Within the week, however, the pet lambs were given a fortuitous oportunity to redeem themselves. In the early-morning hours of May 9, a liquor store on Pennsylvania Avenue caught fire. Before long, the flames had spread to a second building and were licking against the walls of a third-one of the many lesser offshoots of the Willard Hotel. A couple local fire companies arrived and tried f.e.c.klessly to quench the flames. At last the cry went up for the Fire Zouaves. Within minutes, the red-shirted b'hoys had leapt out the windows of the Capitol and were rushing pell-mell down the avenue, pausing only to break into an unattended firehouse and make off with its engine. When they reached the Willard, it was filling rapidly with smoke, and the tarred roof was in imminent danger of catching fire. The New Yorkers called for ladders and, discovering that there were none, promptly formed a human pyramid and clambered six stories to the top of the hotel. Some hauled up a hose, while others grabbed washbasins, tubs, and chamber pots from the guest rooms and filled them with water to soak the roof. One particularly agile and fearless Zouave hung upside down from the cornice, as a comrade held him by the ankles, to hose the burning liquor store from the best possible angle. In no time, the fire was quenched, the hotel was saved, and hundreds of onlookers and evacuated guests cheered l.u.s.tily for the boys from New York.

As the last flames flickered out, an upstairs window opened and a gray-haired man peered out curiously. The crowd redoubled its cheers-for the man was none other than Major Robert Anderson, who had arrived in the capital several days earlier to meet with General Scott, Secretary Cameron, and the president (who had rewarded his heroism by offering a lengthy leave of absence from active duty). After Sumter, apparently, he would let no mere hotel fire disturb his rest. After a quick wave to the crowd and salute to the Zouaves, Anderson closed the window again and returned to bed.

The next day's newspapers were, of course, full of the story, and Harper's Weekly, Harper's Weekly, the leading national magazine, soon blazoned its cover with a full-page woodcut of the brave fire b'hoys silhouetted against a sheet of flame, while the Stars and Stripes waved implausibly above them, unscathed. In the highly charged atmosphere of wartime, unconfirmed reports buzzed across the country of Confederate arsonists-a logical a.s.sumption, the leading national magazine, soon blazoned its cover with a full-page woodcut of the brave fire b'hoys silhouetted against a sheet of flame, while the Stars and Stripes waved implausibly above them, unscathed. In the highly charged atmosphere of wartime, unconfirmed reports buzzed across the country of Confederate arsonists-a logical a.s.sumption, The New York Times The New York Times opined, since the hotel "has so often sheltered good and loyal Republicans." opined, since the hotel "has so often sheltered good and loyal Republicans."24 Further enhancing their new dignity, Ellsworth's New York recruits were now no longer mere volunteer militiamen but sworn soldiers of the United States. The day before the hotel fire, the entire regiment had gathered to take the oath of national service. Those witnessing this ceremony would not soon forget it. Late that afternoon, on the east side of the Capitol, the thousand men formed a square around the marble statue of Washington. At a signal, they straightened to attention and their colonel stepped forward to address them. He began with a stern denunciation of those whose conduct had disgraced the regiment, and vowed that any doing likewise would be sent home in irons forthwith. Then Ellsworth's tone changed. Here is how Hay, writing later that same night, recorded his words: You are now about to be mustered into the service of the United States, and are the first regiment who will pledge yourselves not for thirty days or sixty days, but for the war! for the war! (Tremendous applause, and nine loud, long, and hearty cheers.) Now if any man of you has the desire to back out, wants to leave this glorious war and go home, now is the time. Let him sneak away like a hound, and crawl over the fence and be off! (Cries of "No!" "No!" "Not one!" and three cheers for Colonel Ellsworth.) (Tremendous applause, and nine loud, long, and hearty cheers.) Now if any man of you has the desire to back out, wants to leave this glorious war and go home, now is the time. Let him sneak away like a hound, and crawl over the fence and be off! (Cries of "No!" "No!" "Not one!" and three cheers for Colonel Ellsworth.) Then, facing the Capitol, the men lined up in two rows across the entire width of the grounds. As the roll was called and each answered, a carriage drew up with the president, leading by the hand his younger son, Tad. Lincoln walked slowly along the row of soldiers, father and son inspecting each man as they pa.s.sed.25 At last, two officers of the regular army stepped forward to administer the oath. One was the craggy, white-haired General Lorenzo Thomas, still dressed in the uniform of a colonel, having received his brigadier's star only that morning. The other was a tall officer, stately and perhaps somewhat pompous-looking, with an out-thrust chest and lovingly tended Napoleon beard. This was Major Irvin McDowell, then commanding the troops guarding the Capitol. (In two months' time, occupying a more exalted rank, he would be forever linked with this regiment in front of him, and with a catastrophic summer afternoon at Bull Run.) There was another, humbler detail that Hay recorded that night. As he stood near the regimental flags, the proud standards that Mrs. Astor and Laura Keene had bestowed on the troop, he saw one of the Zouave color guards wrap his arm affectionately around a flagpole, as if he were embracing an old friend.

"The red, white, and blue! G.o.d bless them!" the man told Hay. "We boys is going to fight for these pieces of cloth till we die!"

Another added, "We're going to have one more flag when we come back. It'll be the flag of secession, nailed on the bottom o' this flag staff."26 DAYS OF WAITING FOLLOWED: not the languid expectancy that was the local specialty but an atmosphere of preparatory tension. Ellsworth seemed to be everywhere around the city, incessantly pestering officials for better arms and equipment. He was thin as a greyhound, his voice hoa.r.s.e from the incessant shouting of drill commands. A curious civilian spotted the little colonel bounding into the lobby of the Willard with an enormous revolver flapping at his belt. Indeed, Ellsworth seemed to go everywhere armed as if ready at any moment to engage in single-handed combat against a grizzly bear. In addition to the revolver, he wore both an elaborately gilded officer's sword and a more businesslike bowie knife, its blade more than a foot long, the kind jocularly known as an "Arkansas toothpick." An amused Hay remarked that it looked as though it might easily "go through a man's head from crown to chin as you would split an apple." not the languid expectancy that was the local specialty but an atmosphere of preparatory tension. Ellsworth seemed to be everywhere around the city, incessantly pestering officials for better arms and equipment. He was thin as a greyhound, his voice hoa.r.s.e from the incessant shouting of drill commands. A curious civilian spotted the little colonel bounding into the lobby of the Willard with an enormous revolver flapping at his belt. Indeed, Ellsworth seemed to go everywhere armed as if ready at any moment to engage in single-handed combat against a grizzly bear. In addition to the revolver, he wore both an elaborately gilded officer's sword and a more businesslike bowie knife, its blade more than a foot long, the kind jocularly known as an "Arkansas toothpick." An amused Hay remarked that it looked as though it might easily "go through a man's head from crown to chin as you would split an apple."27 No task was too trivial for him. One newspaper correspondent wrote that at one moment, he would be seen marching at the head of his troops, and the next, "a.s.sisting a colored servant to carry a box of muskets across the room," or showing a raw recruit how to fasten his knapsack. One fine Sunday afternoon, he was even spotted, in his billowy red Zouave shirt, playing a game of baseball with his men.28 Although barely twenty-four years old (he had celebrated his birthday the eve of the attack on Sumter), the colonel was already winning the affection and respect of the hardened New York firemen, who seemed willing to overlook that he had never bloodied his knuckles in a Bowery brawl, nor ever heard a gunshot fired in anger. Although barely twenty-four years old (he had celebrated his birthday the eve of the attack on Sumter), the colonel was already winning the affection and respect of the hardened New York firemen, who seemed willing to overlook that he had never bloodied his knuckles in a Bowery brawl, nor ever heard a gunshot fired in anger.

Much of Ellsworth's boyishness remained, not just in his romantic approach to soldiering but in his quickness of affection and his longing for family. His parents still lived in their village in upstate New York; he had hardly seen them in years. The day before the regiment had left from New York, his mother had made her way down to the city and come to the Astor House, amid the bustle and fanfare of departure, to bid her only son farewell. Elmer's much-loved brother, Charley, had died in Chicago the previous summer, just before the cadets set out on their tour.29 The Lincolns had become, in a sense, surrogate parents. Any free moment usually found Ellsworth at the White House. When the president and Mrs. Lincoln were unavailable, he would be romping through the corridors with Willie and Tad, or horsing around with Hay, Nicolay, and Lincoln's other young aides.* One afternoon, he was in the office at the Executive Mansion, spiritedly showing a presidential secretary, William Stoddard, how to drill with a carbine Zouave-style, when he twirled the gun too close to a window. The two young men made up a far-fetched story to explain the broken gla.s.s: an a.s.sa.s.sin had been lurking in the shrubbery outside, they said, and, mistaking Ellsworth for the president, had fired a bullet through the windowpane. One afternoon, he was in the office at the Executive Mansion, spiritedly showing a presidential secretary, William Stoddard, how to drill with a carbine Zouave-style, when he twirled the gun too close to a window. The two young men made up a far-fetched story to explain the broken gla.s.s: an a.s.sa.s.sin had been lurking in the shrubbery outside, they said, and, mistaking Ellsworth for the president, had fired a bullet through the windowpane.30 On other occasions, Ellsworth would join the Lincolns in peering curiously across the river at the large rebel banner that had mocked them for a month from the skyline of Alexandria. Afterward, some would say that Mrs. Lincoln had begged him to tear it down as soon as he and his troops reached Virginia, although others disputed this.31 For some anxious Unionists, that flag was becoming a symbol of the administration's slowness to move against the gathering forces of the Confederacy. When one visitor to the White House, the radical abolitionist Senator Benjamin Wade of Ohio, pointedly complained to the president about the banner still waving there after so many weeks, Lincoln replied that he should not expect to see it waving much longer. For some anxious Unionists, that flag was becoming a symbol of the administration's slowness to move against the gathering forces of the Confederacy. When one visitor to the White House, the radical abolitionist Senator Benjamin Wade of Ohio, pointedly complained to the president about the banner still waving there after so many weeks, Lincoln replied that he should not expect to see it waving much longer.32 Finally, the awaited order came. For days, Northern newspapers had been full of reports that a federal advance into Virginia was imminent. ("Secret Military Moves on Foot!" blared a headline in the irrepressible New York Herald. New York Herald.) Union and Confederate forces faced off across the Potomac, with opposing sentries posted just a few hundred yards apart, at the ends of the two bridges that spanned the river. Alexandria, the railway hub of northern Virginia-and a secessionist stronghold within sight of the capital-was the logical point of attack. And there was no overlooking its port as a potential haven for Confederate smugglers or privateers. Since early May, the federal gunboat p.a.w.nee p.a.w.nee had lain just off Alexandria's wharves, its full broadside of nine-inch cannons aimed at the town. had lain just off Alexandria's wharves, its full broadside of nine-inch cannons aimed at the town.33 On May 23, Virginians voted in a special referendum to ratify the state's secession-the final step in leaving the Union. That night, before the last votes had been counted, federal troops gathered on the banks of the Potomac, and the first major Northern incursion into rebel-held territory was under way.

SHORTLY AFTER MIDNIGHT, the planks of the Long Bridge, four miles above Alexandria, resounded with the rhythmic tramp of crossing infantry. Several miles upstream, Union cavalrymen were riding across the Chain Bridge. The plan was for these troops to approach the town overland from the north, while a smaller amphibious force crossed the river by steamer to land directly at the waterfront. Men from New York, New Jersey, Michigan, and Ma.s.sachusetts were making their way into Virginia. the planks of the Long Bridge, four miles above Alexandria, resounded with the rhythmic tramp of crossing infantry. Several miles upstream, Union cavalrymen were riding across the Chain Bridge. The plan was for these troops to approach the town overland from the north, while a smaller amphibious force crossed the river by steamer to land directly at the waterfront. Men from New York, New Jersey, Michigan, and Ma.s.sachusetts were making their way into Virginia.

It was a balmy, summer-like night: "mild, dewy, refulgent," wrote Theodore Winthrop, whose kid-glove New York regiment was among the advancing infantry. The pale light of a full moon glinted off newly burnished bayonets and sabers. Scarcely a whisper was heard among the troops, only occasionally the m.u.f.fled command of an officer. So silent was this crossing of thousands that on the sh.o.r.e behind them, the darkened capital slept; only William Seward, intent as ever on seeing and knowing as much as he could, had come down to survey the operations intently from the Washington end of Long Bridge.34 Ellsworth and his Zouaves were still in camp, on a rise just beyond the southeastern edge of the city. Despite the late hour and the hard work to come, the men went about their battle preparations quickly and almost gleefully, breaking out every so often into s.n.a.t.c.hes of patriotic song. At last, the b'hoys were going to get the fine bare-knuckle fight they had been itching for. They checked and cleaned their new rifles, which had been fitted with saber bayonets: broadly curving steel blades that could, in an instant, turn a gun into a spear. When all was ready, the colonel gathered them for a few words of exhortation-no doubt the kind of night-before-the-battle speech he had been rehearsing in his mind since his boyhood in Mechanicville-and then told them to retire to their tents for a couple of hours' rest. Ellsworth himself sat up writing at his camp table, scribbling orders to his company commanders before turning to a more solemn task: composing letters to his parents and his fiancee, to be opened in the event of his death. Then he b.u.t.toned up the coat of his dress uniform, and at the last moment pinned to his chest a gold medal that had been given him the year before, during the Chicago cadets' summer tour. Non solum n.o.bis, sed pro Patria, Non solum n.o.bis, sed pro Patria, the Latin inscription read: "Not for ourselves alone, but for our Country." the Latin inscription read: "Not for ourselves alone, but for our Country."35 The Fire Zouaves had been chosen to carry out the amphibious part of the attack-and, as seemed likely, to be the first troops that would encounter enemy forces. At two o'clock in the morning, a navy captain arrived to tell Ellsworth that three vessels-the steamers James Guy, Baltimore, James Guy, Baltimore, and and Mount Vernon- Mount Vernon-were ready to carry them across, accompanied by a couple of launches from the USS p.a.w.nee, p.a.w.nee, which awaited them at anchor off Alexandria. The moon was now shining at its fullest: "bright and handsome as a twenty-dollar gold piece," one soldier thought, while another would later recall that you could write a letter by its light. Many of the Zouaves, following their commander's example, were doing just this, penning hasty notes to loved ones, which they tucked into knapsacks as they made their way down to the river. which awaited them at anchor off Alexandria. The moon was now shining at its fullest: "bright and handsome as a twenty-dollar gold piece," one soldier thought, while another would later recall that you could write a letter by its light. Many of the Zouaves, following their commander's example, were doing just this, penning hasty notes to loved ones, which they tucked into knapsacks as they made their way down to the river.36 Another man present was busy scribbling as well: Ned House, a newspaper correspondent for the New-York Tribune. New-York Tribune. Though barely older than Ellsworth, House was one of the most ambitious and intrepid of Greeley's proteges: eighteen months earlier, at John Brown's execution, he had (at least by his own account) disguised himself as an army surgeon and managed to get a place standing on the scaffold just a few feet from the condemned man. His firsthand report in the Though barely older than Ellsworth, House was one of the most ambitious and intrepid of Greeley's proteges: eighteen months earlier, at John Brown's execution, he had (at least by his own account) disguised himself as an army surgeon and managed to get a place standing on the scaffold just a few feet from the condemned man. His firsthand report in the Tribune- Tribune-including all the ghastly details of Brown's body jerking at the end of the rope-had shocked Northern readers.37 Now, getting wind of the impending attack on Alexandria, House had tried to talk his way past Northern sentries on the Long Bridge, and, failing this, hastened to the Zouave camp, attaching himself to Ellsworth's regiment. It was a decision he would not regret. Watching the soldiers leave for battle, he found himself stirred by the sight: "the vivid costumes of the men-some being wrapt from head to foot in their great red blankets, but most of them clad in their gray jackets and trowsers and embroidered caps; the peaks of the tents, regularly distributed, all glowing like huge lanterns from the fires within them; the glittering rows of rifles and sabres; the woods and hills, and the placid river...and all these suffused with the broad moonlight." Now, getting wind of the impending attack on Alexandria, House had tried to talk his way past Northern sentries on the Long Bridge, and, failing this, hastened to the Zouave camp, attaching himself to Ellsworth's regiment. It was a decision he would not regret. Watching the soldiers leave for battle, he found himself stirred by the sight: "the vivid costumes of the men-some being wrapt from head to foot in their great red blankets, but most of them clad in their gray jackets and trowsers and embroidered caps; the peaks of the tents, regularly distributed, all glowing like huge lanterns from the fires within them; the glittering rows of rifles and sabres; the woods and hills, and the placid river...and all these suffused with the broad moonlight."38 Even some of the b'hoys themselves were moved, not just by the beauty of the night but by the sense that they were about to partic.i.p.ate in history. "We believe it to have been the most impressive and beautiful scene we ever witnessed," one of them wrote a few days later. "No length of years can wipe it from our memory-it is daguerreotyped on our mind forever."39 By the time the steamers neared Alexandria, the moon was sinking, and the gla.s.sy surface of the river had begun to gleam red with the rising sun. Crowding along the rails, the Zouaves scanned the waterfront for the enemy and, as they drew closer, spotted a thin line of Confederate sentinels, who fired their muskets into the air in warning. A few of Ellsworth's men, thinking that these were the opening shots of the battle, let fly a volley in return. But the rebels were already scattering up the hillside, running "as if the Devil himself had been after them with a particularly sharp stick," one Zouave thought. What the Union forces didn't know is that those sentinels were simply rejoining their compatriots, who were withdrawing en ma.s.se from the town. The canny rebel commanders knew that they couldn't hold Alexandria, and that the best strategy was to lure the enemy deeper into Virginia, and into the mora.s.s of war. The only risk was that some men might be captured by the advancing federals.40 Meanwhile, aboard his steamer, Ellsworth discovered that his troops would not, after all, be the first to reach Alexandria. A small landing party of marines from the p.a.w.nee p.a.w.nee was already rowing toward sh.o.r.e in a cutter, flying a white flag of truce. The junior naval officer in charge, a certain Lieutenant Lowry, quickly found the Confederate colonel and offered to let his entire rebel force evacuate unmolested in exchange for the surrender of the town. By the time Ellsworth leapt ash.o.r.e at the wharf, Lowry was waiting to inform him that the deal-an incomprehensible one, to the Zouave colonel's mind-had just been sealed. The Stars and Stripes already flew from the town flagpole. The Battle of Alexandria was won before it could be fought. was already rowing toward sh.o.r.e in a cutter, flying a white flag of truce. The junior naval officer in charge, a certain Lieutenant Lowry, quickly found the Confederate colonel and offered to let his entire rebel force evacuate unmolested in exchange for the surrender of the town. By the time Ellsworth leapt ash.o.r.e at the wharf, Lowry was waiting to inform him that the deal-an incomprehensible one, to the Zouave colonel's mind-had just been sealed. The Stars and Stripes already flew from the town flagpole. The Battle of Alexandria was won before it could be fought.41 But it was not in Ellsworth's nature to remain dejected for long. There was still work to be done, and laurels for his bold Zouaves to win. There were arms and materiel to be captured, railroads to be seized, telegraph lines to be cut. And in any event, he knew, this landing was only the initial stage of a glorious Union sweep across Virginia toward victory. It was the first morning of his war.

His disembarking Zouaves must have felt equally let down by their first steps on enemy soil. Before them now was not the alien citadel that had menaced them from across the river but an ordinary American town, with white-steepled churches, rows of old-fashioned brick houses, and wide, muddy streets. An air of patrician dowdiness hung about the place, a sense that its best days were fifty years in the past. The wharves should have been starting to bustle with activity at this early hour, but the complete silence of night still reigned. Shutters were closed or curtains drawn in most of the windows. Wherever the townsfolk might be, they were not to be seen or heard. Only the long, high whistle of a steam engine in the middle distance broke the stillness, as a train pulled away from Alexandria's station carrying the last of the Confederate garrison.42 Even before everyone was ash.o.r.e, Ellsworth ordered Company E of his regiment to march at all speed to the railway line and, albeit somewhat belatedly, tear up the tracks leading to Richmond. The other companies were to remain at the wharf and await further orders. The colonel himself would lead a small force into town and take control of the telegraph office. He chose an unusual group for this mission: there were Ned House of the Tribune; Tribune; Henry J. Winser, the regimental secretary, who did double duty as an occasional correspondent for the Henry J. Winser, the regimental secretary, who did double duty as an occasional correspondent for the New York Times; New York Times; and the Zouaves' chaplain, the Reverend E. W. Dodge. At first, Ellsworth planned to set out without any other men-Alexandria was officially under truce now, after all-but at the last moment, on Winser's suggestion, he turned and called for a single squad of soldiers to follow. and the Zouaves' chaplain, the Reverend E. W. Dodge. At first, Ellsworth planned to set out without any other men-Alexandria was officially under truce now, after all-but at the last moment, on Winser's suggestion, he turned and called for a single squad of soldiers to follow.43 The men jogged quickly up Cameron Street toward the center of town. But as soon as they rounded the corner toward King Street, Alexandria's main thoroughfare, they halted. In front of them was a tall brick building, and hanging from the large pole atop it, stirring only slightly in the morning air, was the rebel banner that had taunted Washington for weeks, the one President Lincoln could see from his window.

The Marshall House was an old hotel, really just a tavern with guest rooms upstairs, known among locals as a second-rate lodging for travelers. It was also known as a center of prosecession activity; the innkeeper, James W. Jackson, was one of the area's most ardent secessionists. Jackson had a powerful six-foot build and a temperament always spoiling for a fight-once, when a Catholic priest made the mistake of offending him, Jackson beat the cleric senseless. Anyone foolish enough to utter antislavery remarks in his presence received similar treatment. Two years earlier, Jackson had been one of the first local militiamen to rush off to Harper's Ferry in pursuit of John Brown. He returned having missed the fight, but bringing as a trophy one of the captured pikes with which Brown had planned to arm the slaves, as well as a wizened bit of flesh that he boasted came off the ear of Brown's son, who had died defending his father. As soon as the other Southern states began leaving the Union, Jackson and a friend had commissioned a couple of local seamstresses to st.i.tch up a banner some eighteen feet wide, blazoned with the cl.u.s.tered stars and three broad stripes of the first Confederate flag. Each time another state joined the rebellion, Jackson had the women add another star. On the afternoon of April 17, the day Virginia's legislature voted for secession, a single large star was added to the center, and the banner hoisted on the forty-foot staff above his hotel.44 On the night of May 23, just as Union troops were ma.s.sing on the opposite sh.o.r.e to attack Alexandria, the Marshall House hosted a raucous party, complete with a bra.s.s band and carousing militiamen, to celebrate the statewide secession referendum. But the fun broke up before midnight and the militiamen dispersed. Jackson had gone to bed, and the hotel was now quiet.45 Spotting the flag, Ellsworth ordered a sergeant back to the landing for another company of infantry as reinforcements, and then started trotting off quickly again toward the telegraph office. But suddenly, on some impulse, he stopped and turned back toward the steps of the Marshall House. His boyish pride, and perhaps a desire to impress the two journalists, had trumped military prudence. If he was going to have this trophy, he would cut it down with his own hands.46 Ellsworth entered the hotel accompanied by seven men: House, Winser, Dodge, and four Zouave corporals. Immediately inside the front door, they encountered a disheveled-looking man, only half dressed, who had apparently just gotten out of bed. Regardless of who this person was, he was the first real, live Confederate that the New Yorkers had encountered up close. So Ellsworth demanded to know what the rebel flag was doing atop the hotel. The man replied that he had no idea-he was only a boarder. All the other guests seemed to be still asleep. Without further delay, the Union men hastened upstairs. Ellsworth stationed one soldier at the front door, another on the first floor, a third at the foot of the stairs. Revolver in hand, he bounded up the final flights toward the roof's trapdoor, followed by the two newspaper correspondents, the chaplain, and a single Zouave armed with a rifle, Corporal Frank Brownell. Climbing a short ladder to the hatch cover, Ellsworth pushed it open and handed Winser his revolver before sawing away with a bowie knife at the halyards tethering the huge flag to its staff.47 Finally the ropes gave way and the banner drooped, then collapsed almost onto the men's heads, its defiant stripes suddenly a slack heap of red-and-white cloth. Ellsworth started pulling it through the open trapdoor, but it was so large he needed Winser's help to get the whole thing inside. As the little group made its way back downstairs, the colonel still had most of the flag draped around his shoulders, while Winser followed behind, clumsily trying to roll it up over one arm as they descended.

What happened next was too fast for any of the men to fully comprehend. Quickly rounding the turn between the third and second stories, Brownell, House, and Ellsworth saw a figure step out onto the landing and level a double-barreled shotgun at point-blank range. Winser, struggling with his end of the flag, had barely heard the blast of the gun before he felt the cloth go suddenly taut as Ellsworth, still wrapped in its folds, pitched forward. Almost instantly there was a second, louder explosion, and Jackson-the a.s.sailant, the man they had seen downstairs-lurched back, his face torn away in a mess of gore, as Brownell thrust his saber bayonet again and again into the innkeeper's body. Moments later, two men-one Northern, one Southern-lay dead on the staircase, their blood pooling across the dusty boards, soaking the shabby floorcloth, seeping into the folds of the fallen flag.48 ACROSS THE RIVER, five miles away, the capital avidly awaited news. President Lincoln had hastened early to the War Department telegraph office for the first dispatches from the front lines. Ordinary Washingtonians, too, were waking up and learning that the invasion of the Confederacy had commenced-an invasion that, according to the five miles away, the capital avidly awaited news. President Lincoln had hastened early to the War Department telegraph office for the first dispatches from the front lines. Ordinary Washingtonians, too, were waking up and learning that the invasion of the Confederacy had commenced-an invasion that, according to the Tribune Tribune's editorial page, was sure to cut a victorious swath from Richmond to the Gulf of Mexico in a matter of months. District residents, peering from their bedroom windows, were disappointed not to see the smoke of musket fire rising above the Virginia sh.o.r.eline or hear the deep rumble of artillery.49 By morning's end, however, a different sound echoed over the city's rooftops, as dozens of bells tolled in mourning from church steeples and firehouse belfries. The steamer James Guy James Guy was pulling slowly into the Navy Yard with a body aboard, and everyone in Washington already knew who the dead man was. was pulling slowly into the Navy Yard with a body aboard, and everyone in Washington already knew who the dead man was.

Ellsworth's companions had brought his corpse into a room at the hotel and covered it with the Confederate flag. When reinforcements finally arrived, the body was wrapped tenderly in a red Zouave blanket. Six men formed a stretcher with their muskets to carry their dead colonel through the streets that he had jogged up just minutes before. The sun had only half risen over Alexandria, and eight hundred men at the wharf were still awaiting their colonel's orders. Many of the fire b'hoys wept when they heard the awful news; others raged against the Alexandrian traitors and talked of burning the town. But the murder had been avenged in the instant of its commission. There was no battle to fight; no enemy to vanquish. There was only the blind, stupid fact of death.

As reports flashed by telegraph across the Union, flags dipped to half-mast in cities, towns, and villages throughout the North. By early afternoon, in newspaper offices from Maine to Nebraska, editors were composing eulogies, reporters compiling obituaries, and poets penning elegiac verses that would crowd the next day's newspaper columns.50 By the following evening, public gatherings in New York and other major cities offered grandiloquent testimonials and took up collections for the support of Ellsworth's parents, left dest.i.tute by the death of their only child. Army recruiting offices were mobbed as they had not been since the first week of the war. At the beginning of May, Lincoln had asked for 42,000 more volunteers to supplement the militiamen called up in April. Within four weeks after Ellsworth's death, some five times that number would enlist. By the following evening, public gatherings in New York and other major cities offered grandiloquent testimonials and took up collections for the support of Ellsworth's parents, left dest.i.tute by the death of their only child. Army recruiting offices were mobbed as they had not been since the first week of the war. At the beginning of May, Lincoln had asked for 42,000 more volunteers to supplement the militiamen called up in April. Within four weeks after Ellsworth's death, some five times that number would enlist.51 A torrent of emotion had been released, pouring out for a dead hero who had never fought a battle but rather, as one newspaper put it, had been "shot down like a dog."52 There was more to the response than just nineteenth-century sentimentality, more than just patriotic fervor. Sumter's fall had loosed a flood of patriotic feeling. Now, across America, Ellsworth's death released a tide of hatred, of enmity and counterenmity, of sectional bloodl.u.s.t that had hitherto been dammed up, if only barely, amid the flag waving and anthem singing. There was more to the response than just nineteenth-century sentimentality, more than just patriotic fervor. Sumter's fall had loosed a flood of patriotic feeling. Now, across America, Ellsworth's death released a tide of hatred, of enmity and counterenmity, of sectional bloodl.u.s.t that had hitherto been dammed up, if only barely, amid the flag waving and anthem singing.

Indeed, it was Ellsworth's death that made Northerners ready not just to take up arms but actually to kill. For the first month of the war, some had a.s.sumed that the war would play out more or less as a show of force: Union troops would march across the South, and the rebels would capitulate. Yankees talked big about sending Jeff Davis and other secessionist leaders to the gallows but almost never about shooting enemy soldiers. They preferred to think of Southerners in the terms that Lincoln would use throughout the war: as estranged brethren, misled by a few demagogues, who needed to be brought back into the national fold. Many Confederates, however, openly relished the prospect of slaughtering their former countrymen. "Well, let them come, those minions of the North," wrote one Virginian in a letter to the Richmond Dispatch Richmond Dispatch on May 18. "We'll meet them in a way they least expect; we will glut our carrion crows with their beastly carca.s.ses. Yes, from the peaks of the Blue Ridge to tide-water will we strew our plains, and leave their bleaching bones to enrich our soil." on May 18. "We'll meet them in a way they least expect; we will glut our carrion crows with their beastly carca.s.ses. Yes, from the peaks of the Blue Ridge to tide-water will we strew our plains, and leave their bleaching bones to enrich our soil."53 After the tragic morning in Alexandria, it suddenly dawned on the North that such talk had not been mere bl.u.s.ter. Newspapers dwelled on every lurid detail of the awful death scene, especially the "pool of blood clot, I should think three feet in diameter and an inch and one half deep at the center," as one correspondent described it. The point-blank shotgun blast had torn open Ellsworth's heart.

On the Southern side, editorialists rejoiced at the slaying of Ellsworth, boasting that he would be only the first dead Yankee of thousands. "Virginians, arise in strength and welcome the invader with b.l.o.o.d.y hands to hospitable graves," exhorted the next day's Richmond Enquirer. Richmond Enquirer. "Meet the invader at the threshold. Welcome him with bayonet and bullet. Swear eternal hatred to a treacherous foe." The "Meet the invader at the threshold. Welcome him with bayonet and bullet. Swear eternal hatred to a treacherous foe." The Richmond Whig Richmond Whig proclaimed, "Down with the tyrants! Let their accursed blood manure our fields." proclaimed, "Down with the tyrants! Let their accursed blood manure our fields."54 Although the Union rhetoric would never quite reach such levels, many in the North now began demanding blood for blood. The Zouaves, Hay wrote with solemn approbation, had pledged to avenge Ellsworth's death with many more: "They have sworn, with the grim earnestness that never trifles, to have a life for every hair of the dead colonel's head. But even that will not repay." In the Tribune, Tribune, Greeley demanded that the entire neighborhood surrounding the Marshall House be leveled. With the deaths of just two men, the unthinkable-Americans killing their own countrymen-became the imperative. Greeley demanded that the entire neighborhood surrounding the Marshall House be leveled. With the deaths of just two men, the unthinkable-Americans killing their own countrymen-became the imperative.55 In Washington, Ellsworth's body was brought to lie in state in the East Room of the White House, his chest heaped with white lilies. On the second morning after his death, long lines of mourners, many in uniform, filed through to pay their respects; so many thronged into the presidential mansion that the funeral was delayed for many hours. In the afternoon, the cortege finally moved down Pennsylvania Avenue, between rows of American flags bound in swaths of black c.r.a.pe, toward the depot where the Fire Zouaves had disembarked a few weeks earlier. Rank after rank of infantry and cavalry preceded the hea.r.s.e, which was drawn by four white horses and followed by Ellsworth's own riderless mount. Behind came companies of Zouaves, then a carriage with the president and members of his cabinet. But the figure that drew the most attention was Corporal Brownell, who walked alone behind the hea.r.s.e with the bloodstained flag, the accursed trophy for which Ellsworth had died, crumpled up and speared upon the end of his bayonet.56 At the depot near the Capitol, a black-shrouded funeral train waited to carry the iron coffin to New York, where tens of thousands lined the streets from Union Square to City Hall to view the cortege. As Brownell pa.s.sed with the now famous Confederate banner, crowds overwhelmed the human barriers of straining policemen, breaking through and rushing into the street to clasp the young Zouave's hand or touch a corner of the flag.57 Even after Ellsworth's body had, at last, been laid to rest on a hillside behind his boyhood home in Mechanicville, the nationwide fervor scarcely waned. Photographs, lithographs, and pocket-size biographies paying tribute to the fallen hero poured forth by the tens of thousands. Music shops sold scores for such tunes as "Col. Ellsworth's Funeral March," "Ellsworth's Requiem," "Col. Ellsworth Gallopade," "Brave Men, Behold Your Fallen Chief!," "Ellsworth's Avengers," "He Has Fallen," "Sadly the Bells Toll the Death of the Hero," and "Our n.o.ble Laddie's Dead, Jim," the last referring to a remark that one sorrowing Zouave was supposed to have made to another on the morning of the killing. For years afterward, enlisted men wrote letters home on stationery stamped with crude woodcuts of the colonel teetering on the steps of the Marshall House, clutching his wounded breast with one hand and the captured flag in the other-and invariably, a motto pledging vengeance to traitors. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of babies born in 1861 were named after him. One regiment, the Forty-fourth New York, even rechristened itself Ellsworth's Avengers.

The young colonel seemed to have been transfigured by death into a kind of national saint. Within hours of his killing, a New York World New York World editor wrote of his "halo of martyrdom." Significantly, Ellsworth became the first notable American whose body was treated with the newly discovered practice of chemical embalming. As he lay in state, mourners peering into his coffin were amazed to see that the boyish face looked, as one man wrote, "natural as though he were sleeping a brief and pleasant sleep"-or as though modern technology had sanctified his flesh, rendering it incorruptible. editor wrote of his "halo of martyrdom." Significantly, Ellsworth became the first notable American whose body was treated with the newly discovered practice of chemical embalming. As he lay in state, mourners peering into his coffin were amazed to see that the boyish face looked, as one man wrote, "natural as though he were sleeping a brief and pleasant sleep"-or as though modern technology had sanctified his flesh, rendering it incorruptible.58 As with a medieval saint, too, relics of his martyrdom became objects of veneration. In Alexandria, soldiers vied for pieces of the sacred flag within hours of the killing; it would have quickly been reduced to shreds had the Zouave officers not placed it under round-the-clock guard and threatened any man who approached it with thirty days' imprisonment. By evening, the few pieces that some Zouaves had managed to obtain were being traded literally for more than their weight in gold. One man enclosed a bit of red cloth in a letter he sent to his family the next day, entreating his mother to "keep it under lock and key" and "let no one have even one thread." "I tried hard to get a piece with his blood on it," he added, "but could not."59 Relic-hungry soldiers unable to obtain any of the flag took their knives and sliced up the oilcloth floor covering on the Marshall House staircase, which was drenched with even more blood than the flag. Once all the oilcloth was gone, they started in on the floorboards. During the next year, thousands of Union troops, pa.s.sing through Alexandria on their way to the front, would make pilgrimages to the Marshall House, their relic-hunting encroaching upon the planks of the stairs, the banisters, the nearby doors and door frames, and the wallpaper, all whittled away one sliver at a time. When Nathaniel Hawthorne visited in the spring of 1862, so much of the hotel's interior was gone that, he wrote in The Atlantic Monthly, The Atlantic Monthly, "it becomes something like a metaphysical question whether the place of the murder actually exists." "it becomes something like a metaphysical question whether the place of the murder actually exists."60 Ellsworth's death was different from all those that followed over the next four years: most Northern writers referred to it as a "murder" or "a.s.sa.s.sination," an act not of war but of individual malice and shocking brutality. By the time Hawthorne's article appeared, however, many other American places had been soaked in blood. Thousands of Northerners and Southerners, in almost equal numbers, had been cut down amid the peach orchards and cotton fields at Shiloh. On the hillsides of southern Virginia, over seven murderous days, whole regiments had uselessly sacrificed themselves to McClellan's pointless slog toward Richmond. And at Bull Run, just eight weeks after Ellsworth's death, his gallant b'hoys had been in the forefront of the war's first disastrous Union defeat. At first the Zouaves advanced boldly toward the Confederate lines, crying "Ellsworth! Remember Ellsworth!" Then the rebel infantry and cavalry counterattacked. The New York firemen got off only a single volley before they broke ranks and ran. The Zouaves had more men killed, wounded, or captured at Bull Run than any other Union regiment.61 As the war's inexorable toll rose and rose, touching almost every family throughout the nation, Americans would lose their taste for collective mourning. Death became so commonplace that the demise of any one soldier, whether a gallant recruit or battle-scarred hero, was drowned in the larger grief. Not until the war's final month-when another body would lie in state in the East Room, and another black-draped train make its slow way north-would Americans again shed common tears for a single martyr.

Ellsworth's memory never faded for those who knew him well. Hay, Nicolay, and Stoddard, who all lived to see the twentieth century, would reflect for decades on the meaning of his death. Stoddard always remembered how, as the crowds of mourners filed through the White House, he glanced over at the windowpane Ellsworth had broken a few days earlier and saw that the new gla.s.s was still smudged with the glazier's fingerprints. "I am not afraid to say that it was a little too much for me then," he wrote. "We had not become so hardened as we grew to be under the swift calamities that afterward trod so rapidly upon each other's heels." Nicolay, in his sweeping history of the war, wrote that the response to Ellsworth's death "opened an unlooked-for depth of individual hatred, into which the political animosities of years...had finally ripened." Hay, throughout his own long career as a statesman, never stopped pondering what might have been. Thirty-five years after Ellsworth's killing, he wrote: "The world can never compute, can hardly even guess, what was lost in his untimely end.... Only a few men, now growing old, knew what he was and what he might have been if life had been spared him."62 As for Lincoln, his young friend's death affected him like no other soldier's in the four years that followed. On the morning that the news reached the president, Senator Henry Wilson of Ma.s.sachusetts and a companion, not yet aware of Ellsworth's death, called at the White House on a matter of urgent business and found Lincoln standing alone beside a window in the library, looking out toward the Potomac. He seemed unaware of the visitors' presence until they were standing close behind him. Lincoln turned away from the window and extended his hand. "Excuse me," he said. "I cannot talk." Then suddenly, to the men's astonishment, the president burst into tears. Burying his face in a handkerchief, he walked up and down the room for some moments before at last finding his voice: After composing himself somewhat, the President took his seat, and desired us to approach. "I will make no apology, gentlemen," said the President, "for my weakness; but I knew poor Ellsworth well, and held him in great regard. Just as you entered the room, Capt. Fox left me, after giving me the painful details of Ellsworth's unfortunate death. The event was so unexpected, and the recital so touching, that it quite unmanned me." The President here made a violent effort to restrain his emotion, and after a pause he proceeded, with tremulous voice, to give us the incidents of the tragedy as they had occurred. "Poor fellow," repeated the President, as he closed his relation, "it was undoubtedly an act of rashness, but it only shows the heroic spirit that animates our soldiers, from high to low, in this righteous cause of ours. Yet who can restrain their grief to see them fall in such a way as this, not by the fortunes of war, but by the hand of an a.s.sa.s.sin?"63 Almost alone among the millions of mourners, perhaps, Lincoln could admit that Ellsworth's death had not been glorious. Others might talk of his gallantry, might hail him as a modern knight cut down in the flower of youth. But for the president, preparing to send armies into battle against their brothers, the double homicide in a cheap hotel represented something else: the squalid brutality of civil war.64 Even close friends of the Lincoln family were afraid, for a long time afterward, to talk about Ellsworth in front of the president, who sometimes wept at the mention of his name. On the morning of the funeral, the East Room was crowded with dignitaries: generals, cabinet secretaries, amba.s.sadors. At the end of the service, all rose to file past the open casket. Then the line suddenly stopped. Lincoln and his wife stood at length, looking down on the face of their dead friend. Those standing nearest could hear the president lament: "My boy! My boy! Was it necessary this sacrifice should be made?"65 MORE THAN A DECADE LATER, a reporter named Eli Perkins of the a reporter named Eli Perkins of the New York Commercial Advertiser New York Commercial Advertiser happened to be pa.s.sing through Mechanicville, New York, and decided to stop and take a look. Perkins had known Ellsworth slightly in former days, and recalled that the legend's boyhood home was in the village. Perkins found the dead soldier's elderly parents still living alone in the little wooden cottage. The front parlor was a kind of shrine to their son, its walls lined with the many lithographs and happened to be pa.s.sing through Mechanicville, New York, and decided to stop and take a look. Perkins had known Ellsworth slightly in former days, and recalled that the legend's boyhood home was in the village. Perkins found the dead soldier's elderly parents still living alone in the little wooden cottage. The front parlor was a kind of shrine to their son, its walls lined with the many lithographs and cartes de visite cartes de visite that had been published shortly after his death. But when Perkins walked up the hill behind the house in search of the fallen colonel's tombstone, he was surprised to find that there was none. that had been published shortly after his death. But when Perkins walked up the hill behind the house in search of the fallen colonel's tombstone, he was surprised to find that there was none.

"When Elmer fell," old Mr. Ellsworth explained, "so many people and societies were going to put up a monument that I suppose they got it all mixed up. First the Chicago people were going to do it-then the regiment, and then the State. Then the citizens around here made an attempt, but still it remains undone." The late war's first great hero-the man whose name, one New York newspaper had proclaimed, "will not be blurred so long as the record of our war of liberty survives"-still lay in an unmarked grave.66 The Marshall House in Alexandria has long since disappeared. On that corner today stands a Hotel Monaco. A bronze plaque on an outside wall, installed sometime in the last century, reads: The Marshall House stood upon this site, and within the building on the early morning of May 24, 1861, James W. Jackson was killed by federal soldiers while defending his property and personal rights, as stated in the verdict of the coroners jury. He was the first Martyr to the cause of Southern Independence. The Justice of History does not allow his name to be forgotten.

On a recent morning in Washington, I made an appointment with a curator at the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History to see something that had not been on display for a long time. I waited as she went to a metal filing cabinet and retrieved a small box, which she placed on the table in front of me. Inside were two artifacts: a sc.r.a.p of red bunting and a small piece of nondescript oilcloth, its corner stained with faded blood.

*Earlier that spring, in the weeks before the firing on Sumter, Ellsworth was put temporarily out of commission after contracting measles from the Lincoln boys.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Freedom's Fortress.

O a new song, a free song,Flapping, flapping, flapping, flapping, by sounds, by voices clearer,By the wind's voice and that of the drum,By the banner's voice and child's voice and sea's voice and father's voice,Low on the ground and high in the air...

-WALT W WHITMAN, "Song of the Banner at Day-Break" (186061)

Fugitives fording the Rappahannock, Virginia, 1862 (photo credit 8.1).

Hampton Roads, Virginia, May 1861.

THIS WAS WHERE IT HAD ALL BEGUN.

Here, where the river washed into the great bay: a place as freighted with the heavy past as anywhere in the still-young country; a place of Indian bones and deep-cellared manor houses and the armor of King James's men rusting away beneath the dark soil.

Time itself seemed to move here like that tidal river, its ambivalent currents stirred first upstream, then down. By night, from the water, the sharp-edged silhouette of the federal fort might seem to soften and sink, becoming again the low palisades that the first colonists had raised on the same spot two and a half centuries ago. The navy steamship, moored in the fort's lee, might raise its black hull into the form of a bygone man-of-war.

History recorded that late in the summer of 1619, a Dutch corsair under an English captain had come in from the south and anch.o.r.ed at Point Comfort. On this promontory at the mouth of the James, thirty miles downstream from their fledgling capital, the Virginia colonists had built a lookout point and trading post that they called Fort Algernourne. John Rolfe, Pocahontas's widower, recounted the ship's arrival in a letter. The corsair, he wrote, "brought not any thing but 20. and odd Negroes." These it had captured from a Portuguese slaver, bound to Veracruz from the coast of Angola. A strange and circuitous voyage, a strange cargo, and yet exactly what the colonists needed. A single pound of tobacco would fetch three shillings in London, but here in Virginia there were never enough hands to tend and harvest the crop. English men and women were lured across the ocean with false promises; stray boys were kidnapped on London streets and shipped off to be auctioned like calves at the Jamestown wharf. They worked the fields for a few months and then died, regretted but unmourned. These Negroes, cheaply bought, would be put to work in the tobacco fields, too.1 Two and a half centuries later, there were four million descendants of Africans held in slavery on these sh.o.r.es.

But now, on a spring night in 1861, three of them were making their way across those same waters, toward the fort at Point Comfort-and, this time, to freedom.

THIS IS HOW IT WOULD ALL END.

The three men who crossed the James River to the fort that night-Frank Baker, Shepard Mallory, and James Townsend-had been enslaved field hands on a farm outside Hampton, a quiet county seat on the north bank of the river. Then the war came. Like so many other Americans at that moment, the men unexpectedly faced a new set of challenges and decisions.

The tranquil rural landscape they had known suddenly blazed with activity. Seemingly overnight, it emerged as one of the most strategically important regions in the entire Confederacy-especially since its sh.o.r.eline bordered the expanse of water at the mouth of the James known as Hampton Roads. One of the greatest natural harbors on earth, this estuary commanded direct water routes to the capitals of both belligerents: the James, highway to Richmond; and the Chesapeake Bay, highway to Washington. It would be repeatedly contested in the years to come, most famously in the 1862 naval battle between the Monitor Monitor and the and the Merrimack. Merrimack.

As the war opened, Hampton Roads and its surroundings were dominated by one of the few military strongholds in the South that the federal government had managed to keep: Fortress Monroe, which sat at the tip of Point Comfort, a mile or so from the town of Hampton.2 The small peninsula had been occupied as a strategic point not just by the Jamestown colonists but also by both British and French forces in turn during the Revolution. Construction of the ma.s.sive stone citadel, designed to hold heavy armament and a large garrison, had begun after the War of 1812-during which the British had secured Hampton Roads with embarra.s.sing ease and spent the next two years raiding and burning towns and cities up and down the Chesapeake, including the nation's capital. The federal government was not about to let that happen again. Unlike such haphazardly designed coastal defenses as Fort Sumter, Fortress Monroe had received loving attention from the nation's best military engineers, among them a talented young lieutenant named Robert E. Lee. The small peninsula had been occupied as a strategic point not just by the Jamestown colonists but also by both British and French forces in turn during the Revolution. Construction of the ma.s.sive stone citadel, designed to hold heavy armament and a large garrison, had begun after the War of 1812-during which the British had secured Hampton Roads with embarra.s.sing ease and spent the next two years raiding and burning towns and cities up and down the Chesapeake, including the nation's capital. The federal government was not about to let that happen again. Unlike such haphazardly designed coastal defenses as Fort Sumter, Fortress Monroe had received loving attention from the nation's best military engineers, among them a talented young lieutenant named Robert E. Lee.3 Once complete, it became America's most impregnable military installation. At the start of the secession crisis, the War Department quickly sent additional artillery pieces and hundreds of extra troops to the fort. Thousands more Union reinforcements arrived in the weeks after Sumter. Fortress Monroe was now poised to become a major base of operations in the heart of enemy territory. Once complete, it became America's most impregnable military installation. At the start of the secession crisis, the War Department quickly sent additional artillery pieces and hundreds of extra troops to the fort. Thousands more Union reinforcements arrived in the weeks after Sumter. Fortress Monroe was now poised to become a major base of operations in the heart of enemy territory.4 The Confederates, too, were hurriedly marshaling forces in the area. And one of their leaders happened to be Colonel Charles King Mallory: county judge, commander of the local militia, and master of the three nocturnal fugitives, Frank Baker, Shepard Mallory, and James Townsend.

On May 13, the Union commander of Fortress Monroe sent a small squad of men across the narrow creek separating the fort from the mainland. Their job was to secure a well that lay on the far side, since the fort's limited cisterns could not support all the new troops arriving continually by steamer. Although the federal soldiers had advanced merely a few yards into Virginia, and although the state had not yet officially ratified its secession, the vigilant Colonel Mallory perceived nothing less than a Yankee invasion of the Old Dominion's sacred soil. He immediately called up his troop, the 115th Virginia Militia.5 Gallant as they may have been, these defenders of Southern rights and Southern homes were not exactly ready for a full-scale engagement with the enemy. (The militiamen's previous duties had consisted largely of standing guard on local pilot boats to prevent fugitive Negroes from escaping.) Instead, they joined the several thousand other Virginia troops already dispersed throughout the area, busily setting up camps, digging entrenchments, and building gun platforms.

Or rather: the Virginia militiamen were supervising supervising the construction of entrenchments and gun platforms. The actual hard labor was being done by local slaves, pressed into service from surrounding plantations. Soon, indeed, Confederate authorities required every slaveholder in the three nearest counties to offer at least half his able-bodied hands for military use. "Our negroes will do the shovelling while our brave cavaliers will do the fighting," a Richmond newspaper said. the construction of entrenchments and gun platforms. The actual hard labor was being done by local slaves, pressed into service from surrounding plantations. Soon, indeed, Confederate authorities required every slaveholder in the three nearest counties to offer at least half his able-bodied hands for military use. "Our negroes will do the shovelling while our brave cavaliers will do the fighting," a Richmond newspaper said.6 Baker, Mallory, and Townsend had accompanied their master across the James to Sewell's Point, where, directly opposite Fortress Monroe, the Confederates were constructing an artillery emplacement amid the dunes. The three men labored with picks and shovels beneath the regimental banner of the 115th Virginia, a blue flag bearing a motto in golden letters, GIVE ME LIBERTY OR GIVE ME DEATH GIVE ME LIBERTY OR GIVE ME DEATH.7 After a week or so of this, however, they learned some deeply unsettling news: their master was planning to send them even farther from home, to help build Confederate fortifications in North Carolina. They were bidding farewell to the area where they had spent most, if not all, of their lives. Moreover, two of them-probably Baker and Townsend, the elder members of the trio-had wives and children on the opposite side of the river. If they went south, away from their master's immediate supervision, into the hands of unknown military authorities, and in the direction that all slaves dreaded most, would they ever see their families again?8 Just four miles across the water, in the direction of their home and their families, sat Fortress Monroe. It must have been a familiar sight to them, especially since Colonel Mallory had a house in the shadow of its ramparts, on the outskirts of Hampton. Indeed, it is quite possible that they had been inside the fort already, in peacetime; relations between the townsfolk and the soldiers had always been neighborly, so any number of errands for their master might have taken them there. Now, of course, their master, along with all the other loyal Confederates, considered it enemy territory....

That was when the three slaves decided to choose their own allegiance. And they joined the Union.

All it took was one small boat. With Confederate officers frequently coming and going across the James, there must have been plenty such vessels at Sewell's Point. On the night of May 23, Baker, Mallory, and Townsend slipped down to the beach and rowed stealthily away. As they drew nearer to Hampton, they must have heard distant shouts and commotion. It was the day Virginians had voted to ratify the ordinance of secession, and here, as in distant Alexandria, citizens of the newly independent state were celebrating. (Only six townsfolk had cast votes for the Union.) The fugitives' timing may have been no coincidence, either. Colonel Mallory had served as his county's delegate to the secession convention; it is hard to believe that on the big night he would have stayed to swat sand flies by the campfire at Sewell's Point. Perhaps he was in town, rejoicing at his state's self-liberation, when his three slaves spied a chance to liberate themselves, too.9 Still, it cannot have been an easy decision for the men. What kind of treatment would they meet with at the fort? If the federal officers sent them back, would they be punished as runaways-perhaps even as traitors? Even if they were allowed to remain inside, might this leave their families exposed to Colonel Mallory's retribution? How, and when, would they ever reunite with their loved ones?

But the choice was theirs to make, and they made it. Approaching the high stone walls, they hailed a uniformed picket guard, and were admitted within the gates of Fortress Monroe.

Next morning they were summoned to see the fort's commanding general himself. The three fugitives could not have taken this as an encouraging sign. And however familiar Monroe's peacetime garrison may have been to them, at least by sight, the officer who now awaited them behind a cluttered desk was someone whose face they had never seen in their lives.

Worse still, as far as faces went, his was not a pleasant one. It was the face of a man whom many people, in the years ahead, would call a brute, a beast, a cold-blooded murderer. It was a face that could easily make you believe such things: low, balding forehead; slack jowls; and a tight, mean little mouth beneath a drooping mustache. It would have seemed a face of almost animal-like stupidity, had it not been for the eyes. These glittered shrewdly, almost hidden amid crinkled folds of flesh, like dark little jewels in a nest of tissue paper. One of them had an odd sideways cast, as though its owner were always considering something else besides the thing in front of him.

These were the eyes that now surveyed Baker, Mallory, and Townsend. The general began asking them questions: Who was the