Death Piled Hard: A Tale of the Confederate Secret Services

by W. Patrick Lang

  We might have killed him. My God, I might have killed him.

  He shoved that thought down into the hole into which he had shoved so much else.

  Time to go.

  He climbed awkwardly to his feet using the rough tree trunk for support in getting his aching legs under him. It had become very dark...

  West, I have to go west. Where the hell is west?

  He stood with his back to the tree and tried to remember it as a point of reference.

  Did I turn around getting up?

  He looked up at the sky, searching for the North Star.

  A man walked near him.

  “Soldier,” he said in a calm, subdued voice.

  The sound of the other man walking in the brush stopped suddenly.

  “Who is there?” the man asked.

  “Colonel Devereux, from the War Department.”

  “Ah, yes, sir. I remember you today,” the man said in a Maine accent. “We all do. Thank you, sir.”

  Devereux was hungry for this, hungry for acceptance by “his” soldiers. He fought that down, thinking that he should kill this man. “Which way are the Johnnies?” he asked. “I fell asleep here. I don’t want to walk into them in the dark…”

  The man came closer.

  Devereux felt the air move as the soldier waved his hand, feeling for him. He reached out and found the hand.

  The man touched his chest to know what direction he faced. Taking one of Claude’s hands he pointed it in the darkness. “That way, they are over that way. Our pickets are about fifty yards in that direction. The password is ‘Grant,” and the countersign is ‘Meade.’ I’m Caleb Moulton. I’m the senior officer left in ‘B Company, 4th Maine.’ We moved sideways while you were asleep. I saw you here, but thought to let you sleep.”

  Claude relaxed his hand on the pistol in the small of his back.

  Not this one. Not tonight.

  “We have a little fire back on the Brock Road,” Moulton said. “Coffee. We’ll attack again in the morning. That’s what brigade says…”

  “I’ll be along in a minute. Have to answer a call… Save me some coffee.”

  Moulton moved away toward the fire and the coffee.

  Devereux had not been lying. After he finished, he buttoned his pants, and wiped his hands on the tree and some leaves. That done, he walked in the direction of the Union picket line, feeling his way with his toes to prevent noise he might otherwise make. He was soon challenged but the signs that Moulton had given got him past the picket with nothing more than an exhortation not to wander farther forward. He walked to the right, paused, and then got down and crawled away from Moulton’s pickets toward the unknown country where the Southerners must be. The crawling was interminable but he was patient. He knew from protracted experience that infantrymen in the front line are quick to shoot and unrepentant about it. He crawled for what seemed a long time and was still crawling through thick, high grass near the place where he had seen the Confederate officers when a whisper stopped him.

  It was close and to one side rather than in front.

  “Who’re you?” it asked.

  Devereux lay still for a minute, knowing that his life depended on the answer. “I want to surrender,” he responded.

  “Are you armed? The whisperer enquired.

  “Two pistols and a clasp knife.”

  “Is it a nice knife?

  He smiled in the dark, reassured to hear evidence that the slightly mad humor of his own army had not changed. “Hand made in England.”

  “Hmmm. What’s your rank?”

  “Colonel.”

  A silence ensued and then another voice whispered at him, “All right, you crawl straight ahead until you reach the trees. We will be right with you. You know the rules. Anything we don’t like and we shoot you or whatever…”

  Ten yards into the trees rough hands were laid on him. One set of hands relieved him of his weapons and another felt his uniform, dwelling on the shoulder straps with their embroidered silver bullion eagles.

  “Damn! He really is a colonel, or dressed like one at least.”

  Devereux smiled invisibly.

  They dragged him another fifty yards and then let him stand to have his hands tied behind him. Five minutes later, he was introduced to a harried looking colonel who inspected him by the light of a match behind a clump of evergreens.

  “What’s your name?” the colonel asked after the match went out.

  “You don’t really want to know. I lied to your outpost line. I am not a deserter. I am a Confederate scout, impersonating a Yankee colonel just now.”

  “And you decided to cross the line to report?”

  “Precisely.”

  “How do I know that is true?”

  “Who is your division commander? You might as well tell me. You have me now. What could I do with the name?

  “Heth. This is Heth’s Division.”

  “Harry knows me well. Just take me to him and he will vouch for me.”

  “That’s reasonable. Sergeant Willis…”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard him. Go find General Heth, and deliver this man to him…”

  “Any idea where he is? “

  “He was here five minutes ago. Go find him”

  “Yes, sir, come on cunnel, or whatever you are…”

  Chapter 17

  The Prodigal son

  It would be inadequate to say that Charles Marshall was surprised when Devereux appeared at Lee’s headquarters. The shock was so great that he almost forgot to offer his guest a place to sit, but, always the gentleman, recovered quickly to find a chair into which Devereux sank in exhaustion.

  “My God, Claude,” Marshall asked, “what on earth are you doing down here among us common people? And you are a colonel as well? I had heard of that, but the sight is... disturbing.”

  “Where is he?”

  “You haven’t come to see me? I am wounded. He is out looking for Ewell. Longstreet is just down the road. Want to talk to the “tycoon, do you”? Well… They will both be back shortly, I hope. Any idea where we are in this damned jungle? I don’t think I have been here more than once or twice in my life. I had a cousin who lived over near Zoan Church, but I think the Yankees ran him out a while back…” At this point, Marshall realized that he was talking to an unconscious man, and looking around found a blanket with which to cover the man.

  -6 PM, 7 May, 1864 – (The Left of Ewell’s Second Corps Line In the Wilderness)

  It was a long and wandering path through the woods that brought Devereux to Balthazar’s Battalion the next day... He went first to Dick Ewell’s command post on the Orange Turnpike, then east on that road to find Jubal Early’s division. A courier from Lee’s little staff took him to Ewell and then another brought him to the slope just west of Sander’s Field where Balthazar’s men had fought the first day. A brigade commander sent him northeast from there through the forest to the far left of the Confederate line where he found Early almost at the Rapidan.

  Devereux was dressed in old, rough, civilian clothes that came from the bottom of someone’s knapsack. None of it fit very well and it smelled bad when he put it on. He had found another knapsack in a stack next to a pile of Union Army bodies. He carried his U.S. uniform in that.

  After he had worn the old clothes for a day and had walked ten miles in them, they did not smell at all.

  Early shook his head at the sight of him. “You are a spy, our spy. What are you doing here? You are supposed to be over there.” He pointed east towards the Union position along the Germanna Ford Road.

  “He’s one of our spies in Washington,” Early said to Brigadier General John Gordon who happened to be standing next to him. “He is one of our best spies. You will have to forget that…”

  “I was there, yesterday” Devereux said after a moment’s thought, but I decided to come to tell Robert Lee what they are going to do, and here I am, for the moment… Lee was not happy to see me either. You people are not
very hospitable. I want to visit my cousin for a few days.”

  Gordon was annoyed and puzzled by this intrusion on his attempt to convince Early that the Union right flank did not reach to the river, was in reach of a night turning movement and that something should be done about that.

  Devereux held out his hand, “I would introduce myself but… He is right. I am a spy, and a Confederate officer on detached duty.” He felt compelled to justify himself to the Georgian. He felt foolish about this.

  Gordon shook hands in silence.

  “Are your parents well?” Early asked in the inevitable response of any Virginian to meeting a family friend. “And that lovely woman, who tolerates your trifling ways, how is she?”

  Devereux flinched at that. “They are well. Thank you. “Since my father is one of your few friends on earth, I will remember you to him, if I can. I want to go visit with my cousin Balthazar for a few days until a chance comes to send me back, or Lee gives me a command.” Just thinking of that second possibility was like turning a knife in his guts. The prospect of that had been his only real aspiration since the beginning of the war. If he had his own regiment, there would surely be friends there who understood his merits. Unhappily, he knew that Lee might like to give him a regiment or perhaps even a brigade, but no longer had the power to do that. The matter was no longer in his hands. Devereux had somehow become a “public benefit,” the “property” of larger interests in the Confederate government than those of General Lee. It was clear from their meeting the previous evening that the army commander would have sent him back across the lines without delay if he had known a way to do it. Lee was appreciative of Claude’s information concerning Grant and his plans but also distracted and eager for his “guest” to depart the Army of Northern Virginia. Seeing that, Devereux pleaded for the chance to visit his French cousin nearby and Lee agreed to be rid of him.

  Having disposed of the necessity of common courtesy, Early, too, was weary of Devereux. Like Lee, he was busy, and unlike Lee had never liked Claude much, believing that Charles Devereux’s judgment on his son’s character was correct.

  He was preparing himself for the unpleasantness of telling Claude that he wanted him out of his division’s area when there was a commotion in the brush which announced the arrival of a “galloper” from Lee with a message for Early. He read it in silence, chewing, spitting and scratching reflectively while Gordon walked up and down, impatient with the interruptions.

  Early finished and looked around. “Hill is sick again. He is relieved, and I am to take over Third Corps tomorrow at noon. We are going to move to the right, to try to block Grant against a move he might make towards Richmond.” He looked at Gordon. “Sorry, John, I have other things to think about now. You come with me,” he said to Devereux. “I don’t want you to be wandering around without somebody knowing where you are.

  John Balthazar and Joe White were glad to see Devereux.

  The men in the battalion had no idea who Devereux might be. His mysterious appearance in the woods was of no particular interest to them. There were local people about. They wandered in and out of Southern positions without hindrance rightly convinced that they would be welcome there. Devereux’s disguise made him look very like one of them unless you saw the eyes. The eyes had always frightened some people. Now they frightened most people.

  Smoot was gone away to pick up the battalion’s rations. His opinion about Devereux’s arrival was not yet available.

  Balthazar’s Battalion was in a wood a hundred yards behind the low crest in the Orange Turnpike where Devereux had earlier turned left to find Early. If he had turned right at that point he would have found them.

  “I went right by here this afternoon,” he said. Several chairs had been found in the battery wagon that the battalion had captured. Devereux, Early and Balthazar had tin cups of whiskey in their hands. The rain had stopped. The spring evening was pleasant. The battle was quiet at the moment. Everyone listened “with one ear” for outbreaks of firing, but there was little to be heard. The line of contact between the two armies was some distance away in the east and southeast. There had been some firing earlier in the afternoon but it was dying away with the light.

  Early told Balthazar of his new appointment to temporary command of the III Corps and warned him to be ready to move south with him.

  Impatient with the lack of attention he was receiving, Devereux mentioned that it had been in that area that he had crossed the lines and that he had been present there the day before when Longstreet tried to turn Grant’s left flank.

  “What?” Early snapped, startled by the interruption. “What did you say?”

  “We heard the noise about noon,” Balthazar said. “What happened?” He would be in that area soon. Knowledge of the situation would be a good thing.

  Claude was pleased. He needed to be the center of attention. “The engineers found Hancock’s left flank,” he began. “That was the left end of Grant’s line. There’s a railroad cut that leads in behind it from the road Longstreet’s corps used coming up from Orange. Longstreet’s arrived at the right time in just the right place to be put in there, just behind Grant’s left flank. I listened while Lee and Longstreet decided what to do. Moxley Sorrel, Longstreet’s chief of staff is from this area. He guided the head of the column up the railroad cut. Longstreet had them all together, the whole corps. They were headed for the “hinge” behind the flank, the spot where they could “lift” Hancock’s “door” off its hinges if they struck all together. But, before they got far enough forward of our lines, someone in Jim Lane’s brigade shot Longstreet through the neck by accident. Lee tried to keep the attack moving by leading it himself but with the Dutchman gone it all fell apart. What a shame it was. We might have destroyed that wing of Grant’s army… We really might have done it this time. We have been so close, so many times…”

  “Longstreet?” Balthazar asked.

  “He may be dead by now,” Early answered. “I was gonna tell you…” He glanced at Claude. “Lane’s men shot Stonewall last year on almost the same ground. There was less excuse this time. It was dark when they shot Jackson. Something should be done about them. It’s a big mess in the woods down there, a lot more fires, men trying to crawl away from the flames, a mess.”

  “What will Grant do?” Early asked Devereux. “Do you have an opinion?” What he really believed of Devereux’s ability to answer the question could not be judged. The curly, brown beard was too good a mask and the growing darkness hid much in his face.

  Claude sensed the subtle mockery. “I had dinner with him and Meade, before the river crossing. George Sharpe was there…” He named several others.

  Early and Balthazar looked blank at the mention of the names.

  Devereux began to glow with inner anger.

  I risked my life for this? I risk my family every day. I crossed the lines to bring this information and to be with them, and they do not care? Lee was not interested… He thanked me, but, then, he would thank anyone for the most trivial thing.

  Devereux remembered Alexander Hays’ face as he lay dying and gasping in the smoking forest.

  Early was still waiting for an answer. He looked impatient.

  Thinking of Grant, Claude knew what the man’s reaction would be to the events of the last few days. “He will shrug off whatever you do to him,” he said suddenly. He will bring up more troops from the rear and move on towards Richmond, moving away to the southeast, knowing you will have to fight him over and over again if he keeps moving in that direction. He has about 130,000 men available to him for this line of advance. He will accept his losses and keep feeding those men to you. Lee’s Army is his objective. He means to destroy you by making you fight for Richmond until you are all used up. He will succeed unless a major part of his army can be destroyed before you are ruined. I have read everything in Stanton’s office and I have met Grant. That is what he will do…”

  Early stared at him in the fading light. He was thinking of Dev
ereux in blue, reading army papers in Washington. Then, without turning from Devereux, he said to Balthazar, “I’ll send orders for the move.” With that he walked back out of the trees to the Orange Turnpike where a soldier waited with his horse.

  At that moment, three or four miles to the east, Grant finished listening to reports of the day’s fighting. The ferocity of the struggle to keep Lee from cutting his army in half was something not often seen in the western theater from which he had come. Grant now knew why Union officers in the east spoke with something approaching reverence for Lee and his men. He tried to sort out the mass of details.

  The returns say that I have lost at least 18,000 men in the last four days. I wonder how many Lee has lost. I will bring up more troops, Burnside’s corps first. Ferraro’s division of blacks is with them. Good. Let them have a taste of this. I must not go to the field hospitals. I must not think about that. That man today who walked out of the trees with his clothes on fire... His face was gone, just raw meat. I must not see too much of that. I will tell Meade to pull Warren’s corps out of the line on the right and pass it down the Brock Road behind the rest of the army, then the rest of the army one corps after another the same way. Lee will see Spotsylvania Court House as my goal. I must meet him there. I must destroy him there. This must end soon. I must remember the election in November…

  Half an hour later, having given his instructions for the morning, Grant went into his tent, lay down on the bed and sobbed until he slept. The men in the headquarters and those passing on the road could hear it.

  From the point of view of the Confederates, Grant’s resolution in pressing on to the south without regard to casualties was unfair, a violation of what they had come to see as the rules of the game. Grant’s predecessors, including Meade, had all tried their luck south of the Rapidan and then, mauled by “Lee and his boys,” had retired with a decent speed to their side of the river to lick their wounds and wait for a new commanding general. As they came to understand how differently Grant thought of war, “Lee’s Miserables” would always think him unfair. They were always badly outnumbered. Was that not enough of a handicap in the game? One of Grant’s predecessors, George B. McClellan, had helped in overcoming that disadvantage by believing that they were far more numerous than they truly were.