1901

Longstreet stood erect, and those nearby gasped. Few knew that he was more than six feet tall and a powerfully built, handsome man. With his shock of white hair and his long white beard, he looked like a biblical patriarch come to call down divine wrath upon his enemies. The crowd cheered again as he confidently strode the few steps to his president. He was wearing blue-Union blue, federal blue-and four stars glistened on his shoulders. Longstreet stopped and saluted Roosevelt, winking quickly, and the crowd cheered even louder. He turned and saluted the flag waving high on its staff, and the roar from the multitude became tumultuous, causing the hair on men’s necks to stand on end.

Longstreet spoke briefly. He said the United States would fight and that the United States would win. Only a few could hear him, but it didn’t matter; the substance of his message was apparent and the crowd was thrilled.

Finally he turned and saluted the throngs. The cheering, frenetic before, became even louder as women wept and grown men pounded each other on the back. “Pete, Pete!” the chant came and Longstreet held the salute. Sousa’s band was playing again, but no one heard.

Longstreet wheeled and shook hands with Roosevelt, who guided him into the White House along with the few dozen important people who would talk and dine with him at the president’s table.

Inside, while the guests sorted themselves out, Theodore Roosevelt dashed to his private quarters on the second level and tried to compose himself. His face was red and his cheeks were streaked with tears. He could still hear the crowd, not wanting to disperse, singing and shouting while the Marine Band played on. Did he hear “Dixie"? What a triumph!

And to think, he smiled, the only reason he’d held the arrival at the White House instead of the Capitol was to save the old man from having to climb all those steps.

“Who’s that tapping, tapping at my door?”

Patrick laughed, easily recognizing the drawling voice, however slurred it might be. “

’Tis I,” he answered, “and nothing more.”

“Shit,” came another voice from behind the wooden door. “Another goddamn Yankee.” This voice, too, was slightly slurred.

“Enter at your peril,” responded the first voice. Patrick walked into the room, which was on the second floor of a hotel in Hartford, Connecticut. Whatever view the room might have had was irrelevant, because the air was thick with cigar smoke and reeked of alcohol.

Seated about the room in varying states of disarray and disheveled comfort were three of the U.S. Army’s most senior field commanders in the combat theater. Senior in rank was Maj. Gen. William “Baldy” Smith, who, for the time being at least, commanded the entire front. With him were Maj. Gens. Fitzhugh Lee and Joe Wheeler, who, despite the similarity in rank, were Smith’s subordinate division commanders.

Grinning, Patrick presented himself to Smith and announced that he was prepared for duty.

“Well then,” Smith said, pouring himself a drink, “you’re likely the only one in this room who is. Quit being a smart-ass and get yourself a drink.”

Patrick knew when to obey a direct order and poured a couple of inches of whiskey into a glass. “May I ask what the celebration is for, if this is indeed a celebration?”

The diminutive Joe Wheeler cackled. “Well, we sure ain’t celebrating your arrival as our savior. For two months you been Roosevelt’s suck-ass toady and now you’re supposed to get a command! Gawd, there ain’t no justice! What do you want? Miles’s old job?”

Patrick simply smiled. He knew Wheeler’s comments were without malice. “Gentlemen,” he said, raising his glass, “to old Civil War generals.”

“Call it right, goddamnit,” snapped Wheeler. “Where I come from it’s called the War of Northern Aggression.”

“Aw, shit,” groaned Smith. “Can’t you people ever realize you lost the goddamn war?”

“Never.” Lee smiled and shifted his hefty body. Unlike Wheeler, he had allowed himself to gain a great deal of weight and no longer resembled a cavalry leader. “And when will you realize why so many top positions are going to ex-Confederates?”

Patrick took another sip of the whiskey and let the warmth permeate his tired body. Yesterday he had been in Washington. Today, only thirty hours later, he was in Hartford, having bypassed all German activity.

The three old comrades facing Patrick were engaged in a bout of wet reminiscing. Smith had commanded a Union corps at Petersburg at the end of the Civil War; Wheeler and Lee had commanded divisions for the Confederate cause. Thirty-five years later they had found themselves on the same side against a new enemy, Spain. Three years after that they were at it again against Germany.

“To Longstreet,” Patrick said cautiously and raised his glass. The three generals also drank. So much for the appointment being controversial to his new subordinates, he thought. “And why is James Longstreet called ‘Old Pete’?”