CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

OLAF SWENSON WAS garrulous and aggravating, which was why Billy Harwell tolerated him when Billy went to practice shooting. Olaf was a Swedish immigrant who'd arrived a couple of years earlier and who spoke surprisingly good English. As a result, he generally worked as Captain Melcher's clerk, a very privileged position that made him privy to everything that was going on in the company and elsewhere.

Olaf was a big gossip and a genial pain in the ass, and Billy sometimes wondered why foreigners seemed to attach themselves to him. He fervently wished Olaf a better fate than poor Otto.

But big, raw-boned, and yellow-haired Olaf did serve a purpose. His constant chattering forced Billy to concentrate on his shooting and block out distractions. Billy had long ago figured out that you couldn't practice in silence and expect to be as good a shooter when the guns started booming. Olaf s talking did not emulate a battlefield, but the thought was the same. Olaf s continuous commentary would throw him off balance if he let it. He had to work to stay focused.

Billy squeezed off another shot from the Whitworth. A puff of white popped up from the target that had been set up well downrange. He^’d fired ten shots. Now it was time to clean the temperamental weapon. Billy grinned. The Whitworth was indeed a work of art. At least he'd been told that. He'd never met any artists. However, he'd heard that some artists liked to paint pictures of naked women and he thought that was a great idea. He'd never seen a naked woman.

The Whitworth had an innovation that was starting to appear on other rifles-a stepladder rear sight that he liked even more than the telescopic sight that came with it. A lot of soldiers didn't like that type of rear sight, but they did their shooting at close range where it didn't matter, while at long range it could be critical. Set at two-hundred-yard increments, it made long-range shooting that much more accurate, as a bullet could drop enough in three hundred yards or so to turn a clean shot into a near miss_: and near misses only counted in horseshoes.

Olaf ran downrange to retrieve the target. He came back waving it and grinning. “Damned good, Billy. Ten out often and all in the center.”

Billy accepted the compliment. It had been damned fine shooting and better than most any sharpshooter he'd ever seen. Instead of targeting at two hundred yards, he'd fired the Whitworth at targets three hundred yards away. Soon, he'd try four hundred. At that range, he knew he could hit a man, but just where on the man was important. When sniping, his job was to shoot officers. He had to make sure they didn't get up and shake off a flesh wound. He would continue to practice.

“Know what the captain said?” asked Olaf.

“No, I don't, and you're a damned old lady with all your gossip,” Billy replied with a grin.

Olaf pretended to sulk. It was a ritual. Billy wanted to know everything. “Then I won't tell you.”

“Okay, tell me.”

Olaf was puzzled. “What's 'okay' mean?”

Billy laughed. For all his good English, Olaf wasn't all that knowledgeable about modern slang. “Okay means all right. All correct. Now go ahead and tell me.”

Olaf made the mental note. “Okay then. The rebels are coming north.”

“Who told you. Robert Lee?”

“No, I heard Colonel Hodges tell the captain. He'd heard it from someone important, maybe General Meade. The rebels are going to attack north.”

“Makes sense. They can't very well attack south. Too much water down Cuba way.”

“Billy, I'm serious.”

So was Billy. Despite the banter, everyone in the army knew that the war's temporary respite was just that. The thought of additional combat brought a slight chill to Billy. With the resilience of youth, memories of the horrors he'd seen were beginning to fade. He did not want them refreshed. He had actually begun to enjoy being in the army, being a leader, and being surrounded by people he liked. Well, most of them.

Billy's regiment hadn't left Washington since its return from Culpeper. While there was a bit more spit and polish than Billy would have otherwise preferred, he found duty in the nation's capital fairly comfortable and sometimes downright interesting. Since they were camped on the Mall by the Capitol and the Smithsonian, he'd seen a number of famous people and, when he got home to Pennsylvania, he'd have plenty of stories to tell. He'd seen Meade and McClellan, although that fool had long since departed, Halleck, and a bunch of civilians he was certain were important. He'd even seen old General Scott on a couple of occasions and had been mildly surprised that the impressive civilian who'd talked to him and given him a coin that rainy day so long ago had been with Old Fuss and Feathers. It proved what he'd thought at the time. The fellow was important.

Best of all, on one memorable occasion President Lincoln had ridden by in an open carriage. Billy had drawn himself to attention and saluted. Lincoln had smiled and wished him a good morning. Damn. How many people back home could say that President Abraham Lincoln had wished them good morning?

But now the rebs wanted to go and ruin things. “What're we gonna do. Olaf?'^:

The large Swede grinned. “Nothing. We're gonna sit here and protect the city. Lee comes by, we just wave at him and wish him bad luck. Ain't that wonderful?”

Billy found that he was breathing easier. It would be far safer for them behind the forts and earthen ramparts of Washington than out in the fields chasing the elusive rebels. At worst, they would be in the trenches between the forts, but even there they would be well protected. He'd heard people comment that Washington was the most fortified place in the world, with Richmond, of course, being a close second.

Best of all, only a complete fool would attack Washington, D.C., and Robert E. Lee was no fool.

The Baltimore & Ohio Railroad Station on C Street and Northwest was a small and unpretentious brick facility that, thanks to the war was usually overwhelmed with humanity. It had been built to serve a sleepy Southern town and now tried to handle the volume of a surging metropolis and world center.

Thus, it was little wonder that no one paid any heed to the slightly built man in the rumpled blue uniform that appeared too large for him and gave the false illusion of bulk. If any did notice him, they saw that he wore no indicator of rank and looked like he'd slept in the uniform, which was true enough. The train had been jammed with soldiers of all ranks and civilians of varying degrees of importance. No one there had noticed the rumpled man either.

Nathan Hunter saw him looking about with a slightly puzzled look on his face. Nathan drew close enough and shouted, “Sam!'^:

General Ulysses Grant turned and recognized Nathan, who was in civilian clothes. A slight smile twitched at the corners of his mouth as they approached. “Nathan, I think highly of you, but I don't think it's appropriate for you to refer to me by my first name.”

They had drawn close enough to talk normally and not be overheard. “And if I had yelled out 'General Grant, over here!' you would have been swamped with people wanting to shake your hand. You'd never get away from this mob.”

Since his victory in Canada, Grant's star had risen and he was considered a hero by an American public who had little idea what he looked like. Grant shook his head and then laughed. Fame was something he had only begun to get used to.

Grant kept his anonymity until he and Nathan arrived at Willard's Hotel. A reservation had been made in General Scott^’s name, but Grant signed in with his own. The clerk looked astounded and then made a loud proclamation to all within hearing that General Grant was indeed most welcome at the hotel. Nathan could have strangled him. Within seconds, an astonished and befuddled Sam Grant was surrounded by well-wishers who patted him on the back and pumped his hand. Finally, Nathan extricated him and got him up to his second-floor suite.