Planted in the lawn by his front gate was a wooden cross. It must have been drenched in kerosene and set alight for it was burning vigorously.

A burning cross? What could it possibly mean?

General William Tecumseh Sherman was at his desk in the War Department soon after dawn. It was still dark when the surprised sentry had sent for the officer of the day to unlock the big front door. The past days had been busy ones, arranging first for the rifles and ammunition to be assembled, then to arrange for it to be shipped west. At the same time they were gathering all of the field guns that could be mustered to follow after the rifles. Batteries from both the North and the South mingled together; so far there had been no complaints and both sides had worked together as one. While Sherman had been doing this all of his other work as commander of the Armies had been neglected. Now there seemed to be no end to the paperwork that accumulated on his desk — and no end as well to his efforts to reduce it.

At seven o’clock Sherman’s aide, Colonel Roberts, slammed through the door, whistling shrilly as he came. He stopped abruptly when he saw his commanding officer already at work.

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t know you were here.”

“I’m just as sorry as you are, Sam. I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about the list of acquisitions we have to send to the Congressional committee — and I couldn’t get back to sleep. Figured I could work on it here better than I could in bed. And the guns as well. I am stripping our artillery of all the smooth-bore, unrifled cannon that can be found. They are going to Mexico where they will do good service in an army that has not been trained in the use of more modern rifled guns. And they will be easier to supply with munitions. Yet we must not be left defenseless. Parrott and all of the other foundries must step up production. I don’t care if they work twenty-fours a day. We need those guns.”

“I shall get onto that matter at once. But first — can I get some coffee, General?”

“If you don’t I’ll court-martial you. And if you do I’ll put you in for light colonel.”

“On the way, sir!”

Sherman stretched his legs out and sipped gratefully at the hot coffee. He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk.

“We’re losing another regiment. The 14th New York’s enlistment is about up. At this rate we’re not going to have much of an army left soon.”

“What we need is another good war.”

“We may just be having that. Did you read the report from Room 313?”

“No. Was I supposed to?”

“Not officially — but I want my staff to know everything that I know. It’s early days yet there. The British troops have landed in Mexico, but they don’t seem to be going anywhere yet. Although they are laboring away at building a road through the jungle. But there is more in the report. There is the matter of the Mexican irregulars. A confidential report about the plan we are making with Juarez to let his people in the Oaxaca mountains take care of the British troops all by themselves.”

“I didn’t see that,” Roberts said.

“You wouldn’t — there’s just the single copy addressed to me, for my eyes only. So don’t let on that you know about it just yet. There is a lot of secrecy in the workings of Room 313, and I am sure that there is good need for it. But I want my staff to know everything that I know, no matter what Room 313 thinks. It would be impossible for us to work efficiently if I am forced to keep vital facts from you.”

There was a knock on the door and Roberts went to open it; took the message form from the sergeant.

“I think this is what you have been waiting for, General. Word from the ground range at Suitland. They’re doing a test firing of the gun today and they wonder if you want to be there.”

“Damn right I do. It will also be my greatest pleasure to get away from the paperwork for a bit.” Sherman pushed his chair back and climbed to his feet. “Get our horses saddled. Spring is here and this is a fine day to be out of the office.”

They trotted down Pennsylvania Avenue on the bright, sunny morning. General Sherman returned the salute of a passing troop of cavalry and almost seemed to be enjoying himself.

But it was all too brief a ride to the artillery range at Suitland. The guards at the gate of the ground range presented arms as they rode in. General Ramsay must have been waiting for them, for he came out of the office and stood by the hitching post as they rode up.

“I hope you have some good news,” Sherman said.

“Just about as good as can be expected. You’ll see for yourself. You must remember those demonstrations of the Gatling gun?”

“Indeed I do. But I feel that it was an idea that was before its time. We would all love to have a gun that could fire continuously, spitting out bullets at a fair clip. But as I remember this gun kept jamming. They spent more time prying out defective rounds than they did shooting.”

“They did indeed. But Ordnance has taken that 1862 model of the.58 caliber Gatling and has improved it beyond belief.”

“In what way?”

“For one thing it was too heavy to move around and its rate of fire was too slow. Not only that but the paper cartridges in steel chambers tended to jam in the gun as you said. They’ve abandoned that approach and redesigned the weapon completely. Now the gun uses rim-fire copper cartridges. They slide easily into battery and are ejected smoothly, which in turn keeps the jams down to a very low figure. Another fault was that the bores in the barrels of the original model were tapered. Because of this the barrels and the chambers did not always align exactly which caused misfires, shots in the open receivers, and all other kinds of mischief. Decreasing the tolerances in the machining has taken care of that. There sir, see for yourself.”

They walked over to the firing range to join the small group of officers who were already gathered there. Sherman was only vaguely aware of them since his attention, like theirs, was focused on the deadly-looking weapon mounted there.

The Gatling gun model of 1863 was an impressive weapon, from its shining brass receiver to its six long, black barrels. Ramsay pointed to the V-shaped container atop the gun.

“The cartridges are loaded into this hopper and are fed down by gravity. When the handle is turned the cartridges are loaded into the barrels one at a time. The six cam-operated bolts alternately wedge, fire and drop chambers to eject the spent cartridges.”

“And the rate of fire?”

“Just as fast as the handle can be turned and cartridges loaded into the hopper. Say five rounds a second, three hundred a minute.”

Sherman nodded as he walked around the gun, admiring it. “Those are mighty good figures. How mobile is it?”

“This model weighs half as much as the first one. It can be pulled by a single horse and can easily keep up with the infantry. Add two more horses for the ammunition and you have a mighty impressive weapon here.”

“Let us see it in action.”

The waiting gunnery team jumped forward at the sergeant’s command. The hopper was filled, the elevation handle locked into place, the gunners ready.

“Fire!” the sergeant shouted.

The sound was an ear-splitting roar. The gunner traversed as his loader cranked furiously at the handle. The row of wooden-framed paper targets two hundred yards distant tore and splintered. If they had been enemy soldiers they would all be dead.

“Cease fire!”

The smoke drifted away. The silence was numbing after the ripsaw sound of the gun. The targets fluttered away in torn fragments. Sherman nodded as he looked at the destruction that the single gun had wrought.

“I am most impressed,” he said, “Most deeply impressed. I can see them on the battlefield already. Dig them in and there is no force — of infantry or cavalry — that will be able to take a position so guarded. This is going to have a profound effect on the way we fight battles — take my word for that. Now get them into production so when we need them they will be there. I want to see a thousand of them ready for action as soon as it can be done.”