Grant Comes East - Civil War 02 (60 page)

An orderly came up, leading his mount Already, in the predawn light, the skirmish lines were coming to life after their night of informal truce. The battle had begun.

The White House

August 20, 1863 5:00
am.

‘G
ood morning, Jim, how are you today?'

Lincoln walked into the kitchen, and at the sight of him the ser
vants began to scurry. James Bar
tlett who obviously had been asleep, head resting on a table, looked up, startled, and came to his feet Lincoln smiled.

"Sorry, Mr. President, must have dozed off," James said a bit nervously, and Lincoln smiled again.

"Wish I could doze off like that It's been a long night" "Sir, would you like some breakfast?" James asked. "What do we have?"

"I could get you a nice slab of smoked ham, sir, a couple of eggs, freshly ground coffee." "That sounds good, Jim."

The servant looked over at the kitchen staff, who did not need to be told. Within seconds the ham was being sliced, eggs cracked into a frying pan. Lincoln sat down at the servants' kitchen table and motioned for Jim to sit as well. The man looked at him, a bit surprised.

"I'd like some company for breakfast Jim, join me."

"Sir?"

"You must be hungry, too, after a long night. Make that an order for two breakfasts and join me." "Yes, Mr. President"

The staff looked over at the two wide-eyed, saying nothing as more eggs went into the frying pan.

"Have you heard at all from your son and grandson?" Lincoln asked.

"Not a word in nearly two weeks, sir. I know they're drilling in Philadelphia; word is they are to become part of General Burnside's corps."

"Not a word?"

"No, sir, the last letter was dated two weeks back. They're in good health and they say the men of their regiments are eager to get into the fight"

Lincoln smiled. His letter to Jim's son was a secret; word would come back soon enough, and he could imagine the man's delight, this man who had known every president since Jefferson. It was not in any way whatsoever a calculated move, though he knew that everything a president did, from where he walked to whom he smiled at, was reported and commented on remorselessly. If a letter from a president to a colored soldier should become news, then so be it
.
It would show his own resolve on this matter and serve notice as to his intentions once this madness was finished.

They were coming down now, in this crisis, to a question of numbers, and the men of his breakfast companion's race might very well be the final weight that tipped the scales.

After the horror of the draft riots, he had carefully and quietly rescinded the draft in most places. Besides, Grant and others reported that the draftee troops coming in were worse than useless, an actual burden on the army, the bulk of them deserting, many of them, besmirching the honor of their uniforms by thievery, desertion, cowardice. The Vacant ranks must be filled, but in this country the tradition still was that it had to be volunteers. After the disasters of the spring and summer, draftees and bounty men were not the answer, and in fact would hinder this final effort.

It would have to be the men of color of this nation. The offer now was plain and clear. Not just emancipation, though he knew that if he was ever to honor the promise of the Declaration of Independence, full emancipation for all was a foregone conclusion. But what after that? There was a time when he had agreed to the idea of returning these men and women of Africa back to their homeland, filled with doubt that after the bitter legacy of slavery, and the way it polluted both sides, the two races could live side by side.

He knew now that was impossible. As he looked at Jim, who sat self-consciously across the table from him, as he looked into this man's eyes, he could see the divine spark, the core of humanity that made him an equal in every sense of the word. It was the quiet, humble courage of this man on the terrible day when it looked as if Washington might fall that had stiffened his own resolve. It was the look on the faces of the men of Colonel Shaw's regiment as they charged to the front, the pride in their faces when the following week he had received a delegation of them in the White House, that made him realize that all along he had been guided toward this path and understanding.

The promise had to be full equality, full rights, a place beside all men. This was now the great experiment of this nation. For more than four score years the experiment had simply been one of freedom—could common men govern themselves wisely? Most of the world had at first watched scornfully but now stood in admiration, and, for some, yes, even fear for all that this rule of common man implied.

Now that question had evolved to the more fundamental one—could they indeed create a nation in which all men did have full and equal rights? A new America was evolving; the poet he had met sang of it, of a brawling, growing strength, of farms, factories, cities, and villages filling an entire continent. Men and women from around the world were now flooding in, drawn by the promise of the dream, of those first lines of the Declaration. The Irish with their strange Catholic ways, which many hated, but it was the Irish who had stormed the heights of Fredericksburg and Union Mills, and surely their blood had bought them a right to this land. The Germans, the Scandinavians filling the woods of Minnesota, even the Chinese coming off the boats in San Francisco to work the gold fields. Was this not now the great experiment, and were not the son and grandson of the man sitting across from him entitled to it as well?

Though Jim did not know it, at this very moment his son and grandson, dressed in Union blue, rifles in hand, were most likely in Harrisburg, and in another month would march forth, and perhaps die in battle. Like the Savior, they would shed their blood for the sins of others, and he must see that there would be some offer of hope, some light at the end for them.

A servant put a plate down in front of Lincoln and then one before Jim. Jim was looking at him, saying nothing, as Lincoln silently mused.

"May I offer a prayer, Mr. President?"

"Of course."

The two lowered their heads.

"Merciful God. Please guide this man who sits before me. Guide him as he leads our nation to a just peace, a peace where North and South, former slave and former master, can sit together and break bread together in charity and peace.

And, dear Jesus, please extend Thy loving blessing to my son and grandson when they march upon the battlefield. If it is Your will that they should fall, let them die with honor in service to our country.

"We thank You for the blessing of this food. Amen."

Jim looked back up, gazing into Lincoln's eyes. Lincoln did not know what to say. Many had prayed over and for him over the years, but few prayers were as heartfelt as this one.

He knew that this morning, like so many other mornings of these last few months, the fate of the nation might be in the balance. Sickles's army might just win, but if defeated it could give Lee a free hand yet again, perhaps to turn back here or to even force the Susquehanna and march on Wilmington and Philadelphia.

But it was out of his hands now
...
and, strangely, he felt at peace.

"Thank you, Jim," he said softly. "Now let's enjoy our meal together."

Two Miles South of Gunpowder River, Maryland

August 20, 1863 6:15
a.m

Da
n Sickles reined in atop a low rise where a knot of officers were gathered. He recognized Birney, dismounted, a field telescope resting across the saddle of his mount. Dan rode up to join him. "Damn strange," Birney announced, pointing south. A constant rattle of musketry echoed around them, but the fire was light all along the line. It was more like an open field skirmish than a major battle fought at a divisional level. They had advanced well over a mile in the last hour across the same ground that the Sixth Corps had charged yesterday, passing the horrible wreckage and destruction of the previous day, but there had been no hard contact. The dreaded woodlot, where so many hundreds had fallen, was now in their hands after a brief, sharp skirmish, but of nowhere near the intensity of the day before.

Dan came
up to Birn
ey's side, and his corps commander offered the telescope.

"Look down that road, about three or four miles, I'd judge."

Dan took the long tube, balanced it on the saddle, adjusted the focus slightly. Yes, it was a column of troops, some wagons mingled in, and they were heading south, away from the fight.

He handed the telescope back to Birney.

"There's no fight in them this morning. We push and they give. I know we have Hood's old division to our front, some contact with Early, and McLaws to our right, but nothing else; it's damn curious. Anything from the cavalry?"

Dan shook his head.

As usual, Stoneman's troopers were almost useless. They had gone into this campaign not fully mounted; after the horrible drubbing of the last month they were timid, slow, and now easily contained by Stuart, who ranged along the left front and overlapped the left flank as well.

"Prisoners?"

"A couple of dozen. Mostly exhausted stragglers. Word is they pushed all the way up from Washington in yesterday's heat and are played out Most of them are saying the rest of Lee's army is stuck south of Baltimore; they just couldn't keep up the pace of the march and the order is to now fall back into the city and dig in."

Dan took this in.

"Any other reports?"

'Two prisoners state the whole thing is a ruse, that all of Lee's army is out there. One of them says he's a deserter from a supply train and Hood is just waiting for us to close."

"Any civilians?"

"Very few; most lit out when the fighting started." Dan grunted, saying nothing, pacing back and forth for a moment, digesting the information. He had expected by now that they would have been into a full-scale, head-on fight, a toe-to-toe brawl where the Army of the Potomac would prove its mettle and drive the rebels from the field. Now this.

Was it a trap, or was he retreating?

Sickles wiped the sweat from his brow. Already the temperature must be well into the mid to high eighties. He uncased his field glasses, braced them, and scanned the ground ahead.

It was a broad, open plain, gently rolling ground, scattered farmhouses, a few small villages. A half mile away, wavering lines of blue deployed in battle order moved forward, a quarter mile ahead of them a heavy line of skirmishers, puffs of smoke marking their advance. In front of his own skirmishers he could see darker forms, giving back. Firing a shot or two, running, falling in behind a fence or tree to fire another shot, then falling back again.

Their retreat was orderly, unhurried, no sense of panic, as if they were following orders given before the start of the day.

He lowered his field glasses and continued to pace.

Hold, advance, or press on aggressively?

Was it possible that yesterday's fight had broken something in Lee? Their advance had revealed the extent of casualties inflicted, five thousand, maybe seven or eight—if that many, it would be a goodly percentage of Lee's best troops.

Could he have broken Lee's will to offensive action yesterday? If so, what a fitting testament to his boys of the Third, a laurel to a crown they so richly deserved.

But what now?

A small voice of caution whispered to hold up here, let Stoneman probe forward. Let his men rest through what would be a day of frightful heat, then push on in the evening.

But if he did that, Lee would withdraw into the fortifications of Baltimore, and there was the other factor.

He looked over his shoulder. Ely Parker was still trailing along behind his staff. There was no way he could order the man off the field; he was, after all, an official representative of the field commander.
If I stop now, that man would again press me to retire as ordered, and it would be all but impossible to deny that order and keep my command.
For that matter, unless he finished this with a resounding victory, Grant would most likely remove him anyhow.

No, he had to continue the advance.

He raised his field glasses yet again, focusing on the distant road. It was hard to distinguish, but it looked as if a wagon had just broken down. A dozen men were around it, disconnecting the mules, and then they simply upended it off the road.

Curious. It wasn't like the rebels to abandon a wagon like that. Were they actually retreating, with orders to abandon anything that could not be taken along? Already his advance had captured a half dozen guns—spiked, true, but still abandoned and captured.

Was this Chancellorsville again? Were they moving? He remembered the moment with deep bitterness. If Hooker had only unleashed him, he would have plowed into Jackson on the march and finished him. The same on the second morning at Gettysburg. - No, never again.

He looked over at Birney.

"They're retreating, that's clear enough."

Birney reluctantly nodded, saying nothing, features flushed.

"I want the advance redoubled. I want our main line to go forward quickly and establish contact. If they are retreating I think we can push them off balance, and once they are off balance we must drive them, sweep them up."