Richmond, Virginia
October 1863
Jefferson Davis glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes until his appointment with the general, whom he knew would be punctual. He returned to the documents on his desk. As his mind wandered, his eyes were drawn back to the clock, which stood seven feet tall and dominated one wall of his office in the Confederate White House. It was the nicest piece in the room, and the only one that lent an air of permanence, of weight, of a future. The rest of the furnishings looked like they’d been donated or purchased at auction, which in fact they had.
He sat behind the desk, piled high with paper, most of it dispatches from commanders in the field, much of it after action reports of battles and skirmishes long since fought. Davis read it all, or tried to, and he was now holding Robert E. Lee’s report from Gettysburg. Davis remembered from experience that commanders wrote up their victories much faster than their defeats, and this particular dispatch had arrived in Richmond soon after the general’s spectacular victory in Pennsylvania. Davis had devoured every word at the time. The written record of the greatest victory on the continent since New Orleans. “I should read it again before our meeting,” he said aloud to himself.
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
July 10th, 1863
Sir: I have the honor to inform your Excellency that with the aid of a Benevolent Providence our armies have won a glorious victory . . .
Davis knew the template well. He’d written such reports himself, though never of a battle of this proportion or import. He also knew that he wouldn’t learn much from the report. Lee was from the old school. Benevolent Providence indeed. Wasn’t it Stuart’s timely arrival that carried the day, along with Pickett’s extraordinary frontal assault? George Pickett. Davis wondered if there were ever a more unlikely hero. An Immortal. Last in his class at West Point. No matter. He’d learn what he needed to know from Lee.
Davis had much to discuss with his famous general, especially now that the British Army had crossed from Canada into New York, or was about to, precise destination unknown. Davis had no direct communications with that army and assumed Lee didn’t either.
He turned from Lee’s dispatch to the letter from Prime Minister Palmerston, which had arrived via a blockade runner to the port of Charleston, then come by rail to Richmond. Coordinating with the British was not going to be easy.
Palmerston’s letter was direct. So much for British understatement, thought Davis. It said that under the terms of Britain’s declaration of war, the British government in London and their commanders in the field would set strategic objectives and choose when and where to engage Union forces. Davis found himself frowning, just as he had the first dozen times he’d read the letter. And now he had to explain to the hero of Gettysburg that he would hereafter take strategic direction from John Burgoyne.
Burgoyne. Davis remembered a pre-war conversation with George McClellan after his return from observing the Crimean War. McClellan admired professional soldiers, and Burgoyne had stood out, a careful, intentional commander whose calm countenance belied a certain ruthless nature of someone who fought to win. He would make few mistakes. A fine choice indeed if we can align him with our strategy.
Davis wondered about Lee, a man he’d known since Mexico but didn’t really know. All courtly self-effacement in public, but Davis knew that in this army of preternaturally proud men, Lee was in a world of his own, and proud to the point of prickly. But presidents give orders and soldiers obey them, and that’s how it would have to be with Bobby Lee.
The enormous clock struck the hour and the door opened. General Lee was shown in, and the door closed. They would meet alone. Hands shaken, formal greetings exchanged, and the two men sat across from each other in wooden chairs that didn’t match. Lee, though fresh from the field, was impeccably dressed and sat straight and poker-faced. With his enormous head and torso, he towered over the president. Davis appreciated formality but Lee made even Davis feel slouched and sloppy.
“General, it’s a pleasure to congratulate you in person for your victory.”
“Thank you, Mr. President, but what general couldn’t win the day with troops such as these? The men were magnificent, and I was well-served that day by my corps and division commanders. General Pickett’s charge and subsequent rout of the Federal positions on Cemetery Ridge was the greatest feat of arms I’ve ever witnessed.”
“I’ve read your dispatch but look forward to hearing more. General Lee, you’re aware that General Burgoyne has apparently crossed from Canada into the United States?”
“Mr. President, I only know what I’ve read in the Washington newspapers, and what I heard in the streets of Richmond when I arrived this afternoon. But that being the case, I have some thoughts on how to use the British troops to support our efforts to bring the war to a swift and decisive end and secure our independence. I believe the Federal Army is demoralized and poorly led, and that Washington City may be ours for the taking. Perhaps we could spread this map out and I can show you what my staff and I have in mind.”
“By all means, General. But let me show you a letter from Prime Minister Palmerston, which arrived earlier this week. As you’ll see, Britain’s declaration of war comes with conditions. Foremost among them is that they wish to take the strategic initiative. I suggest we find a way to engage directly with General Burgoyne and reach agreement on how to align our objectives and our disposition of forces.”
Davis watched carefully as Lee read the letter, then read it again. Lee appeared to be deep in thought, sitting silently, the letter still in hand but his gaze far away. Let him come to terms with it, thought Davis. Let him speak first.
Lee placed the letter carefully on the table between them. He cleared his throat and spoke in a quiet voice.
“Mr. President, do I understand that you support the spirit of this letter, that the Confederate armies will cede the initiative to the British, and engage the enemy at their direction and in support of their efforts and war aims?”
It was Davis’ turn to pause. He knew that the wrong choice of words could be disastrous.
“General Lee, I speak for a grateful nation when I say our continued success and very survival depend on you. I believe that there are enough Federal soldiers to go around, and that it will be our own army which will carry the day in the end. But keeping the British in the game, opening a second, northern front in this war, is the single greatest guarantee of our independence, your grand victory at Gettysburg notwithstanding. I believe that we can and should do whatever we can to keep the British Army in the field.”
This time Lee did not pause. His brown eyes seemed to turn a brighter color, and Davis could see that his face had reddened. Lee rose and reached for Davis’ hand. “If that’s the case, Mr. President, then I can see that my service has come to an end. If I may, let me suggest that General Longstreet assume command of the Army of Northern Virginia. I don’t believe it would be convenient to return to my command to say farewell to my staff and the army. I shall join Mary here in Richmond. It has been my great honor to serve my state and my country and to lead this army. I want to express my personal thanks to you for the confidence you have always shown in me.”
This last statement was barely audible. Before Davis could recover from his shock, Lee had picked up his felt hat and gauntlets from the table by the door and left the room.