outline of Fort Stevens was visible as he reached the top of the low rise.
The ground ahead was clear cut, trees removed; the fields that had once been orderly, planted with corn or wheat, were now weed choked, barren, offering no cover. He could imagine his lines going forward across those fields, the guns of the forts tearing gaping holes into the ranks, the charge hitting the abatis, men tangled up, stopping to cut their way through, stumbling into the moat thick with mud and slime. Even the greenest of troops behind those fortifications would turn it into nothing more than murder, the finest infantry in the world mowed down in a stinking moat by garrison soldiers in spotless uniforms.
He shook his head. Hood was right. His men were too precious for this. Yet he had to do it. If he did not, that in itself would be a victory for the North. Davis would not understand, though that was not his concern at this instant. He had to conceive a victory here, a victory that justified the blood shed at Gettysburg and Union Mills.
He studied the field intently, the open ground free of obstacles, the unfinished dome of the Capitol most likely visible once the fog lifted. It would be lit up with gaslight at night, a beacon, a dream so tantalizingly close, and just beyond that, Arlington and home.
He stood there and the plan formed at last.
Looking back over his shoulder he saw Hood and Stuart waiting expectantly, the others standing behind them.
He forced a smile.
'We go in at night, gentlemen. That is how we will take it. At night.' He smiled as he gave the order.
'At night, with surprise, we'll be into their works before they know it.'
Hood and Stuart smiled and, turning, they left him, already giving orders, leaving him alone with his thoughts and dreams
Gazing out the window of the train as it raced across the broad, open countryside of Ohio, Gen. Ulysses S. Grant found his attention wandering for a moment He tried to ignore the pounding intensity of the migraine headache that had bedeviled him since last night. But of course nothing would work except for that oblivion from a bottle, which he most definitely could not indulge.
As the train took a gentle curve, heading southeast, long shadows of the cars, cast by the setting sun, reached out across the open fields. The land was rich, the last of the winter wheat being harvested, fields of corn more than waist-high, weeds and honeysuckle engulfing the split-rail fences that bordered the railroad. The train raced past a barn; a farmer and his two boys driving cows in for the evening milking paused, looked up, took off their hats, and waved.
Thoughts drifted back to his own boyhood as he absently rubbed his temples, to the hardscrabble farm not far from here, and his desire to escape its labors, a desire that had taken him to West Point, an institution that glorified a business that would sicken many a butcher. The army had been, at first an escape, then a burden so intense he had left it Only this war had brought him back into uniform. And now he was in command.
For a moment his mind wandered across the empty years, the war in Mexico, the bitter loneliness of California. He impatiently pushed those thoughts aside. A danger to think of that now; self-pity compounded by the headaches was an almost certain first step back to the bottle, and now was not the time, though the temptation was always there.
'What are you thinking, Sam?'
Grant turned and offered a faint smile.
'Nothing much, Elihu, just drifting.'
Congressman Elihu Washburne smiled and said nothing.
He was a good friend. Grant knew that It was through Elihu that he had received his first commission in this war, from a man who was one of the mentors behind the president's rise to power.
Like him, Elihu had come from a farm, up in the bitter cold of Maine. But unlike the Grants, the Washburnes seemed destined from the start for greatness. Five brothers, all of them now in positions of power and influence. One was a general commanding a corps under Sherman, another a captain in the navy, another the governor of Maine.
He envied Elihu for his relaxed, easy air, his nonchalant movement through the halls of power, his urbane manner. He was dressed casually-jacket off, wine-colored vest unbuttoned, linen shirt spotless. Elihu was the type that no matter what the situation would always look and smell clean. And yet he was not a dandy. He had visited Grant during the exhausting winter campaign of the previous year and exclaimed more than once that the rigors of the field were a tonic. He could sit up to dawn with the staff, mount then spend an entire day visiting units, shaking hands, and like any politician, when he came across constituents, make the most of it, passing out cigars and canvassing for votes with vigor.
As Grant looked over at him he realized yet again that he had a true friend in Elihu, an absolute rarity in the game of politics, where too many congressmen would blow with the wind of newspaper coverage and abandon friendship if doing so got them more votes. Elihu had been the one to back him when there was the falling out with Halleck the year before and Halleck's people had openly spread stories about his drinking. The fact that Elihu was one of the men behind Lincoln was a help, not something he had ever deliberately calculated on… but it was a help.
He knew the reasons Elihu was here, riding with him on a train headed east Elihu was an observer from the White House, sent to evaluate him. That didn't bother him. He was also here as a shepherd, to keep an eye on him and the bottle. The last thing the republic needed now was for their new commander to break down. That didn't bother him either. And finally Elihu was just here as a friend, and that was a pleasure. Once he was fully in command, Grant's nature was such that he would take counsel from no man but the president But it was good to have Elihu here now.
Though the president had directed that the war would continue no matter what the cost it was now his job to bring an end to it in the field. Every death, whether it was a death that accomplished something or a death wasted, as so many now were, would be upon his shoulders, and his alone.
As he contemplated this, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a battered cigar case, and drew out a Havana. Elihu struck a match on the side of the table that separated them and, nodding a thanks, Grant leaned over and puffed his twelfth cigar of the day to life.
The open window of the car drew out the swirling smoke and flickering bits of flaming ash.
Grant looked around his staff car, actually a railroad president's car that Haupt had 'borrowed' for the 'emergency.' The appointments were rich: red-silk wallpaper, heavy, ornate tables, stuffed leather chairs, and a plush burgundy sofa upon which Ely Parker, a full-blooded Seneca whom he had just 'drafted' on to his staff, was fast asleep. He had known Parker casually before the war in Galena. In his mid-thirties, Parker was well educated, a lawyer by training, articulate, and a paragon of organization, capable of keeping the vast mountains of paperwork moving smoothly. Behind his back, some of the men ribbed Parker about his Indian blood, claiming he kept Confederate scalps hidden in his haversack. Parker took it good-naturedly, to a point then his cold gaze shut them down, something Grant admired.
Since leaving Cairo the day before, Parker had not known a moment's rest until Grant finally ordered him to take a break. Within minutes Parker was out, his snoring almost as loud as the rattling of the train as they raced east
Ornate, cut-glass, coal oil lamps with what looked to be real gold gilding lined the walls of the car, the carpet underneath his feet, also burgundy, had been thick and clean, though tracked dirty now with the constant coming and goings of staff from the other cars.
Elihu had laughed when they first boarded, claiming that the car had a certain look to it. Naively Grant had asked what it looked like, and smiling, Elihu said it reminded him of a bordello in Chicago. That had actually embarrassed Grant. He had never stepped foot in such a place, even during the agonizing loneliness out in California, and though Elihu tried to act sophisticated, Grant knew him well enough to believe that while the man might have been in the lobby of such an establishment Elihu never went 'upstairs.'
There was even a private compartment in the front, with a real bed. He was tempted to try and find a few minutes' solitude there but knew it would be useless, his head throbbing to every beat of the iron wheels. Besides,
