And so this first day of the campaign had passed, hard marching to be certain, but lighthearted. For so many, somehow, war again seemed to have to it some distant glory, a thrill down the spine as song would sweep through the ranks. There was, there had to be, a meaning to what they were doing now; perhaps all the suffering might be leading toward something beyond them as individuals. They were swept up in this vast undertaking, joined together in a single spirit, the soul of the Union, and it gave to them meaning. It might bring them to death, to that terrifying moment when, a limb gone, life's blood flowed into the dust, but that was tomorrow. For the more philosophical, there was the thought as well that though death did indeed come to all men they would forever have this moment- and because of it, a hundred or, a hundred and fifty years hence, they would be remembered.
A captain with an Illinois regiment, a man of some schooling, would recite poetry to his men as they marched. Sometimes they'd listen, sometimes not; sometimes they'd laugh a bit derisively; on occasion the silence would mean deep thought. 'We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,' he said today. And Grant, standing at the bridge across the Susquehanna as they passed by just before dawn, had heard those words, coming louder as the regiment approached, then drifting off as they continued on. The words had stayed in his heart throughout the day.
The soldiers had marched from before dawn well into the twilight of evening before breaking at last and going into camp with word that they would roust out at four in the morning to start again.
The Cumberland Valley was broad, relatively flat, a dozen miles wide. From Harrisburg to Carlisle it spread almost due west, then gradually began to arc to the southwest and then south, a broad open avenue that pointed eventually to the Potomac, to Maryland and Virginia beyond. As they moved down the valley the mountains that eventually would be the Catoctin Range stood to their left, a natural barrier that on the other side was still rebel territory.
The column marching past the Carlisle barracks thinned out as the wagons of the last brigade in line passed. At the end rode a unit of the provost guards, shepherding along those who had fallen out during the day because of illness and the heat. More than one of the guards had an exhausted man riding behind him on the rump of his horse. There had been almost no straggling this first day; that would come later as the relentless pace Grant had planned took its toll. Today had been easy for men well rested and eager. Two weeks from now it might be a different story.
'General Grant?'
An officer was approaching out of the twilight, the glow from the gaslights reflecting the glint of a single star on each shoulder.
Grant nodded and returned the man's salute. 'Sir, I'm Henry Hunt. You sent word for me to report.' 'That was over a week ago, General Hunt. What kept you?'
'Sorry, sir. The doctor said it was a touch of typhoid. I thought you received my telegram about that.'
Grant shook his head.
'Most likely lost in all the confusion, Hunt. Never mind that, though. Are you fit now?' 'Yes, sir, I am.'
Grant looked at him closely, and for a second there was the memory of Herman Haupt, dead last week from dysentery. Anyone who served in the army sooner or later was stricken by the typhoid or dysentery, an occupational hazard that killed more than the bullets did.
'Walk with me, Hunt.'
Grant stepped down from the veranda. The excitement in the town was beginning to die down, but curious civilians still lined the streets. He turned away and started toward the darkness of the parade field, Hunt by his side.
The last glow of twilight in the west was fading away, the sky overhead dark, clear with stars, the moon yet to rise.
'General, I know you are a good man. Your record at Malvern Hill, at Cemetery Hill the first day at Gettysburg, proved that.' 'Thank you, sir.'
'What happened at Union Mills?' 'Sir?' 'Tell me everything.'
'Yes, sir,' and for fifteen minutes he talked, Grant did not interrupt as Hunt described the debacle which had unfolded, the bombardment which had failed to dislodge Lee, and the horror of watching the futile charge go forward.
He finally fell silent. Grant, having finished his cigar, reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a silver case, opened it, gave Hunt a cigar, and took another for himself. Henry snapped a lucifer with his thumbnail, sparking it to light, illuminating the two of them as they puffed their cigars to life.
'A few questions,' Grant said. 'Anything, sir.'
'Could Meade have won? Or let me put it another way. When did it begin to go wrong?' Henry shook his head.
'Sir, I really don't like speaking poorly of the dead.'
'He was a brother officer. If the roles were reversed right now-if it was I who were dead, and Meade in command, he'd ask the same question.'
Henry nodded in reluctant agreement.
'The entire army should have been on the move as soon as word arrived that we were being flanked at Gettysburg,' Henry said. 'If so, the following morning we could have cut Lee in half, his troops strung out on thirty miles of road from just outside Westminister clear back to Gettysburg. We'd have had him for certain then.'
'I don't know about that,' Grant said softly, gazing up at the stars.
'Sir?'
'You are talking about Meade not acting like Meade. I suspect our rival somewhere over there'-he looked at Hunt while pointing off to the east-'Lee; had the measure of the Army of the Potomac before even one man stepped out on that incredible march to Union Mills. You must admit, Lee was masterful in that campaign.'
'Yes, sir, he was,' Hunt said quietly.
'He knew Meade would be slow to react, perhaps even to the point of first seeking a council of war, not fully yet in command, his fellow corps commanders still his peers rather than his subordinates. He knew Sickles would be impetuous-that is clearly evident from how he played him at Gunpowder River-but that Meade would rein him in.' He stopped and puffed on his cigar for a moment. 'General Lee had the measure of all of you from the start and played it accordingly.'
Grant signed, and went on. 'I remember once, down in Mexico, after the fighting stopped, some darn fool officers decided to go hunting. But it wasn't a hunt. They got their men to go up into the hills, form a line, and drive the game toward them. It was a slaughter.'
The memory of it sickened him. How anyone could take pleasure in killing a dumb creature driven by fear was beyond him. War was little better.
'That was your Army of the Potomac,' Grant said coldly. 'You were boxed and driven.'
'That has always bedeviled us,' Hunt sighed. 'It's as if Lee is always sitting in the corner at our meetings, wandering our camps at night. He seems to know even before we know.'
Grant slapped the side of his leg with his hand.
'That stops now.'
'Sir?'
'You speak of Lee as if he is a ghost or one of those mind readers at a county fair.'
'Yes, sir, it was like that,' Henry said. 'That bothers you, Hunt?' 'They were good men, sir. Damn good men. Warren, Reynolds, the boys with my command. They deserved better. A damn sight better.'
'They will get it,' Grant said calmly.
'Not those who are dead, sir.'
'The dead are behind us, Hunt. What concerns you and me is now, and I tell you this, if you are to join my command, it stops now. I want you to understand that.'
'So you want me then, sir?'
'Yes.'
'For what, sir?' 'What would you suggest?' 'Artillery of course, sir.' 'That was my intention.'
Henry grinned. After his dismissal from the Army of the Potomac by Sickles he thought he would never get a chance for action again. Grant was now giving him that chance.
'I'll confess, Hunt, out west, in those forests, those bayous and swamps, artillery wasn't much use, too much of a tangle and too often slowed us down. I understand it's different here, and frankly I can already see that just
