shown their mettle, and the Twelfth, who valiantly charged on that terrible Fourth of July. Where are they?'
No one spoke.
'You and I would willingly give our lives for that dear old flag,' and he pointed toward one of the national colors, a regimental flag, torn, battered, stained.
'We would do so without hesitation if we knew that our lifeblood would nourish it, protect it, and cause it to be raised high in final victory. That we would not hesitate to do!'
A ripple of comments greeted him, but no cheers. These were veterans who had seen far too much.
'Perhaps, my comrades, you and I are fated to fall, but here and now, I promise you this, I promise you that if that should be our fate, it shall happen as we charge forward to our final victory against the traitors and not ignominious defeat and withdrawal as we have seen too often in our past!'
The men looked up at him, nodding in agreement.
'For too long our beloved Army of the Potomac has borne the weight of generals' follies upon its shoulders. And I tell you this plainly. I stand here to declare, before the entire world, that the fighting men of our gallant army have never lost a battle!'
For a moment there was confusion over his words. For, after all, what of Chancellorsville, of Union Mills? And then the meaning of what he said was realized and a deep, throaty roar of approval greeted him.
'You, my dear comrades, have never lost a fight It is others that lost it for you. Those of you who stood with me at Gettysburg, who marched across that field on the morning of July second, who saw the chance for ultimate victory, and then saw it torn so basely out of our hands when we were ordered to pull back, you know what I mean and you know who lost it!'
The men looked at him, stunned. Never had a general spoken so plainly to them, spoken the very words they had snared around the campfires and on the march. Their cries now knew no bounds, as if the frustration and rage of the previous two years were at last given vent. He let them roar for more than a minute, then held his hands up again.
‘I promise you this. The Army of the Potomac even now is forming its ranks again. Those who are left, our old brothers from other corps, who cut their way out of the debacle, even now are rallying back to our side. The vacant ranks will indeed be filled.
'And I promise you this as well. Soon, far sooner than many ever dreamed of, we shall march forth. This time no one will hold you back, because I will be in the fore as your commander. There shall be no hesitation. No doubting. No stab in the back.
'We will show the world, we will show the North and the South, we will show all those who ever dared to doubt us, that the Army of the Potomac will drive the enemy before it, not just back to Richmond, but clear down to the Gulf of Mexico. And upon your heads shall be crowned the laurels of the final victory!'
He finished his words with a flourish, arms held wide, and the men went wild, hats in the air, the cheering breaking into a steady chant…
'Sickles … Sickles … Sickles!'
He stepped down off the train. Staff officers were waiting for him, including Meade's old chief of staff', Dan Butterfield, who looked at him coldly. Sykes was there as well, as was Howard of the Eleventh Corps, whose gaze was icy. Sedgwick was nowhere to be found. He had already been relieved.
Butterfield pointed the way toward the station. Sickles was glad to see his surviving division commanders waiting for him at the doorway to the station. He paused, looking out over the expanse of the Susquehanna. Ferries for bearing entire trains were docked on the north side, as were tugs, lighters, and barges. Half a dozen small gunboats and ironclads were drawn up in mid-river, pennants fluttering in the stiff evening breeze, the broad expanse of the river covered in whitecaps.
He walked into the station, the other officers crowding in, one of his staff closing the door. Without preamble he turned to Butterfield.
'Your report, sir.'
'Which report, sir?' Butterfield replied coolly. 'The current status of the Army of the Potomac.' Butterfield looked around the room, like a man on the docket.
'Sir. I have the returns and after-action reports from all surviving units,' and he pointed to a leather-bound case on the table in the middle of the room.
'In your own words, and briefly.'
'The only viable fighting units left are your corps and the Fifth Corps with a strength of less than forty per cent, the Sixth Corps with about the same numbers, and the Eleventh Corps at fifty per cent. It is my advice that the First, Second, and Twelfth Corps be disbanded, the men consolidated into other units.
'We have less than eighty guns that are serviceable; nearly the entire Artillery Reserve was captured. Of cavalry, we still are not sure, but I would say less than forty per cent are effective. Your total strength therefore is at approximately forty thousand men, that is for all three branches under arms.
'As for support services, we have none. Our entire baggage train is gone, medical supplies all but gone, along with every ambulance. Specialized units, such as pontoon trains, engineering, they are gone, too.'
Sickles nodded, his gaze cold, unwavering, as he struck a match and puffed a cigar to life.
'Thank you, General Butterfield. I will read your reports tonight. You are relieved from duty, sir.'
'General?'
'Just that, You'll have new orders in the morning. Hold yourself available for a briefing with my new chief of staff later this evening. Good day, General Butterfield.'
Butterfield looked at him without comment, eyes narrow, features flushed.
'Yes, sir,' he finally snapped. Saluting, he turned on his heels and walked out, slamming the door.
Dan looked around the room, his gaze fixing on Howard.
'You, General Howard, are relieved. Thank you for your service. You as well will receive new orders in the morning.'
'On whose authority?' Howard replied softly, speaking each word slowly.
'On my orders.'
'I understood that General Grant is now the commander of all forces in the field. The decisions regarding who shall command corps must therefore be in his realm.'
'I am commander of the Army of the Potomac now. You are under my authority, and by that authority I am relieving you. You have a choice now. You can take that removal with my blessing, thanks, and recommendation for further posting. Or you can choose to fight me. But by God, sir, if you try to defy me, I will destroy you. You failed your men at Chancellorsville and failed them again at Gettysburg. I wouldn't give you a regiment after that, but perhaps the War Department will see it differently.'
'How dare you?' Howard's features were flushed, eyes wide, his one hand resting on the table, drawn up in a fist.
'How dare I? Easy. I am now in charge here. That's how I dare. Now we can do this as gentlemen or we can do it another way.'
'You, sir, are no gentleman.'
'You're damn right I'm not,' Sickles roared. 'I'm sick to death of all this damned talk about gentlemen while those good soldiers outside die in the mud. To hell with gentlemen, sir, and to hell with you if you don't obey my orders now!'
Howard drew his balled fist up and slammed it on the table.
'You are a reckless amateur. You think you know how to fight Lee. Maybe so, but I truly doubt it. I daresay it was luck more than anything else that got you as far as you have. Luck and politics of the lowest sort. God save this army with you in command.'
'You are relieved, General Howard,' Dan said coldly, stepping toward Howard so that his old division commanders moved to his side, ready to restrain him.
Howard looked around the room.
'God save us all if this type of base man is the one that we feel can lead us to victory.'
Howard stepped past Dan and went to the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he turned and looked back.
'God forgive me for saying this. But with a man such as you, a man who would gun down your wife's lover on the street while he was unarmed? And now you are in command? I think it is time I do retire.'
