by Ralph Peters
As the widow watched him drink, awe shone in her fire-lit eyes, the same near reverence he met too often now, a look akin to idolatrous love and the expectation of miracles. But Lee knew that he could not give them miracles, no more than he could digest this yellow poison.
“Be good for you, that will,” the widow told him. “You drink that up and you keep healthy for us’n.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lee answered dutifully. “It’s a kindness. And I am grateful.”
She smiled, and motherly interest tangled with something less selfless. He thanked the good Lord that he was known to be married; otherwise, who knew what the endless parade of widows and aging maidens might expect?
“Well now,” Widow Rhodes picked up again, “there’ll be more of that in the morning, start you off right. And I told that Colonel Taylor how our Heraclea’s fetching a nice smoked ham for y’all. Just takes a mite of digging, Yankees coming and all.”
The poor woman froze, alarmed at the prospect that she had offended by implying that she expected those people to come, that she lacked faith in his protection.
“I’m glad, Mrs. Rhodes,” Lee told her, “that the brave women of Virginia show such foresight. We must conserve what we have and shun needless risks. Now … if you’ll allow me, I must tend to the army’s affairs.” He held up the barely touched glass of buttermilk. “I will take this delight slowly, the better to savor it.” He turned with the crispness of the young officer he once had been. “Colonel Marshall! My cup, if you please. I dare not expose Mrs. Rhodes’ fine glass to the hazards of war.”
Taking off his spectacles, Marshall moved with haste. The secretary knew as much about his general’s ailments as Lee revealed to any man but his surgeon. Steeling himself, Lee sipped a last time from the tinted glass. His hand trembled anew as he passed on the goblet to Marshall to transfer its contents. The show of frailty embarrassed him, but he did not attempt to mask it. The South, he now believed, had hidden too much from itself, for too many years. The time for truth-telling loomed.
But truth, as Mary had pointed out shortly after their wedding, is never an excuse for unsound manners. He let Marshall pour the buttermilk into a tin cup, but when the colonel moved to return the glass to the widow, Lee intervened and took it from his hand. With a delicate flourish, he passed it back to the widow.
“The generosity of our Virginia ladies,” he told her, “never fails to stimulate our courage.”
As she accepted the goblet, their fingertips touched. He feared that she would make too much of that, take unwarranted pride in it. They all had lifted him too high, and he worried not only that such an elevation offended the Lord, who asked of his children humility, but that he took too much satisfaction in it himself.
War endangered body and soul. And the threat to the soul was graver.
Sensing, as lonely women learn to do, that her welcome had expired, the widow trailed off across her untended lawns, heading back to the house she shared with a Negro girl.
Surprising Lee, the widow turned a last time, calling from a distance, her voice raised above the level of good breeding.
“Now don’t you forget that ham,” she ordered.
He would not forget the ham, but he would forgo it. Let the members of his staff enjoy a treat. Ham—seductive, salt-cured Virginia ham—was yet another of the pleasures denied him now. His stomach did best with chicken, sometimes eggs, and, on occasion, fresh beef, if it was cut finely. He worried that the end of the war, when it came, would find him as much an invalid as his wife, imprisoned in that house on East Franklin Street, where the variety of her days was but the shift from a bed to a wheelchair. The first time he had seen her walk on crutches, he had wept.
How could he doubt that he loved her? Or believe he loved this faithful army more? There were so many varieties of love. It would not be measured or weighed like tobacco or cotton, nor would it hold still. Certainly, what he felt for the tiny woman brought low by rheumatism and a medical roster of additional ailments differed from what he had felt toward the round-faced beauty with oiled hair and the mischievous look that had taken his heart by storm. But it was, indisputably, love. Was it not?
Poor Mary. She was younger than him.
As for his mortal coil, the decay was plain. His fifty-seven years had become a punishment. How long would he have the strength to lead the army, with no man he could trust as his replacement? His heart pains threatened betrayal, as if the organ wished to desert his chest, and his digestion was traitorous always. Nor had the outward man been spared. In three years of war, gently graying hair had turned the color of ashes and his beard had grizzled. As a youth, he had been vain, if quietly so. Now his only pride lay in his skill at commanding men on their way to their deaths.
He had sacrificed much for the South, for his Virginia. He had betrayed the oath he had sworn to the country and the army he had abandoned. Ennoble it as men might with splendid words, he had conspired in butchery. Yet, he felt a sinful degree of pride, clinging to it, unable to relinquish this last passion, this all-consuming, unquenchable mistress, War. He feared that his final sacrifice would be his immortal soul.
He prayed with all the humility and propriety he could muster, struggling to suppress the thoughts that plagued him, the guilt no man could see. He sought to lead a righteous life, but worried that he shared the pride of Lucifer. Were Mary’s pains a curse upon his head? Even his recent readings in the Book of Job seemed prideful now, any mental comparison a sacrilege. And what had become of Job’s daughters, after their father’s death? The daughters who tended the old man in his dotage? Had they married? Or had they squandered their lives on a selfish father?
Surrender took as many forms as love.
Lee stopped himself. He had to concentrate on the impending battle. As for the fate of his soul, God would decide.
“Colonel Marshall,” he said, “I would be grateful if you would see that Mrs. Rhodes’ buttermilk does not go to waste.” His smile struggled and faltered, but, as always, he drove on. “You might share it with Venable, if he’s still about. He has an abiding affection for the beverage.”
Glad of a hint of humor after a grueling day, Marshall answered, “Mrs. Rhodes hasn’t forgotten Charlie’s predilections, sir. She’s been pouring that stuff down his gullet since we got here. A fellow could begin to suspect her intentions.”
The witticism did not sit well with Lee. No better than did the buttermilk. A gentleman did not mock a widow’s conduct.
Marshall read Lee’s face and dropped the matter. He sipped the buttermilk, though.
The evening was warm for May, yet Lee felt the impulse to walk over to the fire the men had got up. Walter Taylor approached before he could move.
The assistant adjutant general said, “No further word from Stuart, sir, but Fitz Lee confirms Union cavalry moving east. It’s still a muddle, at least to me. We have reports of infantry moving south, away from us, and of infantry moving west, almost toward us. Other dispatches suggest Fredericksburg as Grant’s objective.”
“General Grant will have grander things in mind. He’ll want a fight, not a stroll into a town that’s his for the taking.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lee turned to look past the paleness of the four tents that sheltered his headquarters, staring into the dark and toward the east, in the direction where those people must be encamped.
“I do so want to hear more from General Stuart,” he continued. “Do Grant and Meade foresee a race to Richmond? Or do they covet the Mine Run line even now? I cannot refresh my orders to General Longstreet until I have a better sense of things.”
“Well, they’ve already lost the race to Mine Run, sir. If that’s their purpose. General Ewell has Early’s Division beyond it. And General Hill’s just a stretch from the old entrenchments, with cavalry out.”
Lee shuddered from a chill unfelt by others. “Those people moved well today. General Meade must be pleased with his army. And Grant with Meade, I should think.”
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Taylor paused a few seconds, then pushed on with his summary of developments: “Generals Ewell and Hill have their amended orders, sir. Both corps move forward at dawn.”
“And they understand that I want them to annoy those people, if they find them still in the Wilderness? But that they must avoid decisive engagement?”
“Yes, sir. I put the order in General Ewell’s hand myself and watched him read it. And General Hill had no questions when he was here.”
Lee crossed his arms. “There are times when I prefer that General Hill does ask questions. Go on.”
“During their marches, Generals Hill and Ewell will coordinate with each other, with Ewell’s advance regulated by Hill’s. If the Federals move in strength against either wing, both corps are to withdraw to the Mine Run entrenchments. Then we—”
“I want those people to come on,” Lee interrupted. His plan had been developing through the day and he was thinking aloud now, something he permitted himself to do only in the presence of intimate members of his staff. “General Grant will have high expectations of himself, after his successes in the west. He will be confident, eager to prove himself here. We must make use of that. I expect Generals Ewell and Hill to tease those people, if the word is not too frivolous. We must lure them back to Mine Run and give General Longstreet an opening to flank them. As General Jackson did. Do we know if General Burnside is still above the Rappahannock?”
“Mosby’s people report Ninth Corps troops leaving Warrenton around noon. So General Burnside could have a division across the Rappahannock tonight, if he pushes hard. That would put the Ninth Corps south of the Rapidan late tomorrow.”
Lee looked toward the fire. The flames outlined familiar silhouettes. “General Burnside is a deliberate man by nature, made more so by experience. He will move slowly.” Lee permitted himself a temperate smile. “He will not be to General Grant’s taste, I fear.”
Burnside’s corps would not be up to support Meade’s three corps before the following night, Lee was convinced of it. And Burnside’s corps would be weary from the march when it arrived. Those thirty thousand troops could not influence the battle until the day after tomorrow, at the earliest. There was opportunity in that delay.
Longstreet had promised to be up before the next afternoon was out. That would leave precious hours when the numbers would not be so terribly unequal. If Grant and Meade could be lured back to Mine Run by late afternoon, if pride led them to commit their forces piecemeal … if Grant drove Meade to squander his best men against entrenchments …
Lee turned back to the main headquarters tent, where Marshall sat making clean copies of the day’s orders. Suicidal moths attacked his lantern. Taking care not to smear his work, the military secretary brushed a tiny corpse from the document at hand. Even paper was precious now: Nothing could be wasted.
“Colonel Marshall? We must send another dispatch to General Longstreet. Tell him he must honor his promise to join the army by late afternoon. Further orders will follow with details, but he must come up.” Lee tapped a finger at the corner of his mouth. “I would not wish him to construe silence from this headquarters as suggesting a lack of urgency.”
“He’s got a devil of a march to make, sir.”
“General Longstreet assured me he can do it.” Lee almost smiled. “But even generals want reminding.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lee knew Marshall’s biases. The military secretary was a brilliant mathematician with a knack for calculating time, distance, and the possibilities inherent in a soldier’s legs. As a rule, though, Marshall preferred orderly marches that let the men arrive in condition to fight. He did not like too much risk. Normally, Lee appreciated that quality. He needed men around him who could check his sudden impulses. And those closest to him sought to do so, with sometimes comical discretion. But tonight was not a time to take counsel of fear.
Longstreet would keep his promise and be up. After all, Jackson had marched farther and faster many a time. And if the generals in blue could be lured into folly, he and his army would deliver a telling blow to the reputation of the great General Grant, conqueror of Vicksburg and purported savior of the Union. Lee allowed himself the vanity to believe that he was not the mild opponent Grant had found in Pemberton or Johnston. And, ragged or not, the Army of Northern Virginia was composed of the finest soldiers who ever had marched into battle.
He needed sleep, but still had to write to the president in his own hand, to keep the strictest confidence between them. The Federals were active on the Peninsula again, and menacing the Valley with another force. Sherman was stirring in northwestern Georgia, and there was activity west of the Mississippi. Grant clearly intended to overwhelm the Confederacy, and he could not be allowed to maintain the initiative. Instead of striking the Southern armies from every side, those people must be beaten in detail. Grant’s proposition had to be turned on its head.
And he needed Pickett’s division to rejoin Longstreet’s command. It was an infernal frustration that men who faced trivial threats inflated them when they spoke to President Davis, leaving him afraid of spooks when real dangers were present. He had to make his case in logic even Jefferson Davis could not dismiss.
It would be another long letter, and he would get too little sleep again. War was for the young.
He turned back to his adjutant. “All right, Colonel Taylor. Let me know if word comes from General Stuart. Wake me, if necessary. And tomorrow, if the Lord sees fit to bless our enterprises, we will trouble those people in the Wilderness, then beat them at Mine Run.” He smiled and, despite his weariness, this last smile was a full one. “I would offer you some of Mrs. Rhodes’ excellent buttermilk, but I fear Colonel Marshall had no inclination to share. Good night, gentlemen.”
It would not be a good night for Robert E. Lee of Virginia. He would dream, terribly, of the long blue columns he had watched from the top of the mountain. In his dream, they would be everywhere.
Night
Germanna Ford
“I’d like to get out of the Wilderness,” Meade said. “It’s a wretched place that’s only fit for bushwhacking.”
Grant leaned toward the fire, scratching the ground with a stick. “Think Lee wants to fight in there? That what you’re saying?”
Ever wary of unfriendly ears, Meade glanced around. All of the staff men had kept a proper distance, allowing the two commanders a private parley. Beyond the fire, the faces of Rawlins and Congressman Washburne haunted the shadows, though. Their heads together, the two looked like conspirators, glancing now and then toward the generals. Meade imagined them snickering: He found all politicians suspect. The blasted Committee on the Conduct of the War was a grotesque display of the corruption that blighted every effort to defeat the Confederacy. His public shaming gnawed at him, and he didn’t trust a single elected official. Not even Governor Curtin. Or Lincoln, who allowed himself to be swayed by boastful frauds.
Still, Meade warned himself, Washburne was Grant’s advocate and protector, and the man had nothing to do with the committee’s disgraceful shenanigans. The congressman had yet to show any hostility to him, and Meade meant to keep it so. Careful not to descend into obsequiousness, he took pains to be courteous and helpful. Even if he would not make Washburne a friend, he did not need another foe in Washington.
“I don’t think Lee wants to fight in that tangle, either,” Meade explained. “But we’ll see blood, if we delay. Given the opportunity, he’ll try to draw us out, try to get us to attack him at Mine Run. That’s what he wants, I’d bet my shoulder straps on it. And if Lee calculates that he has to bloody our noses to provoke us, he’ll come on fists up.”
“Good,” Grant said.
Meade stiffened. “But…”
Grant tapped the ground, then cocked his face toward Meade. The man’s eyes were impenetrable but glowing, a trick of the firelight.
“Recollect what I told you, George.” Grant’s voice was quiet, but firm. “Where Lee goes, there you’ll
go also. I mean to get at him, and sooner’s better than later. And once we get him by the tail, I don’t mean to let him go.”
“All well and good, Sam … well and good, of course … but Humphreys’ plan is sound and I’d like to stick to it. We have to march hard tomorrow. To outflank Lee. If he takes up the Mine Run line, we need to be in position to envelop him. A frontal attack would be murderous. We need to adhere to the plan and resume the march.”
Grant put down his stick and fished out a fresh cigar. This time, he failed to offer one to Meade. “Plans get you started. That’s about all they’re good for. I don’t want this army stretched out like a concertina, that’s asking for trouble. I want to be ready to hammer Lee the moment he leaves his hole. I want Burnside up, the entire force together. I mean to hit Lee with everything we have.”
“Well, you won’t be able to do that in the Wilderness, Sam. A fight in there would be a drunkard’s brawl. Wait until tomorrow, wait until you see the ground for yourself. Lee could hold us up with a handful of regiments. Oh, I’m all for consolidating the Army of the Potomac. And with Burnside, too. I don’t want to move rashly. But I want to get through that hellhole. And the Ninth Corps won’t be here for another day, at least. We can’t let General Burnside delay this army.”
As Meade waited for a reply, a leaping flame made it look as though the derelict house in the background were ablaze. Meade declined to believe in omens.
Taking his time about lighting his cigar, Grant said, “Burnside will be here tomorrow afternoon. I have his word.”
“He won’t be. He can’t be. His men don’t have their campaign legs yet.” Meade hoped to leave it at that. He had to be careful not to appear too critical of Burnside, whose corps remained independent of the Army of the Potomac, thanks to Burnside’s seniority on the rolls. It made for a damnably awkward chain of command, with Burnside ordered to cooperate with Meade, but receiving his orders only from Grant’s headquarters. Meade hoped the arrangement would work, but had his doubts.