Short Story: Another Time, Another Place

A gush of air ruffled my hair. Was that a bullet whistling past my head? Where am I? What the heck is happening? My eardrums throbbed with piercing pops and massive explosions. The stench of rotten eggs and burning charcoal seared my nostrils. Soldiers yelled orders, screamed in pain, or shouted insults at the opposition. Beyond clear-cut fields, I saw countless flashes made dim by smoke and distance. I wondered what the flashes represented until I heard sharp thuds and saw wood splintering. They were gunshots coming toward me at a frantic pace.

The entire encounter was unreal.

Standing on a sturdy parapet eight feet above the ground, I overlooked a raging gun battle. The relentless noise dazed me. To my left and right, soldiers returned fire, and deafening blasts of cannon fire made it nearly impossible to think clearly. I should have felt a desperate urge to escape, yet I sensed no such need. I was not afraid. Something told me that I was not a participant in this drama.

As I glanced to my right, disbelief washed over me. I instinctively stepped back. A tall, lanky man in a black suit and a stovepipe hat stood further down the narrow walkway. I recognized him and realized where I was. I was at Fort Stevens, located five miles north of the White House, and the date was July 12, 1864—the day Confederate General Jubal Early launched his attack on the Union capital.

For all practical purposes, the Union had already won the American Civil War. The blockade along the Atlantic and Gulf coasts had been tightened, and ever since Vicksburg’s fall, which secured the Mississippi River, the Union held a stranglehold on the Confederacy. Very little could get in or out of Rebel territory, making it only a matter of time before the Union bludgeoned the self-proclaimed Confederate States of America into submission. Ulysses S. Grant had launched an attack on Richmond, W.T. Sherman marched toward Atlanta, and Philip Sheridan prepared to invade the Shenandoah Valley to destroy the Confederate breadbasket. The larger and more powerful Union waged total war on the insurgents, yet the Rebels continued to fight. Confederate president Jefferson Davis refused to concede their defeat.

Why didn't this war end? Why did this meaningless slaughter continue? What was the purpose of fighting to the death in the face of inevitable defeat? Surely, the man beside me pondered these same questions.

Abraham Lincoln displayed pure calm as he surveyed the battlefield through a brass spyglass while conversing with a highly polished officer standing next to him.

"How many, General Wright?” Lincoln asked.

The general lowered his own spyglass and turned to address Lincoln. “No more than ten thousand, Mr. President. With the reinforcements General Grant sent, they are not a serious threat.”

“Then why do you suppose they’re attacking Washington City?”

“I'm not certain, sir, but I suspect they are attempting to draw off even more troops from General Grant's assault on Richmond. If that is their purpose, it will be unsuccessful. This city is protected with some of the most impressive fortifications in military history, including sixty-eight forts, nearly one hundred artillery batteries, and twenty miles of rifle trenches. General Early’s army is not nearly large enough to breach these defenses."

“Then the city is safe?”

“It is.”

“The city fears it is not,” Lincoln said.

 “Yes, sir, I hear newsboys sell their wares by hollering ‘rebels a marchin’ on Washington’ and wild rumors fly through the streets faster than one of these bullets. However, as you can see, this is only a skirmish. There is no reason for panic or defeatism, sir.

“General, for two days we had no mail, no telegraphic messages, and no railway travel. Washington City has had no communication with the outer world. Isolation breeds fear.”

“Sir, you are here observing this scuffle. Does that not prove that the fearmongers are exaggerating? Is this not the reason you are here?”

Lincoln smiled. “Indeed. You found me out. My presence may help dampen emotions, but perhaps it will do little to ease fear. People do not put much store in my pronouncements of late. The Rebels have invaded states north of Virginia three times. People are frightened and angry … and I'm the target of their ire.” He sighed as he looked through the spyglass again. “Since we have attacked Richmond multiple times, I suppose that makes us about even. However, one of these days— one of these dreadful days—one or the other capital will be sacked and, for good or worse, that will herald the end of this travesty.”

"Mr. President, I assure you that today will not be the day our capital is sacked.” Cannon fire interrupted their conversation. When it came time to reload, General Wright added, “Sir, over the past months, practice shots have calibrated every hill and dale in front of us. These gunners are very accurate and will soon send the Rebs packing.”

Lincoln did not take his eye away from the spyglass. “General, you’d do me a great service if you destroyed this army. If they retreat, give chase. They must not be allowed to regroup with Lee.”

“Sir, with all due respect, that is not realistic. Our numbers are greater, but they are spread out to protect the city from all points of attack. Fewer troops at any single position can hold off the Rebels because we fight from behind strong fortifications. If we move into the open, we will throw away that advantage. Additionally, many of these troops are from the Invalid Corps and, quite frankly, less mobile than our regular forces.”

“Can the reinforcements pursue the Rebels?" Lincoln asked.

“Sir, they are dispersed along our defensive positions. The enemy will have escaped by the time we gather them.”

“Are there no other—”

An anguished cry interrupted Lincoln's question. I stepped back to see what had caused the commotion and spotted another officer who had been shot in the leg. The wounded man had been standing no more than six feet away from the president.

A bent-over captain scrambled over and tugged at Lincoln's coat. “Get down, you damn fool!”

Lincoln immediately removed his hat and dropped below the parapet wall.

Lincoln remained calm as he leaned against the wall, stretching his long legs across the walkway. After a moment's thought, he pulled a piece of paper from his hat and began to write.

Everyone hunched down below the parapet. I examined the lowly captain who had audaciously called the president of the United States a damned fool. Who was he? I thought I recognized him, but I was uncertain since I had only seen old photographs. Was this Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr, a future Supreme Court Justice? I looked at Lincoln, and he seemed unconcerned about the impropriety. He continued to write, unperturbed by flying bullets or thoughtless indiscretions.

Lincoln had always been thin, but compared to his pre-election photographs, he now appeared gaunt and aged, with sunken cheeks and lined skin. His most prominent features were his dark, sad eyes. Above all else, he looked tired. No wonder. A war that everyone expected to last weeks had now been raging for over three years. Despite the suffering on both sides, the carnage continued unabated. The dead crowded every graveyard, and the maimed crammed together in makeshift hospitals. Neither of the opposing presidents was popular, but Jefferson Davis sat comfortably with a six-year term, while a beleaguered Lincoln faced an impending election. The prospect of a second term for Lincoln seemed unlikely.

The realization explained the South's stubbornness. Everyone expected George B. McClellan to run against Lincoln as a Peace Democrat. If McClellan won, the general whom Lincoln had fired would surely grant the Confederacy its independence without conditions. This outcome would demolish everything Lincoln had achieved—including the Emancipation Proclamation. The South continued the war because they believed that what they could not win on the battlefield, they could win in the political arena. The South only needed to survive until the November election.

I keenly wanted to speak with the most iconic president in American history, so I scooted closer and waited until he looked up from his writing.

“Sir, if I may, can I ask a few questions?”

Acting as if I had never spoken, Lincoln stared into the distance. Battle sounds overwhelmed anything not shouted in an ear, so I leaned closer and yelled.

“Mr. President, knowing what you know now, would you have permitted the slave states to secede?”

Still no response, so I tried again.

“Mr. President, why did you take so long to dismiss General McCellan?”

No reaction to my shouted words. Did Lincoln not hear me?

“Sir, did you always intend to—”

“Dinner is ready!”

The shout had a different tenor. It was feminine.

Startled, I slapped my book shut and was instantly returned to my lounger in the den.

After a sigh, I replied, “I’ll be right there, dear.”

I snapped my lounge chair upright and stood slowly. I was stiff. Stretching, I couldn't help but feel unfulfilled. I disliked being jerked back to the present so abruptly, but my hunger quickly erased my disappointment. The aroma of roast beef and freshly made bread roused my appetite further.

Oh well, after dinner, I could pick up my book again and be magically transported to another time and place. With the turn of a page, I would rejoin my adventure.

Who would have guessed that time travel could be so easy and comfortable?