Near Lewinsville, Virginia
November 1863
It was exhilarating for Jefferson Davis to be back in the saddle. He was a wartime president, and by God he was going to see this war for himself. He’d spent considerable time in the field with the troops and his generals the year before, when McClellan threatened Richmond. Then it had been a short ride, too short, from the Confederate White House to the front. From the battlefield he could see the church steeples of the city. This was different. He had taken the train from Richmond to Fairfax Station, and now he was riding through the northern Virginia countryside with Pete Longstreet, his staff officers, and an escort from the 9th Virginia Cavalry.
Where Davis was drinking in every sight and sound, Longstreet looked angry and out of sorts. Which he no doubt was. No general wants the president at his side on the eve of battle. It won’t do to play soldier. I’ll ride to the rear when the shooting starts, mused Davis, but for now I’m going to make sure Old Peter understands exactly what’s expected.
They rode past a white frame church. Five or six houses lined the road with farm fields running off behind them.
“Does this crossroads have a name?” Davis asked. Longstreet grunted. “Colonel Sorrel, does this clump of houses earn a name on your map?”
“Lewinsville, sir. I reckon we’re five miles from the Chain Bridge.”
Lewinsville. Davis had lived in Washington City for years as a senator and as secretary of war, and he’d never heard of it.
“General, are you surprised we’ve met no resistance since leaving Warrenton?”
“No sir. Meade has pulled back to the defenses of Washington. Since McClellan took most of the Army of the Potomac north, Meade had no choice but to tighten his ranks and shorten his supply and communication lines. He’s stretched thin. But they’ve had over two years to build up the ring of forts around the city, and they’re formidable. We have a couple of options. Lay siege, which is damn near impossible since we’d have to surround the whole city. We don’t have the numbers for that. Or to try to punch through. Of course, there’s a third way. We can threaten, harass, raid, and generally create mayhem and scare hell out of the Yankee government and press. That’s what General Stuart was born to do. And if the British do their part, why I expect Lincoln would have no choice but to offer terms.”
We’ve been over this a dozen times, thought Davis. And Pete knows it. Our agreement with the British requires that we attack Washington City, and attack we shall.
Longstreet read his thoughts. “Stuart should have crossed the river early this morning, at White’s Ferry. He’ll have his hands full with the batteries that guard the approaches to the city, but he’ll manage. He should be in position by tomorrow morning. His orders are to make as much fuss and racket as he can and draw the brunt of Meade’s attention. As you know, I’ve sent Jackson forward to clear the way to Chain Bridge. There are two Federal forts that protect the bridge, Forts Marcy and Ethan Allen. I suspect Jackson will bypass and isolate them rather than waste time attacking them. If he can secure the bridge, he’ll enter the city and meet up with Stuart.”
“And Pickett’s corps?”
“Pickett will wait until we’ve crossed the Chain Bridge. Meade will have to move all the troops he has throughout the city to meet us. At that time, General Pickett will try to cross the Long Bridge. If he can cross, we should have 70,000 men loose in Washington City in two days’ time. Should we burn the President’s House, or wait for the British to do that?”
Davis didn’t laugh at the joke. “The thought has crossed my mind.” It was a bold plan, and nobody could say Longstreet hadn’t gotten the message. Davis found himself thinking it might be too bold. Maybe they really should demonstrate and threaten for a few days, wait for news from Burgoyne, and see if Lincoln wants to talk.
“How do you find General Jackson?”
A long silence. Davis knew that Lee had been the glue that held the prickly Southern generals together. Longstreet and Jackson were as different as can be. The one stolid, dependable, easy to read. The other mercurial, odd, but gifted and driven by a higher authority.
“General Jackson seems delighted to be back with his men. And they are certainly glad to have him back. I believe he is anxious to deliver a blow, prove that his wounds and time away haven’t changed him. Taking the bridge should be just the tonic to set him up. If anything, he’s quieter. And more trusting in Divine Providence. Whatever that may be.”
Davis hesitated, then asked. “Is he comfortable serving under your command?”
Longstreet laughed, a harsh sound that started in the chest and slowly found its way to the throat. “I didn’t ask.”
A low rumble, like distant thunder, sounded. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Longstreet took his watch from his pocket, flipped it open, and said, “General Stuart is ahead of his own ambitious schedule. Colonel Sorrel, kindly ride ahead and inform General Jackson that Stuart is engaged. And would he keep me and, uh, President Davis apprised of his progress in clearing the approaches to the Chain Bridge.”
Davis was fairly standing in his stirrups, red-faced, straining to hear, and looked for all the world as if he were about to yell Charge! and gallop ahead.
Longstreet spoke. “Mr. President, as you make your way to the rear, rest assured that my staff will keep you up to the minute on our progress.”