Between Richmond and Ashland Mill, Virginia
February 1864
Jefferson Davis had been in the saddle for almost three hours, and was nearing Ashland Mill, some twenty-five miles north of Richmond. Longstreet, good to his word, had brought his army south from the line of the Rappahannock to the line of the South Anna River. A less formidable natural barrier, to be sure, but that much closer to Richmond. Longstreet wanted short supply lines and easy communications for the coming battle.
Davis had read the papers searching for clues to Grant’s intentions. But Davis knew that the best clue was the man himself. Grant had little nuance. He came at you with overpowering force, and the question wasn’t if Grant would attack, but when and from whence.
Grant. If the Northern papers were to be believed, McClellan remained in overall command of the Union armies. But he would remain in Washington, defending the Northern capital from Burgoyne’s army, camped barely fifteen miles from the city’s ring of defenses. Grant would take the field. Davis imagined Lincoln threading that needle. He couldn’t think of two people less inclined to entertain Lincoln’s stories and jokes than Grant and McClellan, the one all business, the other all pride. Serves Lincoln right. I’m not the only one who has to balance prickly egos.
Davis found Longstreet sitting on a stump between his tent and a campfire, whittling with an oversized knife. What is it about whittling? Davis’ upbringing hadn’t included time for idle knife play. Off to the side, silently, stood Bragg with a gaggle of officers, some of whom Davis knew, others whom he didn’t recognize. Westerners.
Longstreet stood up slowly, then tossed the knife point first into the dirt with a practiced motion. “Good morning, Mr. President. Here to see the fireworks?”
Longstreet’s attempt at humor was weak but appreciated for its rarity.
“I plan to leave the fireworks to you, General. I’m here to ask if there is anything you need.”
Longstreet smiled. “A hundred thousand more men and a million rations. And some cannon. And a new pair of boots.”
Davis returned the smile. “Where is Grant?”
“Still camped on the Maryland side of the Potomac, last I heard. He has infantry arriving every day on the cars. Our friends tell us that Sheridan now has the cavalry and will be arriving in a week or so. Fitz Lee is watching the Potomac fords and we’ll know when Grant moves south.”
Davis listened intently and considered. I can’t ask Pete too many questions. But I need to know what he has in mind.
“And when Grant crosses the Potomac, you’ll wait for him here?”
It was Longstreet’s turn to consider. He needs to know what I’m up to. He has that right.
“Yes and no. Sam Grant isn’t Burnside or Hooker. We can’t let him get a head of steam up. Fitz will contest the crossings. He’ll harass Grant’s supply trains. I’ll be dug in here, waiting for him. But our Stonewall will have a surprise in store.”
“A flanking movement?”
“That’s right. Like Chancellorsville, only with twice as many men. We’re counting on Grant being undermanned for once, and we’re banking on his propensity to move in straight lines. McClellan will keep as many men as he can in Washington City and force Grant to travel light. That’s our opportunity.”
Propensity? Has the general been reading of late? Quietly, Davis asked, “And what about General Bragg and his frontier ruffians?”
Longstreet smiled again. “General Bragg’s men are anxious to prove their western mettle. They’ll be positioned between my men here and Grant. They’ll take the first blow and take the measure of Grant’s army for us. Their orders will be to engage in a fighting retreat, lure Grant here, and give Jackson time to mount his flanking movement.”
Davis could see it all in his head. An ambitious plan. Maybe my immovable rock finally understands the need for maneuver and aggressive action.
Longstreet was positively voluble now. “What do you hear from Burgoyne?”
Davis frowned. “I had a visit from one of his officers. An extraordinary young man. Passes through enemy lines like an eel through your fingers. Burgoyne has no plans to go on the offensive. He’s content to keep General McClellan bottled up behind the defenses he himself designed. There’s some justice and satisfaction in that I suppose. Burgoyne does feint, posture and threaten, artillery shells and the like. A chip off the playwright father.”
Longstreet could sense Davis’ unspoken disappointment. “Hmmph. I’d be content with a little less playacting and a little more gunpowder. But this was always our fight and I suppose we’ll have to deal with Grant on our own.”