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524 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1941
In the golden light of afternoon, a fanciful man might have seen other ghosts on Pennsylvania Avenue. There, in some grand review of memory, passed a parade of holiday soldiers, profiteers, foreign adventurers, bounty jumpers, prisoners in butternut, spies, detectives and harlots. Mr. Buchanan took his constitutional with his head drawn stiffly to one side. General Scott lumbered by, supported by two young aides. Anxious McDowell trudged obscurely on his errands. McClellan posted through the dust, with his staff hard-pressed to follow him. Blenker flaunted his red-lined cape, and Stone went looking for justice. John Pope posed in his saddle, the military idol of an hour. Among the madams in their carriages and the painted girls on horseback, went haughty Mrs. Greenhow, and gay Belle Boyd, and Mrs. Lincoln, with madness in her eyes. Living and dead, the wind of time had blown them all from Washington. In the streets were only tired people wandering home through dust and manure and trampled garlands.Each sentence of this one paragraph perfectly synopsizes the contents of the book’s various chapters. Save for the author’s brief biographical sketches of marginalized desk-general Scott (think Hal Holbrook) and Confederate-sympathizing dilettente/spy Greenhow (think Michelle Pfeiffer), Leech’s focus remains frustratingly middle-ground. It is neither initimate enough to document the political or personal interchanges between major players, nor broad enough to embrace the details of army movements, supply chains, strategies, or battles. Not lacking in literary indulgence, her narrative appears constrained by strict adherence to the vagueness and provincialism of homespun rumor, pedestrian journals, and local news clippings.
For dancing was the rage, and in crimson velvet and purple moire antique, in pink and green silk and white tarletan, the ladies tossed their cataract curls in the mazes of the polka and the lancers.... The entire company was on the dance floor. No gentlemen lounged along the wainscoting, no spinsters sulked on settees. Young and old, plump and lean, pretty and plain, the ladies all found partners. Grave statesmen and stout generals capered as friskily as boyish lieutenants on leave, while the capital celebrated the third winter of civil strife with laughter and music and the soft bombardment of champagne corks.... The spring sun dried the mud with a portent of blood and death, as fashionable Washington laughed and flirted and danced, spinning like the colored, kaleidoscopic wheel in front of the Varieties. (p. 284)It’s a magnificent frame that begs to be filled, but at the end of the day, Leech is a set painter, not a story-teller. Her Civil War is ultimately a plotless stage populated only by supernumeraries. Skip it, or skim it, then turn to something more substantive.