by Jeff Shaara
18. GRANT
MAY 9, 1864 THEY CALLED HIM "UNCLE JOHN," AND THERE WERE FEW IN THIS
army who had earned as much respect from their troops as Sedgwick. If he had not shown the kind of heroism that made newspapermen happy, he had always been a solid commander, had led troops since the beginning of the war, and commanded the Sixth Corps since Chancellorsville. He was older than most, had come out of the Point in 1837, the same year as jubal Early. A New Englander by birth, he carried none of the trappings of the "easterner," and many could not believe this rugged man was from New England. There was too much of the western frontier in him, the sharp eye of a man who has fought the Indian, the rugged exterior of a man who understands trickery, who understands his enemy.
He had served in Mexico, after winning a fighter's reputation in the first Seminole Wars. Afterward, in an army that lost many of its best men to the tedium of the frontier, Sedgwick had thrived, fought Indians wherever the action was hot, served in Utah and then Bloody Kansas, when the army found itself in the center of the worst kind of violence, citizens fighting each other over the question of slavery.
He could be gruff and profane, but the men loved him because he was efficient, because he knew how to place his troops where they would do the most good, with the least harm. He'd been up front again this morning, correcting one officer's mistake, adjusting lines of infantry that had dug in too close to the mouths of their own big guns. The men on the front lines had become wary of the rebel sharpshooters, stayed. low, flinching from the small bits of lead whistling overhead, sent at them from a hidden enemy very far away. Sedgwick had laughed at them, teased one man in particular, a sergeant, who was curled into a ball on the ground. Sedgwick had stood straggling out across the open ground to far trees, the cover of those men with the long rifles, was still laughing when the bullet struck him, below the eye, spun him around and dropped him onto the sergeant who still crouched low beside him.
ORTER WAS SHAKING, AND GRANT WAITED, COULD SEE IT IN THE man's face, stung with the terrible news.
"Sir, yes, General Sedgwick was killed... just a few minutes ago. They're bringing the body back now."
Grant stared at the young man, said nothing. He held the cigar in his hand, looked at it, watched the ash fall to the ground, looked at Porter again, said, "Are you certain? Is he really... dead?" He stood, walked toward the tent, felt himself weaken, draining of energy. This is a disaster, he thought, worse than the loss of a division. He pictured Sedgwick's face, the large heavy man, handsome, graying beard. How does that happen, one man... just taken away? He looked back at Porter again, said, "Is he really dead, Colonel? Are you certain?"
Porter nodded quietly. Grant moved into the tent, sat down on the hard bed, stared at nothing. He thought, We should tell Meade... but of course, Meade would know. And Meade would have to choose someone to replace him, someone to command a very good corps. There were not many good commanders to choose from.
He had hoped to hit Lee hard this morning, but the army was still moving in slow steps, cautious and clumsy. Meade wanted to assault the flanks, had sent Hancock to the west, into a ragged terrain of woods and water, while Burnside would try to move east and attack what should be an exposed flank. But nothing was happening, there was no coordination, and Grant was understanding finally why for three years this army had not won its fights.
He had watched Meade carefully, knew that Meade was still edgy about his job, still carried the insecurity that it would take only one sharp moment, one episode when Grant lost his temper, and he would be gone. Grant knew Meade was not very happy being so close to the eye of his commander, but he had not wanted Meade removed for he knew that Meade still knew his own army better than he did. If Grant had once thought that unimportant, now, at this moment, realizing the Sixth Corps needed a new commander, he understood why Meade had to remain. But there was still frustration, and he thought, I cannot get him to understand, if we are to make a mistake, let it be because we moved too quickly, not too slowly. He thought of Sheridan, and knew the two men had not gotten along, not at all, two men with strong egos and very different ways of thinking. The staff had told him this morning that Sheridan was meeting with Meade, that the staffs had gathered at a respectful distance while a violent argument boiled out of Meade's tent. He knew that if they did not come to some agreement, if Meade was stubborn enough to stick to his old ways and did not share Sheridan's understanding of cavalry tactics, he would hear about it, would have to settle it himself. He felt suddenly anxious, frustrated, tossed the stump of a cigar out through the tent flaps. Lee is right out there, waiting for us, he thought. He can move faster, because he has fewer troops to move, fewer wagons, fewer guns. All the things that give us the advantage also slow us down. And he has fewer commanders, he has control of his army. It seems... that I do not.
Burnside had still not moved into position, the assault on Lee's right flank delayed, the only sounds the small rattle of skirmishing. I cannot just... relieve everyone who doesn't perform to my standards, he thought. I cannot put colonels into command of divisions, and I cannot command the corps myself.
He moved back outside, saw Porter still standing by his small table, waiting for him, waiting for instructions. Along the road he could see wagons moving in both directions, some filled with wounded men from the fights exploding along the front lines, the uncoordinated bursts of activity. He saw one flag, the St. Andrew's cross, the flag of the Sixth, men gathered around, some hearing the awful news for the first time. He could see the looks on the faces, the shock, could hear the sounds now, one man sobbing out loud. This will take something away from them, he thought. For a while, at least, they will not fight the same way.
Lee lost Jackson, and then lost Gettysburg. But we will not lose here, not on this ground, not with these men. Every time we go at him, every good fight, even on those days when it is very bad, we bring something away, we add that to who we are, and we become better, stronger. There is something in the men who are veterans... they know they are veterans, they have seen the worst of it, some have seen the worst of themselves. Even if they have endured bad commanders, have endured defeat by an enemy none thought would be so strong or so well commanded, we are still better equipped, and by now we are better prepared.
He thought of the chessboard again. If Lee is faster, more compact THE LAST FULL MEASURE 189 we still have the power, and we will just keep at him. If he keeps moving south, we will follow him south, and very soon he will run out of places to go. But for now he is right out there, and maybe today, or tomorrow... he glanced at the sky, the bright sun. The weather is ours, but the longer we delay... He moved toward Porter, said, "Colonel, go to General Meade. Ask him if he has chosen a replacement for General Sedgwick."
E HEARD MEADE FIRST, THE BOOMING ANGRY VOICE, HAD grown used to it, the voice that seemed to carry over the entire field. Usually it was aimed at a staff officer, often an innocent man who happened to bring the wrong piece of information, something Meade might not want to hear. But the voice was coming closer, and Grant sat up on his bed, wiped his face with his hand, heard another voice now, a high pitch, clear anger. It was Sheridan.
He tried to clear his head, had told Rawlins he would take a short rest, had not expected to fall asleep. He still sat on the bed, waited, listened, and the voices were close, grew quiet, small low comments, like two angry children coming to Papa, both of them right, both of them wrong.
It was Rawlins, the face appearing between the tent flaps.
"Sir, forgive the interruption to your rest. We have visitors."
Grant motioned with his hand, a small wave.
"Be right out. Tell them not to kill each other before I get there."
Rawlins looked at him with wide eyes, said, "I don't think it has come to that...." He glanced back, then looked inside again, whispered, "But it would be advisable, Sir, if you were to make haste."
Grant pulled on his boots, and Rawlins held the flap back, stood stiffly as Grant move
d past. He squinted at the sunlight, saw the two men standing formally at attention, waiting for him. He reached into his pocket, felt for a cigar, but the pocket was empty. He sagged, thought, Worse yet, I am unarmed. He said, "Well, gentlemen, are we feeling the full effects of this awful day?"
Neither man spoke, glanced at each other, then Meade nodded, said, "Yes, Sir. It is an awful day indeed. John Sedgwick was much loved. There is a gloom throughout the Sixth Corps, if not the whole army."
Grant nodded, and Sheridan said, "Yes, gloom. Now, Sir, allow me to address you directly, if that is permissible. I do not wish to offend the chain of command." There was sarcasm in Sheridan's voice. Grant took a deep breath, said, "You may proceed, General." Sheridan stepped forward, his face began to flash fire, and he removed his hat, held it tightly, said, "General Grant, it is my contention that this army has been habitually misusing its cavalry. General Meade and I have quite different viewpoints with regard to the function of the horsemen. I have tried to convince General Meade that we should not be assigned such mundane tasks as guarding wagons and scouting the countryside for the general's dinner!"
Grant looked at Meade, saw the eyes expand, waited for the coming explosion.
"Dinner! I have never suggested... ! General, this is outrageous!" Meade puffed, removed his hat, his fist curling the brim hard in his hand. Grant raised his hand, calming, thought, No, General, don't hit him with the hat.
"Gentlemen, I have no time for this. I would like to hear something more specific, from both of you. General Sheridan, if you don't feel the cavalry is being used properly, then give me an alternative. What would be your strategy?"
Sheridan nodded, was clearly prepared for this moment, said in a quiet voice, "Sir, from everything I have heard, this army's cavalry has, more often than not, been turned about, confused and left highly embarrassed by the skill of the enemy in general, and Stuart in particular. From what I understand of your overall plan, Sir, we are to pursue General Lee's army until we can draw him into a fight. If you will all owl I would like the same opportunity. I propose to take this army's cavalry and, instead of raiding supply depots and vandalizing railroad tracks, I would like to pursue General Stuart. If given a free hand..." He glanced at Meade.
"If given a free hand, I will whip General Stuart." Sheridan put his hat on, a final punctuation mark.
Grant looked at Meade, said, "General?" Meade glanced at Sheridan, put his hat on as well, said, "He will leave us blind. We cannot maneuver this army in the enemy's country without the use of cavalry."
Sheridan turned, said, "General, you have not allowed me to maneuver at all! You counter my orders, you place my men without consulting me..."
Grant felt a small headache blooming, reached again, felt the inside of the empty pocket, said, "That's it, gentlemen. General Meade , if General Sheridan says he can whip Stuart, then we should let him. If we destroy the enemy's cavalry, we will have gained an advantage that may hasten the end of the war."
Sheridan beamed a smile, saluted Grant, said, "Sir, we will move immediately! I will send regular reports."
"Send them to General Meade. You are dismissed."
Sheridan spun, moved away, began to shout instructions to his staff. Grant looked at Meade, who stared down at the ground like a scolded puppy. Grant said, "General, we must take risks. We know where Lee is, and for now, the cavalry's eyes are not as important as what he may be able to accomplish." He paused.
"Do we have a replacement for General Sedgwick?"
Meade looked up, nodded.
"Yes, Sir. It was a bit of a problem... General Ricketts was next in line by rank. But it was always Sedgwick's preference that Horatio Wright succeed him, in the event... He will be adequate to the task. The men will accept him, I believe."
Grant nodded, thought of Wright, had known him in the West, a good engineer, had commanded in Ohio briefly.
"Fine. I will send his name to Washington. Is that all for now, General?"
Meade nodded, saluted. Grant returned it, and Meade moved away. Grant watched him, felt the headache again, moved toward the tent, and Rawlins appeared, rushed in front, lifted the flap. Grant looked at him, said, "Colonel, you will do me a great service if in the future, before we deal with these people, you remind me not to forget my cigars.
MAY 10, 1864 HE HAD BELIEVED THE ARMY WAS READY, HAD THOUGHT THEY would begin a general assault all along Lee's lines. Burnside was on the left, and if Lee had strengthened his flank, Grant knew Burnside had the numbers. The ground was not difficult, there was no anchor to protect the rebels from being swept away by the three large divisions that Burnside could push forward. On the right, Hancock was still finding rough going, his forces spread over a deep creek, movement hampered by woods and the guns of Lee's left. Grant knew that Lee was responding to the threats to both his flanks, and so it was likely Lee's center had been weakened. There was still Laurel Hill of course, with the mass of big guns that commanded much of the field, but a quick strike, a hard cutting blow to the center, could break Lee's army in half. Both the Fifth and Sixth Corps were in position, and even some of Hancock's people could shift to the left and add to the strength. All they would require was a first wave, one spearhead, to make a quick thrust at Lee's position, break through, and then the vast numbers from the two corps could rush up support. By dark it could be over. The two halves of Lee's army could be rolled up in two neat packages, or at worst, Lee would be gone, a headlong rush southward toward safer ground, a confused and panicked retreat.
The plan came from one young man, Emory Upton, ambitious, egotistical, with a good eye for tactics and a good eye on his own reputation. He was not popular with his troops, commanded a brigade with his focus clearly on a greater responsibility. But if his men had no particular regard for their colonel, the commanders above had great respect for his plan.
The attack would be Upton's brigade, reinforced by four additional regiments from the Sixth Corps. Upton was explicit in his orders: there would be no firing, no stopping to shoot at the strong log works of the rebels. They would move quickly across the open ground, a tight spearhead, punching across the rebel line in one small break. Once beyond, the break would be widened, and Upton would be reinforced. Support would come first from another brigade to his left, and then, all along the front, a general assault that would prevent Lee from shifting troops to the damaged center.
The attack began with the same hopeful optimism this army had seen too many times before, and it was a failure from the first command. The troops assigned to support Upton's men were not in place. Farther along the line, the Fifth Corps faced Laurel Hill, and the men there had no enthusiasm for assaulting a nearly impossible position. Hancock's Second Corps was divided, still fumbling through the confusion on the right. Burnside was in the best position on the field, could have moved at any time toward a weak defense, a defense that was weaker still because Lee had pulled troops away, strengthening the rest of the line, something no one on the Federal side knew.
Upton's men did exactly as he had planned, ran across the deadly open field, leaping up and over the rebel trenches. The fight lasted an hour. Behind him, Upton saw the open field empty of the vast support he was to have received, empty except for the scattered bodies of his own men.
GRANT LOOKED AT THE MAP AGAIN, RAN HIS FINGER ALONG THE curving arc of Lee's lines. He made a fist, wanted to pound the table, shatter it into pieces, held his hand tight above the map, took a deep breath, let it go. He stood straight, looked at the faces watching him. No one spoke. He caught the eyes of each man, slowly, moved his stare through the group. Some returned the look, some looked away, and he thought, Yes, they know... the ones who will not look me in the eye, they know who carries the blame.
Most of them were there, the commanders who had failed their men. He still stared at them, and the silence lasted for a full minute, then two. He saw fidgeting now, saw Rawlins, standing to one side, nervous, shifting his weight.
"What is it, Colonel? Yo
u have something to say?"
Rawlins turned pale, hesitated, then said, "Uh... Sir, do you have any orders?"
Grant looked back toward the assembled group, the firelight now reflecting off the polished brass, the gold braid decorating the sagging shoulders. He glanced at Rawlins" thought, They should stand here all night. He looked briefly at Horatio Wright, his first day in corps command, saw Meade, moving slowly forward, preparing for Grant's verbal assault. There were others, men who had come to headquarters with their commanders, a few Grant did not know. He glanced at the faces, said, "Any of you... Colonel Upton?"
There was a silent pause, and Wright stepped forward.
"General, Colonel Upton was wounded in the assault. He will survive, but he is at the corps hospital."
"Keep me advised, General. He's the only one of... us who did his job today." He reached for a cigar, the last one in his pocket, rolled it over in his hand, then lit it slowly.
Meade cleared his throat, said, "General, I will forward to you General Wright's official request for Colonel Upton's promotion to brigadier general. We all are aware, Sir, that he performed an extraordinary task today."