He had not heard the train or any warning fanfare, so the ruckus of horses slopping through the mud close by surprised him. He stood, straightened his uniform, and fixed his hat on his head. Stepping out onto a walkway of planks, he scanned the powder-smoke mist.
His visitor rode ahead of the others, as if he knew exactly where he was going. The man had always had a good seat on a horse, had set some sort of equestrian record at West Point. Or was that someone else? At times he feared his memory would betray him. Forty-eight? Not so old. But old, too. War wanted the young. He cleared his throat and—just then, of all times—the damned fleabites on his calves began to itch.
He might not miss this, after all.
The visitor rode close, dropped easily and carelessly into the muck, and strode toward him. Splashing defiantly, determinedly, as if no mud would dare hold fast his boots. The other horsemen held back, fixed to their saddles.
There was no saluting, no formality. The visitor pulled off a riding glove and extended his hand.
“General Meade,” the man said in an easy western voice. “Sweet weather, ain’t it?”
Meeting the visitor’s cold flesh with his own, Meade replied, “Lieutenant General Grant, sir. Welcome to the Army of the Potomac.”
* * *
“Coffee?” Meade asked, prepared to call for an orderly.
Grant shook his head. “Best get down to business.” His face was set, emotionless, the common jaw outlined by a close-cropped beard.
Meade gestured toward a camp chair. “Please.”
Retaining his plain soldier’s overcoat, Grant sat down. The coat filled the tent with odors of old tobacco and wet wool. It wanted laundering.
Meade remained standing, posture erect, though not to parade-ground extremes. He wished to appear respectful, but not pompous. It was such a damnably awkward situation.
“Sir, if I may?” he began. He had prepared his speech, a schoolboy facing chastisement and hoping to salvage his pride.
Slump-shouldered and inscrutable, the newly made general in chief gave a single nod.
“General Grant … I understand that you may wish to name your own man to command the Army of the Potomac. I should regret that, of course. I should regret it a great deal. But I do not believe that the feelings or ambitions of any officer can be allowed to stand in the way of … of our efforts to end this war. What I mean to say is … I will neither protest nor resist your decision, whatever it may be. There will be no politicking, no underhandedness. We’ve had enough of that.” He breathed deeply, careful not to let it sound like a sigh, and forced himself to conclude. “The Union matters. I don’t. You may count on my … comity. And my full support, sir.”
Grant’s pale eyes remained inhumanly steady, but he gestured toward the chair nearest where he sat. As if he, not Meade, were the host. Suppressing a cough, Meade obeyed. His throat felt raw and his calves itched. He truly did feel old.
The younger man, arbiter of his fate, drew a pair of cigars from his overcoat. He bit off the end of one and extended the other to Meade.
Why not? Meade decided. Damn the old lungs. And damn this weather. Damn all of Virginia.
Grant struck a match and lit his cigar, but let Meade light his own.
Just say it, Meade thought. Finish me off. The way you would a lame cavalry mount.
Grant sat back, puffing. The overcoat bunched around him, as graceless as a blanket. “Jealous of you in Mexico,” he told Meade. “Staff engineer seemed a high and mighty creature. Envied you being in on things with Old Zach.” A smile ghosted by. “Beat you at poker, though.”
Their minds had run close, perhaps inevitably. Mexico was what they had in common. That and West Point. “I was just thinking that you remind me of General Taylor,” Meade said.
Grant brightened. “I take that as a compliment.” The Union’s first lieutenant general shifted in his chair, as if he had his own itches to resist. “Wasn’t just porch talk, Old Zach. Knew how to make men go, how to reach right into them.” Assessing his cigar, not Meade, he continued: “Different business now.”
Glad to take refuge in memories, Meade asked, “Do you remember how it struck us when Major Ringgold died? How unbelievable it seemed? These days,” he went on ruefully, “a major general’s death would hardly be noticed.” The cigar Grant had given him was of fine quality. He addressed it with care, determined not to fall into a coughing fit. “One thing I certainly envy General Taylor is the freedom he had. To do what needed to be done. Such liberty seems unimaginable now.” Meade shook his head. “The bane of my command has been modern communications, the damned telegraph. And proximity to Washington. The amount of contradictory direction I receive daily all but paralyzes this army.”
“That so?” Grant asked. His tone had become impersonal again. That voice was not unfriendly, but neither could Meade detect warmth in it.
Never a patient man, he decided to have his say. Grant could choose to listen to him or not.
“General Grant, if you want your commander of the Army of the Potomac to succeed, you must stand between him and Washington, all the damned busybodies. Just let him fight. This is a fine, fine army, a
fighting
army. I tell you, it’s at the peak of its capabilities: nearly a hundred thousand men, spirited and ready. More, should the Ninth Corps join it. But it cannot be commanded and fought from Washington.”
“Noted,” Grant said.
“And I hope you’ll permit my successor to execute the corps’ reorganization. Oh, I know the arguments against it … too many divisions for one general to control, the unwieldiness. But the damnable thing is that I have only three capable corps commanders to offer my successor. Not four or five. And it’s only three if Hancock’s wound doesn’t invalid him out again. He’ll be back with the army any day, but the surgeons seem to have made a thorough mess of things.”
“Win’s a tough bird,” Grant said. “Other two Warren and Sedgwick?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Warren up to a fight?”
“Yes, sir.”
Grant flipped the stub of his cigar onto the planks and crushed it with a boot heel: a raw man of the West, another breed. His lips suggested a smile, but none appeared. “Fine work at Gettysburg. Been waiting a while to tell you that. Ignore the committee. And the newspapers. Only difference between a reporter and a fifty-cent prostitute is that the latter has to be moderately presentable.”
“Your Vicksburg campaign was remarkable, sir.”
Accepting the tribute as fair, Grant nodded again. He rummaged deep in his overcoat and produced a leather wallet of fresh cigars. Meade had allowed the first smoke to go out. He declined the offer of a second.
“Be the death of me, these things,” Grant said, lighting up anew. “Couldn’t afford ’em back before the war. Now they send them to me by the crate.” He took his time with the match, letting the flame approach his fingertips, seeking an even burn on the cigar. “Folks in Washington tell me Lee isn’t much more than a reputation nowadays, that he has no spunk left.”
Meade’s hands balled into fists. “I know what’s said. I’ve heard every word and whisper. But let me tell you something outright, General Grant: You’re going to find Lee a formidable opponent. And his soldiers are tough nuts. Don’t underestimate them.”
“Tougher than ours?” Grant asked sharply.
Meade caught the testing tone. “No. Different. Wilder. They don’t quit when you expect them to. We’re better-drilled, better-equipped, morale’s far better than Mr. Greeley would have it … but Lee’s men keep coming at you like Florida cottonmouths.” He gestured southward, across the Rapidan. “Of course, they’re fighting for their homes. But it’s more than that. They
like
to fight.”
“We don’t?”
“We fight … from a sense of duty. Oh, some men revel in it. Hancock. Barlow, this Harvard buck. Gibbon, Carroll. Young Upton. But you understand me, I think.”
“You don’t think Lee can be beaten?”
Meade stood up. Affronted. He had not said any such thing. It was suddenly a struggle to master his temper.
“Certainly, he can be beaten. He
has
been beaten. But this army needs to be allowed to fight him, and to fight him with every man and gun it has. It can’t defeat him decisively if entire corps are stripped away in mid-campaign because some congressman heard a noise in his back garden. This army … you have no idea of the restrictions under which I’ve had to act. It’s … it’s…” The foulest language he knew almost escaped him. “Criminal.”
Grant shrugged, a gesture tamed by the bulk of his overcoat. But he smiled truly at last. With brown teeth.
“You’re lucky you didn’t have to answer to Old Brains. Way I did before he came east. Told me everything but how to saddle my horse, and he was getting around to that.” Grant, too, rose to his feet, compact and uninterested in the impression he made. “Talk me through those maps. Tell me what you’d do, if you had the run of things, with no interference.”
The smoke in the tent burned Meade’s lungs and throat, and he fought back another cough. But he was on firmer ground now. He knew the land, knew how to fight on it.
They labored at the maps for over an hour, talking of roads and fords, of rail lines and the supplies required by an army on the move, of food and fodder, artillery trains and the army’s real strength available for duty. They spoke of officers who could be depended upon to fight, and of those who wanted watching or replacement. For a time, all other concerns receded as their profession gripped two old soldiers.
At last, Grant asked: “And your preferred course of action? When the roads dry out?”
“If Richmond’s our objective—”
“Richmond won’t be the objective,” Grant cut him off. “Lee will be. I mean to break his army by this summer.”
The man’s confidence stopped Meade’s breath. Recovering, he continued, “Lee’s army will always shield Richmond. The way to get him to fight is to threaten Richmond.”
“Go on,” Grant said.
“I still favor the eastern axis. Cross at the fords above Fredericksburg and move south fast. Washington’s covered, so you won’t have to split off a corps or more to keep them feeling snug back along the Potomac. Supplies can be shifted along the coast as the army advances. Shorter lines of communications all around.”
Grant kept his eyes on the map, and Meade could feel the man’s gaze settle on Chancellorsville.
“Been tried,” Grant said. “Hasn’t worked.”
“The army’s never been properly
led
when it was tried.” Meade undid the top button of his uniform. “Oh, why not say it? Burnside wasn’t fit to command this army. We could’ve won at Fredericksburg, I was there. My division broke their line. All for nothing. You’ve never seen such a needless, senseless, damnable debacle. And Chancellorsville. Hooker froze like a hare cornered by a rattlesnake. We could’ve won at Chancellorsville, too. Even after Jackson embarrassed us. We
all
wanted to attack, all the real generals, to hit back hard. Even Dan Sickles was for attacking, God help us, and he was Hooker’s creature through and through. Lord knows, we had the numbers. We could’ve destroyed Lee’s army then and there, it was split in two and disorganized.” He felt the need to cough, but growled instead. “And what did we do? We just quit. It was … it was despicable.” Infuriated, Meade let his voice rise, abandoning his gentlemanly decorum. “This army’s
never
been allowed to really fight by its commanders. Little Mac, Burnside, Hooker … damn the whole business to Hell. We’ve wasted
years
.”
“It was allowed to fight at Gettysburg,” Grant said.
Abandoning society manners, Meade spit into the tobacco fog. “They didn’t have a damned choice. They were shitting themselves, imagining Stuart was going to ravish their women and cut their throats in the night. They were glad to give me free rein then. Oh, weren’t they just? And look what it got me. The damned committee—you know I’ve got to report again tomorrow? I’m interrogated in public like a criminal.” Furious now, he towered over Grant. “I tell you, if this war is lost, it’ll be lost in Washington, not by this army. This is a
great
army. It just needs the politicians to let it
be
great.” Abruptly, Meade sagged. “I’ve done the best I could.”
“Sit down, General Meade,” Grant ordered. The words were spoken calmly, but intently. When Meade, ruing his temper, had settled himself in his chair, the general in chief said, “You seem to be under a misapprehension.”
Meade looked up and met those opaque eyes again.
“I’m sorry?”
“This business of you being relieved of command. I expect you to stay at your post.”
“But … General Smith?”
“I’ll find something for Baldy to do. Probably give him a corps. You and I are closer in line than Washington would have it. And, frankly, you know this army, it respects you. You’re the only man who gave it a victory. More than one. Bristoe Station, that Rappahannock business…” He snorted. “We don’t fit together right, I’ll put you out to pasture. But I’d be a fool to do it now and start off on the wrong foot with every man in the Army of the Potomac.” Relaxing now, Grant grinned. “Oh, my western boys would like to see a clean sweep of every officer east of the Appalachians, they’re pissing fire. But you just stand your ground, and they’ll calm down.”
“I’m honored, sir. Positively honored.” Meade caught himself. It didn’t do to sound groveling, after all. But his relief was immeasurable, nearly of the extent he had felt on that last afternoon at Gettysburg.
He had not failed.
At least, not yet.
Grant stood up and stepped back to the maps. Meade didn’t move. He sensed that Grant had more to say.
“As for me,” the general in chief resumed, “I have no intention of being trapped, bagged up and skinned at a desk in Washington. My headquarters will be with your army. If you can’t bear the thought of me looking over your shoulder, tell me now.” Grant’s eyes turned cold again. “I don’t intend to count your bullets for you, or wipe your nose for you. I’ll tell you where I want you to go and let you decide how to get there. I’ll tell you when I want you to fight, but let you figure out how to do it. If that arrangement suits you, we can go forward.”