Richmond, Virginia
November 1863
Jefferson Davis was pacing in the parlor of his Richmond residence, a fire burning in the fireplace, and another deep inside of him. Varina, as always, was knitting in her chair. Davis disliked the room and in fact disliked the house. Come to think of it, he disliked Richmond, and disliked being president of the Confederacy. His mood was dark.
“You might sit down. You’re working yourself into a state.”
“I am long since in a state and make no mistake.” Davis had hoped, dearly hoped, that by now Washington City would have fallen to Longstreet’s army, and that a victorious Burgoyne would be marching south with his British troops. He had hoped that Lincoln would be suing for peace.
“I saw Mary Lee this morning. I paid a call. She was gracious but poorly. She had trouble pouring tea for the rheumatism.”
“Was the general in evidence?”
“I heard footsteps upstairs. It could have been the help. Mary said the general is well and is writing. No further information.”
“Writing. If Southern generals aren’t dueling, they’re writing. I hope the general takes his time with whatever he’s writing.”
“The newspapers are upset with your General Longstreet. They’re certain that General Lee would have taken Washington City by now.”
“Just as they were certain that invading the north was a mistake, that I should have kept the army home to protect Richmond. Until we were victorious at Gettysburg. Then it turned out it had been their plan all along. And I didn’t fire him. General Lee. He resigned.”
“What news from General Longstreet?”
“His initial enthusiasm to take Washington City has waned. His attempts to cross the Potomac at Chain and Long Bridges were frustrated. Stuart likewise ran afoul of Federal infantry. But Longstreet claims that it’s just a matter of time. He holds the high ground on the Maryland Palisades, and in Virginia on Arlington Heights. His big guns are raining shells on Washington City. Stuart is being Stuart and playing havoc with their supply lines and cutting telegraph wires. Lincoln and the cabinet have fled to Philadelphia.”
“So, Washington is under siege?”
“Technically no, since our troops haven’t surrounded the city completely. We don’t have sufficient forces to do so, and won’t unless the British can fight their way southward to join our army. But Washington City is cut off on three sides. Half the northern newspapers are screaming for McClellan to return and drive off the invaders. The other half are imploring Lincoln to recognize Southern independence and end the war.”
“And what news from your new British friends?”
Davis shot a glance at Varina, and scowled. “I have precious few friends in this world, it seems. The only information I have is through the Northern papers. Apparently, young General Custer thrashed the British somewhere along the Hudson, but it doesn’t seem to have been a general engagement. I expect that Burgoyne will lick his wounds, bide his time, await reinforcements, and keep McClellan busy up north. That should at least give Pete the time he needs to capture Washington City.”
“So, you’ve worked yourself into a state for nothing. Longstreet has things in hand along the Potomac, and McClellan is occupied in New York. Meanwhile, we enjoy our independence, in spite of rampant inflation, scarcity of food, empty shops, and the vitriol of the press. And the fact that all the men are away for the harvest.”
Davis laughed and finally sat. “You certainly have a way.” Varina tried to hand him the day’s Richmond Daily Dispatch. Davis laughed again. “I’d rather you handed me those knitting needles. I don’t need to read the papers to know what people are saying. I have you to tell me that the shops are empty. I shall sit by your side and stare into the fire.”
As they sat together, Davis pondered Varina’s words. Perhaps things really weren’t so bad. Washington under threat of capture and constant bombardment. McClellan far away, tied up, and facing a formidable foe. Vicksburg somehow holding out against all odds. For us, survival is success. So for now, we’re successful.