All the Confederate surgeons were still scratching their heads; a few had already begged the Rivington physician for lessons. Lee’s hand went for a moment to the vial of white pills in his waistcoat pocket. In 2014, medicines did what they claimed to do.
Lee’s thoughts returned to the ceremony. “Shall we proceed, sir?”
But Grant still had the recent battle on his mind. “If your gunners hadn’t wrecked the Long Bridge, we would have driven you out of Washington City even after you penetrated our fortifications outside of town.”
“Your men crossing in large numbers from Virginia certainly would have made our task more difficult,” Lee said. “You have Brigadier General Alexander to blame for their inability to do so.” He gestured toward the artillery commander of Longstreet’s corps.
E. Porter Alexander was an enthusiastic-looking officer of about thirty, with sharp gray eyes and a full, rather pointed brown beard. He said, “Blame my pair of rifled Whitworth cannon, General Grant. Those two English guns were the only pieces I had with the range and accuracy to hit the bridge from my position.”
“Shall we proceed, sir?” Lee asked Grant again. This time the Federal commander gave a brusque nod. Lee turned to the Confederate musicians. “Gentlemen, if you please.”
The bandsmen struck up a brisk tattoo. The Confederate sentries who had patrolled the White House grounds since the Army of Northern Virginia: seized Washington now formed themselves in two neat ranks. Their leader, a lieutenant in a clean, well-pressed uniform, borrowed specially for the occasion, saluted Lee.
Lee returned the courtesy, then spoke formally to Grant: “In recognition of the armistice between our countries, and in recognition of the cooperation United States forces have shown in removing themselves from the territory of the Confederate States, it is my honor to return custody of the White House, and through it of all Washington, to the U.S.A.”
“I accept them back, General Lee, on behalf of the United States of America,” Grant said—hardly a fancy speech, but well done in a plain sort of way. The Southern musicians fell silent. After a moment, Grant remembered to signal to his own band. They took up the same tattoo the Confederates had abandoned; Lee wondered if Grant noticed it was the same. Federal sentries in blue marched onto the White House lawn to replace the sentries in gray who had come away from the mansion.
“May our two nations long enjoy peace and amicable dealings with each other,” Lee said.
“I also hope peace is maintained between us, General Lee,” Grant said.
Lee fought down a touch of pique. Even now, the Federal leaders remained reluctant to acknowledge the Confederacy as a country in its own right. Back to basics, then: “We shall return to Virginia tomorrow. My thanks to your engineers for having so quickly and competently repaired the Long Bridge.”
“We shan’t be sorry to see the Army of Virginia go immediately”—Grant said the word as if it were spelled immejetly—”and that is the truth, sir. We would have had you on your way sooner, but—”
“But you were busy wrecking the fortifications on the Virginia side of the Potomac and removing your guns from them so we should have no opportunity to turn them against you,” Lee finished when the commander of the Army of the Potomac ran down in the middle of his sentence. Grant nodded. Lee went on, “In your situation, I should have done the same.”
Lee glanced back toward the White House, wondering if President Lincoln would come out to take part in the ceremony. But Lincoln, as he’d done since the day when Washington fell, remained inside.
Rumor said his melancholia was at such a pitch that he spoke to no one, but stayed alone all day in a darkened room. Lee knew rumor lied. Federal messengers went in and out of the White House at all hours of the day and night. That was as well. No less than the Confederacy, the United States would need a strong hand to guide them through the aftermath of war. But for now, the pain of loss was simply too much to let Lincoln show himself in the Southern-held Federal capital.
“Good day to you, General Grant.” Lee held out his hand. Grant shook it. His grip was hard and firm; though small, he seemed strong. Lee nodded to the Confederate band. It began to pay “Dixie.” Grant turned toward the Confederate flag a color-bearer carried. He removed his black felt hat. “Thank you, sir,” Lee said, glad Grant at least would publicly salute the Stainless Banner.
“If it’s to be done, it should be done properly,” Grant said, echoing Lincoln. “I wish it weren’t being done.”
The Federal band swung into “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Lee immediately removed his own hat in salute to the flag that had once been his. Those Confederate officers who wore hats imitated their leader. Almost all of them had served in the old army under that flag. Many had fought in Mexico and against Indians alongside the Federal officers behind Grant. Those bonds were sundered forever now.
The music ended. Lee and Grant exchanged one last salute. The Confederate officers left the White House grounds to return to their quarters; many of them were staying at Willard’s: Lee and his aides still slept in their tents, which they’d set up near the State Department building. But even Lee did not deny himself Willard’s table. The oysters were monstrous good.
He turned to Walter Taylor. “We shall go home now. Let the tents be struck.”
The Yankees had built a fort to cover the southern end of the Long Bridge. Lee stood on the earthen walls and watched the soldiers of the Army of Northern Virginia file past, bands playing, flags fluttering in the breeze, men singing and cheering the end of the war. Some of the soldiers tramped south to Alexandria, to take the Orange and Alexandria Railroad—or that portion of it still intact—toward Richmond. Others marched northwest along the road that paralleled the Potomac, headed for Fort Haggery across from Georgetown. Though armistice had come, Confederates and Federals still felt the need to take precautions against each other.
Lee walked over to the post to which Traveller was hitched. He let Walter Taylor untie the horse, then mounted. He rode northwest himself. His staff officers followed. They kept a careful distance—ahead, hardly more than a mile away, stood Arlington on its commanding hill. Arlington, the mansion in which he’d been married; Arlington, the great house in which his wife had lived, and he too, when duty brought him close to Washington; Arlington, from which Mary Custis Lee had fled a week before Virginia formally seceded…Arlington, which the Federals had captured and used as their own for the three years since.
Every minute brought Lee closer, every minute showed him more, clearly how harsh the Federals had been. Earthen forts scarred the grounds he had labored so hard to restore in the years just before the war. Endless stables for Federal cavalry had gone up between the mansion and the Potomac. The horses were out of them now, but the memory of their presence lingered still. Lee wished for Hercules to cleanse the row on row of wooden sheds, but even the demigod might have found it beyond his powers.
Also deserted were the cabins and huts south of the stables. No, not quite deserted: a black face peered out at Lee from behind a wall, then vanished again. But most of the free Negroes had fled their shantytown when Washington fell for fear of being reenslaved in the aftermath of Confederate victory. Irony there, Lee thought; he had manumitted all the estate’s nearly two hundred bondsmen on his father-in-law’s death.