Grant Comes East - Civil War 02 (6 page)

He was almost grateful that the city was now cut off. The chattering of most of the voices of condemnation or outright surrender would gratefully be silent in this office.

I
could end this tomorrow,
he thought.
End it and send those boys home. A month, a year from now they would still be alive, for chances are, if this continues, they will die, if not tomorrow or the day after, they will perish nevertheless in the battles still to be fought.

He thought again of Antietam, the washed-out graves, rotting corpses half out of the ground. He remembered one in particular, obviously a boy of not more than sixteen, face visible in the clay, wisps of blond hair, decaying lips drawn back in a death grimace, silent, granite-like eyes gazing up at him as he rode past Somewhere—in Maine, Ohio, or Indiana— there was a family, sitting in a parlor, who read of that boy, the name in small print, the only sound the tick-tock whisper of the clock marking out the passage of their lives, and in their hearts was the question of why did their boy die? And they were asking that again tonight with more news of defeat
Why did my boy die for a cause that seems lost?

Perhaps they hoped that there was some meaning, some cause, a dream beyond that of any individual, that their son had been drawn into that storm and disappeared forever, and yet there would be ultimate purpose, a deeper grief, that in the end would be replaced by a knowledge that through him, others now lived, that from the rich earth of his grave, something now was given back to all
...
forever.

What would they think this night? A logic he had always held in contempt was that the sacrifice to Mars must, at times, be sustained by yet more blood sacrifices to assuage those already dead. To give in was to render meaningless the sacrifice of all those who had already died.

And yet, this night, he did see truth in it If the war could still be won, then to surrender now would be to render meaningless all the sacrifice gone before, even that sacrifice upon the bloody slopes of Gettysburg and Union Mills.

Can it be won?

He thought of two conversations of the last week, both of them so clear in intent, not the self-serving maneuverings of the political circles about him, rather the simple statements of two soldiers who had been there. Henry Hunt, who had witnessed all of it, and in tears had asked that leaders be chosen that were worthy of the men who served beneath them. He and General Haupt, who so coolly and without emotion had said that if the men could be found, he, Haupt, could marshal the supplies and equipment to support them within a matter of weeks.

That now focused him.

Grant, more than any other, had proven his worth, and he knew without doubt that here was the general he had sought for two long years. A general who understood what he as the president of a free republic expected to be done by the army of that republic. He knew that Grant fully understood the relationship between a civilian government and its general in the field
...
that upon accepting command to scrupulously follow the orders of the president, which were simple, at least in concept
...
relentlessly move forward, unleash the full power of the North, and implement a coordinated military plan to bring about a speedy victory.

Ultimately though, that decision—the decision to refocus the industrial might of the nation, to place that might into the hands of those few men still willing to volunteer, and to let the frightful dying continue—now rests with me. Do I have the will to see it through?

He looked down again at the soldiers on the lawn. Several were gathered around a lantern, playing cards, another crowd leaning against a lamppost, trying to read the latest newspaper.

They will die by my orders, if I have the will to give that next order.

If I don't, then all meaning to what has gone before is lost. Our continent will fracture apart
—and with a sudden clarity he could see all that would follow. Two nations would quickly break into three, for Texas would go its own way again, followed by four, perhaps five nations, as western states broke away. Then there would be war in Mexico and Cuba, for surely the South would turn that way, and war on the West Coast as those states sought to drive out the British north of them. And at some point war yet again, for vengeance, for control of the Mississippi, or over servile revolt and abolitionists who would not give up their cause.

Yet hundreds of thousands more dead in the century to come. And what of Europe? France would try to stage a return, would goad Spain in as well. The "last best hope of mankind" would become simply like the rest of the world, warring states drenched in centuries of blood, rather than a power that might one day step forward to transform, perhaps even to save, the world.

And it all rests with me tonight.

Though the burden was almost beyond a man's ability to tolerate, especially as he gazed down upon those who, tomorrow perhaps, would pay that price, he knew with a startling clarity what he had to do, what history now charged him with doing. With that clear, there was no longer room for doubt.

"Thy Will be done," he whispered.

Sitting down on the sofa opposite from Hay he slipped off his shoes, wrapped a shawl around his painfully thin, hunched shoulders, and, lying down, drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Th
ree

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 tr
aitors 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 go
ne.
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 w
atch for bushwack
ers, 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.