The King’s Gambit

6: Antietam

James Rada, Jr.

Lou Preston eased his sedan onto the gravel drive of his family house on the edge of the National Park Service property for the Gettysburg Civil War Battlefield. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through pines, casting shifting patterns of gold and shadow across the yard, while the faint tang of damp earth and pine resin mingled with distant voices at the park entrance. In the hush of his thoughts, two questions pressed him: What had his great-grandfather uncovered as a spy for President Abraham Lincoln? And why had Harley Preston carefully placed battlefield memorials on the wrong sites?

Lou’s earliest memories of Harley were gentle: a kindly grandfather who taught him chess under lamplight. Now those recollections clashed with the revelation that President Lincoln had tasked Harley with a mission to make sure the President’s representative in secret peace negotiations with the Confederacy wasn’t an agent working against the president’s wishes.

Determined to find answers, Lou climbed the narrow attic stairs that groaned under his weight. A single bulb overhead flickered as he swept a flashlight beam across canvas-wrapped boxes, rusted lanterns, and stacks of brittle newspapers. Dust motes drifted in the yellowed light. One by one he pried open cartons: a set of porcelain plates embossed with a long-defunct regiment’s crest, cups pitted by age, and a brass lantern with its glass globe cracked. He unfolded veteran-ribboned rosettes—faded souvenirs from reunions at Gettysburg, Antietam, and Manassas—each fraying edge whispering of years gone by. No hidden letters appeared, only sepia photographs of solemn soldiers whose identities were lost to time.

Still, progress felt sweet. He cleared a small patch of floor, brushed sheets of music aside, and smiled at the tiny victory. Gluey with attic dust, he washed it off in a hot shower, then fell wearily into bed. The night was still, broken only by the creak of settling boards. Yet sleep eluded him. He cracked open Harley’s leather-bound journal and read by the bedside lamp for another hour.

September 14, 1862

Morning light slanted coldly through the White House study windows as I delivered my full report to President Lincoln. He studied the drawing of the seal on the letter to Colonel Davidson. He didn’t recognize it. He also read over my description of the industrialist who had been insistent on meeting with the colonel, but hadn’t wanted to leave his name.

“I’ll have a Pinkerton agent dig through our files,” he said, voice steady.

Barely had I returned to my cluttered office than Colonel Donaldson burst in, his cavalry boots thundering. His face was a mask of agitation. Expecting exposure of my espionage, I froze—but instead he barked, “Saddle the horses! We ride at once!”

I was stunned and just stood there.

“Now, Harley. Move!” he shouted, and I hurried away to get the horses ready.

My pulse thundered as we galloped through dusty streets. The autumn air bit at my cheeks; dirt churned beneath our horses’ hooves. Only upon reaching open country did I dare ask, “Where are we headed?”

“Frederick, or thereabouts,” he replied, voice distant.

“What’s happened?” I pressed.

He exhaled slowly. “You know I’ve been negotiating peace with the Confederacy on the president’s behalf. Rumors have leaked, and profiteers—men who grow wealthy from war—are furious. They’ll stop at nothing to spark a battle.”

I knew all of that. I just hadn’t learned all of it from talking with Colonel Donaldson.

“I keep trying to keep the armies out of one another’s way,” the colonel said.

“That doesn’t seem to be working.”

“It has more than you know. I delay movement and change orders. It has avoided some battles. Perhaps if I’d not interfered, the war might have ended sooner… but I refuse to watch brothers slaughter each other.”

I frowned. “You’ve been diverting armies to avoid clashes? Does the president know?”

“Does the president know you are changing orders?”

“Usually after the fact. He is as frustrated with the results as I am, though.”

“Then why do it?”

“The reason I am trying to negotiate peace is to save lives, but it is not the only way to save them. Besides, there can be no peace if massive armies are clashing.”

“But you are countermanding orders from generals.”

“The president tasked me to find a path to peace, which is what I am doing. But my counterpart in the South discovered that more than 15,000 Confederate troops were on their way to Frederick instead of Hagerstown where we tried to send them. He wasn’t happy about the avoidance, but he feels much as I do about saving lives.”

“So why can’t we finish this peace process?” I asked.

“General Lee finally started to move his men west to Hagerstown. General Meade was already on his way to Frederick. It looked like things might work out after all. Then my counterpart sent me word that a munitions manufacturer in Richmond also found out what we were doing. He sent an agent to the Frederick area to find a way to let General Meade know what the Confederate Army plans. He wants to drive them together and cause a battle he hopes will derail the peace.”

My mind reeled from the information. I was so naive. I never knew these types of things happened behind our orders. I knew soldiers were chess pieces for those in command, but I never thought that they forgot we were living people.

We made it to Frederick by nightfall, only to find that Union soldiers had found “lost” Confederate orders . They were conveniently wrapped around cigars to make them attractive for anyone passing by to pick up. Meade had Lee’s plan to move his army through Washington County. The Union could devise a plan to stop them.

A southerner had given up southern troop movements.

“It’s not about the cause,” Colonel Donaldson said quietly as he stared off toward South Mountain. “It’s about the battle.”

The next morning, we started getting word of fighting on South Mountain as the first Union troops caught up with the trailing Confederate soldiers. We spent the day in Frederick, watching the first wounded men arriving to be treated in one of the military hospitals in the city.

Colonel Donaldson watched the procession stoically, but I noticed his lower lip trembled at times when a particularly tragic case passed us. He often questioned those who were coherent, gathering information that I didn’t think was particularly useful, but he seemed pleased. He always made sure to shake the soldier’s hand and tell him he was sure he had fought the good fight.

At one point, I had to ask him with more bitterness than I had intended, “Does it not bring you satisfaction to see the damage the South has wrought? You are from the South.”

Anger flared in his eyes. “Satisfaction? Haven’t you listened to me today? I am never happy to see death roam so freely. North or South, it doesn’t matter. If you haven’t noticed, some of the wounded passing us are Confederate soldiers.”

His words struck me. I pitied only our boys. Now I felt shame that I had worried more about our Northern boys than about the suffering of all the wounded. The Southern lads weren’t the manipulators trying to extend the war. They were the manipulated.

Softly he continued, “My family died in this war. Two sons at Bull Run, my wife and youngest child when a shell hit our home.”

“Which side killed them?”

Colonel Donaldson shook his head and looked away. “Does it matter? They died needlessly. It must end.”

September 18, 1862

Dawn found us riding west from Frederick under. The booming cannons of the day before had fallen silent, but sulfur hung on the breeze. Crossing South Mountain, we saw valleys shrouded in heavy clouds that caused me to wonder if they were actually smoke from the battle of the day before.

We entered a battered Union camp—torn tents flapping, abandoned rifles stacked against wagons. A handful of worn soldiers shuffled among broken carts; others, too wounded to stand, hobbled off the field. Donaldson and I edged aside, silent witnesses to the devastation.

At one point, amid the barrages, I spotted the colonel bow his head in silent prayer. The ground trembled under each distant boom.

After getting a briefing from another colonel, we mounted and rode onto the blood-soaked fields. All around lay bodies in red and brown pools, uniforms stiff with congealed gore. A few dazed men trudged through the carnage, half-blind. The earth looked painted in a gruesome mural.

My stomach twisted. That angry industrialist had hoped only for profit, but without living soldiers, his factories would turn to dust.

Colonel Donaldson watched me, grief in his eyes. “General Meade held back at the Potomac’s edge,” he said softly. “He could have trapped Lee’s army and ended the war here by surrender, but he showed mercy.”

I swallowed hard. The power of generals could mean life or total ruin.

As we turned away, I grasped why Colonel Donaldson risked everything—this sea of wasted youth was the horror he’d tried to prevent. This was just too much death, and it would only get worse as many of the wounded would die in agony in the coming days.

I cleared my throat. “I believe I understand you now. You’re a guardian of life.”

He offered a solemn nod, looking out at that scarred land. In the hush that followed, I dared to hope that someday guns would fall silent and men would recall they were brothers under the same sky.