“I share Mr. Davis’s feelings, General Sherman. We all do. And we thank you for what you did.”
“I did my duty,” Sherman said in a quiet voice. “To my country and all of its citizens. Now, if you please, what word of Grant?”
“No news yet — other than that he is under attack at Saratoga. He said that he will not give way.”
Sherman nodded agreement. “Nor will he. Have reinforcements been dispatched to aid him?”
“I have sent what was available. More will be on the way as soon as new operational plans are made,” Lincoln said and turned to Davis who nodded.
“Mr. Lincoln and I have agreed that the ceasefire will be extended to enable both our armies to unite in battle against the British invaders.”
“May I make a suggestion?” General Lee asked.
“Of course,” Jefferson Davis said.
Lee rested both hands on the pommel of his sword, spoke slowly and carefully, well aware of the great import of his words.
“There must be unified command if we are to be successful in this operation. That will not be an easy thing to do. I am sure that my men would be most reluctant to serve under General Grant who has slaughtered them by the thousands. And I am sure that the same would be true of Northern troops who might be asked to serve under a Southern general. So it is obvious that the various regiments and divisions must keep the commanders that they have now. I am perfectly willing to remain in command of the Southern forces, as I do now. But there must be a Commander-in-Chief who will be respected by the soldiers from both armies, who must follow his orders without a moment’s hesitation. I have talked of this with General Beauregard and we are of the same mind. As far as the officers of the Army of the Confederacy go there is but a single officer who could take that command.”
“I am in agreement,” Jefferson Davis said. “That commander must be General Sherman.”
Sherman held his hand up. “I appreciate the honor, and I thank you. But General Lee far outranks me…”
“Rank in war is determined by winning,” Lee said. “You fought and held at Shiloh and I understand that you were rewarded with a promotion for that. Now you have risked life, career, everything to aid us. I don’t think that the Northern armies would accept a Southerner in the top command. But they will accept you — as will we.”
“You are perfectly correct, General Lee,” Lincoln said. “Since General Halleck’s death General Grant has been in command of the forces now arrayed against the British. As you may have heard, General McClellan is in the hospital with fever. I have relieved him of his post as General of the Armies and have assumed that command myself. It is now, with great pleasure, that I relinquish that title to General Sherman. And more than that, since he will be in command of two armies his rank must reflect that fact. As well as being Commander-in-Chief I recommend that he be named General of the Combined Armies as well.”
“I concur, Sir,” Davis said. “It is fitting and deserved.” Robert E. Lee turned to the Union officer and saluted. “I am at your command, General Sherman.”
Sherman returned the salute. “For the sake of our unified armies and the cause they fight in, I accept. Now — let us plan what must be done to attack the invaders. To demolish them in battle and thrust them back from our country. If it is war they want, why they shall have it in a sufficiency.”
SHARPSHOOTERS!
“The west flank, General — they’re coming over the wall!”
General Grant’s uniform was torn and dirty, his face black with smoke. He swayed in the saddle with fatigue; he had just returned from repelling another British attack. He pushed both hands down on the pommel of his McClellan saddle to straighten himself up.
“I want every second man from this line to follow me,” he ordered. “Let’s go boys! The way they been dying today they ain’t going to go on like this forever.”
He drew his sword and led the way, his exhausted horse barely able to stumble over the rough ground, beat down by the smoke and heat. And there they were, dark-green uniformed soldiers with black buttons, a fresh regiment thrown into battle. General Grant drew his sword and shouted wordless encouragement as he led the attack.
He avoided the bayonet, kicked it aside with his stirruped heel, then leaned over to slash the man across the face. His horse stumbled and fell, and he dragged himself clear. The melee was hand-to-hand and a very close run thing. Had he not brought his relief troops the battery and revetments would have been taken, punching a hole in the line they were fighting so hard to defend.
When the last green-uniformed attacker had been killed, his body dumped unceremoniously over the wall, the American forces still held the line. Battered, exhausted, filthy beyond belief, with more dead than living: they had held.
And that is the way the day went. The enemy, as tired as they were, kept attacking uphill with grinding strength. And were repelled with only the greatest of effort. Grant had said that his line would not break and it did not.
But at what a terrible cost.
Men who were wounded, bandaged, went back to fight again. Used their bayonets lying down when they were too fatigued to stand. It was a day for heroism. And a day for death. Not until it began to grow dark did the defenders realize that this day of hell was over. And that they had survived, fewer and fewer, but enough to still fight on.
The firing died away at dusk. Visibility faded in the gathering darkness, made even more obscure by the hovering clouds of smoke. The British had withdrawn after their last desperate attack, leaving behind the tumbled redcoat corpses on the ridge. But for the exhausted American survivors of the daylong attack there could be no rest, not yet. They lay aside their muskets and seized up spades to rebuild their defensive earthworks where British shells had torn great gaps. Boulders were rolled up and heaved into position. It was well past midnight before the defenses were up to Grant’s expectations. Now the weary soldiers slept where they fell, clutching their weapons, getting what rest they could before dawn saw the British attacking yet one more time.
General Grant did not rest, could not. Trailed by his stumbling aide-de-camp he went from one end of the defenses to the other. Saw that ammunition was ready for the few cannon remaining, that food and water were brought up from the rear. He looked into the charnel house of the field hospital with the pile of dismembered arms and legs beside it. Only when all had been done that could be done did he permit himself to drop into the chair before his tent. He accepted a cup of coffee and sipped at it.
“This has been a very long day,” he said, and Captain Craig shook his head at the understatement.
“More than long, General, ferocious. Those British know how to press home the attack.”