1862 (49 page)

While most of the British were pessimists, many of the wounded Confederate officers were exultant and confident in victory, and Brigadier General Wade Hampton was one of those. Hampton was the highest-ranking officer seriously enough wounded to require a return to Richmond. He was also an acquaintance of long standing, and he was delighted to have Rosemarie visit him.

Rosemarie found him in his hotel room and seated by the bed in an overstuffed chair. His robust constitution was speeding his recovery, and he was alert and angry.

“Of course we won.” he roared. “Anybody who says otherwise is a coward, madam, a coward. We marched through Pennsylvania virtually unimpeded. Where we met them we whipped them. just as in that cavalry battle in which I so foolishly tried to catch a rifle ball with my shoulder. My only regret is that I was wounded and will miss out on the final stages of the triumph. However, I will shortly return to General Stuart and will be ready for the next battle.”

’Tm glad to hear you say that, General, one picks up on so many rumors in this city.”

He softened and chuckled. “Actually. Mrs. DeLisle. I do have another regret. As a result of my move here. I seem to have lost a number of my papers, including some very important ones.”

“Fortunes of war,” Rosemarie teased as she got up to leave. “If that’s the worst thing that happens to you, you are far better off than most. Papers can be replaced, lives cannot.”

Hampton acknowledged his agreement with a smile and Rosemarie departed. During the carriage ride back to her house, she took in the sounds and smells of Richmond. Women were still queued up outside bakeries despite signs in the windows saying they had no bread, and in front of butcher shops proclaiming they had no meat. It occurred to her that the women were already lined up for tomorrow’s food, if there would be any.

She shuddered. Would there be any more food when Lee’s army returned? Of course not. Ships from England had brought some, but nowhere near enough to feed the city. The land was fruitful enough, but few were working it. and so much was focused on both cotton and tobacco. Certainly the farmers had food for themselves, but they weren’t making that much in excess. Of course, even if they did, it would have to be paid for with worthless Confederate money. Who could blame the farmers for not sacrificing themselves, although she did wonder about the large land-holders who could afford to provide sustenance for the city and chose not to. She did not regret having disposed of her landholdings.

Despite General Hamptons doubtlessly sincere feelings, she confronted the reality that the Confederacy was a losing proposition. The war could not continue as it was. Hampton and others were simply denying reality. They could not accept that all their sufferings might be for naught. The South would simply starve. When her British lover returned, it would be time for a long, frank discussion about their futures,

Idly, she wondered just what papers General Hampton had lost and why they were so important.

Wrapped in dark blankets to hide the white facings of their red uniforms, the three-hundred-man Forlorn Hope crept through the night towards the low, shadowy bulk of Fort Stephens.

Behind them lay a brigade of Confederates from Longstreet’s Corps. If the British thrust succeeded, the Confederates would rush forward to secure it while others came forward to exploit it. The bulk of the army lay in the distance, with the rest of Longstreet’s Corps being the closest. Again, this was to lull the garrison into thinking that there would be no attack against Washington. The all-seeing balloons had been permitted to observe the main Confederate force several miles away from the trenches of Washington, and apparently moving southward.

All of Lees army, however, was primed for a fast move to Washington. The Union balloons were now all down. There were too many clouds for clear observations, and there was the threat of lightning that could easily destroy them.

As the British assault forces under Wolsey were just about within rifle shot of the Union fort, the low, gray skies opened up with a drenching storm that turned them all into cold, soaking wretches. Worse, it further softened the damp ground and turned it into mud. Still, they moved forward, only at a much slower pace.

“This is bloody marvelous,” Wolsey exulted as he urged the men on. There was a huge grin on his rain-streaked face.

Knollys shook water from his cap and grimaced. “If this is your idea of a good turn of events, I’d hate to see a bad one.”

Wolsey clapped him on the shoulder. “Knollys, you dunce, this means they can’t see us. I’d even bet that their sentries have run for cover and will wait out this storm.”

“I hope you’re right,” Knollys muttered. It was widely understood that the garrison of forts like Stephens were not combat-experienced regulars. Maybe they would duck for dry places and wait until the storm passed.

The British soldiers inched, crawled, and stumbled through the mud. When they reached the first line of barricades, the
chevaux-de-frise,
they crawled up to and through the interlocking barricades. There was no rifle fire from the trenches.

Maybe he’s right, Knollys thought with growing hope. A select handful of British soldiers slithered over the lip of the trench and disappeared from sight. Still no sound. A head peeked over and waved them onward.

“Migawd.” someone muttered. “Were bloody fucking in.”

By this time, most of the assault force had made it through the
chevaux-de-frise
and were awaiting the signal to rush the trench. Knollys gave the command and they hurled themselves forward and into the earthen pit. A dead Union soldier lay facedown in the water at their feet.

“He was all wrapped in his blanket and never saw us,” Wolsey said, and Knollys realized the brigadier general had been one of the first men over the top. “Our men are fanning out and taking care of other sentries. If they are as alert as this poor boy was. we’ll have no problems. Your wish has come true. John. It’s New York all over again.”

More British poured in and Wolsey sent a runner back for reinforcements. ’They’d best start now. The weather will slow them down,” Wolsey said.

Just then, a shot rang out, strangely muffled by the rain. There was shouting and an additional burst of gunfire. The garrison, safe and warm in its earthen-covered barracks, was awake and angry.

While fierce skirmishing took place, Knollys grabbed a couple dozen men and headed to the rear of the fort. It was imperative that no one escape to warn the city. It was possible, just possible, that the adjacent forts, De Russey and Slocum, were not able to hear the gunfire through the muffling effects of the rain.

Knollys quickly set his men in a firing line just as a half-dozen frightened Union soldiers came running. They ignored the order to halt until a half-volley dropped two of them. The remainder surrendered, as did others who stumbled upon the scene. It was working.

“Major, over here, please.” yelled a sergeant. “I’ve found their telegraph line.”

“Cut it.” Knollys hollered. “Cut it now!”

The sergeant hacked at the wire and it separated. That was close. Knollys thought, then he wondered if his action had been in time.

Firing inside the fort slowed and then ceased. While some Union soldiers had fought bravely, others had been confused and disoriented by the sudden British attack. The survivors were now prisoners. Knollys saw handfuls of Confederates in among the British as they rounded up the remainder of the garrison. The brigade from Longstreet’s Corps had begun arriving. A dull boom came from the direction of Fort De Russey. “What the devil?” Knollys snapped.

“They’ve seen us,” said Wolsey, who had just walked up to him. “More precisely, I think they’ve somehow noted the Confederate mass heading in this direction. With a little luck they won’t realize that there’s a hole in their dike.”

“But their guns overlap Fort Stephens,” Knollys said. “That means they can maul Longstreet’s men, who can’t get here all that much faster than we did. It’s still going to be a long, slow crawl for them to get here.”

“Good point,” Wolsey said. He turned to some other officers who’d accompanied him. “Get some of the guns we’ve just captured and turn them on De Russey. That’ll distract them. We’ll lose some of the element of surprise, but that’s a price we’ll have to pay. At any rate, Knollys, we’ve done it. We’re in Washington.”

Major General George Henry Thomas fully understood that he was both a damned good general and his own worst enemy. At the beginning of the Southern insurrection, he had considered resigning his federal commission and joining the Confederacy to help defend his native Virginia. After deep and profound thought, he had decided to stay with the Union, but the damage had been done. He had voiced his doubts and opinions to others and they had reached the ears of those in charge. Thus, he was not well trusted by the Union government, many of his own family had turned against him. and at least one former neighbor had said he’d shove Thomas’s sword up his ass if he ever showed his face in Virginia again.

The family situation he could handle. He had never been all that fond of his unmarried sisters. It was the fact that he had been backwatered that galled him. He knew he was at least as good a general as Grant, and better than Sherman. In the beginning he had been cursed with assignments under dullards like Rosecrans. who still hadn’t pushed the outnumbered Bragg into battle, and Halleck himself. Hell, if he’d been commanding instead of Rosecrans. Bragg’s army would be retreating through the Gulf of Mexico by now.

Despite his confidence in his own abilities. George Thomas was a modest man who disliked show-off generals like McClellan. He cared for his men with a father-like concern and they reciprocated by calling him “Pap,” for pappy. His concern for his men sometimes led him to be meticulous in his planning and that sometimes exasperated those who were higher up than he.

Despite his stint in purgatory, Thomas had won a number of small battles, fought well in larger ones, and forced people to notice his abilities.

Finally, he had been given a command worthy of his own expectations even though it was under Grant. Ulysses Grant was four years his junior and hadn’t even been in the army at the beginning of the hostilities, while Thomas had been a major in the regulars. Thomas had swallowed his pride and taken command of the Union forces defending Baltimore. It was some solace that his new command was almost twice that of the entire U.S. Army at the beginning of the war.

George Thomas’s role was to shift to Washington and take command over Meade’s smaller field force when the Confederates moved to his south. He would then pressure Lee into a battle. This suited Thomas just fine. The sooner Lee was defeated, the sooner the damned war would be over and he could start talking to his relatives. If he wanted to, of course. He had begun to think he’d never return to Virginia.

However, all of this depended on orders from Grant, who was choreographing the whole thing and, in Thomas’s grudging opinion, doing a fine job. So where, then, were the orders? In anticipation of getting the word from Grant, his army was prepared to move, and part of one corps, Major General James McPherson’s, was already on trains and marking time throughout the night.

Thomas was normally quite calm, but this day the burly general was concerned. Thus, when trainloads of men from Sherman’s army began to arrive, Thomas was puzzled and angry. Where the hell were the orders to move? Obviously, Sherman had gotten his, so where were those for Thomas’s army? Then when telegrams from Washington started to come in informing him that some fighting was occurring, General Thomas had the sickening feeling that something had gone wrong.

Thomas took a deep breath and calmed himself. It was time to actually be a general and not just an order taker. He might catch hell for taking the initiative, but he was not built to stand and let the world pass him by. It barely occurred to him that, by taking prompt action, he might divest himself of what he felt was an undeserved reputation for being too slow.

Thomas located McPherson standing by his train and watching the arrival of Sherman’s lead units. “Everything s fucked up,” Thomas said. “Go now.” McPherson was quickly alert. “We have orders?”

“The hell with orders.” Thomas snarled. His anger was towards the situation, and not the thirty-two-year-old McPherson, who was one of the better generals he’d ever commanded. If McPherson was surprised by the unusual outburst, he didn’t show it.

“Only Logan’s division is on trains.” McPherson said. “What about the rest?”

Thomas thought quickly. Flexibility was needed. His preference was for thorough planning, but there was no time for that luxury. He had to improvise. His own empty trains were being blocked on sidings by Sherman’s arrivals. When Colonel Haupt found out what was happening to his precious schedules, the colonel would shit.

“Sherman’s men are arriving and they’re already on trains. I’m not going to waste time getting them off and your men on. If something’s fucked up in Washington, it needs tending to right away.

Sherman’s boys’ll simply follow you, and you do what you have to with them. I’ll square it with Sherman and Grant, and well sort them out later. Is that a problem?” McPherson assured him it wasn’t and strode off. Minutes later, the first trainload of Union troops began to chug its way towards Washington.

Major General George Thomas took a deep breath and wondered if he’d saved the day or messed it up utterly. He’d tried to cover his ass by sending a telegram to Grant telling him what he’d done in the absence of orders that made any sense. At least no one would ever again call him over-meticulous.

Colonel John Rawlins knew the shame and nausea that came from failure. The first telegrams from Washington telling of the Confederate attack and asking where Thomas was were fobbed off. Thomas was on his way. He was slower than Grant liked, but he did his job and did it well. Thomas would be there. He had been ordered to Washington, and Grant had every confidence that Thomas would get there before Lee could do much damage.

But when a telegram came from Thomas stating that Sherman’s men were arriving and asking should he or should he not proceed to help Meade, it had shocked Grant’s staff and stunned Rawlins who, as chief of staff, had the responsibility for sending out all orders. Grant had remained outwardly imperturbable, but he had fixed Rawlins with the icy glare he used to intimidate and crumple those who crossed him.