Grant Comes East - Civil War 02 Read online

  Before another question could be asked, he walked away, continuing his inspection tour. Inside he was seething. If Lincoln did allow the capital to fall, there was more than a good chance that peace would be the end result, and then his own aspirations would be dashed. The capital had to hold out so that ultimately he could march into it as its liberator. Of course he had to be the one that was in command.

  At first there had been rumors that the Army of the Potomac would be folded into Grant's new Army of the Susquehanna. Congressional pressure was putting a stop to that Grant was bringing Westerners in to fill up his new army. Eastern congressmen and senators weren't about to have the East's contribution to the Union cause submerged in a western command.

  Lincoln was being forced to accept that. There would have to be a reconstituted Army of the Potomac which, yes, would serve under Grant, but which must have its own commander. Now Lincoln was considering whom to appoint to that position.

  That hash would be settled before the week was out, of that he was certain. In the end Lincoln would have to turn to him to command the Army of the Potomac. Lincoln needed the War Democrats more than ever, and Dan was their candidate to command the Army of the Potomac. Yes, he thought to himself with satisfaction, in the end it will come out just fine and I will command the army.

  Once he was in command and the army reconstituted, the stage would be set for him to whip Bobbie Lee... that would end the war as it should be ended.

  Reaching Twenty-third Street and the intersection of Fifth Avenue and Broadway, he saw a knot of men, infantry, a section of guns, two bronze Napoleons, a troop of cavalry, and an ornate, black-lacquered, four-horse carriage, curtains drawn, a militia colonel leaning against the side of it, talking with someone inside. At his approach the colonel stiffened, saluted, and whispered a comment.

  The door to the carriage popped open and Dan stepped in, the carriage swaying slightly as he settled in across from Tweed. The carriage was filled with cigar smoke and the scent of whiskey.

  "Have you seen the reports?" Tweed snapped angrily, waving a sheaf of papers.

  "Which reports?"

  "My God, Dan, it states here that over two thousand bodies have been picked up for burial. They're getting hauled over to Brooklyn, even loaded into barges to get dumped at sea."

  "Fine. Two thousand less ruffians terrorizing the streets."

  "This will cost us a hundred thousand votes, Sickles. They'll blame us!"

  "Not when I'm done," Sickles replied calmly.

  "The war was a Republican war. We could always hang that on them. But now?"

  "We can still do that. I was acting under orders, Tweed. Did my military duty."

  "But two thousand dead. The entire Five Points burned to the ground. And what's this about military executions?"

  "I wouldn't call it that. Military executions are for soldiers. These were secret agents, insurgents hiding in civilian garb."

  'Two thousand of them?"

  "Goddamn it, Tweed, what the hell would you have me do? Slap them on the wrist? Give mem a nursery bottle filled with brandy and send them home to their mommas? This is a war, damn it A war."

  He shouted the last words, and Tweed, slightly intimidated, fell back into his seat.

  "You don't see the broader picture. Back up on Fifth Avenue a girl gave me a flower."

  "Channing sentiment, did you get her name?"

  "You don't see it. To those Uptown I'm the savior this morning. Not a Republican, just a general doing his duty. Besides, we broke the back of the gangs that have terrorized this city for too long. They're on the run now and I plan to drive them straight into the East River and the Hudson. The average citizen of this town will turn out a week from now and offer us a victory parade. The times are changing, Tweed; this is a new age, an age of power, of industry, of the men who drive them. We saved their hides and they will remember that; I will be certain to remind them when the time comes."

  Tweed said nothing.

  "We can still play the lower classes, and the best way to do that is to bring this war to its conclusion without the draft. Hang that on the Republicans, that they let it drag on too long, they created the draft while lining their pockets from it and all the wartime graft. We will end the war and then see who is in the White House after the next election."

  Tweed puffed on his cigar.

  "You heard about Washington?"

  "That Lee is attacking."

  "That's the word."

  "Just rumor for now, but he does have to strike and do it now."

  "And if it falls?"

  "Heintzelman is no genius, but he's no fool. Put twenty-five thousand into those fortifications and even he can hold it, as long as he doesn't panic."

  "But Lee."

  "Goddamn it. Everyone always talks about Lee. He can't fly over the fortifications, he has to go through them and it will cost him. All I am worried about now is getting confirmed as the new commander of the Army of the Potomac."

  "It's a wreck, Sickles."

  "It's all we got now here in the East. Do you think Grant will give me a command? I doubt it. In three months' time those damn Westerners will be dominating this entire region. I need that army command now. I need to act now, to achieve what we should have achieved in front of Gettysburg, or even, before it was thrown away completely, at Union Mills. I need that army, Tweed, and you will put the best face on what happened here in New York and make sure it happens."

  "The governor is furious over the destruction and the losses. Said you were like Napoleon in Moscow."

  "Well, maybe this country needs a Napoleon right now," Sickles snapped.

  He hesitated, pulling back the curtain to look outside, suddenly fearful that one of the reporters might have heard. They were milling about, talking with the militia colonel, no one looking this way.

  He looked back at Tweed and smiled.

  "Just tell the governor that in a month this will be forgotten, especially after I've personally defeated Lee and put an end to this war. And when I am in the White House, his state and our city are going to be taken care of, really taken care

  of.'

  He smiled and patted Tweed's arm.

  In Front of Fort Stevens

  July 18 1863

  6.45am

  “General Hood, is your old division finally ready to go in”

  Lee looked at his corps commander with unveiled exasperation. The attack was supposed to have been launched with three full divisions in place, instead only two had been ready to go before dawn, and even then, Perrin's division had taken a full hour longer than expected to attack. The third division, Hood's old command, was only now completing its deployment off the road.

  "General, the road is a nightmare; I still don't have Law's brigade in place."

  "Send everything you have in now or we shall lose our chance!" Lee snapped.

  Hood looked over at Colonel Taylor, Lee's most trusted adjutant Taylor gazed back with unfocused eyes, as if he wasn't there.

  "General Lee, the attack is failing. I ask that we hold my division back."

  "No, sir. You will commit immediately." Hood hesitated.

  "Now, General! Now! We've lost two divisions trying to breech their line. Are you telling me that the sacrifice is to be wasted? One more push and we break through."

  Hood said nothing. Looking past Lee he saw General Longstreet approach, without fanfare, mount covered in sweat and dismount

  "Have we taken it?" Longstreet asked.

  "No, we have not taken it," Lee replied sharply, "yet"

  Longstreet nodded sagely, saying nothing, looking over at Hood.

  "It was not coordinated as well as we could have wished," Hood said softly. "Night attacks on this scale are simply impossible to coordinate well in the dark and the mud."

  Lee looked at him sharply and the commander of the Second Corps fell silent.

  "You have my orders, General Hood, now execute them."

  Hood saluted and without further
argument left the grove, his staff running before him, the deployed troops coming to their feet. There was no cheering now, but the men were game, ready for what was ahead.

  Lee turned to Taylor.

  "Remind General Hood in no uncertain terms that he is not to go in with the assault. I need my generals, we've already lost Pettigrew this day. Keep an eye on him till the attack goes forward."

  Taylor saluted and ran after Hood.

  "How goes it, sir?" Longstreet asked.

  Lee wearily shook his head.

  "It was not properly coordinated, General. Pettigrew went in nearly an hour late. It appears the Yankee pickets had advance warning, at least enough so that their artillery opened before the attack had even hit the abatis. Perrin's men got tangled up moving up to the start position. Now Hood's old division is starting late as well; he claims the road was all but impassable."

  "It is, sir."

  Lee looked over at him coldly.

  "Your lead division, is it ready to exploit the breakthrough?"

  "Sir, it will be an hour or more before McLaws is in position; they're filing off the road even now on the other side of the creek."

  "An hour? I ordered you to have McLaws up by dawn." "Sir, we are trying to move our entire army down a single road, at night, through an ocean of mud."

  "We won't win with excuses, General Longstreet"

  The rebuke in his voice was obvious to everyone within hearing distance.

  "We have fought two major battles in little more than a fortnight. We have destroyed one of their armies, and the capital is within our reach. We cannot lose our nerve this day, General. We must hold our nerve if we are to win. I propose to win this war today, sir, because never again will we have such a chance."

  A cheer went up... the rebel yell. Hood's division

  was going in.

  The Moat in Front of Fort Stevens

  Here they come!"

  Sergeant Hazner cautiously raised his head to look back to the north. A corporal who had gone up on his elbows to look, only a minute before, was now sprawled in the bottom of the moat, the top of his head gone.

  He could hear them, but the smoke was still too thick to see anything. The muzzle of the thirty-pounder ran out again, this time elevated higher, to sweep the field

  "Lower, you bastards," Hazner shouted. "You're aiming too high."

  "We'll get you soon enough, reb," the taunt came back from the other side, "once we kill off what's coming."

  He lay back down, rolling on his back, looking down at the edge of the moat Hundreds of men were still alive, pinned along the slope of the fort and down on the inner side of the moat He held his hand up, risking that it would get shot off, and waved it in a tight circle to draw attention. Some of the men looked his way.

  He pointed across the field, to the top of the fort, and then to himself. Some of the men nodded, pulled caps down tighter, clawed at bodies that they had piled up as barricades, fumbling through cartridge boxes to find a dry round and reload.

  Colonel Brown, lying beside him, groaned weakly. After knocking him cold, Hazner had feared for a while the blow had been too hard, perhaps he had broken his skull, but the colonel had finally stirred. Brown had tried to get up on to his knees to vomit and he had knocked him back down, and for his troubles the vomit had splattered all over him.

  "Hazner?"

  "Just lie still, sir. The next wave is coming, then we'll get you back."

  "No, I'm going in." "Just lie still, sir."

  Hazner looked up at the sky; the sun was far higher, red through the smoke, but already hot. He hoped that one of the men coming up would have a full canteen.

  He could see them now, battle flags emerging out of the smoke and mist, again the formation in columns of regiment in company front.

  "Fire!"

  The heavy guns inside the fort recoiled back, Hazner hugging the ground, arm over his colonel, the shock wave knocking his breath out.

  Screams greeted the salvo; he looked back and saw the entire front ranks collapsing, officers, one on horseback, going down, flags dropping, one with a broken staff tumbling through the air, a hundred or more men falling.

  God, that was like us, he realized, that was just like us.

  The charge wavered then pressed forward, men scrambling over the fallen ranks, color guards picking up fallen flags.

  "Volley fire on my command!" The cry echoed from within the fort

  Hazner held his arm up, waving it again, and he prayed that someone down below saw him.

  "Fire!"

  The volley rippled from the top of the parapet, more men dropping across the field less than fifty yards away.

  "Now!" Hazner roared. "Charge, Carolina, charge!"

  He stood up, cursing himself even as he did so. His own heroics surprised him; it was an act of wild stupidity. And yet something compelled him, forced him beyond all reason or sanity to do so.

  For a few seconds he stood there, naked, exposed, and no one seemed to move.

  One. man, then another stood up. By his side Colonel Brown tried to come to his feet, sword held feebly up. And then a wild roar erupted from the men of Perrin's and Pettigrew's divisions, who had endured hell in front of Fort Stevens. Officers were up, waving swords. A wild rage was released and a wall of gray and butternut began to surge forward yet again, crawling, kicking, climbing their way up the blood-soaked muddy slope.

  "Come on!"

  It was only a few dozen feet to the top, the longest yards he had ever attempted or endured. He came up eye-level with the top of the parapet; a rifle slapped down on the top, aimed straight at his face. He grabbed it by the end of the barrel and jerked it hard, pulling it toward him. He heard a curse; the gun did not go off. He pulled harder, using it as a handhold; the owner of the gun released his grip as Hazner came over the top of the parapet. With one hand he hurled the weapon at the gun crew of the thirty-pounder and then used his own weapon to parry a bayonet thrust.

  Suddenly more men were up around him, the first few jumping atop the parapet, gunned down even as they leapt up. More came and yet more. He swung his own musket around, aimed at the battery sergeant, and fired, knocking the man backward.

  Yet again he rolled off the top of the wall and into the fort. The Yankees lining the firing step were stunned by the sudden onslaught; most were still fumbling to reload. Several turned and jumped off the firing step and ran across the open parade ground to join the companies still deployed in the middle of the field. This time Hazner did not hesitate. He leapt down, knowing that his only protection was to charge right on their coattails.

  He looked to either side; several dozen men were with him, all driven by the same realization.

  The shock of hand-to-hand battle exploded in the middle of the fort as the feeble charge slammed into the enemy formation.

  He heard cannon fire behind him but did not look back as he waded in, dodging, parrying, slashing, kicking, screaming, the madness of battle upon his soul.

  A boy charged straight at Mm, bayonet lowered. He blocked the blow, driving his own bayonet into the boy's chest. The young soldier gasped, staggered backward, and Hazner lost the grip on his rifle, letting go.

  He caught a glimpse of a clubbed musket and dropped to the ground, the blow missing. All was confusion, feet-some barefoot, others in shoes with sky-blue trousers—and he feigned that he was down and out of the fight. More feet, all with sky-blue trousers, stormed around him. He curled up, as if hit in the stomach.

  Looking back he saw scores of men gaining the top of the parapet

  "On the wall, volley fire on the wall!" The feet around him stopped; a ramrod came down, stuck into the ground beside him. The men atop the wall paused, rifles dropping down to the firing position. A scathing volley erupted, the man standing within inches of Hazner's face shrieking, falling backward.

  Again the rebel yell, this time louder, confident as the men atop the parapet slid down to the firing step, jumped off, and charged across the court
yard.

  Another melee, the harsh sound of wood striking wood and wood striking flesh and bone. Screams, men falling, staggering past, cursing, huzzahs, rebel yells, all commingled together into a terrifying roar that seemed to be trapped within the confines of the fort.

  A flash of butternut-clad feet this one wearing only one shoe. More swarms of men were coming over the fortress wall, shouting, screaming. A field piece in the middle of the parade ground erupted, canister cutting down dozens. Still the charge pressed in, survivors climbing over bodies.

  The carnage that ensued was beyond Hazner's worst nightmares. Driven to madness by the slaughter, the men of three divisions, who had endured hell since before dawn, exploded in rage. The sally port at the rear of the fort was clogged with Union soldiers trying to escape. In the close confines of the fight no one had time to ask or give quarter, nor was anyone capable of it anymore. Hazner stood up, in shock, watching as the garrison was slaughtered, many of the men of the First Maine and First New York Heavy Artillery fighting to the end, many bayoneted in the back, more than a few bayoneted or clubbed even as they tried to surrender.

  Sickened, exhausted, Hazner collapsed back to the ground and sat unable to move or speak.

  A flag bearer came up to his side and stopped.

  "First Texas, rally to me! Rally to me!"

  Hazner looked up at the man and caught his eye.

  "You got water?" Hazner croaked.

  The flag bearer nodded, unslung his canteen, and tossed it down.

  He uncorked it, leaned his head back, half the water cascading down his jacket as he greedily gulped it. There was a bit of a taste to the water, whiskey, just what he needed. He emptied half of it, and then fought down the sudden urge to vomit.

  He passed it back up.

  "Thanks."

  The First Texan grinned.

  "I saw you. By God, I saw you go over the wall, the men following you! Hell of a thing, took the fire off of us. Got us in here."

  Hazner couldn't speak.

  "You hurt?"

  Hazner looked up at him dumbly, and then at the tangle of bodies, many of them writhing in agony, which completely carpeted the parade ground of the fort

  He shook his head. No, compared to them I'm not hurt, he thought