Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [19]
He moved back into the office, pulled out a sheet of clean paper, wrote a few words, paused. Stuart had moved to the office doorway, watching him, and Lee looked at the bright young face, eager, full of life, then finished the note: “I might be gone awhile.” He wondered how she would react to that. He was always to be gone for just a while. Without speaking, he folded the note, passed Stuart and moved quickly up the stairs toward the silence.
THEY CLIMBED the clean white steps that led to the offices of the Secretary of War, and above them, from the wide doorway, came Secretary Floyd himself, leading a cluster of young clerks.
“Ah, Colonel Lee, greetings, yes, left a message upstairs for you. We are off to the White House, please accompany us.”
Lee said, “Certainly, at your service, sir,” thought of asking more, knew it would wait for now. Behind him, he heard Stuart, a rough whisper, and Lee understood, asked Floyd, “Do you mind if we are accompanied by Lieutenant Stuart? He is serving as my . . . aide.”
Floyd nodded, did not look at Stuart. “Fine, fine, let’s move a bit, shall we?”
The crowded carriage rolled quickly to the President’s home, and the group of men walked swiftly into the building, Stuart jumping in front to open doors.
Lee had met President Buchanan at social functions, really did not know much about him, about the man. But he realized that all this commotion was serious; there was none of the social banter of politicians.
Lee and Floyd were escorted past guards into the President’s office. Stuart, knowing he had to remain outside, sat deeply into a thick chair, pouting silently.
Lee followed Floyd into a wide office, sunlight pouring through great windows. Aides were moving away, and Lee could see Buchanan sitting across a vast desk.
The President said, “Colonel Lee, welcome. Allow me to dispense with pleasantries, if you will. Colonel, we have what seems to be an emergency, a situation. We need you to command a military force, to lead troops against . . . well, we don’t know what. A revolution, an insurrection, call it what you will.”
Lee’s eyes widened. He had heard nothing of any trouble.
Buchanan continued, “Harper’s Ferry . . . from what we have heard, the Government Arsenal has been captured, trains have stopped running. We’ve heard as many as five hundred, maybe more, a slave uprising.”
Floyd nodded vigorously. “Five hundred at least, slaves rising up, yes, a great deal of bloodshed.”
Buchanan glanced at Floyd, impatient, went on. “Colonel, you are to take command of a company of marines that is currently en route, and three companies of infantry from Fort Monroe that are preparing to move. The militia has been called out as well, mostly Maryland men, I believe, some Virginians.”
Floyd nodded sharply. “Yes, Maryland and Virginia.”
Lee sat quietly, absorbed, waited for more.
“Is there a problem, Colonel?”
“No, not at all, Mr. President, I am honored to be your choice . . . but I am confused why—”
“Because you are here, Colonel. Washington is full of ranking officers who haven’t led troops in decades. There’s no time to bring in anybody from the field. According to General Scott, you’re the best man we’ve got, under the circumstances. There should be no further need for explanation, Colonel.”
“No, sir, certainly not. I will leave immediately for Harper’s Ferry. Do we know anything about . . . any idea who or what this is about, who we are dealing with?”
Floyd spoke up: “Kansas ruffians, insurrectionists, slaves. That’s all we know. It’s chaos, Colonel.”
Lee thought, There are few slaves at Harper’s Ferry. But . . . the Arsenal—if there was an uprising, it was a prime target, a huge store of guns that could supply a massive revolution. But something nagged at Lee, some feeling that he had heard this before: the rumors that flew through Texas, huge