Grant Comes East cw-2

by Newt Gingrich

  Lee felt weak, frighteningly weak, fearful for a moment that he might faint.

  Walter and two others led him up to a wide, open porch, shaded from the glaring afternoon sun. The porch was packed with men, most of them wounded, Yankee prisoners who looked at him wide-eyed, a few coming to their feet, respectfully saluting. He was ashamed that they should see him thus, but his body no longer cared about propriety.

  A woman came hurrying out of the house, bearing an earthenware pitcher, cool droplets coursing down its side, a white towel in her other hand. Her ivory-colored day dress was deeply stained with blood. It was obvious she had been tending to the wounded when he rode up.

  "Madam, I thank you for the charity you've shown to these men," he gasped as they guided him to a wicker rocking chair. Walter had his coat off and they sat Lee down. The woman upended the pitcher, soaking the towel, then ever so gently wiping his face and the back of his neck. The cool water hit him like a shock, and for a second he feared he would vomit again, something that would have mortified him. He leaned over, gagged, but fought it back.

  Another woman was by his side, a colored servant, kneeling down, holding an earthen mug.

  "Cool water, General. Just the thing you need; now drink it slowly, sir."

  She held the mug as he took it with trembling hands, slowly swallowing, the servant looking at him, an older woman, his age, perhaps older, smiling, nodding her approval, whispering as if he were an ill child taking his medicine. He drained it and she took the mug.

  "Now you let that settle for a moment and if it comes back up, I don't want you to feel no shame. It'll take the heat out of your body."

  "Thank you, thank you," he gasped.

  She smiled, refilled the mug, and offered it to him even as the mistress of the house continued to wipe his neck and brow.

  "Now you can hold your own mug, sir, but sip slowly; you'll be all right in a few minutes."

  She stood up and scurried off, going back to a Yankee lying on the porch, kneeling down to wipe his brow with the hem of her dress, her face filled with the same beatific compassion she had shown him.

  His staff stood around him in respectful silence. He waited a moment, another spasm of nausea hitting him, not as strong as the last. He fought it down without gagging.

  He felt something cool running down his back, and looked up at the woman; she was slowly pouring a trickle of water down his back.

  "Thank you, ma'am; your kindness is a blessing."

  She nodded, eyes lowering.

  "I am sorry, ma'am, if we have inconvenienced you this day."

  She started to turn away, then hesitated.

  "I have a hundred dead, dying, and wounded in my house, sir," she announced, her voice beginning to break. "Is that an inconvenience? There are two boys I don't even know dying in my daughter's bed."

  He could not reply.

  "For God's sake, General, when will this madness end? Is it worth it anymore?"

  She stood frozen, as if horrified by her outburst. The pitcher dropped, shattering on the porch floor. All were silent, and she looked around at the Confederate staff, the Union wounded.

  "Put an end to this!" she screamed, and then, gathering up her apron to cover her face, she fled back into the house. Her black servant watched her go, gazed upon Lee for a moment, then turned back to the Union soldier she was tending, lifting his head up, cradling it in her lap, and, leaning over, she began to whisper in his ear. And Lee could hear, ever so faintly, her words

  'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…."

  He lowered his head again, filled with remorse, exhaustion, even a sense of loathing for all he had seen this day, this day of yet another victory. He finally raised his head and looked down toward the Chesapeake.

  Thousands of Yankee soldiers were swarming down into the bay, the docks at a small port filled with them. Along the low heights, scattered commands were coming up from his own army. He had lost sight of Beauregard long ago, within the first ten minutes after the attack had swept into the flank of their Fifth Corps, but he knew that the man had proven himself today, driving with relentless passion, as if eager to assure beyond all doubt his ability to lead, even when General Lee commanded the field.

  An hour after they had struck the flank, the entire Union formation began to give way, and then just collapsed. The shock of the surprise blow had been part of it. He knew that the weather had played to him as well. The heat was killing. Chances were that when the tally was finally done, maybe one out of five of the dead would be found with no mark upon them. But in that moment, when some believed victory was near, and others faced defeat, exhaustion created by the heat would drive those filling with despair over the edge.

  The Fifth had broken, but their disengagement had been masterful, their General Sykes yet again guiding his men out of the trap, pushing relentlessly back northward, back toward the shelter of Perryville and the gunboats on the Susquehanna.

  As for their Third and Sixth Corps, they were into the sack now, swarming down to the broad, open bay. Many were casting aside their guns, if for no other reason than to dive into the tepid waters of the bay to seek some relief.

  Someone had already ordered up a rescue force. Dozens of small boats were coming into the dock to take off the broken Army of the Potomac; a lone gunboat was visible, coming down the bay.

  He sat back in the chair, saying nothing, watching the spectacle as his men, all formation gone, pushed down toward the water.

  He saw General Longstreet riding up and breathed a sigh of relief. Longstreet dismounted and his face was filled with concern as he stepped on to the porch and took his hat off.

  "Are you all right, sir?" Longstreet gasped.

  "Just the heat, General. I'll be fine in a minute."

  "Sir, you are staying put right here for the rest of the day," Walter Taylor announced forcefully. "I know your surgeon will order it once he comes up."

  Lee nodded his head in agreement As he had ordered Longstreet to protect himself, he knew he should do the same at this moment.

  "Sir, I can see to what is left," Longstreet said.

  Lee nodded.

  "What did it cost, Pete?" Lee whispered.

  Longstreet lowered his head, looking over at the Yankee soldiers on the porch only feet away from them.

  "Go on, General. They are our guests for the moment; talk freely."

  Longstreet found that, as he spoke, he could not look at Lee; instead his gaze was fixed on those who had faced them this day.

  "They fought us with reckless courage, sir. I've never seen anything like it before. Word is that General Sickles lost a leg. We might capture him, I'm not sure.

  "I cannot speak for what you saw against the Fifth Corps, sir. But their Third and Sixth, when they knew they were trapped, fought it out to the end. I think we'll bag most of them down there," and he pointed to the bay, "but, General, it was a bloody, costly fight. We might have lost another five, maybe eight thousand more than yesterday."

  Lee lowered his head, the shock of his losses a visceral blow. Why did each victory have to be so costly? Combined with yesterday, maybe ten thousand or more gone from the ranks.

  He sighed, wiping his face, and then leaned back, grateful for the cooling water that had been poured down his neck and back.

  He looked over at the wounded Yankees, who gazed at him, some warily, some with hatred, some with respect. A major, catching his eye, stood up and formally saluted. The man grimaced with pain, clutching his side with a bloody rag. Lee rose up and walked over to him, returning the salute.

  "General Lee?" the major asked weakly.

  "Yes, I am he."

  The major nodded, saying nothing.

  "You are sorely hurt, sir," Lee said. "Please sit down; my medical staff will see to you shortly."

  "I'll be fine," the major whispered. "I want my men taken care of first. Just assure me of that, sir; it is all that I ask."

  "Major, I am sorry for your injury. I will pra
y that you return safely to your family."

  "Thank you, General. Just take care of my men. They're good soldiers."

  "I know they are good soldiers; you should be proud of them." He said the words loud enough so that all on the porch could hear.

  "I regret the divisions that force us to fight each other now. I hope, sir, when this is over, we can again be friends."

  The major swayed slightly, then stiffened.

  "Major, rest assured your men will be treated with honor. As quickly as arrangements can be made, all of the men of the Army of the Potomac, wounded or not, will be paroled and exchanged. Till then, the kind owner of this house and my medical staff will look after you."

  "Thank you, sir," the major whispered. An elderly sergeant stood up and came to the major's left, protectively putting an arm around his side, and helping him to sit back down.

  Lee turned away and walked back to Pete, motioning him to fall in by his side.

  "We can't handle twenty thousand or more prisoners," Lee said softly. "I can't detail more men off as escorts to take them South. I'll have Walter find a printing press, we'll run off parole notes, and let those people go. The exchange can free thousands of our boys now held up in Elmira and Camp Douglas."

  Pete nodded in agreement.

  "Unfortunately, the men we will get back with the exchange will not be fit to fight immediately."

  "I don't care about that, though I wish it were different. We must make the gesture; besides, it is the only thing we can do now."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Thank you for your efforts this day, General Longstreet. This time you were the anvil, and you've gained us another brilliant victory."

  "The cost though," Pete sighed. "I am leaning toward relieving George of his command. He badly mishandled his division yesterday."

  "General Longstreet, we walk a fine line, at times, between daring and foolhardiness. We praise when it works; we blame when it doesn't. Maybe it could be said that General Pickett's actions emboldened Sickles to press forward into the trap, maybe not. I suspect that will be yet another issue historians will argue about long after we are gone. I'll review the issue later when we have time, look at the ground, talk to Armistead and the other brigade commanders, then decide."

  "Yes, sir."

  "It is Grant now that we must think of." Pete smiled.

  "This will put a twist in his tail."

  "Yes, but the question is, How will he jump now that his tail is twisted?"

  "I think, sir, he just might hold north of the Susquehanna. He's lost maybe upward of a third of his total available field force this day. I think the assumption was fair that he planned to move in a concentrated manner: Sickles along the Chesapeake to hold our attention while he crossed over the South Mountains and sought to engage us. After this he might very well hold back till spring to build up sufficient force."

  Lee looked across at the bay. A heavy line of his infantry were sweeping down toward the docks. Rifle fire snapped and rolled as last-ditch survivors from the Union side turned and continued to fight. A battery of artillery clattered past the plantation, moving at a swift canter, horses panting, lathered in sweat, deploying out into a field a hundred yards away, preparing to shell the harbor. The killing was still going on. Even in its death agony the Army of the Potomac was still kicking back; a shell winged in to detonate over the heads of the deploying battery; several gunners dropped.

  Lee shook his head.

  "No, General Longstreet. He will move. But it will take him time to absorb the shock of this defeat. His plans now are in disarray but Lincoln cannot afford a stalemate into next spring. For that matter, nor can we. If Grant does not move, we will eventually turn back to Washington, tighten the noose, and then try to starve it out through the winter. Lincoln and Grant both know that would be my next step now that the Army of the Potomac is gone.

  "No, sir, he will move, but it will take him time to absorb what happened. I'll give him a week, two weeks, perhaps, but I do want it to come.

  "We'll move up toward the Susquehanna tomorrow; there is still their old Fifth Corps to bag. Once there, we'll see what develops. If he does move, we'll try to catch him in mid-crossing; if not, we turn back on Washington yet again."

  The battery in the yard below opened up, solid shot arcing up, plummeting down, geysers of water soaring up around the docks swarming with men. It had to be done, but still it was sickening to him. Why couldn't they just lay down their arms? He'd take their paroles without question and then send them safely home, as long as they pledged to no longer fight. But no, this was his old rival, the valiant Army of the Potomac, so badly led on so many fields, yet its men still willing to fight to the bitter end.

  He had yet to face Grant, to see a single soldier of the much-heralded western armies, but he sensed now that they were of the same stern stuff as the Army of the Potomac and, for that matter, his own men. Yes, perhaps more like his own for they were not tainted by defeat; they would be eager to match wits and fire against him, general against general, regiment against regiment, man against man.

  "We have been blessed with two stunning victories, General Longstreet; we must make it a third to finish this once and for all."

  He turned and slowly made his way back to the porch to sit under the shade, his body trembling with exhaustion.

  As he gained the porch he saw a knot of Union soldiers kneeling by the side of the major he had spoken to only minutes before. The man's face was gray, eyes closed.

  He was dead.

  The major's head was cradled in the sergeant's lap. He could sense the bond between the two. The fair young officer, the old tough regular who had nursed him along and now held him in death.

  The sergeant looked up at Lee.

  "How many more like this, General Lee?" the sergeant asked.

  "I am sorry," Lee whispered. "I pray no more."

  The sergeant shook his head.

  "No, sir, there will be more."

  "I know," Lee admitted sadly and turned away.

  He looked back down toward the bay. His advancing infantry were almost to the docks. He could catch glimpses of Union flags still held aloft, knots of men refusing to quit gathered around them, fighting to the end. More batteries were unlimbering just below the plantation, firing down into the harbor.

  If only it was Grant down there, and this was the final battle. Then he could find solace in knowing that this, indeed, was the last day.

  That was what he must now seek. Lure Grant across the river in a week or two, once his men had been well rested, refitted, and reorganized after this grueling fight. Seek out Grant… and end it

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The South Bank of the Susquehanna

  August 22,1863 6:00 am.

  It was a beautiful early morning, the intense storm front of the night before having wiped the air clean of the stench of battle, dropping the temperature so low that it almost felt like the opening of an early autumn day in mid to late September.

  General Lee watched as his men, filled with swagger in spite of the night march, approached the high bluffs looking out over the river.

  They were a victorious army yet again. They had driven Sykes back, taking thousands of prisoners; the last huddled remnants of his force were down in the harbor at Perryville, loading aboard the ferries. Lee would bring up artillery to shell them at long range, but he would advance no farther. The gunboats, which had fought to cover the withdrawal of the survivors of the Third and Sixth Corps, had steamed through the night to cover as well these last few units still in retreat.

  He had shattered, once and for all, the Army of the Potomac. Reports were that nearly fifteen thousand had fallen in the two-day fight, another twenty thousand taken prisoner. The old foe was finished forever, and yet Lee felt no joy in it this morning.

  The butcher bill, as Longstreet put it, had been tragic for his own army as well. Over ten thousand dead and wounded in the two-day fight along Gunpowder River, thousands mor
e collapsed from heat exhaustion. Yet again a bitter price. Over twenty per cent of his men under arms out of action. And this time there would be no replacements.

  In his hand he held a dispatch that had come in during the night.

  Wade Hampton was dead. His entire force had been cornered up in Pennsylvania and wiped out. A lone courier and one released prisoner had brought back word of the disaster.

  Stuart was almost beyond consoling. When he had broken the news, his young cavalier had, at first, demanded permission for a vengeance raid, to take his entire force across the river. That would have been a mad impulse, and Lee had refused him emphatically and sternly.

  They were on the banks of the Susquehanna, much farther north than he had wanted to be. The task of capturing prisoners and equipment had drawn them far beyond his desired position. Grant still awaited him. Lee's next step, the step needed to end this war, wasn't certain. It would depend on whether Grant would come down the river. His thought now was to demonstrate, to threaten a crossing en masse, for surely that would bring Grant into play. He would need Stuart here, on this side of the river, to watch for the site of Grant's attempted crossing.

  "Good morning, General Lee."

  Lee looked up and smiled. It was Judah Benjamin, trailed by an escort of Virginia cavalry. Lee smiled with genuine affection.

  "Sir, you gave us a bit of a scare there two days ago." Judah smiled good-naturedly.

  '1 heard that you said war is the sport of young men. Sir, I agree. That heat, how your boys marched and fought in it, it is beyond me."

  "They did their duty, sir."

  "I fear I did not do mine. Sorry I collapsed like that."

  Lee smiled, feeling a bit self-conscious, remembering his own collapse, which had put him into bed for half a day.

  "Perhaps it is best that secretaries of state do not go gallivanting around following armies," Lee said.

  "Couldn't resist it, sir."

  Judah came up by his side and looked out over the river, to the swarming river traffic taking off the last of the Fifth Corps.

  'Too bad you couldn't have pinned them down there," he said.