The cost, merciful God," Lincoln sighed as he sat down, holding the tear sheet just handed over by the telegrapher. "The cost."
Elihu was by his side, reading over his shoulder. "Grant held, though," Elihu said. "He held." There was a touch of exuberance in Elihu's voice, but for the moment Lincoln could not react.
"Estimate our losses at twenty-five thousand or more." He kept rereading that one line.
The signal had been sent directly from Grant, to Hagerstown, from there to Harrisburg, then repeated down to Port Deposit. With the recapture of Baltimore, a victory heralded on the front pages of all newspapers across the country, the telegraph line had been restored directly back to Washington.
That number, twenty-five thousand, was now public knowledge. He could picture by this evening hundreds of thousands gathering at telegraphy stations across the nation, anxious parents, wives, children, all waiting for the first casualty reports to come through, names, more names, and yet more names, each one tearing a tragic hole into a family that would never heal.
"Sir?"
It was Elihu, lightly touching him on the shoulder.
Lincoln stirred from his thoughts and looked up.
"Sir, Grant held at Frederick. In fact he reports Lee is retreating, trying to flee Maryland and get across the Potomac to Virginia. That is the coded part which just came through. We have Lee on the run."
Lincoln could only shake his head and sigh.
"Yes, I know, Elihu. As we did last year after Antietam. He slipped the net then and the war continued."
Lost in gloom, Lincoln stood up and walked out of the room. A moment later Elihu heard a clamor out in the street as a cavalry detachment pushed the waiting crowd back, reporters shouting questions, as Lincoln slowly walked across Lafayette Park to return to the White House.
Elihu watched him disappear into the rain, his heart breaking at the sight of the man, who appeared, like Atlas, to be carrying an impossible burden upon his shoulders.
Elihu turned back to the telegrapher.
"A message to Hancock, coded. Inform him to expect a full attack by Lee before the day is out."
Hauling Ferry 2:45pm
Mr. Bartlett?"
Jim was asleep, heading resting on the table. He stirred. It was a white officer.
"Yes, sir?"
"General Hancock wishes to see you, Mr. Bartlett." "Of course."
Jim stood up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, taking a few seconds to wipe his spectacles with a dirty handkerchief. Like so many who fall asleep at midday he was surprised by the bustle of activity around him even as he had dozed. Men were setting up awnings to protect boxes of ammunition being off-loaded from a canal barge, a company of a hundred men, shovels and picks on their shoulders, were coming off the line to eat their noonday meal. They were all covered in mud, soaked to the skin, but their spirits were still high, a team of a hundred moving from the kitchen area back up to replace them, gibes about the food awaiting the returning crew being exchanged.
Jim followed the officer out from under the awning, glad when one of his assistants came up and offered him an army poncho and an army slouch cap to cover himself. The immaculate clothes he wore as a butler at the White House, black coat, trousers, boiled shirt, black cravat, were now filthy, most likely beyond any hope of repair.
He mounted his old swaybacked nag and fell in with the officer by his side.
"Your men, Mr. Bartlett. I never seen such workers," the officer said. "They just don't stop."
Jim smiled at the compliment.
"Thank you, sir. These boys have a reason to be here. Mr. Lincoln gave them that, Mr. Lincoln and you soldiers. We'll dig till we hit China if that is what you need."
The officer chuckled and shook his head.
"Maybe get a few million of them to help us, is that it?"
"I heard say those working out in California on the railroad are mighty fine workers."
"How the country is changing," the officer said.
"How is that, sir?"
He reddened slightly and shook his head. "Oh, nothing." "You mean us colored, the Chinese, and such?" "No offense, Mr. Bartlett."
"None taken, young sir. Yes, the country is changing."
They crested the top of the slope and Jim smiled with satisfaction. Little more than a day ago this had been open fields, woodlots, and just the beginnings of a trench. The entire landscape had been transformed by the terrible needs of war and he smiled because he had had a hand in achieving what needed to be done.
A rectangular bastion was before him, a hundred feet long and about fifty feet broad. The earthen ramparts were eight to ten feet high, all sides around it dug out into a moat. On a raised platform in the center was one of the huge cannons, what the officers were calling a Parrott gun. Four other smaller guns were inside the bastion as well. The entryway was a rough-hewn bridge made of logs split in half.
"Be careful," the officer said, "it's a bit slippery."
Not too sure of himself on horseback Jim decided to dismount and walk in.
Sentries were posted at the entryway. Just behind them, inside the fort, was a stack of logs that he realized could be thrown across the entrance to block it if the fort was surrounded. Within, hundreds of men, all of them soldiers, were forming up, some already positioned at the guns. The officer led the way for Jim as they walked across the muddy ground and up a sloping ramp, paved with logs, to where the great gun rested. Hancock, leaning heavily on his cane, was standing by the muzzle of the gun, field glasses raised, looking toward the road that headed north.
The ground before them was completely transformed. Everything had been cut back for several hundred yards. Trees dropped, brush cleared, sharpened stakes driven into the ground, entrapments dug. Looking north and south Jim saw where long zigzagging entrenchments had been dug in each direction. The one to the left sloped down to the Monocacy. The stream itself was now blocked by a half dozen barges, each mounting a light artillery piece; a rough-hewn bridge, now spanning the creek, was wobbly, and looked as if it would collapse if more than a few men were on it at any time, but it gave them a means of moving men across the creek without relying on the barges and canal.
On the far side there was another bastion, another of the great guns within, more entrenchments, connecting to yet another bastion. Men were still out in the fields forward, working, cutting down trees, even trampling down the corn to deny concealment.
To the south the line continued for over a mile before finally sloping back down to the canal and the Potomac behind it. The position was firmly anchored by two more bastions on this side of the river.
Hancock turned, looked at Jim, and, releasing his cane, eagerly extended his hand. Jim shook it.
"Mr. Bartlett, I felt you should see what your men have done while you slept."
Hancock smiled.
"Sorry, sir. Guess exhaustion caught up with me." "I told everyone not to disturb you. I know you were up most of the night." "Sorry, sir."
"Mr. Bartlett, how old are you?"
"Not rightly sure. Maybe sixty."
"Men half your age have dropped doing less work. I must say, this would have been impossible without you."
Hancock extended his hand, pointing to the defensive line, swayed a bit, and clutched his cane again, using his other hand to brace himself against the iron carriage of the Parrott gun.
"And now we shall need it!"
"Sir?"
"I guess you didn't hear," Hancock said excitedly. "The telegram just came in from Washington. Lee has been defeated at Frederick and is believed to be retreating this way."
"My God," was all Jim could say. His feelings were now so mixed. His son and grandson were up in Frederick, what of them? Yet if Lee was defeated, perhaps that might mean all this was coming to an end. It would also mean he was coming this way.
As if reading his mind, Hancock nodded.
"Lee is undoubtedly coming straight here. Skirmishing just a couple miles up that road is getting heavy. Infantry has been reported. I think he will try to force this position by the end of today."
"Then we keep working till he does show up."
"No, Mr. Bartlett. I think it's time I sent your people out. You've done a magnificent job. I'm convinced we can hold this place now. I wasn't so sure yesterday, but I am today. But still, you are civilians, and I guess I must add, colored civilians. I don't want you and your men here if things turn bad."
"We are staying, sir. No disrespect intended, but we are staying."
Hancock looked at him, not responding.
"Sir, how many cooks in your army? How many stretcher bearers, how many wagon drivers, how many men hauling boxes of ammunition once the fight starts?"
Hancock smiled.
"Quite a few."
"Put rifles in their hands, put them on the line, my men will do whatever is needed. We can fight that way, and we will keep digging right up until the bullets begin to fly."
Hancock hesitated, and then nodded.
"It's against my better judgment sir," he said, and Jim was startled by that one word-"sir." Few whites had ever called him that before.
"Keep your men well organized. Detail off reliable ones to do the tasks you've suggested. The rest of you I want back behind the canal when the shooting really starts."
"Yes, sir," Jim replied with a smile.
"It won't be long now," Hancock said, and he motioned to the north.
In the distance there was a muffled thump, followed seconds later by a crackling sound.
"They're coming up," Hancock said.
He turned away and Jim walked back out of the fort, mounted his old swaybacked horse, and rode back to his own "headquarters." His assistants were gathered round, waiting anxiously.
"We staying?" one of them asked.
Jim nodded.
There were exuberant shouts and Jim held up his hands for silence.
'This will be no picnic," he shouted, and all fell silent.
"A lot of men are going to be dying soon. A lot of men are dying for us. Some of us are going to join them in the dying."
He thought of his own son, his grandson, but forced that thought aside. I can't dwell on that now, he realized.
"We have to get organized to do our part. Here are your assignments."
He detailed men to find and assign drivers, hospital workers, cooks to bring up hot food to the troops. He then fell silent for a moment.
"And the rest of the men?" someone asked.
"Behind the canal embankment. Every man with a shovel, axe, or pick. They'll know what to do if the rebels break through."
In Front of Hauling Ferry 4:30 P.M.
Robert E. Lee pushed forward, watching as his men to either flank deployed out into line of battle. Phil Duvall, former captain, now colonel, rode up to his side.
"Sir, the news I've got isn't good," he announced as he came up to Lee's side. "Go on, Colonel."
"They extended their fortifications during the night. Nearly a mile now farther south than what they had yesterday."
"It was to be expected, Colonel."
"Sir, I must warn you, the fortifications ahead, it's like a week or more of work done in just a day. I don't see how they did it."
"Their numbers?"
"I counted six regimental flags, sir, maybe three or four thousand, and a lot of colored." "What?"
"Workers, they're still digging." "That explains the fortifications." "What I thought, too, sir."
Phil hesitated. Two weeks ago he was just a lowly captain on outpost picket at Carlisle, now he was leading the forward edge of a desperate attempt to seize this river crossing. But he had to speak out "Sir, assaulting this position looks like desperate work to me. Give me to tonight, sir, and I'll find some flanking lanes that can put us down between here and Edwards Ferry."
Lee shook his head but smiled at the offer of this young officer.
"In other times and places, perhaps, Colonel. But would those roads be wide enough for our pontoon bridges? I doubt it. We crossed this ground last year, and I know it well. We'd have to march ten miles south to Poolesville then back west again to the next crossing down. In the meantime they have the canal to move their troops and laborers.
"No, Colonel, we must strike them right here. We go forward, seize the ferry. The river will act as a shield to our right flank and then we put our bridge across. We must do this now, tonight."
Phil sighed and nodded.
"Sir, let me show you a good vantage point."
Lee followed the colonel as he trotted down the muddy road. Troops ahead were falling out, forming up into lines of battle. Three batteries of guns, still limbered, waited in the middle of the road under a canopy of trees dripping moisture.
He turned and rode off, following Duvall up the slope to where he reined in.
The battlements were before him, half a mile away, skirmishers out, already firing from long distance, a scattering of shots from the fortress line coming back.
If this was an open-field fight, he thought, I'd have the crossing in half an hour. I have more than ten thousand of my best with me; they can't have more than three to four thousand here. One solid charge would have swept them aside.
Now, at best, with all those entrenchments and heavy artillery, it's an even chance.
He took a deep breath.
"Order the artillery forward," he said.
The order was passed and a few minutes later a cheer went up from the road, the batteries racing forward, reaching the crest. They did so with their usual elan and precision, turning at right angles at the full gallop, mud and dirt spraying up, two batteries to the south of the road, one to the north. Even before the last gun had appeared three shots ranged out from the bastion line, thirty-pound shells winging in, well aimed, most likely already practiced, one of the shells blowing directly over a double limber wagon, the two caissons of ammunition exploding in a fireball.
The guns swung about, dismounted, and in less than a minute opened up, pounding the bastion with solid shot and case shot.
And then the heavy hundred-pounder erupted. There was a brilliant flash, four seconds later a thunderclap roar as the shell hit the ground just forward of the slope, sending a geyser of dirt and mud a hundred feet into the air, dropping several gunners.
In the fields behind the slope the first wave of infantry was beginning to advance. There was no cheering, just grim determination.
He could no longer contain himself. Turning about, he raced down the slope and reached the left flank of his advancing line, the few battered men of Hood. Standing in his stirrups, he drew his saber.
"Come on, boys, come on!" he roared. "Win this one and we are back in Old Virginia. Virginia, boys, covered with glory for all that we have done. Do this and victory is still ours!"
There was a desperate tone to his voice, conveyed to the men.
"I am with you, boys."
He turned about, taking the lead, as the battered battalions, fifty to a hundred men behind each flag, swept forward, and for some the dream was still alive. Win this one and we are across the water, safe, to live another day, perhaps to still win this war.