Richmond, Virginia
May 1864
The enormous clock in the corner of Jefferson Davis’ office struck the hour as the generals walked in, by design or coincidence Davis didn’t know, but in descending order of rank. Longstreet, Jackson, Stuart, Bragg, and Fitzhugh Lee. They arranged themselves around the large wooden table with no fanfare, Longstreet seated to Davis’ right. Despite his mood, dark as always, he smiled. One of the great things about soldiers is that there is no question who is who and who outranks whom.
“Gentlemen. Thank you for coming to Richmond. I’d prefer to meet you in the field, but this seemed the easiest place to bring you together.”
The generals sat upright in their chairs, hands folded on the table, with the exception of Jackson. His good arm was elevated in the air, as if letting the blood flow out of it altogether. Davis caught himself staring, though Jackson seemed oblivious, or at least not to mind.
“General Longstreet, I should like to hear your account of where matters stand with the defeat of the British Army and their apparent retreat toward Canada.”
For once Longstreet wasn’t staring out the window. Perhaps the prospect of imminent attack by overwhelming numbers has focused his mind.
“Mr. President. Gentlemen. I’ll speak for myself, but Grant’s attack on the British Army caught me completely by surprise. And it seems General Burgoyne more so. From what I understand, the British Army broke under the first two attacks, but had made a stand near Gaithersburg and was holding its own. Grant was all in, no reserve, small force, no more than 50,000 men. I understand that the British had some hope of launching a counterattack the next day since many of their troops hadn’t seen action for the running. Then, well, McClellan.”
There was silence around the table, finally broken by Jackson, arm now resting by his side. “An astounding act of soldiering. Clearly deeply moved by the spirit.”
There was more silence, though Stuart seemed to stifle a chuckle, pretending instead to cough.
Finally, Davis asked, “Does anyone know precisely what happened? Regarding General McClellan?”
Fitz Lee looked at Longstreet, who nodded. “Sir, it seems that McClellan, uh, rode to the battlefield from Washington City, assumed command, and then personally led a charge that spread all along the Federal front and which completely carried the day. The British were routed, and Burgoyne surrendered. To McClellan. I’m told Grant was not present at the surrender.”
Davis looked at each of his generals in turn. Outstanding field commanders, Bragg excepted. But even he was a soldier and a man of unquestioned personal courage. They’d all been prepared to fight Grant. What did it mean that George McClellan had suddenly been reincarnated as Alexander the Great?
“General Longstreet, tell me what you have in mind.”
Longstreet also looked around the table. “Stick to the plan. Let Grant, or McClellan, or Grant and McClellan, come south. Fitz will contest the crossings. General Bragg will engage and lure them south, a fighting retreat. The bulk of the army will await, dug in, at Ashland Mill. And General Jackson will execute a flanking movement in force. If possible, he’ll work his way behind Grant, and we’ll crush them between us.”
All were leaning forward in their seats, imagining the scene as Longstreet described it. Only Jackson was leaning back in his chair, arm again raised above his head, eyes closed, and he seemed to be humming softly to himself.
Davis nodded in agreement at Longstreet’s words. “Very good. And, forgive me gentlemen, if our bravest and best efforts are unable to stop the Federal advance?”
Longstreet looked directly at Davis and said softly, “I believe you know the answer to that question, Mr. President.”
Davis had regretted the question even as he asked it. “Yes. I believe I do.”