By Jonathan Yardley
Wednesday, August 13, 2003 5:43 PM
An occasional series in which The Post's book critic reconsiders notable and/or neglected books from the past.
The best "Washington novel" isn't a novel at all. Published six decades ago, Margaret Leech's "Reveille in Washington: 1860-1865" is what academic historians condescendingly call "popular history," written with the novelist's eye for character and telling detail as well as the novelist's command of narrative. The story of the District of Columbia during the Civil War, "Reveille in Washington" is still authoritative as history and is something of a masterpiece of storytelling.
What matters most for this discussion is that "Reveille in Washington" portrays this city more vividly, accurately and thoroughly than any other book. Period. Its portrait of Washington transcends time. We no longer dump our sewage into the swamp that is now the Mall and we don't ride a horse-drawn streetcar from the Capitol to the White House, but the essential character of the city has not changed from that day to this. Leech got it exactly right.
The competition, to be sure, isn't much. The number of words that have been written about this city is surely beyond human calculation, but the number of good ones is small. In his preface to the 1991 paperback edition of "Reveille in Washington," James M. McPherson takes note of David Brinkley's "Washington Goes to War," a look at the capital during World War II that is engaging reading but surprisingly narrow in scope. If asked to recommend a good book about the city I always cite the Federal Writers' Project's "Washington, D.C.: A Guide to the Nation's Capital," even though it has been little revised since its original publication in 1942 and is, in any event, lamentably out of print.
Fiction? The most famous "Washington novels" -- Henry Adams's "Democracy" and the historical novels by Gore Vidal -- are, in my opinion, hugely overrated and unreadable. Charles McCarry has written exceptionally intelligent spy thrillers set in and about Washington, George Pelecanos's crime novels knowingly depict the city's underside, and Edward P. Jones's short stories about the black middle class are exemplary. But their scope is rather narrow. The "Washington novels" that find their way to the bestseller lists -- books by the likes of David Baldacci and the late Allen Drury -- are little more than power-politics soap operas, written in execrable prose.
The prose in "Reveille in Washington," by contrast, positively sings. It is a trifle old-fashioned, but it has immediacy and passion. Here, for example, Leech describes the city as Union casualties poured in after a terrible defeat in May 1863:
"[T]he wounded cumbered the Washington wharves, but few sightseers gathered to see the transports arriving, day after day, with the men from Chancellorsville. Now, each of those prostrate young bodies seemed the very figure of the Union itself, and people turned away from the heartsickening, habitual scene. The compact caravans of the ambulances had become a monotonous part of the pageant of the streets. The procession of the maimed, with their empty sleeves and trouser legs, no longer attracted attention. Even death had grown commonplace. . . . There was a section of the city where the rat-tat of the coffin makers' hammers sounded all day, and the stacks of long, upended boxes rose and fell outside their doors, like a fever chart of the battles. The capital had had a surfeit of misery; and, if the horror of blood beat like a wound in the back of every mind, the faces on the streets were smiling."
The woman who wrote those powerful words was born in Newburgh, on the Hudson River in New York, in 1893, less than three decades after the Civil War's end. By the time Margaret Leech set to work on "Reveille in Washington" in the mid-1930s, she had published three novels; a play, "Divided by Three," appeared briefly on Broadway in 1934. She was married to Ralph Pulitzer, publisher of the New York World and son of Joseph Pulitzer. She traveled in fashionable literary and journalistic circles. One prominent friend was Cass Canfield of Harper's, who suggested she write about Washington during the Civil War. Obviously she sensed a good story, for she seems to have gotten to work almost immediately.
In 1942 Leech was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in history for "Reveille in Washington" and 18 years later she won a second, for "In the Days of McKinley." She was the first woman to win the history prize, and is the only woman to win it twice. Since the Pulitzers were established by her father-in-law, the skeptical may look at this with doubting eyes, but no one who has read "Reveille in Washington" can believe that the prize was won on anything except merit.
It is a measure of her achievement that McPherson, the preeminent historian of the Civil War period, is unstinting in his praise of "Reveille in Washington." "In only one important respect," he writes, "has subsequent scholarship modified the findings of this book. Historians no longer portray the radical Republicans in so hostile a light as they did during the 1940s, nor do they find such a large gulf between the radicals and Lincoln on issues connected with the South and slavery." Otherwise, McPherson writes, this book is "a classic in the rich field of Civil War stories," one that "can be read and appreciated at several levels," from the grand story of the war to Washington's "physical awakening from an unkempt country town to a modern city."
As McPherson says, Leech's "main protagonist is Washington itself. . . . The book not only recounts the Civil War as it was shaped in Washington and seen from Washington, but it also breathes life into the city and makes it an animate, sentient being, not merely a place." The opening chapter, a tour de force, confirms that judgment. Washington in 1860 was "an idea set in a wilderness," "pretentious and unfulfilled" in its execution of L'Enfant's design. "The vaunted buildings of Washington were the Capitol, the General Post-Office, the Patent Office, the Treasury, the Executive Mansion and the Smithsonian Institution; and, despite the distances, the tour could be made in a forenoon."
Change a few words and it could be Washington 2003: Pennsylvania Avenue "hummed with hacks, with the elaborate carriages of the legations and the blooded horses of the Southerners. Shops furbished their windows. Hotels and boardinghouses filled up, and so did the E Street Infirmary, the poorhouse and the county jail. Practical motives dictated the presence of all the winter sojourners. There were no parties of idle, amusement-seeking tourists. The townsfolk entertained their friends and relatives, and every winter a bevy of pretty girls came for the festivities of the social season; but, apart from these negligible few, Americans did not visit Washington for pleasure. Although it had many churches, an active Young Men's Christian Association and a dignified official society, the city bore an unwholesome name among the pious folk of the nation. It was darkly imagined as a sink of iniquity, where weak-minded bachelors were exposed to the temptations of saloons, gambling hells and light women; and the prevalence of hotel life was instanced as a proof of the city's immorality."
As the war began, "in the eyes of the North, Washington was a cherished symbol of the nation's power, to be held and defended at all costs," while in the eyes of the South, "the capital was a great prize whose capture would enhance the prestige of the rebellious government, and surely bring it recognition by foreign powers." These conflicting aspirations remained unchanged throughout the war. Washington may have been "a ramshackle town, dirty and unpaved," a place notable for "the dangers of its intrigues, and the corrupt moral atmosphere of its politics," but it had almost incalculable symbolic and military value.
"To the capital's politicians, the protection of Washington was of paramount importance," but it was protected just about as haphazardly then as it is now. "The fall of the capital was a certainty" over and over again, or so at least it seemed to residents of the city who could hear Rebel artillery in the near distance. By 1864 Confederate forces got as close as Rockville and Silver Spring but turned back without a serious engagement; still, it is nothing short of miraculous that Washington, pinned between Virginia and Maryland, never was captured or even invaded.
Matters such as that are discussed at length in all serious histories of the Civil War. They are the stuff of military and political debate unto this day. Margaret Leech's singular accomplishment is that she penetrates beneath the great events and great issues to discover the daily life of the city and the ordinary people who lived it. When Union troops finally began to arrive in Washington, for example, she tells us that "confectioners, oystermen and barbers were delighted with their trade," and the "Saturday afternoon concerts of the Marine Band were offered, just as in normal times." Later, as the novelty wore off, soldiers were "far too numerous for quiet and serenity. Children went straying after bands and regiments, and there were many accidents to little boys, whom careless officers asked to hold their horses."
The District was a mecca for African Americans, but "troops in Washington were flagrant in their hostility to Negroes, chasing and stoning them in the streets." Discrimination was pandemic; blacks were severely punished "for pathetically childish offenses -- for setting off firecrackers near a dwelling, for bathing in the canal and for flying a kite within the limits of the [city]." Leech, it should be noted, refers to blacks in terms used by polite whites of her day -- mostly "Negroes" and "colored people," far more rarely "darkies" and "pickaninnies" -- but the book leaves no doubt that she was deeply sympathetic to them and capable of seeing beyond stereotypes.
The women of Washington come under her careful scrutiny. Foremost among them was Mary Todd Lincoln ("She had reached the pinnacle of worldly success, only to find it rotten with pain and fear and hatred"), but there were also the alluring Confederate spies Rose O'Neal Greenhow and Belle Boyd. Women working for the government "fared badly" in hours and pay; "there was an inexhaustible supply of them, and they were without standing, precedent or basis for comparison." There was also an inexhaustible supply of "fallen angels of wartime" -- prostitutes -- who descended on the city in an "invasion . . . so sensational that it was easy to exaggerate its numbers."
As so often happens, the city boomed during the war. Work continued on the Capitol. "If people see the Capitol going on," Lincoln said, "it is a sign we intend the Union shall go on." An aqueduct for the city's water supply was under construction, and Congress authorized improvements at the Treasury, the War Department, the Navy Department and Judiciary Square.
The Washington we know today took shape during the Civil War. Physical shape, that is. Its social and psychological shape had already been formed: cynicism and idealism, pocket-lining and public service, avarice and selflessness -- the more things change, the more they remain the same. Then as now it was a city of strivers, dealmakers and self-publicists, but also of ordinary people going about their business without benefit of spotlights or press clippings. Leech captures all this within the 500-plus pages of "Reveille in Washington," which remains required reading for anyone who wants to know what kind of place the nation's capital really is.
"Reveille in Washington," Simon Publications, $39.95 paperback, is also available in libraries and used bookstores.
Jonathan Yardley's e-mail address is email@example.com.