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THE SPRING OF 1864 was “unusually backward,” Bates recorded in his diary. Trees that normally blossomed in early April did not “put out their leaves” until the end of the month. To those waiting anxiously for the army’s spring campaign to begin, it seemed that the “stormy and inclement” weather, which brought “torrents” of rain day after day, was nature’s attempt to forestall the inevitable bloodshed. Stoddard speculated that Grant was detained by the same “old enemy” that had stymied McClellan, obstructed Burnside, and allowed Lee to escape after Gettysburg: “the red mud of the Old Dominion.”

Lincoln remained convinced that in Ulysses S. Grant he had finally found the commander he needed. At a White House reception in late March, held in the midst of “the toughest snowstorm” of the year, Benjamin French reported that the president was “as full of fun and story as ever I saw him.” Three weeks later, on another stormy day, Lincoln was still “as pleasant and funny as could be,” entertaining an immense crowd of visitors at his Saturday levee. The following Sunday, he strolled into John Hay’s room, “picked up a paper and read the Richmond Examiners recent attack on Jeff. Davis. It amused him. ‘Why,’ said he ‘the Examiner seems abt. as fond of Jeff as the World is of me.’”

That Jefferson Davis was under attack in his own house was not surprising. In the spring of 1864, the Confederacy was “a beleaguered nation,” in James Randall’s words. “Finances were shaky; currency was unsound; the foreign outlook was never bright.” Though rebel convictions remained remarkably steady, there was “real suffering among the people.” A letter intended to be sent overseas fell into the hands of a New York Times correspondent. The writer, a Virginian, acknowledged the harsh impact of the blockade and rampant inflation upon daily life. “Refined and graceful ladies, who have been used to drink Chambertin, and to eat the rich beef and mutton…are reduced to such a state that they know not tea nor coffee, and are glad to put up daily with a slice or two of the coarsest bacon.” Furthermore, the “mass of misery” increased exponentially “as one goes down in the social scale.” Food riots had broken out in Richmond and Atlanta, and clothing was in such short supply that shops were vandalized.

Davis’s health gradually succumbed to the strain; his innate despondency deepened. Friends noticed a withdrawn air about him, and his evening rides were often companionless. Only the company of his wife, Varina, and his family let him truly relax and replenish his energies. Much like Lincoln, he spoiled his children, letting them interrupt grave cabinet meetings and enjoying their games.

Tragedy struck the Davis household on the last day of April 1864. Varina Davis had left five-year-old Joseph and his seven-year-old brother, Jeff Junior, for a few moments while she brought lunch to her husband in his second-floor office. Little Joe had climbed onto the balcony railing and lost his balance. He died when his head hit the brick pavement below. His parents were inconsolable. It was said that Varina’s screams could be heard for hours, while Davis isolated himself on the top floor. The “tramp” of his feet pacing up and down, recalled the diarist Mary Chesnut, wife of Confederate general James Chesnut, produced an eerie echo in the drawing room below. The relentless pace of the war allowed little time for mourning, for Davis understood, as did Lincoln, that it was only a matter of days before the spring campaign would begin.

By the first week of May, William Stoddard observed, Washington was filled with an “oppressive sense of something coming,” almost like the “pause and hush before the coming of the hurricane.” Although the trees were finally “full of buds and blossoms” and “a few adventurous birds” had begun to sing, “the day had no spring sunshine in it, nor any temptations to make music,” for everyone knew that ominous events were imminent. While confidence in Grant remained high, many