“On that we are in complete agreement. Common cause will unite us and satisfy those that must do battle. That we are entertaining the possibility of an even more difficult and far-reaching goal must be kept secret lest it be compromised.”

They clasped hands at that and felt the elation of a mutual hope that the possibility existed, just the tiniest possibility now, that sometime in the future, out of the ruins of the old Union, a new Union might yet be formed.

Lincoln went to the fiddled sideboard, where a pitcher of cool water had been placed, and poured two glasses full. He drank deeply from his — then lowered it suddenly.

“I know someone who can help us in this common labor. An Englishman, a natural philosopher by the name of John Stuart Mill. I think that he was sent by a compassionate Providence to aid us in our hour of need. He is a man of great international standing who has written a very learned book on what he calls political economy. A great thinker who may be the very man to guide us on this path to our mutual goal.”

“An English traitor?”

“No, indeed — he is a loyal member of mankind. He speaks for our cause of freedom just as his countryman, Thomas Paine, spoke for our freedom during the Revolution. He is staying with his daughter in Washington. He is of the firm belief that the American system is one that should be admired and duplicated. He began to speak of the recent war and how it could be ended. He is not a charlatan but a gentleman of vigor and intelligence. It is my hope that he can aid us.”

“Mine too if what you have said is true.”

“We must take him under advisement at the earliest opportunity…”

There was a light tapping on the door.

“We were to be disturbed only when our generals arrived,” Lincoln said. He emptied his waterglass before going to unlock the door.

“They are here,” Nicolay said.

“We will see them now. And have these portholes opened before we combust.”

The slight form of William Tecumseh Sherman, garbed in a rumpled and battle-soiled blue uniform, was quite a contrast to the elegantly turned out Commander-in-Chief of the Confederate Army. Jefferson Davis jumped to his feet when the two officers had entered the room, then strode quickly to the Union General and seized him by the hand. Davis did not speak but the intensity of his emotions was obvious. Lincoln spoke for both of them.

“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.