Grant Comes East - Civil War 02 Read online

  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 17,1863 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 ba
ck.

  '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 t
hen 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

  2.00am

  Mr. President, General Heintzelman is here." From his desk piled high with papers, Lincoln looked up to his secretary, Hay, who stood in the doorway. The exhaustion on Hay's face was obvious; in the glare of gaslight he looked more like a ghost than a young man, his tie and collar off, a clear sign that he was about ready to collapse.

  "Thank you, Mr. Hay. Now listen to your president, go in the next room and get some sleep."

  Hay, who normally would have protested, actually nodded in agreement and closed the door behind the general.

  Heintzelman, who was older than the president, stood to attention. His hat was off, under his arm, wisps of gray hair plastered to his skull with sweat His eyes were dark, almost hollow; the man was breathing heavy and, like everyone else, obviously exhausted as well.

  Lincoln stood up and motioned the general to take a seat and Heintzelman gladly complied, letting out an audible sigh as he settled into the high-backed leather chair.

  "Your report sir," Lincoln prompted, and Heintzelman fumbled to his breast pocket for his spectacles and then started to open a sheaf of papers.

  "In your own words, General," Lincoln said patiently. Heintzelman cleared his throat nervously and, though he wasn't reading, adjusted his spectacles yet again.

  "Will they attack?" Lincoln finally prompted, his own tiredness causing his patience to wear thin with Heintzelman's fumbling nature.

  "Oh, most assuredly, sir," Heintzelman replied. "There is no doubt of that now. We have enough reports of Lee's army coming straight at us. It is confirmed without a doubt that Lee was indeed scouting our lines personally this morning. A prisoner and a deserter corroborated that information. We know that there are at least four brigades of rebel cavalry encircling our northern front, and we had sure sightings of infantry as well. A civilian of good quality, a Union man who was vouched for by his congressman, managed to get through to our lines and reported that the roads coming down from the north are simply packed with infantry. He reported crossing through a column of Hood's corps on the Seventh Street Road, about five miles outside the District of Columbia. They should be forming up to attack shortly after dawn."