by Ralph Peters
Lee felt the heat strike suddenly. A wave of it swept over him, its effect almost prostrating. He turned to step into the shade, but was stopped by a sight that astonished him.
Not two hundred yards away, a blue skirmish line emerged from the gloom of the trees, headed straight for the generals.
Lee thrust out his hand and gripped Stuart’s forearm.
“Gently,” Lee said.
Turning his back on the Federal troops—who advanced with bayonets fixed—Lee forced himself to walk slowly. But his heart beat like a drum calling men to arms.
“Gently,” he repeated as staff men rushed toward him, betraying alarm. “Colonel Taylor, let us go quietly. We must not appear troubled.”
He kept on walking down toward the road without looking back. Taylor called softly to an aide to bring Lee’s horse.
Still no shots, no shouts.
Hill’s man, Palmer, galloped past to hurry forward any troops he could find. Behind himself, Lee heard shouted commands and whinnying horses as the staff men tried to decide whether it was wiser to put up a fight or just get away.
Good Lord, Lee thought, veering as close to harsh language as he ever did, were they to take him, Hill, and Stuart at one grab …
Still no shots. Lee could not understand it. But he would not, could not, turn. Those people must not recognize him.
Where had they come from? Federal troops weren’t supposed to be anywhere near. They could only have forced their way through the heart of the Wilderness.
The realization chilled him.
An orderly brought up the horse and saw Lee mounted. He was about to spur the mount into a gallop when Stuart overtook him.
The cavalryman was laughing.
“Yankees hightailed it,” he said, speaking through his mirth. “They were just as surprised to see us as we were to see them. Somebody shouted, ‘Right about!’ and off they went like rabbits. Probably in Philadelphia by now.”
The relief Lee felt was real enough, but had a queerness to it. His spine softened and he slouched like an old man, an indulgence he never allowed himself in the presence of subordinates of any rank. It was almost as if he had relished the danger, had wanted something to happen, something definite, permanent, and had been disappointed. The sensation was new, and he did not understand it.
Lee corrected his posture. “I feared a grave misfortune,” he told Stuart. “This army could not spare you or General Hill.”
The young man riding beside him laughed again. He loved to laugh, to play the cavalier. But Lee could feel the days allotted for merriment running out.
“Oh, they never would’ve caught up with Powell Hill or me. My man Boteler was dead asleep under a tree, though. Should’ve seen his face when he woke up. Yanks would’ve bagged him sure.”
Lee felt a surge of temper. It was not a joking matter. Tragedy had been averted only by the mercy of the Creator. He needed Stuart to comport himself sensibly now, to avoid theatrics and unwarranted risks.
Before Lee could speak, the first troops of Hill’s main body came into view. The weary men cheered at the sight of him.
Eleven thirty a.m.
Brock Road
Brigadier General George Washington Getty never lost his composure in front of his men, but there were times when he came close. This was one of those times.
First, his division had been stripped of one brigade. Then Meade’s bald-headed schoolboy, Lyman, had arrived with orders for him to make a forced march to the Brock Road and Orange Plank Road crossing, which had been left undefended, except for a handful of jockeys off in the wilds. The folly of failing to cover that crossroads was insufferable. Even on the crudest map, a beardless lieutenant could see the junction’s importance.
Now his division’s men were marching hard, racing two miles from the rear in a frantic effort to arrive before what might be an entire Confederate corps. And Hancock apparently was so far south of the action that he might as well have been off fighting Seminoles.
Getty held his frustrations inside as he galloped ahead of his troops, accompanied only by his staff and some couriers. He was a Regular, a veteran of Mexico and of Florida’s endless swamp fights, and he did not intend to fail his army today.
At last, he could see the crossroads in the distance. There was heavy firing ahead.
What happened next further strained his self-control. A gaggle of blue-clad horsemen streamed back through the junction, riding as if the devil were at their heels. Careless of Getty and his staff, they thundered past, raising dust and flinging up clots of dirt. One called:
“Rebs are up that road. Thousands of ’em.”
A captain came on at a slower pace, barely a canter, accompanied by a handful of his troopers in fair order. Getty waved him to a halt.
Keeping his voice low and stern, he demanded, “And where are you going, Captain? Shall I help you find the enemy? Who’s your commanding officer?”
The captain was not daunted. “I know where the Rebs are, General. I’m from the Fifth New York, and we’ve been holding them off for five hours. We’re out of ammunition, and we’ve been out. Take it up with Colonel Hammond, if that’s your pleasure.” The horseman grew angrier. “If you want to know where I’m going, tell me where you and your fancy-boys have been.”
Getty waved the captain off and spurred his horse forward, shouting to an aide to ride back and order his men to come on at the double-quick.
Five hours? Even allowing for heat-of-battle exaggeration, it suggested infernal neglect. What had Meade’s staff been doing all the while? And then to send Lyman down with a flurry of commands, jumping the chain of command and sending his division to fix the mess made by the neglect of others …
Getty gave his horse the spurs again, letting his officers keep up as best they could. A few more horsemen passed them, galloping for the rear. Blood marked more than one man. A crimson-pated sergeant could barely stay in the saddle.
Five hours? Even had it been only three, or even two … why had nothing been done? Cavalry couldn’t be expected to hold back infantry that long.
He rued his tone toward the New York captain.
Getty reined up in the middle of the crossroads. His horse lifted its forelegs at the hard tug on the bit, then settled down. The general’s staff filled in around him.
There were no more blue-coated cavalrymen to be seen, but a few hundred yards down the road there were plenty of men on foot. They wore gray uniforms.
How far back was his first regiment?
“Gentlemen,” Getty said, raising his voice just slightly above the fuss, the horse jangle and gunfire, “my orders are to hold this point at any risk, and I always obey my orders. Arrange yourselves to my left and right, as if preparing to charge. Color sergeant to me.”
“Sir … you’re not really going to charge them?”
“No, Major. But they don’t know that.”
His officers and a pair of couriers nudged their horses forward to Getty’s flanks, filling up the crossroads as best they could. It made for a meager offering.
Bullets tore past as Rebels paused to fire. The men in gray advanced carefully, unsure of what might be waiting for them, of what the Yankees might have up their sleeves.
Let them pause over their doubts, Getty prayed to the old god of soldiers. Let their imaginations course with possibilities. Let them feel a twist of dread at each step.
“Steady, gentlemen,” he said.
Clipped by bullets, small branches fell, their new leaves brilliant even in the shade. An orderly gasped and folded onto his horse’s mane. Blood burst from his mouth.
“Steady,” Getty repeated. “No man moves, except at my command.”
The general considered drawing his saber, but decided against it. A display of confidence was of more use than bravado.
“General,” an aide said, “at least move back yourself.”
“The division will arrive shortly, Major Wolcott. Meanwhile, our place of duty is right here.”
They know, Getty thought. The bastards have seen through the bluff.
Where were his troops? He felt a surge of rage. But the expression on his face remained unchanged. And he did not mean to change it even in death.
He beat down the anger, reminding himself that his troops were good men, as good as could be found, and they were doubtless moving as fast as they could.
A round caught the division’s flag, tearing the silk. But the color sergeant righted it again.
Getty could make out Confederate faces now, their beards first, then their features. Men as lean as he was himself, as fierce. Brave men. But his own must be braver this day.
He could feel the tension in the men beside him, the awful waiting for death or a terrible wound. Miraculously, all but the orderly remained untouched.
“Steady, gentlemen. Just hold steady.”
A few of the Rebs got a cheer going, another version of their banshee’s wail. Some dashed up the road now, as if toward a prize.
“Gentlemen, your pistols,” he said. But he did not draw his own. As rounds snapped off on either side of him, Getty continued looking straight ahead. Staring down his opponent in the ultimate poker game.
Was this the start of a momentous battle? Or would he and these men be sacrificed for a diversion that would be forgotten in days? What did soldiers ever die for, really, if not for the call of soldiering itself? Was every glorious cause a mere excuse?
His officers and men soon emptied their pistols.
The leading Rebels had come within fifty yards. If they paused to fire now, their rounds would tell.
“Don’t reload,” he ordered. “Just keep pointing your pistols at them. Bluff them.”
Struck by a ball, a horse became unmanageable. The rider fought to keep it in the line.
It was a matter of seconds now. And the race would be lost.
Nothing Getty had ever heard sounded finer, more purely beautiful, than the cheers that rose at his back. And the manly cheers—deep Northern cheers—were followed by the pounding of hundreds of feet coming on at a run.
Frank Wheaton rode up beside him, leading his Pennsylvania Volunteers. The veteran soldiers knew what to do. Without command, they formed in line in front of the waiting horsemen.
Shortening his commands to the essentials, Wheaton barked, “Front! Fire!”
The first volley was a ragged one, but it told. Balls met the advancing Confederates, sweeping the road and scouring the brush.
The balance of fate had changed. The Confederates were outnumbered now, at least for the present. And they recognized it. Shouting curses, the shabby men withdrew, some of them pausing to shoot in a show of defiance. Others refused to bolt into the bushes, keeping to the road they had briefly possessed, suicidal in their courage and rage.
“Nicely done, Frank,” Getty said. “Now push your men out a little, would you? We’re on our own until Hancock decides to show up.”
The nearest Rebel dead lay within thirty yards.
Eleven thirty a.m.
Orange Turnpike
Meade found Warren beyond the shabby plantation house. Surrounded by his mounted staff and hangers-on, the Fifth Corps commander was arguing with Griffin, a tough old soldier.
Damned society ball, Meade thought as he aimed his mount into the crowd. He could not see or hear one sign of the attack he had ordered Warren to make hours earlier. If anything, the skirmishing had dropped off on Warren’s front.
Warren and Griffin broke off their exchange at Meade’s approach, but their faces told the story: Warren wore the look of a truant caught out by his teacher, while Griffin’s expression remained hot and defiant. Meade thought Warren a fool for allowing subordinates to entertain themselves by listening to generals bicker. It was like a blasted minstrel show, with gunpowder for blackface.
“All of you,” Meade snapped, “clear out.”
The staff men and the merely curious nudged their horses off in every direction, toward an idle battery, or to the rear, or, in a few cases, closer to the troops gathered down in the pasture.
General Griffin did not go.
Meade mastered his temper as best he could, but spoke curtly: “I wish to speak with General Warren privately. If you don’t mind, General Griffin.”
Throwing invisible sparks, Griffin saluted and kicked his horse into motion.
When they were alone—as alone as they could be in full view of hundreds of onlookers—Meade said, “Damn me to blazes, G.K. How many orders to attack do I have to give you?”
“George—”
“You should’ve been at them hours ago. Grant’s fuming.”
“I’m trying to—”
“Our reputation’s at stake, man. Here. Now. Today. Grant’s been told over and over that the Army of the Potomac doesn’t fight. And here we are, the first damned time he orders an attack, and I might as well be giving commands to Chinamen.”
It was a struggle not to tear Warren into pieces, but the curious did not need to know any more than they already did, and he did not want to undercut Warren’s authority. Enough was enough, though. Back on the hill where Grant had chosen a stump for his headquarters, Rawlins had roared to all the saints and sinners in Creation, “I told you, I told every one of you: These eastern fellas won’t fight.”
Meade almost had to wonder if Rawlins was right.
“George … General Meade…” Warren seemed amazed that he might be allowed a word. His bird’s face was sharp with nerves, not fortitude. “I’m doing all I can. You told me Sedgwick would be up on my right, but there’s no sign of him. I’ve recalled Crawford, but he has high ground he doesn’t want to give up. And Wadsworth’s division is strung out in the undergrowth. You have no idea how bad this ground is, how difficult.”
“I think I have some idea,” Meade snapped. “What about Griffin?”
“He can’t attack alone.”
“He could have. Had he done so when first ordered.”
“George … we don’t know how many Confederates are out there, just that they’re Ewell’s men. We could be facing his entire corps.”
“I’ll damned well tell you how many Rebels are out there,” Meade said, temper bucking. “More of them every minute, that’s how many.” Sweat burned his eyes. “Could Wadsworth support him, if Griffin attacked now?”
Warren shrugged. “They’re not tied in, not properly. I have entire brigades moving Indian-file in that … that labyrinth. I’m trying to coordinate an attack that won’t be sheer chaos.”
Meade sensed that, at least on this day, Grant had been right, that the proper action would have been to pitch right into Lee, first thing in the morning, with the forces at hand, and damn the risk. Now Warren’s pursuit of an engineer’s perfection and Griffin’s reluctance to spend the lives of his troops had given the Confederates time to get ready. Warren liked well-organized set-piece battles, and Meade was not entirely without sympathy. But those days were going, if not gone. From here on out, it would be about who landed the first and hardest blow on the enemy.
And there was sense in Grant’s approach, given the taste Lee had developed for entrenching. A morning attack might have been bloody, but an attack delayed would be costlier. One had to be made, though. And every minute lost only strengthened the enemy.
He wished the order of march had been different, that Hancock had been here in Warren’s place. Had Win had Gibbon’s or Barlow’s divisions on this field in the morning, the only problem would have been holding them back. G. K. Warren was a brilliant man, but, for the first time, Meade wondered if it was possible to have too fine a mind to command effectively. What if intelligence only inflated dangers, while clouding opportunity? Hancock was no dunce, but no one would have mistaken him for a professor. Warren would have suited the West Point faculty.
Nor did Grant seem possessed of a shining intellect. But he won battles.
“If we wait a little longer,” Warren resumed, “I’m convinced we can get the Confederates to attack us. Then we’d have the defense’s advantages. The way we did at Gettysburg.” He gestured toward his waiting regiments: The men were digging entrenchments.
“It’s a different war now,” Meade said. “Delays only add to the casualty rolls. Order Griffin and Wadsworth to attack.”
“Griffin just wants to wait until Sedgwick comes up,” Warren pleaded. “He’s ridden forward to see things for himself, George. He says the Confederates overlap his right, that even if he’s successful, he’ll be enveloped.” Warren pawed his mustaches, a sad and friendless gesture. “Possibly on both flanks, if Wadsworth’s men can’t make it through that undergrowth. And there’s an open field a mile out, with Ewell’s men dug in on a ridge. Griffin says it’s a natural butcher’s yard.”
Meade saw the danger of being drawn into Warren’s endless arguments. There were always logical reasons not to do anything. Yes, the attack might fail. And thanks to the morning’s delays, it would damned well be costly, whether it worked or not. But it had to be made. And he needed to return to headquarters, to find out where Sedgwick’s lead division had gotten to and confirm that Hancock had reinforced Getty down on the Plank Road. It seemed that the only men in his entire army who’d shown their mettle had been a handful of New York cavalrymen.
Lee was probably gloating.
And Grant just sat there on his stump, whittling a stick and smoking his cigars, watching everything and saying nothing, letting Rawlins do his dirty work.
“You will attack,” Meade told his subordinate. “Immediately.”
SIX
One p.m.
Todd’s Tavern
Hancock saw Frank Barlow riding up in his checkered shirt and knew exactly how their exchange would run. Barlow’s reactions were as reliable as a rich man’s watch.
Young Barlow would never make a cavalryman, and that was certain, too. He sat a horse well enough to lead an infantry division, but an old soldier could tell at a glance that the New Englander had never ridden the plains with the old dragoons before the war. And the saber that dangled off his thigh appeared made for a giant. It would have excited ridicule, had it not been employed so earnestly. Barlow’s face was set hard, though, and his gracelessness on horseback somehow made him seem more determined and ruthless.