Valley of the Shadow: A Novel

by Ralph Peters

  Every man murmured his assent, the inevitable loyalty.

  “Now somebody get me another bottle of this Frenchy swill.”

  July 12, 5:30 a.m.

  Fort Stevens, Washington, D.C.

  Major General Horatio G. Wright prayed for the Johnnies to be damned fools and attack. He had two divisions of his corps ready to fight, as well as the local agglomeration of glorified militia, impressed clerks, and invalid veterans—the latter garbed in embarrassing pale blue uniforms. And there were guns. Plenty of guns. If the unblooded artillerymen in Fort Stevens and elsewhere along the line could not employ their batteries effectively, his infantrymen would do it for them. And the fort itself was formidable, even if he would have made a number of improvements, had he been in charge of the city’s defenses.

  The damnable problem was that no one really seemed to be accountable, no one possessed clear authority. He’d received a plethora of orders and countermanding instructions the previous afternoon, a mad confusion of conflicting objectives and contradictory purposes. At last, he had just followed the orders that made the most sense, riding into the right fort at a gallop, just in time to see the Confederates filing into the fields beyond a streambed.

  The Johnnies had looked exhausted, and their skirmishers had lacked their usual spunk. He had wanted to go at them, as soon as Frank Wheaton came up, but the idiot who ranked him sent out his own sorry troops instead, and a poor lot they were. Permission to do too little had been granted a great deal too late—but this morning offered another chance at vengeance.

  Let them come on. Just let them try it now. He meant to give Early and his tribe of ragamuffins Cold Harbor in reverse. Let them come down that long, easy slope with all the batteries hammering them. Let them ford that stream and try to come up the last half mile of open ground, let them struggle toward the earthen walls, howling all they wanted. Horatio Gouverneur Wright intended to slaughter them.

  And when they were bloody and broken, his best brigades would advance to finish the business. Let bloody Upton at them, and they’d never presume to cross the Potomac again.

  He stood on the walls of the fort in the blooming light, scanning the orchards opposite, counting Early’s batteries, and marking the picket lines. There would be no more blind assaults, no more Cold Harbors. He had no taste for charging madly and squandering his men. He just wanted Early to come on and swallow his medicine.

  The imperfections in the fortifications, the evident lack of upkeep, annoyed him, though. He could not help noting every minor flaw. Oh, the bastion and redans were strong enough, they’d do the trick, but in the steadier days before the war he would have cashiered a young engineer who took so little care.

  Well, better to be a corps commander here than a captain of engineers in the Dry Tortugas. He doubted there was any spot on earth so forlorn and grim. And Florida had not been a great deal better, a territory of impossible denizens, man and beast. War had brought some advantages, that was true enough.

  Still, Wright was a builder at heart, not a destroyer by nature. And when peace came, he’d return to the engineers—with sufficient seniority not to draw the wretched assignments that tortured junior officers.

  He raised his field glasses. Yes, let them come on. And we’ll thank them properly for killing Uncle John Sedgwick, for all the blood spilled between the Rapidan and the James, then the mess at Petersburg in June.

  When Sedgwick fell at Spotsylvania, Wright had been unsure of his own ability to lead a corps in battle. Now, but two months later, he felt as if he had been in command for years, it seemed as natural as sitting in a saddle.

  A man was flesh and blood, though, general or private, and his kidneys prodded him to climb down from the parapet. When he turned to go, he saw Emory Upton crossing the yard in evident pursuit, clearly in need of another tongue-lashing about jumping the chain of command. Upton was insufferable, a bothersome Christian of the sort that must have driven the Romans to persecution, and a brilliant soldier with a thirst for blood. A newly anointed brigadier, Upton doubtless had another one of his schemes to offer up. And truth be told, the little Bible-pounder had shocked them all at Spotsylvania, breaking the Rebel lines, then doing it again in the early fighting at Cold Harbor, a saint with a murderer’s soul.

  Wright only wished he could have another cup of coffee before dealing with the man.

  “Clarke,” he told an aide, “fend off General Upton until I’ve at least had time to piss. I don’t need him trying to help me with that, too.”

  Down in the yard, Upton realized that he had Wright’s attention. The fox-faced bugger saluted with a grin.

  If Early does come on, Wright decided, he was definitely going to turn young Upton loose on him.

  Moments later, as the corps commander stood over the piss trough, footsteps marched up behind him. Without turning his head, he said, “Oh, Christ, Upton!”

  “Ahem.”

  It wasn’t Upton, but Charles Dana, the assistant secretary of war.

  Wright secured himself. “My apologies, Mr. Dana.”

  “Bad form of me to intrude. Under the circumstances. But I thought it might be my only opportunity to catch you alone.” He rumpled his features. “I suppose we might move a few steps away from this ammoniac perfume, though.”

  They walked together, climbing the ramp to a side parapet. Upton either was under physical restraint or, for once, was displaying sound judgment and keeping his distance.

  Up on the wall, they paused by an unmanned howitzer.

  “The president may come up. To have a look at things,” Dana said. “He’s a man of infinite curiosity.”

  Oh, Christ, Wright thought.

  “Anyway,” Dana continued, “we wouldn’t want any embarrassments. If Early does attack, we’ll spirit the president off. But he does have a penchant for lingering.” Dana looked away for an instant, as if checking for spies, and met Wright’s eyes again. “Frankly, the man can get in the way at times. Means well, though.”

  “And if Early doesn’t attack?”

  “Oh, fire some guns, send out some skirmishers. Make a little show. You understand. And for God’s sake, laugh at his jokes. Nothing makes him happier.”

  “Anything else, sir?”

  Dana shook his head. “I shouldn’t think so. You’ll manage.” The assistant secretary sighed. It had the studied quality of a performance. “You realize that I’m speaking to you in confidence, Wright. Frankly, the secretary and I have little faith in some of your nominal superiors here in the city, the command situation appears to have been lacking. We expect you to do what’s required.” Dana straightened his frock coat, as if about to meet men of greater importance. “But err on the side of caution. Another setback now would be inconvenient. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes.”

  Dana joined his hands together, a gesture poised between prayer and strangulation. “Then here’s to a glorious day! The ‘Salvation of Washington,’ in the nick of time! Rather dramatic, I must say.” He turned to go. But after a few paces, he confronted Wright again. “Look here … do you believe that Early’s going to attack? A serious attack, I mean?”

  Dear God, if only he would, Wright thought. And do it immediately. I’d give them all a show.

  “No.”

  July 12, 6:30 a.m.

  Silver Spring, Maryland

  Gordon found Early and Pendleton standing at the edge of an apple orchard, peering across the open ground between them and the city’s fortifications. Early held a pair of field glasses at his waist, but seemed transfixed. The army commander looked bruised and battered by life.

  Gordon had drunk little the night before, had left the conclave of generals as soon as courtesy permitted, and had doused himself with cold well water upon waking. He felt alert and ready. Wary, though.

  Old Jube could hold his liquor, but it never helped his mood the morning after. No orders had reached Gordon, either to attack or to prepare for a withdrawal, and at last he’d run out of pati
ence. He believed more strongly than ever that an attack would end in defeat, if not disaster. He hoped to reason with Early, fearing that an assault was now a question of honor for the old soldier.

  The situation wanted extreme delicacy. The last thing Gordon intended was to prod Early to attack on a point of pride. Be as Ulysses, he told himself, employ the guile of the ultimate survivor. Never injure the pride of Agamemnon.

  “Goddamned Sixth Corps,” Early said by way of greeting. “I knew it, I goddamned well knew it. Look at the goddamned flags.”

  The commanding general did not sound in good spirits.

  “Yes, sir,” Gordon said. “Rode out for a look myself. Lines are just plain bristling.”

  “Goddamned French wine,” Early said. “Not fit for man or beast.” He looked at Gordon. “Change your mind again? Want to attack those sonsofbitches, after all?”

  Choosing his words with care, Gordon said, “Reckon I had enough of the Sixth Corps on the Monocacy. I’d be honored to pass along the privilege, sir.”

  “Hah! Taught them a lesson, though.”

  “That we did. We did, indeed.” Gordon smiled his best Ulysses smile, perfected in the looking glass of life. “I doubt they’ll denude this fair city of troops again. And those are troops that will never be free to join Meade and Grant. They might as well be our prisoners. Or dead.” Again, Gordon selected his words with precision. “Sir, if we’ve had our differences … my hat’s off to you for bringing the army this far. Such a small force, really, it’s—”

  “It’s a goddamned shame, that’s what it is. Come so close. Those Sixth Corps sonsofbitches…” Early offered Gordon a cockeyed look and let his high-pitched voice climb even higher. “What do you think would happen if we went at ’em? Right now? Bust right through and march into the city?”

  “We’d get in, but never get out.”

  A succession of looks, none promising, crossed Early’s features. Then he appeared to slump, inside and out. “Going to be another man-killing scorcher,” he muttered. “Damnable weather, damnable.”

  He met Gordon’s gaze, and despite any lasting effects of the flood of wine he’d drunk, Early’s eyes showed that brilliant spark that redeemed many a sin and drew good value from each tribulation. Inside that bent frame, Early was alive. Gordon, of all men, could recognize it.

  “Goddamn it, Gordon,” Early told him, “you’d be an easier man to like if you’d just be wrong now and then.” He shook his head. “Grand fight on the Monocacy. If I haven’t told you that.”

  “You haven’t.” Gordon smiled. But when Early grinned in return, Gordon sobered again. “It cost me.”

  Early nodded, looked away. “I know. You and Johnny Lamar. Friendship. Hah. Always found it easier not to have too many friends. Plays hell with a fellow’s way of thinking.” He raised the field glasses to his chest, then lowered them again. “Any more word on Clem Evans?”

  “He’ll live to fight another day. If there’s no infection. Going to be hurting, though.” It was Gordon’s turn to shake his head. “Fool had a packet of straight pins in his pocket. Bullet hit the pins, shattered them. He’ll be drawing out bits for years, I don’t envy Clem the discomfort.”

  “What the devil was he toting pins for? Like a damned washerwoman.…”

  Gordon shrugged. “Fanny tells me good steel pins have gotten hard to come by. Been looking out for a pack or two myself.”

  Early curled his lips, seeking his old, safe irascibility. The effort failed. “Have we come to that?” he asked Gordon earnestly. “Generals scavenging pins?”

  It dawned on Gordon that there would be no attack. Early had already made his decision, but couldn’t yet speak the words.

  A Yankee gun opened from one of the redans. A cannonade followed, with the shells falling short or otherwise straying, noisy, spendthrift, and impotent.

  “Guess the Sixth Corps didn’t bring their artillery. Schoolboys with ramrods, goddamned waste of powder,” Early said.

  “Wouldn’t necessarily want to get much closer, though,” Gordon remarked. “Lot of guns on that line.”

  “Blue-belly sonsofbitches have a lot of everything, that’s the problem. I’ll bet that bastard Grant don’t have any pins in his pocket.”

  For the last time that day, but not for the last in his life, Gordon thought what a shame it was that they hadn’t attacked the moment they arrived the past afternoon. Even if it had only been with “three men and a dog.”

  He wondered if, at that very moment, he was standing at the Confederacy’s last high tide.

  “Oh, hell,” Early said. He turned in the saddle. “Sandie? Sandie Pendleton. You come up here, boy.”

  Pendleton trotted up the few steps to Early. The chief of staff had kept a discreet distance from the generals’ conversation—yet close enough to overhear, Gordon was certain.

  “Sir?”

  “Orders.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All divisions are to remain in their present positions, postured for defense. Pickets will advance in strength to keep the Yankees occupied … but there will be no general attack. All subordinate commanders will prepare for a withdrawal after sunset.”

  “Where to, sir?” Pendleton asked.

  “Virginia, you damned fool.”

  PART

  II

  THE VALLEY

  SEVEN

  September 17, 1864

  Rutherford house, Charles Town, West Virginia

  He thought of apples. The day promised to be warm, but autumn’s chill was scouting in the forenoon, preparing for the invasion of cold to come. The cool air called apples to mind, the hard, mouth-puckering treasures of his childhood, attacked with strong teeth and a carefree heart. He liked his apples softer now, best when ladled up as pulp from a pot. Julia made fine applesauce. Her mother had let her learn that much from the kitchen slaves.

  Well, if his wife wasn’t one for fancy cooking, that was all right. He wasn’t much for fancy eating. And Julia had made all else in his life bearable. He hoped, in the years ahead, to pay her back.

  If Sheridan proved to have matters in hand, he intended to visit New Jersey for a night before returning to City Point and the war’s enormity. Look at the for-rent house his wife had picked and talk out the children’s schooling. Simple chores that war had transformed into pleasures.

  Seated in a rocker, he lit another cigar and tossed the lucifer match down from the porch. Even a strong Havana could not defeat the sensations of memory. Those crisp, chill apples had been little glories, each bite sharp, and regret pierced him: He could no longer risk the cherished treats. His years alone in the Northwest had been hard, not least on his choppers. Nor had the years that followed been much kinder. Privilege had come to him too late for some things: He commanded mighty armies, but feared biting into the first apples of fall.

  A rare mood of self-indulgence, almost a swoon, seized him that morning. He wanted Sheridan to appear so they might settle the campaign’s course, get the business moving. But sitting alone, unbothered, was a reprieve, reminding him of how strained life had become and of the pains he took not to reveal it.

  Amid the clutter and clatter of yet another occupied town in another army’s rear and the dust of streets churned by laden wagons and caissons, he found himself gripped again by the force of memory, banishing for a little while the gore of the past five months and the stink of war, in favor of the scents of buried decades, the sweetly pungent autumn rot—so unlike the reek of rotting flesh—and the clean, cold winds that scoured the Ohio Valley. The master killer of his age, he had learned in a bloody school to value innocence.

  A teamster passing the house cursed his beasts and found himself swiftly hushed. The man glanced back toward the porch in terror.

  Yes, Grant thought, I am a terrible man. But I will make an end of this.

  The two aides he had brought along guarded the front fence, shooing off gawkers and well-wishers. Around the captain and major, the provost marshal’s gu
ards bristled with nerves. Such men, made small by war, saw dangers everywhere: partisans, raiders, assassins.

  Grant didn’t worry. The tide had turned; he felt it. It was now a matter of finishing what was under way.

  He didn’t know whether to admire the Rebs’ tenacity or to condemn their hopeless waste of lives.

  Maybe both.

  Bill, his manservant, eased around the side of the house and paused below the porch, smiling. Bill had magnificent teeth, although he was the older of the two of them.

  Grant took the cigar from his mouth. “Come to stare now, too?”

  “Nawsuh, nawsuh. Not till I sees some cause be worth the staring.”

  Grant smiled, almost laughed. “Well, what is it, then?”

  “Folks round here claims these Rutherfords be strong Secesh. Darkies ’fraid you going to burn this here house down.”

  Canting his head an inch, Grant asked, “You saying they want me to burn it down? Talk straight.”

  “Nawsuh, old Bill don’t have him one toe in that creek. Don’t think they’d mind, though. Say these here people Cunfeddrit as Genr’l Lee hisself, and then a mite. Black folk thought you be rememberin’ Chambersburg, what them Rebels done.”

  “I don’t believe our hosts had a hand in that.”

  “Secesh, all the same. That’s all I’m saying.” Bill shrugged. “Feeling desirous of a nice, hot dinner, Genr’l? Kind Miss Julia trouble you to eat? Share it with that heathen man you come to see?”

  Grant laughed. “I don’t think General Sheridan will be staying.” Tapping his cigar, he added, “Neither will we.”

  Pained to relinquish his vision of how the day should unfold, Bill shook his head, stamped once, and pawed the banister. “Mighty fine chickens hereabouts, say that. Yassuh. Spite all them soldiers a-lurking and a-looking, wonder a single hen be left alive.” He sighed. “But your mind made up once, it made up good. Learned that much, yassuh.”