by Ralph Peters
The chief of staff wiped his mustachios, slicking off sweat or spit. He edged a paper closer to the lone candle—shackled by its own wax to the tabletop—and read:
“Question the First: Under existing circumstances, is it advisable for this army to remain in its present position, or to retire to another nearer its base of supplies?”
Speak now, Meade thought. Every last one of you. This is your chance, and I will not give you another.
The generals were called upon in order, from most junior to most senior, beginning with Gibbon and Williams, who had tempory charge of their corps: The regular commanders, Hancock and Slocum, oversaw the left wing and right flank, respectively. Small and raw-faced, Gibbon thought the army’s position would serve, but needed corrections. Williams, with his mighty beard and cautious speech, was unwilling to take a clear-cut stand until his seniors had spoken.
Commanding the Third Corps in Sickles’ wake, Birney declared, “My corps’s used up. I don’t expect the boys will be much good tomorrow, they’re just fought out. I’m for holding right where we are, but don’t know that I have a right to say so. Given that my men won’t have much to offer.”
“General Newton?” Butterfield called on the man who had taken command of the First Corps only that morning, but still managed to be fourth from the bottom in terms of seniority as midnight approached. The battle had already taken its toll of generals.
Muscled like Hancock, but not so domineering, Newton said, “As an engineer myself, I don’t like this position. Lee could turn it, had he a mind to. The lines themselves are good, we can fight them all right. But our flanks are hanging out like an old drab’s petticoats.”
“Nothing against petticoats in general,” Hancock noted, drawing laughter.
“Then you believe we should withdraw from this position, General Newton?” Butterfield asked.
“I didn’t say that,” Newton answered hastily. “I was only pointing out the risks to staying here. In my view, this is no place to fight a battle … not if we had a choice. But the battle’s been joined.…”
Newton had disappointed Meade. After the man’s superb performance on the field, he was equivocating as badly as George McClellan. Meade felt the urge to intervene, to make it clear that they had to stay and fight. But he heard his wife’s voice telling him to let other men have their say.
Meade glanced at Butterfield: Move on.
One after another, the other generals simply said, “Stay.”
“Stay and fight it out,” Slocum snapped, adding intensity. He had the build of a sparrow, but the eyes of a hawk. “Come morning, I’ll take care of those goddamned gains those piss-ants made on my flank. They’re going to wish they’d stayed home in goddamned Georgia or Alabama or wherever the Hell they came from.”
“Sounds like we’re of one mind, then,” Hancock said, drawing out a cigar. His tone declared that he was as impatient to get through the meeting as the chief of staff. “Rectify the position here and there, but without giving up the field.” He bit off the cigar’s end and spit it out. “Personally, I think this is a damned good place to fight. If Pleasanton can get his nags out of their nose-bags and watch the flanks for once.” He lifted himself far enough from his chair to light his smoke from the candle.
Butterfield called them to order. “Yea or nay to the proposition that the army remains on this field?”
Every officer, including Newton and Gibbon, voted to stay and fight.
“Question the Second,” Butterfield said. “It being determined to remain in the present position, should the army attack, or await the attack of the enemy?”
Again, Newton and Gibbon disappointed Meade, both men a stroke too vehement in their insistence that the army was in no condition to attack immediately. Meade knew that. But it didn’t have to be declared so loudly.
“Bobby Lee wants to keep battering his head against a wall, why not let him?” Slocum asked. Sedgwick, heavy and calm, nodded his agreement.
Puffing away, Hancock scratched an itch and said, “By all means, let Lee attack again, if he’s fool enough. We’re in a better position than we were this morning, with everybody up. But I say no attack on our side. Not right away. Unless our communications are threatened.”
“Yea or nay, gentlemen?” the chief of staff asked.
Again, the vote was unanimous. Meade was pleased. Thus far, they had given him all that he wanted. And each man had his money on the table.
“Question the Third: If we await attack, how long?”
In the distance, a battery fired, but no guns responded.
The order of answering had broken down and Howard spoke up first. Enlivened by his repulse of the late assault upon his batteries, he urged, “Attack sooner, rather than later. The army’s mettle is up. Give Lee a surprise.”
Skinny and short-tempered, Sykes spit out, “I disagree completely. Give Lee a fair chance to come at us. We’ve got good ground and I don’t see a need to hurry things.” He snorted. “Took him long enough to make his arrangements today, and Lee still couldn’t bring it off. He’ll be hot now, embarrassed. I say we give him time to make a mistake.” He rocked back in his chair. “And if he doesn’t, there’ll be time enough to go at him.”
“Unless he moves,” Gibbon said, still worried about the flanks. “If Lee starts shifting his army to our left, we have to attack him, it’ll be too late to withdraw.”
Again, Meade restrained himself and let his generals talk.
“I’d give Lee a day,” Sedgwick told the gathering. He had the voice of a judge pronouncing sentence. “Give him one day. If he doesn’t attack, then hit him as hard as we can.”
“Too long,” Hancock said, calculating afresh. “I say wait until four p.m. That’s about when he attacked today. If Lee can’t get off his aristocratic backside by four o’clock, we should go at him while there’s plenty of light.” He grinned. “I’ll bet you the poor bugger’s missing old Tom Jackson. Every goddamned minute. Our friends in gray have a bad case of the slows.”
The discussion began to wander and repeat itself. Butterfield held up his hand. This time, he didn’t ask for a vote, but just said, “The consensus is that the army awaits Lee’s attack, for a period left to the army commander’s discretion, and with allowance for local attacks to rectify our lines. Does anyone disagree?”
No nays sounded, no heads shook.
Relieved, Meade sighed. They had given him what he wanted, what he needed. Even before the council of war commenced, he had sent a message to General Halleck in Washington, stating that the army would stay where it was to fight it out. But he was not about to mention that telegram now. He needed these men to believe the decision was theirs.
“I’m glad to find you all in agreement, gentlemen,” Meade told them. “You have confirmed me in my conviction that remaining on this field is the proper course.” He looked around at the begrimed faces lit by the guttering candle. Hancock blew a smoke ring. “General Lee will attack again tomorrow. I am convinced of it. And he will be defeated. Thank you. This assembly is dismissed.”
As the generals filtered out, Hancock paused beside Meade with a grin. Stinking like a bear with sweat and reeking with tobacco, Win whispered, “You’re a sneaky bastard, George, one clever sonofabitch.” He chuckled. “I’d say I admired what you just pulled off, if I didn’t feel my pocket has been picked.” With that, Win thrust himself through the door, shouting for his horse.
Meade caught Gibbon by the sleeve before he could follow Hancock into the night. With Win still sorting out the army’s left wing, Gibbon commanded the heart of the army’s position.
“John,” Meade said, “if Lee attacks tomorrow, his attack will be in your front. I’m certain of it.”
“Does Sharpe know something? From a prisoner?”
“No. But I’m sure I’m right. Lee’s made attacks on both our flanks and failed. His next attack will come against our center. He’ll convince himself that I’ve drawn away so many men to the flanks that the c
enter of the line will be our weak spot.” Meade tried to smile, but lacked the needed energy. “I mean to check him soundly. With the help of God and a good line of guns, we’re going to make your section of the line our strongest point.”
“I hope he’ll come at me. The Second Corps will give a good account of itself.”
Meade felt the tug of midnight, but forced a spark of confidence into his voice: “If Lee comes again, we’ll defeat him.”
He damned well hoped he was right.
With Gibbon gone and staff men in place of the generals in the cabin, Butterfield asked, “Anything else, General Meade?”
There were a thousand other things. Ten thousand. But it was enough. Let the chief of staff do his work. Meade had lines to inspect and orders to give. Would there be time to snatch a bit of sleep?
He stepped outside, exchanging the rancid air of the little room for the stink of death and blown powder in the darkness. His son approached him.
“General Meade, sir? Father?”
“What is it, George?”
“Are we staying?”
“Yes. We’re staying. How’s Old Baldy?”
“Hurt. But not hurt bad. He’ll be all right. He just needs rest.”
We all do, Meade thought. Man and beast. But he moved on: “I was proud of you today, George. You behaved well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But a good officer doesn’t take unnecessary chances. Accomplishment, George, not bravado, never bravado. Think of your mother.”
With that, Meade sent the boy off again with messages to deliver. Young George had indeed done handsomely, riding about at a gallop to pass on orders and hurry troops along, careless of the death piercing the air. Had Margaret seen the half of what he had demanded of the boy, she would never forgive him. But the day had engulfed them all in its awesome magnitude, and it was a blessing to bob up alive at the end of it.
Whatever beauty men might find in war, it wasn’t the sleek, clean beauty of a good lighthouse.
SEVENTEEN
July 2, Night
Betrayed by his bowels, Lee kept to the house his staff had commandeered. He did not want to see his generals now, after they had let him down so badly. It was essential to appear unruffled, to remain at all times a proper Virginia gentleman. But keeping his temper required isolation: It was a struggle to speak civilly, even to his aides. Walter Taylor, of all people, had presumed to suggest a need for firmer control of the army tomorrow. No one seemed to understand these soldiers, his invincible, tireless men.…
Appearing at last, Stuart had been chastised and dismissed back to his troopers. Longstreet was another matter, though. A meeting with that man risked a barrage of recriminations: Why had he moved so slowly? Why had he not been able to seize those hills? Why had he halted his men on the verge of success? Lee had to struggle not to impugn his key subordinate’s motives, not to think him obstinate unto spite. Nor did he wish to hear more of Longstreet’s pleas to maneuver the army around the Union position. The battle was joined, and the battle had to be won. It was unthinkable to let George Meade repulse him after such bloodletting. Leaving this near-won field would be a disgrace.
The army would have to attack again tomorrow, with great force gathered around Pickett’s fresh division. Virginia-born and -bred, Pickett would not flag in his sense of duty. For all his frills and fripperies, the man was sound. And his brigade commanders were all Virginians, exemplary men. Courageous. Properly supported, Pickett would need only to be unleashed. Fearing for his battered flanks, Meade would have weakened his center. That was where Pickett and his supports would strike him. Meade would not expect a frontal attack across those fields, and this day’s blood would have nourished tomorrow’s victory.
Lee knew the Army of the Potomac. He had fought these generals and their soldiers enough times to know that they could always be beaten. Here, on their own soil, they resisted more stoutly, but Lee felt in his bones that their breaking point neared. Those people lacked the wherewithal to withstand the men he commanded. One great effort would shatter them. He knew it.
If only Jackson …
Jackson would never have dawdled so inexcusably. Where Longstreet lagged, Jackson would have used every instant to advantage. The day’s attacks had collapsed into piecemeal efforts, allowing Meade time to shift his men about, permitting him to think. Tomorrow would be different: The attack would strike the weakened heart of the Union line with a blow that would overwhelm George Meade’s defenses.
Longstreet would have to command the attack again, there was no choice. Mulish though he could be, he was the last of Lee’s subordinates up to the task. A diminished man in more ways than the physical, Ewell had been sluggish and ill-tempered for two days, while Hill had spent this day clinging to Lee’s headquarters, failing even to urge his own men forward. Hill’s indisposition had disabled not only him, but a third of the army.
Hill’s indisposition …
Lee found the thought distasteful, a matter that could only be ignored. Anyway, he had no one ready to take over Hill’s corps. Perhaps Hood would have done in time, but even he lay wounded—severely, according to his staff. And, Lee told himself, he had to remember that Hill came of his own kind and must not be shamed publicly.
He found the mounting losses among his generals lamentable as to their persons, but tragic when it came to their precious skills. So many of them were gone now, replaced by men of good heart, but inadequate talents. It was only the soldiers themselves, his sturdy soldiers, who could deliver victory to the Confederacy.
But those men needed Jackson’s iron hand and will.
Pacing about the chamber, Lee smiled mournfully. Thomas Jonathan Jackson had been the least likable man he had ever loved. It was hard not to view his death as a desertion.
Perhaps Jackson had been wise to take his leave amidst the war? With his reputation at its apogee? Cross over the river, he’d said. And rest in the shade of the trees.
Jackson, with his lemons, faith, and alacrity.
Lee’s bowels throbbed and he stepped toward the next room to use the chamberpot. But the quaking subsided and he composed himself. He knew that Taylor had papers for him to sign. But he was not ready. He needed more time alone.
He had received bad news, but shared it with no one. The rumors that Grant had abandoned his Vicksburg works had been incorrect. The siege continued, with ever less hope of relief. How long could Pemberton resist? Why was Johnston inactive? Could Vicksburg hold until the summer’s end?
The news had made it still more vital to win a great victory here, to bring a final relief to the Confederacy. And to Virginia.
It was ever harder to maintain Christian decorum, to prevent a just cause from descending into hatred. Given the barbaric ravages in which those people indulged on his home earth, it took all his strength of will to forbid retribution. Even his Arlington home had been used unkindly.
Truly, they had become separate nations, irreconcilably so. His conduct and that of his men had to be exemplary, and he strove to embody gentlemanly honor. This war was not about slaves, but about civility, about the challenge to a civilization of beauty and refinement posed by a brute, mechanical culture. They encompassed me about also with words of hatred; and fought against me without a cause. He longed to sit again in his family pew, in a world well rid of war and rumors of war. But first this terrible issue must be resolved. Yesterday’s brethren could no longer live together. Not without destroying the world Lee loved.
So Pickett and the others would go forward. One mighty effort remained to be made on the morrow, a last, decisive victory to be claimed.
Nor could Lee bear the thought, the unthinkable thought, that George Meade might defeat him. It was impossible. He could not lose to Meade. And his men could not lose to those people. They only needed to be led with vigor.
Lee closed his eyes and saw his legions swarm through the Union lines.
* * *
Corny Wright gave up and walked
off to sleep, leaving Blake and Cobb by the fire’s embers. With midnight behind them, Blake leaned into the feeble smoke, aching to purge the smell of death from his nostrils. They had spent the day handling corpses and covering them over, but the dead just seemed to multiply, an infernal version of the loaves and fishes. The world stank of decay and shit until dried sweat seemed to Blake a sweet perfume. Beyond the fire, the living snored or called out, issuing nightmare warnings of Yankee volleys, or pleading with loved ones conjured in a dream. On a skirmish line, rifles snapped.
Eyes fire-brightened, Cobb cackled: “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!”
Blake considered him through the twists of smoke. “Psalm 133.”
Cobb’s black maw widened into a grin. “That’s right good, Quaker. Them Virginny folk brought you up right.”
Blake had spent much of the day amid unaccustomed thoughts, wondering not about the phenomenon that was Cobb, but about its creation. After so many months of living and fighting together, it was the first time he had pondered the possible misfortunes of the other man, the tangled path that had led him to this place. And he had realized that, beyond the common mistrust of Cobb’s kin back in the hills, he really knew nothing about the man beside him.
Blake felt for his tobacco and realized he had none. He let it go.
“Billie?”
Cobb looked up, eyes narrowed at Blake’s use of his first name. As if he knew it was prelude to a challenge.
“Hear that boy sawing wood?” Cobb asked, shaking his head. “That Bunyan boy puts a battery to shame.”
“I’m glad he’s sleeping,” Blake said. “I suppose losing a twin brother’s even harder than losing a regular one.”
“Lot harder,” Cobb told him, “than losing some little gal you set your eye on for a time, but who never bound herself to you.”