Newt Gingrich - Grant Comes East

He wondered how President Madison had felt, standing here, watching as the couriers came riding in, announcing the disaster at Blandensburg, the fact that the British would be in the city by nightfall.

And yet the republic had survived that. There was never a question of surrender then, nor with George Washington after the fall of Philadelphia, when Congress moved to the frontier outpost of York.

For Washington in 1777 and Madison in 1814 it had been a question of will. It was the same challenge for him this night

Tonight, he knew that in a fair part of those states still loyal, will was evaporating, burning away under the heat of this war. As the horrific tally from Union Mills was tapped out to distant telegraph stations across the land, the victory at Vicksburg would be washed away in a sea of mourning and recriminations.

He was almost grateful that the city was now cut off. The chattering of most of the voices of condemnation or outright surrender would gratefully be silent in this office.

I could end this tomorrow, he thought. End it and send those boys home. A month, a year from now they would still be alive, for chances are, if this continues, they will die, if not tomorrow or the day after, they will perish nevertheless in the battles still to be fought.

He thought again of Antietam, the washed-out graves, rotting corpses half out of the ground. He remembered one in particular, obviously a boy of not more than sixteen, face visible in the clay, wisps of blond hair, decaying lips drawn back in a death grimace, silent, granite-like eyes gazing up at him as he rode past Somewhere-in Maine, Ohio, or Indiana- there was a family, sitting in a parlor, who read of that boy, the name in small print, the only sound the tick-tock whisper of the clock marking out the passage of their lives, and in their hearts was the question of why did their boy die? And they were asking that again tonight with more news of defeat Why did my boy die for a cause that seems lost?

Perhaps they hoped that there was some meaning, some cause, a dream beyond that of any individual, that their son had been drawn into that storm and disappeared forever, and yet there would be ultimate purpose, a deeper grief, that in the end would be replaced by a knowledge that through him, others now lived, that from the rich earth of his grave, something now was given back to all… forever.

What would they think this night? A logic he had always held in contempt was that the sacrifice to Mars must, at times, be sustained by yet more blood sacrifices to assuage those already dead. To give in was to render meaningless the sacrifice of all those who had already died.

And yet, this night, he did see truth in it If the war could still be won, then to surrender now would be to render meaningless all the sacrifice gone before, even that sacrifice upon the bloody slopes of Gettysburg and Union Mills.

Can it be won?

He thought of two conversations of the last week, both of them so clear in intent, not the self-serving maneuverings of the political circles about him, rather the simple statements of two soldiers who had been there. Henry Hunt, who had witnessed all of it, and in tears had asked that leaders be chosen that were worthy of the men who served beneath them. He and General Haupt, who so coolly and without emotion had said that if the men could be found, he, Haupt, could marshal the supplies and equipment to support them within a matter of weeks.

That now focused him.

Grant, more than any other, had proven his worth, and he knew without doubt that here was the general he had sought for two long years. A general who understood what he as the president of a free republic expected to be done by the army of that republic. He knew that Grant fully understood the relationship between a civilian government and its general in the field… that upon accepting command to scrupulously follow the orders of the president, which were simple, at least in concept… relentlessly move forward, unleash the full power of the North, and implement a coordinated military plan to bring about a speedy victory.

Ultimately though, that decision-the decision to refocus the industrial might of the nation, to place that might into the hands of those few men still willing to volunteer, and to let the frightful dying continue-now rests with me. Do I have the will to see it through?

He looked down again at the soldiers on the lawn. Several were gathered around a lantern, playing cards, another crowd leaning against a lamppost, trying to read the latest newspaper.

They will die by my orders, if I have the will to give that next order.

If I don't, then all meaning to what has gone before is lost. Our continent will fracture apart -and with a sudden clarity he could see all that would follow. Two nations would quickly break into three, for Texas would go its own way again, followed by four, perhaps five nations, as western states broke away. Then there would be war in Mexico and Cuba, for surely the South would turn that way, and war on the West Coast as those states sought to drive out the British north of them. And at some point war yet again, for vengeance, for control of the Mississippi, or over servile revolt and abolitionists who would not give up their cause.

Yet hundreds of thousands more dead in the century to come. And what of Europe? France would try to stage a return, would goad Spain in as well. The "last best hope of mankind" would become simply like the rest of the world, warring states drenched in centuries of blood, rather than a power that might one day step forward to transform, perhaps even to save, the world.

And it all rests with me tonight.

Though the burden was almost beyond a man's ability to tolerate, especially as he gazed down upon those who, tomorrow perhaps, would pay that price, he knew with a startling clarity what he had to do, what history now charged him with doing. With that clear, there was no longer room for doubt.

"Thy Will be done," he whispered.

Sitting down on the sofa opposite from Hay he slipped off his shoes, wrapped a shawl around his painfully thin, hunched shoulders, and, lying down, drifted off to sleep.

New York City

July 17 1863

The ride up from the Jersey City Ferry had been a sobering experience for Gen. Dan Sickles. On the west side of the Hudson River it looked as if all of Lower Manhattan was an inferno. Even from across the river he could hear the rattle of musketry, a sound to be expected on the battlefields of Virginia and Maryland, but here, in his home city?

Coming up West Fourteenth Street he was confronted by chaos, a torrent of refugees, dragging trunks, pushing wheelbarrows, clutching children, pouring down the thoroughfare, trying to get off the island.

Stores lining the street had been looted, bolts of cloth from a millinery were draped over lamp-posts, taverns had been completely cleaned out, shattered glass crunched underfoot as the column advanced, while to either side a dozen or more buildings were burning.

His lead regiment, the Fifty-seventh Pennsylvania, had pushed ahead an hour ago while he waited for the other trains to disembark. He now marched in surrounded by his boys from the Sixty-third Pennsylvania, the other regiments disembarking behind them. Two companies from Berdan's old command of sharpshooters were along, as well as two batteries of artillery. He had originally planned to use his old Excelsior Brigade but then wisely thought better of it; to bring in New York boys to shoot down their neighbors might cause a backlash. His boys from the old Keystone State, having just fought a losing battle on their native soil, would be in a fierce mood to deal with traitors in their backyard. Also, since there were few Irish in these regiments, that would not become an issue as well.