The Day After Gettysburg Read online

  Cassandra smiled. She and her family were as staunch in their abolitionism as anyone alive. To them, slavery was an outright abomination, an insult both to humanity and the Creator. To her, the Copperheads and others who wanted peace were traitors. At least the Confederates were fighting for their principles, while the Copperheads were betraying their nation.

  Josiah sighed. “And I must see to the recovery of my regiment. We fought only one major battle and were all but destroyed. There had been a few skirmishes, but nothing like the horrors of Gettysburg. Have you seen the lists?”

  “We have,” said Cassandra. There had been too many names she’d known. She would make an effort to visit as many of the others who were in local hospitals as was possible. She promised herself that she would write letters to the families of the dead.

  Josiah continued. “Captain, I mean Major, Thorne now commands what amounts to a couple of hundred survivors. Do you recall him?”

  Cassandra didn’t, but her mother did. “He is a good man. I’m sure he’ll do well.”

  “He’d damned well better. I’m getting tired. Why don’t you two leave me in peace and come back tomorrow? And Cassie, how much longer are you going to wear mourning clothes?”

  “Until I feel they are no longer appropriate,” she said firmly.

  “They never were appropriate. Richard Dean was a complete booby.”

  The women kissed him on the forehead and left the hospital. They hailed a cab and went back to the hotel.

  “Cassandra, I believe it is time to get back to have a glass of sherry. I don’t know if the hotel will serve unattended women, but, if they don’t we can always arrange something through room service.”

  “I already had Mariah check, Mother. We’ll be served in our room. The hotel is very concerned that a pair of unattended women could be mistaken for ladies of the pavement and that some ugly misunderstandings could arise.”

  Her mother’s eyes widened. “They wouldn’t dare.”

  Cassie smiled. “Come along, Mother.”

  ★ CHAPTER 3 ★

  The Army of the Potomac settled around the Pennsylvania city of Hanover. There was irony in their choice. Just before the battle of Gettysburg, Union cavalry had fought Jeb Stuart’s cavalry in the town and delayed its return to Lee’s main army.

  The Union army’s position in Pennsylvania meant that they had effectively surrendered the town and battlefield of Gettysburg, which displeased the troops. Even though the land still stank of the rotting dead, it was something that they and their comrades had fought and bled over. They did not like the idea of giving up something that had cost so much. The Union troops were not mollified by being told that the move was temporary. Hanover was closer to Washington and that made it easier to reinforce and resupply the army.

  On the other hand, Lee had made no effort to take the bloodied battlefield and town either. Thorne thought that maybe both sides might well leave it as a memorial to human bravery and human folly. Scouts reported that Lee had not retreated south of the Potomac into the safety of Virginia. Instead, he was firmly ensconced in Pennsylvania, somewhere around Chambersburg or Shippensburg, which were slightly to the north and west of Hanover.

  Thorne and the other officers amused themselves by poring over maps and trying to guess what Lee would do next. It wasn’t lost on them that nobody was trying to guess what Meade would do. That was too easy. Meade would do nothing until Lee moved, and then he would attempt to counter it.

  “Lee is not going anywhere for a while,” Thorne said. He waved his arm and almost spilled some of his good German beer. A local brewer was making a fortune selling to the army. “He is going to sit in Pennsylvania and eat good German and Dutch food while his beloved Virginia recovers from the ravages of war.”

  “But he can’t stay there forever,” said Willis. His voice was slurred. The men had been drinking for several hours in this, their first chance to unwind after the retreat and the necessity of setting up an encampment. They all had new uniforms and fresh mounts for whoever needed them, along with decent food and regular opportunities to bathe. They also had new weapons—Spencer breech-loading carbines in place of the old 1855 pattern musket-rifles. The Spencer carbines were loaded by shoving a tube with seven bullets in it in the stock. The weapon could be fired much more rapidly than a standard Union rifle. Even better, the shooter did not have to stand up and expose himself in order to reload.

  Thorne had been told about a gun that could shoot over a hundred rounds a minute, but he didn’t believe that. How would you get the ammunition into the thing at that rate, just to start?

  Thorne was not done strategizing. “Lee could head towards Wilmington or Philadelphia, or even north towards Harrisburg. My guess, though, is that he will attack Washington. No other place makes sense. Washington is where Lincoln and the federal government are, along with all the generals and politicians who’ve gotten us into this mess. If he can chase the government out of the nation’s capital, the entire United States would look stupid and inept.”

  “I didn’t think that our ineptitude was such a secret,” said Willis, who then belched. Thorne was concerned that his friend might pass out and fall over into the fire. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened to a soldier.

  Thorne stood and stretched. He’d been pacing his drinks so he wasn’t as drunk as the others. “I think we should end this evening’s discussions. We can pick it up again tomorrow. In the meantime, get some sleep and try not to show the men your hangovers tomorrow.”

  Willis tried to stand up, but instead dropped to one knee. Thorne was about to grab for him when one of the other officers, a newly arrived captain, took over and guided him into the darkness and towards his tent.

  Thorne took several deep breaths. He felt like smoking a cigar, but decided that going to his bunk and getting some shuteye would be a better choice. He was exhausted. Getting the rump session of the regiment into some kind of order and overseeing their training had drained him. His decision to see Colonel Baird had been pushed into the background. Maybe he would get a chance this weekend, unless, of course, Bobby Lee came a-calling.

  If it wasn’t for the fact that he was part of one army that wanted to kill another army, the camp could almost be pleasant. The smell of burning wood from a thousand campfires was familiar and comforting. The sky was bright with a million stars that the preachers said proved the existence of God. Thorne had no answer for that. Once upon a time he’d believed in a generous and loving God, but that was before Gettysburg. Now he was certain that God did not live in Pennsylvania, at least not in this summer of 1863.

  He was through with war but war was not through with him. He was twenty-six and had a law degree. He should have been home writing wills and contracts, but no—here he was, training men to kill other men. He also should have been married to a woman he couldn’t quite visualize and have a couple of kids who were likewise vague figments of his imagination. He wanted to have a normal life before his dark-brown hair turned gray and his trim one hundred and sixty-pound frame turned to flab.

  There had been a girl back home, and it was assumed by both sets of parents that they would marry. There had been some fond and even intensely passionate moments with Judith until she decided that she didn’t want a man who was going to leave her alone for months, even years, to become a soldier. He didn’t blame her.

  A month after he’d joined the army he got word that she’d married a minister’s son. He’d been angry for a couple of days until it dawned on him that he didn’t actually miss her one damned bit. He did wonder if they prayed before having sex. He recalled Judith calling out for God when they were alone and mainly naked and she reached flood tide.

  He smiled at the thought and let it hide the memories of war. He decided he would see the colonel this weekend. Definitely.

  Once more the crackle and flash of gunfire came from the half-dozen closely circled supply wagons. “Idiots,” shouted Colonel Corey Wade of Wade’s Tennessee Voluntee
r Cavalry. He turned to Sergeant Jonah Blandon. He didn’t like Blandon, a violent roughneck at best, but he was the man closest to hand.

  “Those bluejackets are outnumbered at least ten to one, and they still fight. Goddamn fools.” Blandon grinned wickedly. “Maybe they’d rather die fighting than starve in prison.” He spat a shot of tobacco into the brush. “I would. Or maybe . . . maybe they think reinforcements are coming.”

  Of course, thought Wade. Maybe one of their men had ridden for help. They’d caught and killed one Union soldier trying to do exactly that, but what if there had been two?

  He reached into his jacket pocket and fingered the watch his mother had given him. It had seemed so easy. A dozen Union supply wagons were proceeding lazily down the high road, guarded by little more than a squad of soldiers, when his three hundred men had swept from hiding in the forest and run them down. It was astonishing that the northerners had been able to circle the wagons and present a defense. Counting the wagon drivers, they couldn’t have had more than a score of men and several of those now lay prone on the ground.

  Captain Alex Mayfield slipped quietly to his side. The Yanks had a couple of decent shooters—three of Wade’s men were dead and two others wounded, and for what? The Yanks were going to lose. It was just a question of when and what the final score would be.

  But the thought of Union reinforcements chilled him. They were well behind Union lines, which was why this supply train had been behaving so stupidly. His three hundred troopers, though more than enough to take a supply train, were a piddling number if the Yanks got aroused and came after them. The Yankee cavalry wasn’t all that good, but there were a lot of them.

  One option was to withdraw, but his sense of honor would never accept that. “The men in place, Captain?”

  “Ready and waiting, Colonel,” said Mayfield.

  “Then do it,” said Wade. “We’ve got to get this nonsense over with.”

  Mayfield nodded and blew several piercing blasts on a whistle. Seconds later, a host of dismounted Confederate soldiers erupted from the grass where they’d managed to crawl to within a few yards of the wagons. Withering covering fire from their comrades protected them as they charged.

  The Union troops continued to fire, dropping a couple more of Wade’s troopers, until a gray wave poured over the wagons and into the perimeter. There were shouts and screams and then silence.

  Wade was angry but satisfied. His men knew what to do. They would take anything useful and ruin the rest. Fire was not an option, as the columns of smoke would draw Union patrols even quicker than the sounds of musket fire.

  He spotted Blandon leading three bluebellies into a stand of trees. A sense of misgiving seized Wade. He was turning to ride in that direction when he heard three pistol shots. He spurred his horse toward the trees. “Blandon, you son of a bitch, what did you do now?”

  He found the sergeant standing over the three dead Union soldiers. “They was trying to escape, Colonel.”

  Wade was livid. The three men had all been shot in the back of the head. “The hell they were. You just shot them down in cold blood. What the hell is the matter with you?”

  “After what they done to my home and my family, I don’t much care. You want to bust me back to the ranks again, that’s just fine. Or if you want to discharge me, even better. Maybe I can sign on with Quantrill or somebody like that, somebody knows about war.”

  Other soldiers had moved discreetly out of hearing. They were afraid of the colonel but terrified of Blandon. It was rumored that the short, stocky man had killed more than a score of men, and not always in battle. It was also said that he’d raped a number of women, although most of those were runaway slaves, so that didn’t count.

  Blandon eyed his commander a moment longer and turned to walk away. There was a touch of a swagger in his stride. Wade opened his mouth to call him back, but thought better of it. He really couldn’t think of what to say.

  The men of Wade’s cavalry had loaded up one wagon with coffee and other luxuries and were destroying bags of flour by slitting them and dumping them out onto the ground. Some of the more imaginative were urinating on the flour to make sure no effort would be made to salvage it. Blandon had disappeared. He’d gone back to his squad knowing that the colonel wouldn’t do anything.

  Wade was a brave man, but not a strong one. This kind of thing made him wonder just who was in charge of the Volunteers, him or Blandon, and just who would the men obey if it came down to a pitched battle.

  ★ CHAPTER 4 ★

  Abraham Lincoln, a good horseman, could have ridden back to the White House, but he knew that his long legs made him look foolish, as they dangled almost to the ground. Besides, he was getting old. Thus, and at his wife’s insistence, he rode in a carriage to the Soldiers’ Home a few miles from the President’s House. He was fifty-four years old but felt much older. The war had aged him dramatically. He liked going to the Soldiers’ Home because it allowed him to get away from the political stress of Washington. At the White House, there were always people lined up to see him. He’d been told by his secretaries and others that he could always shoo them away, but he had no heart for that. They had elected him and he would hear them out, no matter how exhausting it was and no matter how foolish their requests.

  But going to the cottage in the summer months provided a degree of comfort in the suffocating heat. He was not the first president to so utilize the building. His predecessor, James Buchanan, had made it his summer residence. It was also where Lincoln had drafted the Emancipation Proclamation, an action he had hoped would bring an end to the war. It hadn’t.

  While the slaves in the South were still slaves, any who made it to Union lines were free, at least in theory. The North now had many more thousands of mouths to feed and that brought resentment. The fact that Negroes could form their own volunteer units and serve and die for the United States had toned down some of the angry rhetoric, but not all of it.

  He entered the cottage by a back door in case someone was watching. General Meade had been summoned and was waiting, doubtlessly angry. Lincoln smiled at the thought. General Meade was always angry.

  They sat at a plain kitchen table. This was the first time they’d spoken since the disaster after Gettysburg. It distressed Lincoln to see Meade looking like a beaten man and not his usual combative self. That was not good.

  Meade glanced up at him and then lowered his eyes. “Are you going to dismiss me?” His tone seemed to indicate that such a course of action would be most welcome.

  Lincoln shook his head. “No, General. I told my Cabinet, and I will tell you: I take responsibility for what happened. I should not have forced you and your army to chase Lee after suffering such appalling casualties. I should have realized that Lee would not let himself be captured.”

  Meade was puzzled. “Then do you wish me to resign to save you the trouble of removing me from command?”

  “What would you do if Lee attacked you?”

  Meade bristled, showing a spark of his old ferocious self. “Throw him back and defeat him, sir.”

  “But what would you do if, after rebuilding the army, you were ordered to find him and bring him to battle? Could you do that and defeat General Lee? No, not just defeat him, could you do find and destroy General Lee?”

  General Meade hesitated before answering. “Mr. President, I think we have all become aware that it is possible to defeat an enemy by forcing him from the field of battle or by inflicting more casualties on him than he has inflicted on us, but the destruction of an enemy army might not be possible, at least not without incredible strokes of luck and fortune. Armies are too large to be annihilated and even the victor, like my army was for a few glorious days, would suffer enormous casualties in any battle or campaign.”

  “I have seen the reports, General, and I concur. Perhaps as many as twenty-five thousand Union soldiers were killed or wounded during the three days of fighting at Gettysburg and another fifteen thousand or so in the fightin
g north of the Potomac. At least most of those casualties suffered near Hagerstown were captured and not killed.”

  Meade winced. A full twelve thousand Union soldiers had either surrendered or been captured. “Will you arrange to have them exchanged?”

  Lincoln nodded solemnly. “We will have to do something. I cannot abide the thought of all those thousands of young men being cooped up in those horrors that the Confederacy refers to as prisons. Of course,” he added sadly, “our own prison camps are wretched places as well. Yes, we will have to do something.”

  “And what, sir, shall I do about the contrabands?” Meade was using the common term for the many thousands of slaves who’d escaped and were now camped close to the Union army. “There have been reports of slavecatchers trying to round them up like cattle and ship them back down to their southern owners.”

  “Former owners,” Lincoln insisted. “The Emancipation Proclamation has freed them and nothing will change that fact. And we will not tolerate slavecatchers. The mere thought of it is distasteful. You will do what you can to protect the contrabands. I have not quite given up on my idea to send them back to Africa where they can join the Liberians, or perhaps even create a new nation of free blacks.”

  Lincoln’s grand idea had run afoul of reality. The overwhelming majority of blacks in both the north and south were generations removed from Africa, had no true knowledge of the continent, and absolutely did not want to leave the sometimes dubious safety of the United States for the terrors and perils of Africa.

  Meade continued. “Then I shall continue to ensure that the army grows stronger and able to defend itself. But I shall not venture out against General Lee until and if ordered to do so by you.”

  “That’s probably the wisest course,” said Lincoln. But, he thought, it would be highly unlikely that George Gordon Meade would be the one leading an attack against Lee. He knew a man who could, but not just now. He and the rest of the country would have to be patient. Patience was a virtue, the President thought, but he didn’t feel terribly virtuous, at the moment. He wanted the damn war over.