Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 (14 page)

"I see." Lincoln looked at him intently.

His cigar almost finished, Grant let it drop, crushing the embers out with his heel.

"Mr. President, I hope this does not seem rude, but I must move south. You are welcome to join me."

Lincoln laughed softly.

"But tending to a president might be a hindrance at this moment."

"I didn't say that, sir."

"But you might be thinking it."

Grant looked up at him, not sure how to react, and Lincoln smiled.

"I've seen all I need to see here, General. I know the armies of the Republic are in good hands. Do your duty." "Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

"And do not let Lee escape. Finish him and finish this war," Lincoln said forcefully.

"I will do all in my power to achieve that, sir." Lincoln extended his hand. "I know you will."

The two turned and walked back toward the awning, where Ely was still busy writing out orders and Sheridan stood silent, waiting.

"This Sheridan. He's from the West, isn't he?" Lincoln asked.

"Yes, sir. Fought under Rosecrans, gained a reputation as a hard driver at Stone's River and Perryville." "You ever see him in action?" "No, sir, not personally." "Why did you bring him east?"

"I heard this man just doesn't know when to quit. He's tough, aggressive. Yes, a bit of a showman, but it's always good to have one like that in your army. I didn't want to strip any more officers out of Sherman's command, but word was Sheridan is good, so I ordered him east a couple of weeks back."

"His job?"

"At the moment, a general in my back pocket. I've been watching him carefully. He's acting right now as an assistant, being my eyes where I can't be, and doing a fine job of it."

"I don't get your meaning. About him being in your back pocket."

"In case I need to fire someone, sir, or someone is wounded and can't continue in command," Grant said quiedy.

Lincoln nodded. Good planning. Long before he had crossed the line with his decision to replace Stanton, he had Washburne marked for the job.

The two paused, Lincoln putting out a friendly hand, resting it on Grant's shoulder.

"I'll be back in Washington by this time tomorrow. I've thought it over and agree to your replacing Heintzelman with Winfield Hancock if the man is physically up to the job. I'll see that your request regarding the garrison in Washington is carried through and will inform Secretary Washbume of your other plans. I will confess I hesitated as I contemplated it last night. Perhaps it was this latest news, this thought that Lee just might escape south of the Potomac because of the pontoon bridge."

He looked Grant straight in the eyes.

"Perhaps instead it's the trust I now have in your judgment. You did not hesitate a few minutes back when Sheridan came in with that dispatch. There was no panicking, no running about, no calling for yet another staff meeting and hours wasted as a result. You run things as I've wanted to see them run for over two years, Grant. I trust you."

"Thank you for that confidence, sir. I will see that I continue to hold it."

"God be with you, General Grant."

"And with you and the Union, sir," Grant replied.

Lincoln said nothing more, turning and walking off to where an orderly already had his horse ready to go. Grant looked over to Sheridan and gestured for him to join Lincoln. Phil mounted and trotted over to the president's side to escort him back to the railhead.

The two rode off.

Grant watched them leave, troops along the road cheering as they saw. Lincoln riding toward them, then turning north, heading up the valley for the long trip back to Washington. Soon they were gone from view, while before him the endless column continued to march by.

"Ely," Grant said, without looking back, "I want those dispatches now."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Near Taneytown, Maryland

August 24 1:30 P.M.

A
fter riding hard, Capt. Phil Duvall reined in before the mansion on the outskirts of Taneytown. In the previous few minutes he and his command had crossed through the battlefield of the previous month, an experience that had cut into his heart.

Everywhere there were shallow sunken depressions of upturned earth, the graves of the thousands who had died here on July 2.

Phil remembered a quote from Wellington he had learned at West Point, that the only thing as depressing as a battlefield lost was a battlefield won.

No one could tell the difference between won or lost now. The air was thick with that sickly sweet smell of death, more than one of his troopers, hardened as they might be, vomited even as they rode.

Ever since leaving Hanover they had crossed over the ground the armies had campaigned across and fought on in the Gettysburg-Union Mills campaign. Sunken graves, decaying horses still unburied, overturned caissons, burnt wagons. He was stunned to discover in Gettysburg a hospital tended by Union volunteers of the Sanitary Commission filled with hundreds of patients, Union and Confederate. The
men had been there ever since the battles of early July, too sick or injured to be moved.

One of the volunteers, a woman, had burst into tears at the sight of him. "Not another battle here," she cried. "Not another battle."

The memory of her was sobering. He could see in her his own mother and sisters. Such women were always there after the fight, to clean up the wreckage after the armies moved on, to hold hands late at night as boys continued to die, long after the gods of war had gone elsewhere in quest of victims.

Taneytown itself was a scene of utter wreckage—homes burned, crops trampled down and rotting, civilians silent and sullen as he rode in.

They had passed a regimental graveyard, a rough-hewn plank marking it as men of the Twentieth Maine. He had heard of their stand and annihilation by Pickett. Over three score were buried there, shallow graves that had washed out in the rains, and then been scavenged by wild pigs and dogs. The sight sickened him. Rotting blue fragments of uniforms, a skeletal hand half raised out of a grave, an overturned wagon, burned out, broken remnants of ammunition boxes littering the field.

Waste, nothing but damn waste.
Is this where I shall be a month from now?
he wondered. He wondered as well what his men thought as they trotted across the battlefield, silent, grim faced.

As he dismounted before the mansion, he looked about. Supposedly, both Meade and Lee had used this mansion during the earlier campaign. He walked up the steps of the mansion, knocked on the door, and waited. No one answered at first until finally, after a long minute, a black servant opened the door.

"May I use your home?" Phil asked. 'The owners aren't home."

"I just need to use your top floor for a few minutes," Phil said politely.

The servant opened the door and let him in.

"Sir, is there gonna be fighting around here again?"

"No. We're just riding through."

"General Lee used this is as his headquarters during the last fight. It was terrible, sir, the fighting around here."

The servant pointed to broken windows, covered over with pieces of paper, bullet holes pocking the side of the house facing the town, a shattered eave struck by a shell.

"Don't worry. We're just riding through."

As he walked down the corridor to the main staircase Phil saw that whoever owned this place had simply left. Bits of paper still littered the floor. A table in the room to the left rested in the center of the room, chairs drawn up around it, a map marked with penciled lines still there, as if Lee and his staff had departed only minutes before.

"I'm the only one here to look after the place," the servant said apologetically. "Been meaning to get around to cleaning all this up."

The opposite parlor across the hallway had obviously been used as a hospital. Carpets and walls were stained with dried blood, furniture was upended and piled in a corner, the room still having a lingering, sickening smell to it.

He bounded up the stairs, going to the third floor, then scaled the ladder up to the cupola, Sergeant Lucas behind him.

Breathing-hard, Phil uncased his field glasses and looked back down the road he had just traversed with his small company. Behind him, not three miles away, was a column of Yankee troopers. Not a company or regiment, it had to be a brigade or more the way the dust swirled up behind them, clear back to the horizon.

"Custer?" Lucas asked.

"Yup. It's gotta be him."

"Driving damn hard," Lucas said.

'That's George," Phil said drily.

He remembered many an afternoon, George and he, out for a ride after seeing to their duties as cadets, trotting along the heights overlooking the Hudson, talking about all their hopes and dreams of glory. The war was still ahead, the arguing and shouting of politicians of no concern to them during those wonderful days but four years ago. Their talk instead was of what it might be like out on the great prairies of the West, with endless horizons ahead of them, or perhaps a posting to California or Charleston and the lovely belles that might await them there.

He smiled with the memory, how on so many nights, after lights out, they'd lighted a candle concealed behind a blanket and he'd sat up with George, reviewing yet again plane geometry or French, trying to coax his roommate along, to keep him, last in his class, from flunking out.

On those rides together George would inevitably challenge him to race, and off they would gallop together, George usually winning and teasing him about the legend that southern boys could always beat a Yankee on horseback.

So now we are in race again, old friend,
Phil thought as he raised his field glasses and scanned the horizon,
but this time, I have to beat you at it.

He scanned the horizon. The day was clear, no haze. Taking out a map, he propped it against the windowsill, orienting himself. The hills to the north must be Gettysburg, the South Mountain range beyond. He scanned that way. Nothing. No troop movements, at least on this side of the range, but what was happening beyond it? Well, that was a mystery.

Looking toward Gettysburg he thought he caught a gleam of reflected light, perhaps some dust. Infantry? It was impossible to tell.

George, though, was obviously driving southwest, coming straight at him. If so, what was his goal?

Shadow the east side of the mountains? Why moving so fast? If he was to provide a screen for the advancing infantry, they'd still be a dozen miles back. Was he heading for some objective this way? Phil traced a finger down the map.

Frederick?

Why there, if the bulk of the Union army, as seen by the patrol by Syms, was now north of Hanover? He had sent Syms and a dozen men back north even as they had pulled out of Hanover to try to identify a unit, but so far nothing had been heard from them. He feared Syms was most likely lost.

Frederick. Push hard and he could be in there by tomorrow morning. Block the pass or perhaps take the railroad.

A distant line of skirmishers emerged along the road back to Littlestown, advancing at a trot. Now less than two miles away. In another fifteen minutes they'd be into the town.

Give them a punch here?
he wondered. Leaning out of the cupola he looked down at his ragged command. They had been retreating for nearly two days. Horses were blown, half a dozen men left behind because of a thrown shoe, a mount collapsing.

No, he had to keep pulling back until Stuart sent up reinforcements.

"We keep moving, Sergeant Lucas," Phil said bitterly.

The two raced down the stairs, ignoring the servant, who, amazingly, had actually made up some tea and had it waiting for them.

Coming back out on the porch Lucas shouted for the men to remount and get ready to move.

Duvall leaned against a porch pillar, casing his field glasses, dreading the thought of getting back into the saddle. He had been riding since dawn, was exhausted, and just wished for an hour of uninterrupted sleep.

A clatter of hooves echoed, some of his men turning, raising carbines or pistols, looking toward the road from the mansion back into the village. They relaxed at the sight of Lieutenant Syms. His mount was lathered, foaming, Syms's features pale as he reined in, grimacing with pain.

"Can't believe I found you here," Syms gasped, leaning forward in his saddle, breathing hard.

"You look like hell," Duvall said.

Syms smiled weakly and fainted. Lucas went to his side to help him out of the saddle. Half a dozen willing hands came to his side, carrying him up to the porch of the mansion.

Syms opened his eyes and looked around in confusion. The servant from the mansion knelt by his side and gently held a cup of tea to his lips. Syms took a drink and nodded his thanks.

"Where are the rest of your men?" Phil asked.

"Dead, captured, or played out." "What did you find out?"

"I must have ridden fifty miles since dawn. Circled around Custer's men. By God, are they moving fast!" "I know."