Morale was a precious thing and music was part of it. Commissary wagons had come over as well, loaded down with thousands of loaves of fresh-baked bread and hundreds of smoked hams, and were parked just beyond the rise.
Just before the head of the brigade reached the top of the crest, the bandmaster, timing things perfectly, held his silver staff aloft and brought it down emphatically. A ruffle from fifty massed drums sounded, a long roll that set corkscrews down the back of any soldier who heard it. The long roll continued, the beat of the charge, and it rolled on and on, joined by the steady beat of bass drums.
The head of the advancing column looked up. Massed to the fore were the flags of the brigade commander and all the regiments, officers at the fore. Brewster, arm still in a sling from Union Mills, grinned, clumsily drew his sword, and saluted Dan, who returned the salute.
Again the staff went up, drum major twirling it over his head and bringing it back down. An eerie moment of silence, and then he raised the staff yet again.
The drums sounded as one, the thrump, thrump, thrump of a marching beat, a flourish at the end. The massed brass sounded a flourish and then opened with the resounding chords one of the favorite marching songs of the Army of the Potomac, a song that they had once sung with fervor advancing up the Peninsula. Now, after such a long and bitter year, they were hearing it again, on this bright, sunlit afternoon that promised them a dream of glory.
The effect he wished, which he knew it would create, worked its magic. The men of that column looked up, a thrill going through them. At least for this moment all was forgotten, all fear of what was to come was washed away, and in an instant, thousands of voices picked up the song, shouting it to the heavens, unmindful of all the cynicism of the past, all shattered hopes, all the sad graves and missing faces in their ranks
Some could not even sing the words, they shouted them out, more than one with tears in their eyes, as if the dream of a long-lost love had suddenly appeared before them, that a land of promise was still before them, and in the end, this time, yes this time, it would indeed be their day.
As the column marched past, he stood in his stirrups, caught in the moment, fully mindful of the sketch artist from
The wagons laded with fresh bread were by the side of the road, quartermaster soldiers pulling out the loaves and cut slabs of smoked ham, handing them out to the passing ranks, one to each line of four, and even the most hardened cynic, who might not be roused by the song, could at least respond to this largesse of a grateful republic.
Cheer echoed onto cheer, caps were off, rifles held aloft, battle-scarred flags fluttering in the afternoon breeze.
The column pressed on, heading south, heading back into the war.
Dan Sickles turned to his staff. 'My God,' he gasped, 'this time we will win!'
He's done what?'
Grant came to his feet, his camp chair falling over behind him. Ely Parker held the telegram and Grant snatched it, scanning the few lines, a relay of a message from a reporter with the
'I've already sent a query back,' Ely replied. 'The telegraph lines started buzzing with it just minutes ago. I'll see what more I can find.'
Grant turned and slammed his fist on the table. General Ord, who had been sitting quietly with him, waiting for dispatches as to the running fight unfolding with Hampton forty miles to the southeast shook his head.
'Always said that son of a bitch would go off half-cocked the moment he had the chance.'
Grant said nothing, struggling to rein in his temper. It had been a tense day. The raid by Hampton had severed communications down along the Susquehanna. That was to be expected; he was surprised Lee had not tried something like this before now, but the sudden dropping of the lines out of Perryville just after midnight had baffled him. He had assumed that some rebel sympathizers, working in concert with Hampton, had been the culprits, and it had been a bit unnerving. Though he assumed Lee would not try an all-out assault on Washington, nothing in war was ever assured and he had silently fretted ever since Ely had awakened him with the news just before dawn.
Now he knew. Damn it, he knew.
'I bet he cut the lines himself,' Ord said, as if reading Grant's mind. 'Get across and halfway to Baltimore before you can even hope to call him back. Then what are you going to do?'
General Logan came into the tent and Grant was aware that out in the headquarters compound there was a real stir, men running back and forth, shouting comments about Sickles.
Ord took the coffeepot off the small stove and poured himself a drink, looking over at Grant 'Well, is it true, sir?'
'I'm not sure yet. Only a newspaper report. But yes, I think it's true. He knows I can't reach him, not with Hampton cutting up and the lines down.'
Ely came back into the tent, holding several more telegrams, and handed them to Grant.
All were the same. Reports from the Associated Press, one from the
It was true.
He tossed the telegrams on the table for Ord and McPherson to read and stepped out of the tent. At the sight of him the dozens of officers milling about froze. The look on his face stopped all of them in their tracks.
'I think we have better things to do than run about like a bunch of old housewives chasing a headless chicken.'
No one spoke, but within seconds the area around his tent was a ghost town. He struck a match on the tent post and puffed a cigar to life.
Grant had studied the maps till they were burned into his memory; he knew what would unfold. First it was dependent on Lee far more than anything Sickles did. If, as Grant assumed, the attack on Washington was nothing more than a feint to try and draw one or both of them out before they were fully ready, Lee had indeed succeeded. If Washington was still his main goal, which Grant had doubted all along, Lee would still have two days to do his worst. He would trade Baltimore for Washington; the taking and securing of that town would be too much for Sickles to resist, and that would delay his advance even longer.
But no, Lee wanted to destroy the Union armies, not to cut his own army's guts out trying to take a city. It was exactly how he would do it. It was the mistake that McClellan and all the others had never fully grasped. It was always Lee; Richmond was secondary and would fall once Lee was removed. If McClellan had gone into the Peninsula with that in mind and acted aggressively, all of this would be moot now.
Lee wanted the Army of the Potomac, and now Sickles was heading straight at him.
There was now, as well, a darker thought. Had Sickles acted alone, or had someone goaded him? Surely it wasn't Lincoln. Grant found that impossible to accept. They had given each other their word and lived to it.
Stanton?
But why?
Why risk all now, when in another three weeks everything would be in place, and with a united front he could
