Newt Gingrich - Grant Comes East

"Last night General Grant put a pontoon bridge across the Susquehanna River at Harrisburg. Even now his army is crossing."

"Which direction?"

"Not toward us, sir. He is moving down the Cumberland Valley, advancing toward Virginia."

"Merciful God," Lee whispered.

Judah looked at him, wide-eyed.

"Mr. Secretary," Lee said quietly, "sir, if you will excuse me, I have orders to give. Walter, general officers' meeting in one hour; I want Longstreet, Hood, Stuart, and Beauregard. This army is to prepare to move at once."

He turned and rode off.

Judah watched him go.

"One more corps," he whispered to the back of the departing rider, "do you wish for them now, sir?"

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

August 22, 1863 7:15 a.m.

His army was on the march. The bridge had been thrown across the river under cover of darkness. Though rebel scouts had been driven back, still there might be some spies along the opposite bank. It had taken his engineers eight hours to build it sections having been already built up above Marysville and then floated down into place.

The first of his corps, Ord's, just about finished crossing. Even as his Army of the Susquehanna began its march, orders had gone out to Sherman, who no later than tomorrow would be up with Rosecrans. Sherman was to assume full command of the forces in Tennessee, to drive Bragg out of that state, take Chattanooga, pull in the Twenty-third Corps to his support, and then, regardless of threat to his flanks and rear, advance on Atlanta. Let them try and swallow that pill at the same time that I am advancing.

He had surmised quickly what had happened with Sickles, even as the newspaper reports flashed across the wires, and now it was time to force the issue. If he was in command, then he would indeed be in command. Washington, as far as he was concerned, was cut off and there was no longer any need to seek Stanton's approval on any order now issued. He had forwarded the memo from Stanton, which gave Sickles latitude to move, straight back to the president, with the simple note on the back, "Mr. President, did you authorize this?"

A damn good army had gone down to yet another useless defeat.

But was it entirely useless? he wondered. The boys of that tragic, vanquished army had gone down lighting. All reports of that were clear. They had not mortally wounded Lee, but they had indeed savaged him. Another division, perhaps two, of the Army of Northern Virginia were no longer fit for battle, the others weary, exhausted after their mad dash in the killing heat Out of that debacle a new plan had formed. Lee had been pulled much farther north than Grant had ever dared to hope.

Now he would make Lee dance to his tuneThe waiting was over, a month ahead of his plan, but it was over regardless. He would come crashing down the Cumberland Valley. With this fair weather, in two days he could be across Pennsylvania and into Maryland, threatening Lee's rear communications. If Lee should move up across Maryland to try and cut his own lines, then he could run to the Baltimore and Ohio. For, God bless him, Herman Haupt still did march with this army, having laid in trains, bridging material, supplies to support him from as far away as Ohio.

It was his fourth cigar of the morning, and he coughed, even as he puffed it to life.

The long pontoon bridge, snaking across the river, bobbed and swayed as the endless stream of men passed, rifles at the shoulder, the men marching out of step as ordered to avoid setting up a rhythm that might cause the bridge to break.

They were in high spirits, a jauntiness to their steps. Well rested, lean, arrogant, ready for a fight The last of Ord's infantry and artillery passed. Supply wagons, loaded on to trains, would snake north up above Marysville then come south, advancing as far as the track would allow, then unloading, keeping the bridge open for his faster moving infantry. Haupt's well-trained railroad men were already at the forefront of the advance, surveying the damage, a mobile telegraph station set up, sending back word for what needed to be sent forward to repair the rebel damage to the right-of-way down the valley. Hundreds of flatcars, numbered and loaded, were waiting to be sent up.

The head of Ninth Corps was now on the bridge, General Burnside in the lead, a tall man, strange, high-crown hat, mutton-chop whiskers freshly brushed, a grin on his face as he rode past Grant, saluting.

"Good day for a little march, isn't it?" Burnside cried, and Grant nodded, saying nothing.

Behind him came the new Third Division of the Ninth, the men eager, moving briskly, all of their regimental banners at the fore, brand-new flags denoting the regiments "of the United States Colored Troops. Though they were new soldiers, he could sense their passion, for if any men in this army now had a reason to fight, it had to be them. They were coming on with a will. They already had been warned of the custom of this army, to not cheer the general, but still their enthusiasm could not be contained, and in silent salute they took off their hats and held them high as they passed, row upon row, filling the bridge and the road clear back into Harrisburg.

Grant, unmoving, astride his horse, cigar clenched firmly, took off his hat and returned the salutes.

The Army of the Susquehanna was on the march. It was his army and it would march, he realized, until either he was dead, along with all those passing before him, or the final victory was won.