“The hell with orders.” Thomas snarled. His anger was towards the situation, and not the thirty-two-year- old McPherson, who was one of the better generals he'd ever commanded. If McPherson was surprised by the unusual outburst, he didn't show it.
“Only Logan's division is on trains.” McPherson said. “What about the rest?”
Thomas thought quickly. Flexibility was needed. His preference was for thorough planning, but there was no time for that luxury. He had to improvise. His own empty trains were being blocked on sidings by Sherman's arrivals. When Colonel Haupt found out what was happening to his precious schedules, the colonel would shit.
“Sherman's men are arriving and they're already on trains. I'm not going to waste time getting them off and your men on. If something's fucked up in Washington, it needs tending to right away.
Sherman's boys’ll simply follow you, and you do what you have to with them. I'll square it with Sherman and Grant, and well sort them out later. Is that a problem?” McPherson assured him it wasn't and strode off. Minutes later, the first trainload of Union troops began to chug its way towards Washington.
Major General George Thomas took a deep breath and wondered if he'd saved the day or messed it up utterly. He^’ d tried to cover his ass by sending a telegram to Grant telling him what he^’ d done in the absence of orders that made any sense. At least no one would ever again call him over-meticulous.
Colonel John Rawlins knew the shame and nausea that came from failure. The first telegrams from Washington telling of the Confederate attack and asking where Thomas was were fobbed off. Thomas was on his way. He was slower than Grant liked, but he did his job and did it well. Thomas would be there. He had been ordered to Washington, and Grant had every confidence that Thomas would get there before Lee could do much damage.
But when a telegram came from Thomas stating that Sherman's men were arriving and asking should he or should he not proceed to help Meade, it had shocked Grant's staff and stunned Rawlins who, as chief of staff, had the responsibility for sending out all orders. Grant had remained outwardly imperturbable, but he had fixed Rawlins with the icy glare he used to intimidate and crumple those who crossed him.
A moment later, Grant had softened and a look of pity had come across his face. He, Grant, had made the mistake of entrusting Rawlins: and the responsibility for anything that happened was Grant's, not Rawlins's. However. John Rawlins knew that he would never again be trusted with anything important.
Rawlins had run to the telegraph office with a fresh set of orders from Grant telling Thomas to proceed to Washington immediately and with all possible haste. They also told Thomas to assume command of Meade^’ s forces as planned and now Sherman's as well, and to coordinate the defense of Washington. While these telegrams were being sent. Rawlins checked the message log for the previous night and saw that nothing had gone out for Thomas.
Then he remembered being knocked to the mud and scrambling for lost papers. He had assumed that he had recovered them all and hadn't double-checked. The mix-up was all his fault. He should have checked.
Rawlins was so upset he wanted to weep. The Confederates were attacking Washington and Thomas's army was nowhere near the place. He. John Rawlins. a fine lawyer and good friend of Ulysses Grant, stood a good chance of being remembered by history as the man who lost both the capital of his country and the war because of one moment's carelessness.
If he'd had a gun. he would have blown his brains out. But then, he thought sadly, he'd probably have missed.
At first Nathan mistook the dull booming for the sound of natural thunder in the rainy night. After all, it was storming and thunder was not unknown at that time of the year. He almost slept through it.
But then he^’ d noticed a difference in the sound. It was too sharp, too rhythmic. He'd walked to the window and opened it carefully so as to not wake Rebecca. He wasn't successful.
“It's not a thunderstorm, is it?” she asked. Her face was pale in the night and she looked both grim and concerned. She looked like a waif with the quilt pulled up to her chin. She was naked underneath it, as her monthly curse had ceased.
“Cannons,” he said simply. The war had come to Washington, D.C.
“You're going?”
“Yes.”
He dressed quickly in the uniform of a Union colonel. Rebecca had thrown on a robe and gone to awaken Fromm. The former sergeant had put on his own uniform and then saddled two horses. Nathan was surprised.
“Got to see this one,” Fromm said with a grin. Thanks to Bridget Conlin's good cooking, his uniform barely fit him.
Nathan and Rebecca hugged tightly and without words that would have been meaningless. Nathan and Fromm mounted their horses and cantered off into the night.
For Sergeant Billy Harwell, this was the worst of all possible nightmares. They had been roused by Captain Melcher with the stunning news that the rebels were inside the fortifications around Fort Stephens and that Melcher's regiment was going to try and plug the leak.
Within minutes, the entire regiment had been assembled and began to march northward. The cold wind whipped their faces, and the mud made marching an effort that sucked the breath from their lungs. What ground they should have covered in an hour took more than twice that.
They were still more than a mile from Stephens when they met their first refugees from the fighting. These confirmed that Stephens had fallen as a result of a sneak attack and that Fort De Russey was under a flanking attack because its guns were a pain in the ass to the Confederates, who wanted to send their army through the breach. Fort Stephens was directly to their front, with Fort De Russey to the left and Fort Slocum to the right.
Billy, Olaf, and the rest of their companions wanted nothing more than for De Russey to hold out for all eternity and keep the rebs pinned down. It was still dark and, since it was mid-December, likely to stay that way for a while. At least the rain had slackened considerably. This would be much better if they had to fight, which was becoming increasingly likely. Without the rain, he could see his targets, and bullets were far less likely to misfire from the dampness.
They were arrayed across what passed for a road with Stephens and De Russey at the far end of it. Billy stared down it but could see nothing, only an occasional retreating Union soldier who confirmed what they already knew. The captain sent out a couple of men to patrol up ahead and see what was happening. It was obvious the regiment wasn't going to try to retake Stephens with the few hundred men they had at hand.
Billy turned behind him and saw a pair of riders on horseback talking to Major Snead and Captain Melcher. Colonel Hodges was ill and hadn't arrived if he was going to at all. One rider looked familiar and then Billy recalled an equally rainy night outside Washington many months before. It was the commanding-looking gentleman who had flipped him a coin and who he had later seen with General Scott.
Another group of riders rode up and a small cheer went up from the men. It was General Meade. Now. by God. there was going to be some action.
Major General George Gordon Meade had been educated as an engineer and counted as one of his skills his ability to understand topography and the lay of the land. Still, it did not take a genius to recognize that the small Union force he'd found waiting across the road to Fort Stephens held a key position. It was directly between Washington proper and the rebels who would soon come down from Fort Stephens.
Meade, however, was surprised to see Nathan Hunter observing and helping place the troops. He'd known Nathan slightly and understood his position both with Grant and with retired general Winfield Scott. As a colonel Hunter ranked over anyone else in the area and had taken control of the men in the road. He had been getting them organized when Meade had arrived. Nathan had placed his men in two-deep rows and in an inverted Vin which any column coming down the road could be taken by either flank. They had dug in as best they could, clawing frantically at the earth with bayonets, shovels, and cooking gear. Stones and fence rails were used as barricades to help protect the thin lines of troops.
“And what will you do if the rebs come cross-country instead of straight down the road?'^: Meade asked.
Nathan shrugged. “Back off. We don't have enough men to do anything else. The best I can do is delay them until help gets here. When will reinforcements arrive?”
The hawk-nosed Meade glowered. “They're coming, but it'll take a bit. Secretary Stanton heard of a plot to
