move into the city."

He hesitated.

"Pettigrew's division will face an open field of nearly six hundred yards. There are several rows of abatis, then a moat, which is believed to be at least twenty feet wide and ten feet deep. The fort dominating the position has earth walls ten to fifteen feet high above the moat and is believed to hold a battery of heavy thirty-pounders, mortars, a regiment of at least a thousand infantry, and most likely additional artillery support. It covers an acre of ground. Enfilading fire will hit from forts of similar dimensions to either flank.

"Beyond the fort is a well-paved road from the city and a military road that runs inside the enemy lines. We must assume the line will be heavily manned. The attack will go in silently, without any bombardment All is dependent on stealth and gaining the wall of the fort before the enemy is alerted."

There was a long silence. Hazner looked around. By the glow of the single lantern he saw that some men, especially the younger officers, were eager, whispering among themselves, but the older men were silent

"Gentlemen, I will tell you my honest opinion. Darkness or not Pettigrew's boys will get torn apart It will be our job then to follow through, take the fort and open the road up to the city.

"I know we've never done a night attack before, gentlemen. It's unheard of. Let's trust in General Lee's leadership as we always have and all will be well. Gentlemen, I promise you that by the end of tomorrow the war will be over. We will march down Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House and throw that slave-loving bastard out and hang him from the nearest tree."

The men knew better than to give a cheer but there was a bit of bracing, a few backslaps and nods.

"Now go back to your men. Brief them on what's coming, then get them to settle down and try to get a little sleep. That's all."

The group broke up and headed back to their companies. Brown turned away, setting the lantern on the ground. It was a praying army and Hazner was not surprised when Brown went down on his knees and lowered his head.

He stepped back respectfully and looked at the color-bearer, who had returned to his comrades, the men gathering around him to hear the news.

All was shadows and rising mist, lending a ghostlike quality to the world around him. He heard muffled talk, some laughter, but not much. These men, even at eighteen, were no longer boys. They had charged at Gettysburg little more than two weeks ago, and held the line through the long, bitter day at Union Mills. They were tired, they had seen far too much, and now they would see more. They knew that they were being called upon once more, for but one more effort, a supreme effort

One more effort But one more and it is over. The Yankee capital just one battle away and then the war would be over.

Reaching into his haversack, Sergeant Hazner touched the journal of his old friend, dead at Union Mills. He sat down on the damp, muddy ground, leaned back, and tried to get a few minutes' sleep… but sleep came hard that night

July 18 1863