Richmond, Virginia
March 1864
Jefferson Davis was unable to sit still as he awaited news. He had spent his day pacing his office one end to the other, twenty-three steps, and reading the very occasional dispatches from his commanders in the field.
Now he was at home, pacing in the slightly smaller drawing room, seventeen steps in each direction.
Varina looked up from the wool socks she was knitting. “I suppose it would have little effect if I explained that your pacing does not hasten news from the front.”
“None at all.”
“Might you alight for a moment and explain the current situation?”
“I don’t believe that I can.”
“Alight, or explain?”
“Alight. And there’s little to explain. Fitz Lee reported that Federal cavalry forced the Potomac crossings at first light. At multiple fords. There were sharp fights up and down the line.”
“As expected.”
Davis stopped in his tracks and stared at Varina for a moment, then continued his march. “Yes. As expected. Fitz and his boys are in constant contact with the Federal cavalry, which apparently came across in brigade strength. Maybe a couple of brigades.” He looked at his wife. “A couple thousand troopers.”
Varina continued knitting, a silent scolding, as if to say that the explanation of “brigade strength” was superfluous.
“Perhaps a couple of brigades, I say. They are raiding cattle, stealing horses, burning crops, and the like.”
Varina, without looking up, said, “And you fear that it looks more like a cavalry raid than an invasion. You’re wondering, where’s the infantry?”
Davis stopped his pacing and sat in the chair next to his wife’s. He placed the palms of his hands facing the fire. He was always cold, especially in that damn house. “That’s precisely what I’m wondering. Fitz is watching the cavalry, and Bragg and his men are between Longstreet and the Potomac. Bragg reports no activity on his front.” A long pause. “What is Grant up to?”
“Perhaps General Grant has no stomach for another Fredericksburg or Chancellorsville, and another ‘On to Richmond’ campaign that ends in mud and failure. Perhaps he’s not the bumpkin butcher that they say he is.”
Davis stared at the fire, and for the first time said aloud what he’d been thinking since midday. “You think he might be going after Burgoyne rather than Longstreet.”
Varina laughed. “I’m hardly a military strategist, much less a mind reader. But if your General Grant isn’t south of the Potomac, he must be north of it.”
Davis could see it. The Federal cavalry was a diversion to keep our troops occupied. Grant could catch Burgoyne napping and, with luck, destroy his army or force him to retreat northward. Then Grant could wheel south, join forces with McClellan’s troops, and come for Longstreet.
Davis rose from his chair and resumed pacing.
“Your first duty is to protect Richmond and our, uh, independence. I should think that the British Army can fend for itself. General Burgoyne was certainly in no hurry to attack Washington City, or to join forces with Longstreet. I don’t believe you should send our boys running to help the British. You owe them nothing. They joined this war for their own purposes.”
Davis was now practically running from one end of the drawing room to the other. “Yes, of course. But if Grant can defeat Burgoyne, or force him to retreat, then our path to independence narrows considerably. Perhaps fatally.”
“What will you do?”
Davis thought about Robert E. Lee, puttering around his house in slippers, writing his memoirs. What would Lee do? Lee would do what he always did. Attack. “I’ll go see Longstreet in the morning. We have some decisions to make.”