Grant Comes East - Civil War 02 Read online

  "How did he get through?"

  "He acted feebleminded."

  Lincoln actually smiled at that one. So we are dependent on reports from civilians acting feebleminded. What next?

  "The question confronting us then is when and where? Can you answer that for me? Did our feebleminded friend find that out, too?"

  Heintzelman cleared his throat.

  "I would judge it to be Fort Stevens, sometime later today."

  "You're certain?"

  "Mr. President, one versed in the military arts can make certain, how shall we say, projections, but never an assumption that is foolproof."

  The president turned to look at the general in command of the Washington garrison. He felt nothing but exasperation at this moment. He had dealt with Heintzelman for months, ever since he was, for all practical purposes, relieved of field command and sent back to the safety of the capital's defenses. A crony of McClellan, he had been proven incompetent as a field commander, and thus the reward of this posting. Now the man was clearly rattled.

  Lincoln had to admit though that Heintzelman had a good engineer's eye and had thrown himself with vigor into the task of enhancing the already formidable defenses of the city. The military road had been improved, turned into a virtual highway. Additional lines of entrenchments were dug, moats deepened, fields of fire cleared, rows of abatis set in place, and ammunition stockpiled. In that respect Heintzelman had done his work well. Heintzelman had often boasted to the newspapers and anyone else who would listen that he wished Lee and his army would show up for a fight, for surely they would dash themselves to pieces on his fortifications.

  His wish had been answered, and like many a boaster, when confronted with reality, he was now having serious second thoughts.

  "Fort Stevens then, later today?" Lincoln pressed.

  Heintzelman paused and then finally nodded in agreement.

  "And your preparations?"

  "I've placed one of my better units, the First Maine Heavy Artillery, in that fort, supported by the First New York Heavy Artillery. Well over two thousand men. Two additional regiments are into the entrenchments to either flank, and garrisons are manned in the neighboring forts."

  "Garrison troops though."

  "All the men with fighting experience were sent out of here long ago, Mr. President"

  He had looked over the regimental reports yet again, only this evening. Though the information was not public, most of the regiments in Washington had taken far more casualties from "Cupid's disease" than from any enemy bullets. Most had never even heard a shot fired, except on the practice range. They were well drilled, and looked smart, as garrison troops of the capital were expected to look. But the question was, Could they stand up to Lee's veterans? He knew that no matter how much he pressed on this question, neither Heintzelman, nor, for that matter, anyone else truly knew the answer. But they were about to find out

  Lincoln nodded.

  "Reserves?"

  Heintzelman shook his head wearily.

  "Not many, sir. A brigade deployed just north of the Capitol, which I’ll move up once Lee's intentions are clear. We have to maintain the entire line. Their cavalry have been probing all along the front since yesterday. I can't strip any more men out to place in reserve."

  "But if they break through, General, the rest of the line will be meaningless."

  "If I strip too many men out and the attack on Fort Stevens proves to be nothing but a feint, while Lee is in fact shifting to one flank or the other, we will be broken anyhow."

  Lincoln turned to look out the window. The guard around the White House had been increased; the grounds of the executive mansion were carpeted with tents, most of the men asleep but many standing uneasily in the mist, gathered around open fires. Out on Pennsylvania Avenue two batteries of light guns were drawn up, horses hitched to limbers, ready to move.

  Always it was about what Lee would do. Though Heintzelman had declared that the attack would strike at Fort Stevens, well over eighty per cent of their strength still manned lines along thirty miles of front. The city could fall and most of them would likely never fire a shot.

  And yet the general was right To abandon parts of the position would leave them open, the city being then taken without a fight. It was, he realized, the classic problem of defense, to have to man all positions while the attacker could choose the time and place to strike.

  "Any word on reinforcements, sir?" Heintzelman asked.

  'Two transports moving up from the Carolinas came into Chesapeake Bay yesterday before dark. No word on how many men they are carrying."

  It was beyond hope to think that the vanguard of the force could already be arriving. Several thousand had come in via transport from Wilmington and Philadelphia, all of them ninety-day militia. Maybe they would fight maybe not It was the troops from South Carolina, men with hardened battle experience, that he wanted.

  So it will be today, he thought, still looking out the window, and the reinforcements are still not in.

  Of course it had to be. Lee had only this one chance to take the city. Reinforcements were indeed racing in from Charleston, Philadelphia, even Boston. Grant was coming east with his army and additional troops were being called in from as far as New Orleans.

  It was a race for time for both sides. It was hard to envision that today the city might fall, but he had to brace himself for that very prospect. Gideon Welles had been in earlier in the evening, yet again urging him to prepare to evacuate to an ironclad tied up at the Anacostia Naval Yard, or at least to send his wife and son there. Welles had reported, in confidence, that a number of senators and two members of the Cabinet had already been down to the yard to demand passage out the moment the attack started.

  He had not bothered to ask who they were and he wondered if Seward or Chase had been one of the two. Most likely. After all, to be a senator or Cabinet member usually meant to be a survivor. He had already sent Vice President Blaine out of the city, on the pretext of attending a recruiting rally in his home state of Maine. It would be like Seward though, who still dreamed of higher office, to get out and then somehow try to declare himself in charge if Washington fell and the president was taken or killed.

  If they did bolt when the first gun was fired, it would trigger a panic. He thought about rats abandoning a sinking ship, almost uttered the sentiment in front of Welles, but thought it too cruel. It was Welles who then said the same words with a grin.

  "So should I abandon my own ship?" he had then replied and Welles, ashamed, lowered his head.

  That had ended the conversation.

  And now it was Heintzelman who bore the responsibility, and looking at him, he realized that like so many of his generals, the task exceeded the man. Heintzelman should have been out, throughout the day, boosting morale, projecting confidence, being seen by his men and by the populace, rather than holed up in the war office and then coming here at two in the morning, expressing doubts.

  It was too late now to change this command. He had to ride this horse to the end of the race.

  "General, get some sleep. It will be a long day," Lincoln said, the dismissal in his voice obvious.

  Heintzelman stood up and bowed slightly.

  "Yes, sir."

  "And, General."

  "Sir?"

  "This city will not fall. I am depending on you for that We will fight for it street by street if need be. If we lose Fort Stevens, every man is to fall back into the city, barricade the streets, take to the houses, and then fight. I will not run from them. Do you understand that? I will stay here to the end. I would rather see the Capitol and this house burned in smoking ruins and ashes than that they should be tamely and abjectly captured."

  Heintzelman looked at him wide-eyed.

  "Sir, I understand the secretary of the navy has suggested that you remove yourself and your family to the naval yard."

  "I will not do that sir," Lincoln snapped, and the tone of his voice rose to a high tenor, nearly breaking. />
  "That would be," he hesitated and then said it, "that would be one hell of a statement to our men out there. To ask them to fight while I hide. I will not withdraw, I will not leave. At the end of the day, sir, either you or General Lee will find me in this building. Do I make myself clear to you, sir?"

  "Yes, Mr. President"

  "Fine, now get some sleep and then see to your duties."

  Heintzelman bowed again, put his hat on, and left the room, closing the door behind him. Lincoln watched him go, and then waited. After a minute the door did not open. Hay was asleep, and there were no more callers. He sighed with relief.

  He went back to the window and gazed out Then on impulse he left the room and walked down the darkened stairs. The White House was quiet, all were asleep except for a black man who looked up expectantly at his approach. It was Jim, one of the White House servants.

  "Good morning, Mr. President"

  "Morning, Jim."

  "A cup of coffee, sir? I have a fresh pot brewing in the kitchen. Maybe a scrambled egg and some fresh ham?" "No, thank you, Jim. Just want to go outside for a walk." He stepped past J"11-"Ah, Mr. President?"

  Surprised, he turned back. Jim was standing there, nervous, waiting, a look almost of mortification on his face over this breach of White House protocol.

  "Go on, Jim. What is it?"

  "Sir. Well, me—I mean the others here and me—we were wondering."

  "About what, Jim?"

  "If the rebs take the city, sir. What should we do?" "They won't, Jim."

  "I know that, sir. But we've been hearing that the rebs are rounding up colored folk, sending them down south to be sold back to slavery."

  He had heard the reports as well, there was no sense in lying about it.

  "Yes, Jim, I have heard the same thing."

  Jim looked at him expectantly and for an instant he felt an infinite weariness. Here was yet someone else looking for reassurance and he felt as if the well was empty. He looked down at the floor.

  "Sir. We here, the colored men who work here that is. We want to fight"

  Lincoln looked back up and into the man's eyes.

  "What do you mean, Jim?"

  "Just that, sir. Myself, Williams, Old Bob, the other men. We plan to fight if they come." "Jim, how old are you?"

  "Nearly sixty, as near as I can reckon. No one ever told me for sure when I was born. My mother said she worked for Mr. Jefferson when I was born. I started working here the year the British burned it down. Helped to plaster the new walls, covering over the scorched ones."

  Lincoln could not help but smile, awed at this bit of history living with him. He had never taken notice of Jim, who had quietly served him for two years and never once had he taken the time to talk to him, to find out more of who he was, and all that he had seen. The realization made him uncomfortable and he wondered, if Jim were white, would that conversation have come, the way it usually did, for he loved talking with working people, finding out their stories, driven in part by the instinct of a politician who through such conversations won the votes, one at a time, but also out of his genuine love for and curiosity about common men.

  Jim was well-spoken, articulate, his English perhaps even better than his own, which was still mocked by effete Easterners.

  "So you've worked here for nearly fifty years?"

  "Yes, sir. Every president since Mr. Madison. When my eldest boy, Washington Madison Quincy Bartlett, was born, President John Quincy Adams even gave him an engraved silver cup for his baptism. We still have that."

  "Where is your oldest?"

  "Up north. He went to join a colored regiment forming up in Pennsylvania. He's the sergeant major. His son, my grandson, joined up as well."

  He said the words proudly.

  "Any other children?"

  "No, sir," and he shook his head sadly. "My second eldest died of the cholera. My two girls both died as well, one of the typhoid, the other, well the other, my youngest, just died."

  He fell silent Lincoln sensed there was an even more tragic story about the youngest but he did not press it I’m sorry.

  "You know that burden, sir. I'll never forget the night your youngest died. We wept with you, sir, and Missus Lincoln. We loved that little boy, too." 'Thank you, Jim."

  He lowered his head to hide his own emotions, and the dark.memories of Mary wandering the White House, night after night, shrieking as he sat alone, horrified at the thought of his baby being placed in the cold ground, unable to comfort her, to stop her wild hysterias, so paralyzed was he by his own grief, came flooding back.

  "Our children are together now with the Lord," Jim said softly.

  A bit surprised, Lincoln looked back up and saw tears in the man's eyes. The comment struck him hard and he was filled with a profound question. Did white and black children play together in Heaven? Did they mingle freely, no longer servant and master? Inferior and superior? What would Christ say of that question?

  "Thank you, Jim, I'll take comfort in that tonight."

  "I will, too, Mr. President. In fact I think it and pray about it most every night"

  Lincoln was silent uncomfortable, not sure what to say next.

  "About us fighting, sir," Jim said, pressing back to the original issue. "Yes?"

  "Do we have your permission, sir? Some of the soldiers out front said they'd loan us guns if it came to that"

  "Jim, if you are caught with a weapon and not in uniform, you'll be hung on the spot."

  Jim shook his head.

  "Sir, we'd all rather be killed here, or hung here, than be sold into slavery."

  And then he smiled and looked straight into Lincoln's eyes.

  "Besides, sir. It'd make a great illustration in the papers, a dozen dead colored hanging from the balconies of the White House. It'd show the world what this war is really about"

  Startled, Lincoln could not reply. Grim as the thought was, he knew that Jim was right

  "Let us pray it does not come to that," was all he could offer.

  "With you here, sir, I don't think it will. But if it does, sir, we want to fight"

  He looked at the man carefully, wondering for an instant if it was the old flattery coming through now. But he could see it wasn't, it was genuine.

  "We here, sir, we all know you'll hold the course to the end, no matter what. If it comes to it, sir, we want you to leave and continue the fight elsewhere. My son would want that and I do, too."

  The president reached out and put his hand on Jim's shoulder. Unlike so many of the colored, Jim did not lower his eyes, or involuntarily shrink from his touch. He continued to look straight at him.

  He wanted to say that he would stand and fight beside him and have his gaunt figure added to the illustration, but did not That was melodrama, posturing, as far too many did. What this man said had come straight from his heart, without artful reflection and seeking of some heroic end as if he were on the stage. It came as a tonic, a deep and profound reminder not just of his responsibilities, but of how he must continue to face those responsibilities to the end. That was his duty now, to not flinch, to not give back a single inch until it was done.

  "You have my permission, Jim. I am honored to give it to you, and God be with you this day."

  He squeezed the man's shoulder, nodded, and then turned to walk out Jim, again the servant followed him, offering his top hat and shawl from the coat rack by the door, which Lincoln took without comment Jim opened the door and the two guards outside, who had been wearily leaning on their rifles, snapped to attention.

  He looked around. A scattering of men were milling about, ghostlike in the mist and in the hissing glare of gas lamps that cast dull, golden circles around the porch of the White House and out onto the street A captain started to come toward him and he gestured with his hand for the officer to remain at ease.

  He started to turn away from the door, to walk around the grounds, the captain softly hissing a command, calling on a detail to "escort the president," and t
hen he heard it, a dull thump, like someone was beating on a carpet away off in the mists.

  The captain froze in place, turning, cocking his head. Another thump, then another

  and another, until it merged into a steady, continual rumble.

  Men who had been sitting on the lawn were up on their feet, looking about A murmur of voices arose, tent flaps opened, men sticking their heads out

  The rumble continued, growing, echoing.

  He stood silent, hat in hand, shawl draped over his shoulders.

  It had begun.

  In Front of Fort Stevens

  July 18,1863 4:45 A.M

  In the predawn light Sergeant Major Hazner saw them coming back. One or two at first, then dozens, and now hundreds. Most were wounded, cradling shattered arms, dragging a broken leg, or staggering, bent over, clutching a stomach wound, which all knew was inevitably the beginning of the end.

  Moving up to the starting position occupied by Petti-grew's division before they went in, the men of the Fourteenth South Carolina, along with the other regiments of Scales's brigade, had deployed into a shallow defile, cut at the bottom by a flooded stream, and there they had waited for more than an hour. All was confusion, the last mile of the advance through brush, an orchard, a farmer's woodlot. At least a third of the men in the regiment had disappeared in the advance, to be replaced by men from several other regiments. He had simply pushed them into formation with his own companies. They could fight now and sort it out later; he promised them that the colonel would give them affidavits confirming that they had not deserted or dodged the battle. Some of the men were strays from Pettigrew, and as they saw their comrades coming back, more than one expressed outright relief that they had become lost during the advance to the final line before going in.

  The roar of battle ahead was continuous. When the first shots had been fired, a wild, hysterical cry went up, the rebel yell, but gradually that had been replaced by the more disciplined, almost mechanical "huzzah" of the Union troops.