Headquarters Army of Northern Virginia
August 20,1863 4:00 A.M.
'T'here had been precious little sleep, and with the JL announcement that Pete Longstreet had arrived, Walter had come in as ordered, bearing a cup of coffee, and gendy shaken him awake. As Lee stood and stretched, he wiped his brow; the night was sultry, hot, promising another day of killing heat. He pitied his men having to fight in this.
Walter handed him the tin cup, and he gratefully took it, gingerly holding the handle, blowing on the rim, inhaling the rich fragrance.
He caught a glimpse of Longstreet standing outside and motioned for him to come in. Pete looked haggard, eyes dark, blood staining his uniform. Venable had told him about their nearly getting overrun by the charge, of Pete in the middle of it, pistol drawn, dropping a Yankee at nearly point-blank range.
Pete was carrying a cup of coffee as well, and Lee motioned for him to sit down on one of the folding camp chairs.
"General Longstreet, a favor this day," Lee said.
"Anything, sir."
"Stay back from the fighting."
Longstreet lowered his head.
"It caught me by surprise as well, sir, that charge, the way they came in. I didn't expect it."
"Even if they didn't charge, you were within easy range of musket fire. I cannot bear to lose you, sir, you have become my right arm."
He chose that phrase deliberately and Longstreet looked up at him startled, features suddenly going red.
"Thank you, sir. I will of course follow your orders."
"Very good, General; now tell me what has transpired."
He briefly reviewed the previous day's action, Lee shaking his head as Pete described the breaking of Pickett's division and the relentless Yankee charge that followed.
"I thought all division commanders were clearly aware that we cannot afford the loss of a single man in such an action. Why did General Pickett press the attack so? Why did he not fall back as we discussed in our last staff meeting prior to the return march on Washington?"
"Sir, you know George. His enthusiasm for a fight was up; he thought he saw a chance to drive the Yankees."
"An entire corps or more?"
"I know. I should have come up earlier to supervise him, but the long march; frankly, sir, I'll confess I was on the point of collapse myself from the heat."
"Don't blame yourself. That is why we are supposed to have division commanders, men who can think independently when required, but also men who can balance that independence with an understanding of the broader scope of the plan. I am gravely disappointed in General Pickett for throwing such a fine division into a frontal battle when he should have given ground back slowly, leading Sickles into our main advance."
"I agree."
"I am not going to relieve him, but I shall indeed talk to him once this fight is over. Now, tell me, how bad was it?"
"The returns still are not in, a lot of stragglers, but I believe we lost close to five thousand men yesterday, roughly four thousand of those with Pickett. Garnett is dead, Kemper severely wounded and out of this campaign."
Lee sighed. Another division fought out Four veteran divisions fought out since June; Heth, Pender, Anderson, and Pickett nothing more than shattered wrecks. God, how much longer can we bear this cost?
"There is one positive side to this," Longstreet interjected. "Pickett savaged their Third Corps. We took some prisoners when they finally fell back, and word is that their First Division is now a hollow wreck."
'Trading man for man is a game we can never win," Lee replied.
"I know that, General, sir, but as you have told me repeatedly these last few weeks, this is a battle against General Sickles. That was his old corps and he had his pride in that corps. Well, sir, I understand that pride. His men took terrible losses yesterday, but ultimately they did drive one of our best divisions from the field. Sickles will be spoiling for a new fight this morning."
Lee nodded in agreement.
"Everything is set?"
"Yes, sir. We will engage just after dawn, then retreat as you planned."
Lee smiled, blowing again on the rim of his cup. Yes, Longstreet was right. It was a chess match, and Sickles would move aggressively forward, especially if he thought he saw the queen moving off the field. His passions would be up after yesterday's losses and the momentary glimpse of what he thought was victory. Lee understood that feeling; it had almost seized him as well more than once.
"Fine then, General. It's after four in the morning. Daylight will be upon us soon. God watch over you. I am going to join Beauregard on the left and I will see you at sundown when we close on Sickles's army."
Headquarters Army of the Potomac
August 20, 1863 4:30 A.M
Gen. Dan Sickles stepped out of his tent, stretching, looking out across the plains south of Gunpowder River. The smoke from a thousand circling camps hung low in the early-morning mist, men gathered about the fires, cooking breakfasts, orders ringing in the still air, companies beginning to form up.
All of it filled him with a deep pleasure, a love for all that this had given him. The smell of fatback frying, the wood smoke, the rich heavy air of an August morning, the shadowy glimpses of companies forming lines, companies forming into regiments, and regiments into brigades, all these were sources of satisfaction.
Men were beginning to load up, rolling up blanket rolls and slinging them on, buttoning uniform jackets. A group of men from one of his New York regiments were gathered in a circle, on their knees, heads bowed as a priest offered absolution and then communion. Nearby another group, Baptists probably, were standing with heads bowed as one of them read a Psalm.
Here and there a drum sounded, a few notes of a bugle; a flag was uncased and held up, officers rode back and forth shouting orders and encouragements. All of it sent a chill down his spine. A few years back he couldn't have dreamed that there would be such a moment in his life, and.he thanked God that it had been given to him. He loved this army more than his own ambitions. His pride in it was unbounded, and today he would do his all to see them served rightly, to give unto them the victory they had thirsted for across two bitter years, a victory they so richly deserved. Once achieved, nothing could ever take that away from them, no general out of the West, no president in the White House. No one could ever steal away again the honor of the Army of the Potomac.
Yesterday, in that final charge, he had sensed the moment when Warren had swept forward, thought that perhaps here was the moment when they would see the Army of Northern Virginia break at last, flee the field, the glorious banner, the Stars and Stripes, sweeping the field of all who dared to oppose it. It had been so close, except for that final shock, the cunning trap at the edge of the cornfield. He had to admit it was masterful, a grudging nod to old foes, most likely Long-street.
But that would not happen today.
All three corps were deploying now. His battered Third on the left, the Fifth to the right, again the Sixth in the second line. They would advance as one. If Lee wished a stand-up fight like yesterday, he would give it to him, but he doubted if Lee would stand. He knew the numbers. Lee could no longer afford such losses; he would give back, retreat, most likely falling back on the defenses of Baltimore. If they could but trigger the beginning of a rout, get Lee dislodged, just for once, and on the run, they could bowl him over and win the day, and in that winning of the day win the war.
And, thinking coldly, he knew it had to be today. Parker was still with him, still waving his orders. If he did not press the engagement at dawn, claiming he was forced into the fight, he would have to fall back as ordered. If he refused a direct order while not caught in the heat of battle, even his staunchest advocates would no longer be able to defend him. And once he pulled back, he knew Grant would replace him. He had to press it today; this was his one and only chance, and he smiled at the thought of it This was just the kind of gambit he reveled in.
An orderly came up, leading his mount Already, in the predawn light, the skirmish lines were coming to life after their night of informal truce. The battle had begun.
The White House
August 20, 1863 5:00 AM.
‘Good morning, Jim, how are you today?'
Lincoln walked into the kitchen, and at the sight of him the servants began to scurry. James Bartlett who obviously had been asleep, head resting on a table, looked up, startled, and came to his feet Lincoln smiled.
"Sorry, Mr. President, must have dozed off," James said a bit nervously, and Lincoln smiled again.
"Wish I could doze off like that It's been a long night" "Sir, would you like some breakfast?" James asked. "What do we have?"
"I could get you a nice slab of smoked ham, sir, a couple of eggs, freshly ground coffee." "That sounds good, Jim."
The servant looked over at the kitchen staff, who did not need to be told. Within seconds the ham was being sliced, eggs cracked into a frying pan. Lincoln sat down at the servants' kitchen table and motioned for Jim to sit as well. The man looked at him, a bit surprised.
"I'd like some company for breakfast Jim, join me."
"Sir?"
"You must be hungry, too, after a long night. Make that an order for two breakfasts and join me." "Yes, Mr. President"
The staff looked over at the two wide-eyed, saying nothing as more eggs went into the frying pan.
"Have you heard at all from your son and grandson?" Lincoln asked.
"Not a word in nearly two weeks, sir. I know they're drilling in Philadelphia; word is they are to become part of General Burnside's corps."
"Not a word?"
"No, sir, the last letter was dated two weeks back. They're in good health and they say the men of their regiments are eager to get into the fight"
Lincoln smiled. His letter to Jim's son was a secret; word would come back soon enough, and he could imagine the man's delight, this man who had known every president since Jefferson. It was not in any way whatsoever a calculated move, though he knew that everything a president did, from where he walked to whom he smiled at, was reported and commented on remorselessly. If a letter from a president to a colored soldier should become news, then so be it. It would show his own resolve on this matter and serve notice as to his intentions once this madness was finished.
They were coming down now, in this crisis, to a question of numbers, and the men of his breakfast companion's race might very well be the final weight that tipped the scales.
After the horror of the draft riots, he had carefully and quietly rescinded the draft in most places. Besides, Grant and others reported that the draftee troops coming in were worse than useless, an actual burden on the army, the bulk of them deserting, many of them, besmirching the honor of their uniforms by thievery, desertion, cowardice. The Vacant ranks must be filled, but in this country the tradition still was that it had to be volunteers. After the disasters of the spring and summer, draftees and bounty men were not the answer, and in fact would hinder this final effort.
It would have to be the men of color of this nation. The offer now was plain and clear. Not just emancipation, though he knew that if he was ever to honor the promise of the Declaration of Independence, full emancipation for all was a foregone conclusion. But what after that? There was a time when he had agreed to the idea of returning these men and women of Africa back to their homeland, filled with doubt that after the bitter legacy of slavery, and the way it polluted both sides, the two races could live side by side.
He knew now that was impossible. As he looked at Jim, who sat self-consciously across the table from him, as he looked into this man's eyes, he could see the divine spark, the core of humanity that made him an equal in every sense of the word. It was the quiet, humble courage of this man on the terrible day when it looked as if Washington might fall that had stiffened his own resolve. It was the look on the faces of the men of Colonel Shaw's regiment as they charged to the front, the pride in their faces when the following week he had received a delegation of them in the White House, that made him realize that all along he had been guided toward this path and understanding.
The promise had to be full equality, full rights, a place beside all men. This was now the great experiment of this nation. For more than four score years the experiment had simply been one of freedom-could common men govern themselves wisely? Most of the world had at first watched scornfully but now stood in admiration, and, for some, yes, even fear for all that this rule of common man implied.
Now that question had evolved to the more fundamental one-could they indeed create a nation in which all men did have full and equal rights? A new America was evolving; the poet he had met sang of it, of a brawling, growing strength, of farms, factories, cities, and villages filling an entire continent. Men and women from around the world were now flooding in, drawn by the promise of the dream, of those first lines of the Declaration. The Irish with their strange Catholic ways, which many hated, but it was the Irish who had stormed the heights of Fredericksburg and Union Mills, and surely their blood had bought them a right to this land. The Germans, the Scandinavians filling the woods of Minnesota, even the Chinese coming off the boats in San Francisco to work the gold fields. Was this not now the great experiment, and were not the son and grandson of the man sitting across from him entitled to it as well?
Though Jim did not know it, at this very moment his son and grandson, dressed in Union blue, rifles in hand, were most likely in Harrisburg, and in another month would march forth, and perhaps die in battle. Like the Savior, they would shed their blood for the sins of others, and he must see that there would be some offer of hope, some light at the end for them.
A servant put a plate down in front of Lincoln and then one before Jim. Jim was looking at him, saying nothing, as Lincoln silently mused.
"May I offer a prayer, Mr. President?"
"Of course."
The two lowered their heads.
"Merciful God. Please guide this man who sits before me. Guide him as he leads our nation to a just peace, a peace where North and South, former slave and former master, can sit together and break bread together in charity and peace.
And, dear Jesus, please extend Thy loving blessing to my son and grandson when they march upon the battlefield. If it is Your will that they should fall, let them die with honor in service to our country.
"We thank You for the blessing of this food. Amen."
Jim looked back up, gazing into Lincoln's eyes. Lincoln did not know what to say. Many had prayed over and for him over the years, but few prayers were as heartfelt as this one.
He knew that this morning, like so many other mornings of these last few months, the fate of the nation might be in the balance. Sickles's army might just win, but if defeated it could give Lee a free hand yet again, perhaps to turn back here or to even force the Susquehanna and march on Wilmington and Philadelphia.
But it was out of his hands now… and, strangely, he felt at peace.
"Thank you, Jim," he said softly. "Now let's enjoy our meal together."
Two Miles South of Gunpowder River, Maryland
August 20, 1863 6:15 A.M
Dan Sickles reined in atop a low rise where a knot of officers were gathered. He recognized Birney, dismounted, a field telescope resting across the saddle of his mount. Dan rode up to join him. "Damn strange," Birney announced, pointing south. A constant rattle of musketry echoed around them, but the fire was light all along the line. It was more like an open field skirmish than a major battle fought at a divisional level. They had advanced well over a mile in the last hour across the same ground that the Sixth Corps had charged yesterday, passing the horrible wreckage and destruction of the previous day, but there had been no hard contact. The dreaded woodlot, where so many hundreds had fallen, was now in their hands after a brief, sharp skirmish, but of nowhere near the intensity of the day before.
Dan came up to Birney's side, and his corps commander offered the telescope.
"Look down that road, about three or four miles, I'd judge."
Dan took the long tube, balanced it on the saddle, adjusted the focus slightly. Yes, it was a column of troops, some wagons mingled in, and they were heading south, away from the fight.
He handed the telescope back to Birney.
"There's no fight in them this morning. We push and they give. I know we have Hood's old division to our front, some contact with Early, and McLaws to our right, but nothing else; it's damn curious. Anything from the cavalry?"
Dan shook his head.
As usual, Stoneman's troopers were almost useless. They had gone into this campaign not fully mounted; after the horrible drubbing of the last month they were timid, slow, and now easily contained by Stuart, who ranged along the left front and overlapped the left flank as well.
"Prisoners?"
"A couple of dozen. Mostly exhausted stragglers. Word is they pushed all the way up from Washington in yesterday's heat and are played out Most of them are saying the rest of Lee's army is stuck south of Baltimore; they just couldn't keep up the pace of the march and the order is to now fall back into the city and dig in."
Dan took this in.
"Any other reports?"
'Two prisoners state the whole thing is a ruse, that all of Lee's army is out there. One of them says he's a deserter from a supply train and Hood is just waiting for us to close."
"Any civilians?"
"Very few; most lit out when the fighting started." Dan grunted, saying nothing, pacing back and forth for a moment, digesting the information. He had expected by now that they would have been into a full-scale, head-on fight, a toe-to-toe brawl where the Army of the Potomac would prove its mettle and drive the rebels from the field. Now this.
Was it a trap, or was he retreating?
Sickles wiped the sweat from his brow. Already the temperature must be well into the mid to high eighties. He uncased his field glasses, braced them, and scanned the ground ahead.
It was a broad, open plain, gently rolling ground, scattered farmhouses, a few small villages. A half mile away, wavering lines of blue deployed in battle order moved forward, a quarter mile ahead of them a heavy line of skirmishers, puffs of smoke marking their advance. In front of his own skirmishers he could see darker forms, giving back. Firing a shot or two, running, falling in behind a fence or tree to fire another shot, then falling back again.
Their retreat was orderly, unhurried, no sense of panic, as if they were following orders given before the start of the day.
He lowered his field glasses and continued to pace.
Hold, advance, or press on aggressively?
Was it possible that yesterday's fight had broken something in Lee? Their advance had revealed the extent of casualties inflicted, five thousand, maybe seven or eight-if that many, it would be a goodly percentage of Lee's best troops.
Could he have broken Lee's will to offensive action yesterday? If so, what a fitting testament to his boys of the Third, a laurel to a crown they so richly deserved.
But what now?
A small voice of caution whispered to hold up here, let Stoneman probe forward. Let his men rest through what would be a day of frightful heat, then push on in the evening.
But if he did that, Lee would withdraw into the fortifications of Baltimore, and there was the other factor.
He looked over his shoulder. Ely Parker was still trailing along behind his staff. There was no way he could order the man off the field; he was, after all, an official representative of the field commander. If I stop now, that man would again press me to retire as ordered, and it would be all but impossible to deny that order and keep my command. For that matter, unless he finished this with a resounding victory, Grant would most likely remove him anyhow.
No, he had to continue the advance.
He raised his field glasses yet again, focusing on the distant road. It was hard to distinguish, but it looked as if a wagon had just broken down. A dozen men were around it, disconnecting the mules, and then they simply upended it off the road.
Curious. It wasn't like the rebels to abandon a wagon like that. Were they actually retreating, with orders to abandon anything that could not be taken along? Already his advance had captured a half dozen guns-spiked, true, but still abandoned and captured.
Was this Chancellorsville again? Were they moving? He remembered the moment with deep bitterness. If Hooker had only unleashed him, he would have plowed into Jackson on the march and finished him. The same on the second morning at Gettysburg. – No, never again.
He looked over at Birney.
"They're retreating, that's clear enough."
Birney reluctantly nodded, saying nothing, features flushed.
"I want the advance redoubled. I want our main line to go forward quickly and establish contact. If they are retreating I think we can push them off balance, and once they are off balance we must drive them, sweep them up."
"It's going to be a killer of a day," Birney offered, shading his eyes and looking at the blood-red orb of the sun.
"The same weather for both us and them."
His gaze fixed on Ely, who said nothing.
"No orders from General Grant this morning?" Sickles asked.
"You know the orders, sir."
"I have a beaten foe in retreat, Colonel. My duty this day is clear. Once I'm finished, General Grant may come down and claim what he wishes."
Ely did not rise to the bait and the scornful looks of Sick-les's staff.
Sickles mounted.
"I want a general advance all along the line. Push the men on the double, if need be, until we establish contact I want to force them off those roads and to form a rear guard. Then we will overrun them. Gentlemen, this will be a footrace, and to the fastest runner goes the victory!"
A ragged cheer erupted as he spurred his mount and headed forward.
Ely reined up beside Birney, who was mounting as well.
"Do you think all of Lee's army is in retreat?" Ely asked.
"It's not my opinion that counts, Colonel," Birney replied coolly. "But I'll tell you this. This army has been misused too many times, mostly through temerity. We just might be on to Lee in retreat, his forces spread out We could see that at Antietam, at Second Manassas, at Chancellorsville-hell, in damn near every battle we've ever been in. If General Sickles is right, we could finish it this day, before they retreat into the fortifications at Baltimore."
"And what does General Lee think at this moment?"
Bimey looked at him, saying nothing.
"There is a third corps, Beauregard's. Have you marked their position?".
Bimey shook his head.
"I would be concerned."
"Every battle is a concern," Birney replied, now into his saddle, bringing his mount about, facing south.
"You might not believe this, General," Ely said, "but I actually do pray that your General Sickles is right"
"So do I," Bimey said with a smile. Spurring his mount, he galloped off, following his commander down into the open plains.
Six Miles to the West,
in the Valley of the Gunpowder River, Maryland
August 20,1863 7:30 AM.
The vast columns were deployed, the twenty thousand men of Beauregard's brigades. For the men who had fought in the swamps and heat in defense of Charleston, this was nothing new, another day that promised temperatures near a hundred degrees. They had long ago grown used to it, or died. For the militia regiments, the home guards, some of them from the cool mountains of western North Carolina and eastern Tennessee, the last day had been a torture, their ranks already thinned by half from straggling, scores of their comrades dead, collapsing from heatstroke.
They had filed west and north throughout the previous day, following back tracks and farm lanes, a route that Lee and Jed Hotchkiss had ridden over the week before, while contemplating what to do if Sickles should indeed jump first.
Though Lee loathed analogies with Napoleon, especially when applied to himself and his army, he had to admit it was indeed something like Austerlitz. He had picked this ground long before the battle and analyzed it. He had conceded what Sickles would perceive to be the good ground, on the banks of the Gunpowder River down close to the Chesapeake. If he had fought him there, he would have held the good ground, to be certain, but it would have been a bloody, senseless fight, with severe casualties and little to show once Sickles was beaten and had retreated. Granted, he had lost five times the number he had wished for yesterday, but it had indeed lured Sickles across that stream.
And now Sickles was pushing south. A courier had just come in reporting that the Union commander had increased the pace of his advance, was pressing into the rear of Hood's and Longstreet's supposed retreat. In another two miles he would finally run up against what the rebel forces were already calling "the line," a hundred and thirty-five guns concealed behind a reverse slope.
Stuart was shadowing the flank, keeping any probing eyes back. All civilians, painful as it might be, had been rousted out, ordered, "for their own welfare," to abandon their homes and retreat toward Baltimore. In Virginia he would not have worried, but here in Maryland, one or two civilians bearing tidings of a rebel column having disappeared late the day before, marching to the northwest, might have been warning enough to stop Sickles.
Sickles was playing his hand as Lee thought he would. The tantalizing chance to finally catch the Army of Northern Virginia on the march would be too much for Wm to not grab for.
All they needed to do now was to wait for the sound of the guns.
August 20,1863 9:00 am
‘Sir, I think we got a problem ahead!" Dan looked over at the courier riding in, a cavalryman, John Buford's old division. "What is it?"
"Sir, we're moving ahead of the Second Division of the Third Corps, and we seen a hell of a lot of guns." "What kind of guns?"
"Artillery, sir, rows of 'em. Maybe twenty or more batteries. One of the boys climbed a church steeple to get a look around and he seen them down in the next valley. I was ordered to come back here and find you."
"Are they moving?"
"No, sir, that's just it. Their gunners are standing ready." "I'm coming."
Following the cavalryman, his staff trailing, they rode across an open pasture. Some stragglers dotted the field, men already dropping out because of the heat and exhaustion. A few wounded in the field, an ambulance up to retrieve them, one of them a rebel officer, sitting on the ground, holding a leg up as a hospital orderly tightened a tourniquet. The man grimaced, saw Dan, and offered a salute, which Dan returned.
"Hot day, General."
'That it is, Captain."
"Gonna get a hell of a lot hotter for you soon, General."
The rebel was grinning now, and Dan rode on.
He came to a split-rail fence, rode parallel to it for fifty yards until he found a place where it had been knocked down, a few more casualties, Union and Confederate together, sitting and lying under the shade of an apple tree, the men who had fought each other only minutes before now talking, a rebel holding a canteen for a young Yankee cavalryman, the boy gut-shot.
He rode up through the orchard, its lower branches picked clean even in the middle of a running fight; soldiers of both sides would forage even if the apples were still green.
More men ahead, a ragged combination of columns and lines, white insignia of the Third Corps, Second Division, on their caps. Few if any still had on field packs or blanket rolls. Many, against usual custom, had their bluejackets off in the heat, but they still carried rifles and cartridge boxes, which was all that mattered to him at this moment.
The column was stalled as he rode past. He caught sight of a regimental commander.
"Why are you stopped?" Dan shouted.
"Sir, we just got word from the skirmish line up front that there's trouble ahead."
"What, damn it?"
"Artillery."
"Then go forward and take it!" Dan shouted.
He pushed ahead of the column. Looking to his left and right he saw where the entire division was stalled, formation ragged, some still in battle line, some in column by company front, flags hanging limp in the still, humid air.
Ahead he could see a heavy skirmish line atop a low crest, each man several feet apart from comrade to left or right, some standing, others crouching. He rode up to them, men looking back as they heard his approach.
"Keep this line moving, goddamn it! We are going to Baltimore by tonight. Keep it moving!"
August 20,1863 9:10 AM.
‘They’ve slowed Sir, Porter Alexander, at General Longstreet's side, pointed to the low crest six hundred yards away. A Yankee skirmish line was atop the crest having appeared only minutes ago, and the sight that greeted them had undoubtedly caused their coming to a halt.
Twenty-six batteries, a hundred and thirty-five guns, nearly all of them pieces captured at Union Mills, were deployed across a front of more than half a mile. Most of the gunners were new to their tasks, men pressed into the artillery from infantry service, each crew having but one or two veterans to try and train and direct the new hands. But the men were eager, like boys with a new toy. Their morale was good, many gladly proclaiming that if they had known how soft life was in the artillery they would have joined years ago. Then again, none of them had yet to endure a close-in fight, known the terror of mechanically loading while infantry took aim from fifty yards away, or the horror of what happened when a twelve-pound solid shot took the wheel off a gun, flying splinters tearing the crew apart.
Longstreet was silent, watching the opposite crest If the skirmishers were this close, it was evident that the advancing army was not far behind. Even now they would most likely be pushing around the flanks of this position. The feigned retreat was almost over.
"Now, Porter, give it to 'em now. Remember, this is a signal as well!"
Porter grinned and stood up in his stirrups, clenched fist held heavenward.
"Battalions, on my command!" The cry raced down the line. "Fire!"