Hell or Richmond

by Ralph Peters

  “Obliged for that, too, Sam.”

  When the congressman had gone from the tent, Grant took out a cigar, but put it down on the desk unlit. He stared at the blank sheet of paper, chewing his lip. Then he scratched his nose, took up the cigar, and laid it back down again. He wasn’t about to lie, there’d been plenty of brag in the papers without his help. And he would not raise false hopes. He had veered too close to that mistake already. Lee was near the breaking point, he was convinced of it, but it made no sense to spout off. He knew he would defeat Robert E. Lee. But Lee would be beaten when he was beaten, not according to some politician’s schedule. Not even Lincoln’s.

  He wished Cump Sherman were with him. Rawlins was a true friend, cut of honest cloth, but only Sherman grasped him as a soldier. No one else, not even George Meade, saw that the only way to solve a problem was to keep on trying to solve it. The fatal weakness he saw in his fellow generals was that they were all too quick to call off the dogs. You had to run the fox all the way to its den and not shy from the briars. Maneuver was a fine thing, and genius was even better, but a stubborn heart was trumps.

  A drink would have been welcome, he could almost taste the gratifying burn. But that would have to wait for a good long time. His three consolations, Sherman, whiskey, and his wife, were denied him.

  He shook his head above the untouched page and decided to keep things as simple as he could make them, just write something out. The president would have to be satisfied with the bait in place of the fish. And the newspapermen would write what they wanted to, anyway. As for his obligation to the Union, it wasn’t to issue proclamations like McClellan. It was to win.

  He wrote first to the secretary of war:

  We have now entered the sixth day of very hard fighting. The result to this time is very much in our favor. Our losses have been heavy as well as those of the enemy. I think the loss of the enemy must be greater. We have taken over five thousand prisoners, in battle, while he has taken from us but a few stragglers. I propose to fight it out on this line if it takes all summer.

  Wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

  One p.m.

  The Harrison house

  “Sonsofbitches fired on my ambulances,” Ewell raged, clutching his hat as if he meant to strangle it. “Just trying to gather up my wounded and some of theirs, and the sonsofbitches fired on my ambulances.” Then he came to himself, ran a hand over his pate, and said, “My apologies, General Lee. I forget myself.”

  “Sit down, General,” Lee said. “General Rodes, General Long. Sit, please. I must ask your opinions.”

  Still simmering, Dick Ewell clopped across the floor on his wooden leg. “Just ain’t right. It just isn’t right by any stretch.” He dropped into a chair, as awkward as ever.

  “We must regard such behavior as a tantrum,” Lee said. “We have disappointed their expectations severely. Now they rage at us. They are as ill-bred children.”

  “Well, those children need them a lesson. Man who fires on an ambulance ought to hang,” Ewell declared. He snapped at the Negro serving the table of officers: “I don’t want no coffee, don’t you trouble me.”

  Lee made his voice as firm as he could without raising its volume. “I do not believe it the policy of those people to open on ambulances. It was doubtless the action of rogues. We will speak no more of it.”

  Lee needed the corps commander to calm down. Grave matters lay before them. And the absence of Stuart, two days gone on the trail of the Union cavalry, left him with less information than he desired. Judgment would have to supply the missing pieces in the puzzle of Grant’s intentions.

  Lee shifted the topic away from Ewell’s ambulances: “General, are you confident in the restoration of your line?”

  “Yes, sir. General Lee, I—”

  “We will discuss the future, not the past.” But Lee added, “The brief success those people enjoyed last evening would seem revealing. Gentlemen, why do you think they failed to exploit their advantage?”

  “Damned fools,” Ewell said.

  Lee looked to Rodes, a man of great mustaches and great courage.

  “Last gasp? Didn’t have the men left to do any more?”

  Lee nodded. “It seems to me the only sensible answer. We must not be precipitous, but I see numerous signs that General Grant is played out. At least, for this campaign.”

  “He’s had a whupping he won’t soon forget,” Ewell said. “Killed himself half his army in a week.”

  “And what did Hotchkiss have to say?” Lee asked the corps commander. “About General Burnside’s dispositions?”

  Ewell grunted. “Everything’s upside down. Typical for Burnside. Wagons driving off, infantry marching every which way but forward. And the Ninth Corps hasn’t hardly been in the fight. It makes no sense.”

  “It would make sense, if General Burnside’s latest order were to cover the Fredericksburg Road. For a Union withdrawal.”

  “What about that business on the right this morning?” Ewell asked.

  “A feint, I suspect. To put us off the scent.” Lee turned. “General Rodes? Your view of the matter? Will those people retreat?” Lee wanted to hear more from a man closer to the fighting line.

  “Honestly, sir, I don’t see how they’ve kept at it this long. More spunk to them than I’d credited.” He swept back a heavy lock of hair. “They’ve got to be played out, though. Otherwise, they would’ve put some weight behind last night’s attack. Closest they’ve come to success since crossing the Rapidan.”

  Rain pattered on the roof of the old house. It had been threatening all day. His Virginia boyhood told Lee it would be heavy, once it gripped.

  “If those people intend to withdraw, as I think they may,” Lee said, “their movement will start at dusk. There will be a good rain to help them cover their actions. But they’ll have to move before it spoils the roads.” He inspected the earnest faces around the table. “We must prepare to initiate a pursuit.”

  “Been thinking along the very same lines myself,” Ewell said.

  Lee turned to Armistead Long, his former military secretary and now brigadier of the Second Corps’ artillery. “I’m concerned about your batteries, General Long. They must be ready to march, if opportunity calls. Few things sow panic in a retreating army like a sudden bombardment from the flank or rear.” Lee paused, wary of interfering in details that were the province of a subordinate. But he felt compelled to add: “I speak, especially, of those guns at the head of the salient.”

  Long eased his collar away from his neck. “Men call it ‘the Mule Shoe.’ It’s been a worry to me, to speak out plain. Couldn’t have gotten those batteries away, if we’d been attacked and had the worst of it. One old farm road in, same bad road out. And Lord knows what the rain will do to it.”

  Lee tasted bile, despite the insipid contents of his stomach. “Occupying that salient has been a mistake from the start. As we saw last night. Denying one piece of high ground to those people was no excuse for ignoring the broader logic. The blame falls upon my shoulders, I knew better.”

  “Lucky those bluecoat fools haven’t figured it out,” Ewell said.

  “Surely, the generals across those fields have seen the salient’s weakness,” Lee continued. “The fact that they have not attacked it in greater numbers … seems yet another sign of their broken strength. And a failing will.” He turned to practical matters: “General Long, I believe you should withdraw those guns. Under cover of darkness, but without added delay.”

  “Makes two of us, sir. That farm road’ll be a hog-wallow come morning.”

  “We must be prepared to move swiftly,” Lee said, taken again with his vision of what was to come. “We must punish those people severely, before they escape us.”

  “Punish ’em for shooting up my ambulances,” Ewell said.

  Rodes put in: “Long here’s talking about the batteries supporting General Johnson, at the tip of the salient. I’ve got good roads back where I sit. I can have the chests l
oaded and the teams ready to harness, but I’d as lief keep my guns on the line.”

  Lee looked toward Long.

  “That’s fine,” the artilleryman said. “But the guns supporting Johnson need to pull out. Otherwise, they’ll be stuck in that mud for days.”

  Ewell’s aide, Campbell Brown, lifted a finger. Lee nodded.

  “General,” Brown said, “what if the Yankees don’t have a mind to leave? What if they pull something like they did last night?”

  “They won’t!” Ewell snapped. “They’re played out, I’d bet my good leg on it.”

  The rain began to beat the roof like fists. Lee wished, again, that Stuart had not been obliged to give chase to the Union cavalry. So much remained unknown, so very much.

  But that was war.

  He cleared his throat. “We are agreed, then. This army will ready itself for a forced march. If those people retreat tonight, they will overburden the roads and unmake themselves. We must stand ready to seize the opportunity.”

  “Ought to start thinning the lines, then,” Ewell commented.

  “No. Staffs will ready orders for their subordinate commands and the roads will be cleared of trains, but the infantry will remain in their entrenchments. Including the salient. Only the artillery is to be withdrawn, for the present. We must have greater assurance before abandoning our defenses. Generals Grant and Meade must tip their hand. And,” he added, “I am loath to withdraw the men from what shelter they’ve made for themselves. Until it proves necessary.” For a moment, he met no man’s eyes. “I would so welcome fresh reports on those people.”

  “If Stuart wasn’t off gallivanting, he could tell us something,” Ewell said.

  Lee ignored the comment. He turned to his current military secretary, who had kept his silence. “Colonel Marshall, copy down this order: General Long is to withdraw the artillery from the salient occupied by Johnson’s division, in order to have it available for a countermove to the right, or as circumstances dictate.”

  Marshall scribbled rapidly. The man’s memory was prodigious and Lee knew he need not repeat a word.

  Ending the meeting, Lee said, “Gentlemen, we have beaten General Grant. If he retreats, we will break him.”

  The rain pounded.

  One thirty p.m.

  Sixth Corps left flank, opposite the Mule Shoe

  It’ll do, Grant thought, ignoring the downpour. Right about there. Hit them right there. With a full corps, Hancock’s bunch. Other corps supporting in their sectors. Make sure Burnside pulls his weight this time. And see what Wright and Warren can do. Heaviest attack of the war, sky falling in on that salient. Just like this storm coming down. See what Lee thinks of that.

  He could hardly believe a soldier of Lee’s experience would bet his chips on such a flawed position. No wonder young Upton dented them. Hit the position right at the tip, and hit it hard, and it would break up like a doll’s house. And that was what he intended to do, first thing in the morning. Hit that rise of ground with an entire corps, while the rest of the army kept Lee’s fellows busy.

  “General Grant, would you care to take shelter?” General Wright asked. “You’re getting wet.”

  “Never saw a rusty soldier,” Grant said. He raised his field glasses again, cupping his hands around their ends to keep off the rain. Rain was good. And this blow had the feel of a deluge to come, an all-night rain. Hit them in the morning, first light, when the rain would keep things murky and Lee’s men would be absorbed by their discomfort. Skirmishers and sentries would be hunkered down. Percussion caps would misfire, powder would stick. Favoring the attacker who went in with bayonets.

  Long space to cross, he recognized that, three-quarters of a mile at the widest point. Artillery would be the biggest threat, if the redlegs kept their powder dry. Guns loaded with canister would play Hell with anybody crossing that open ground. Have to go fast and hit hard, the way Upton had. Before Lee’s people got their wits about them.

  Grant smiled at the thought of Upton. He had already seen the young officer wearing his star, even though the brevet hadn’t been formalized. Well, let him. He’d earned it. The rest was just Army paperwork.

  Like the paperwork that had helped undo him during his time as a captain in the Territories.

  The rain that had pelted began to pound. Grant sat calmly on his pony, Jeff Davis, a mount quicker in the mud than Cincinnati. He wondered what was in the minds of the men across that field. After the punishment they had taken, would the rain be enough to break their morale entirely? Was Lee contemplating retreat? For all the old man’s skill, his army could take only so much.

  Around Grant, officers cowered in their saddles, even those who had brought along their waterproofs. He had to fight down a good laugh. Rain left him unperturbed, as a rule, although it interfered with a good smoke. Staff men took a different attitude. He had ordered Rawlins to remain at headquarters—John’s lungs didn’t need any further tribulations—but as for the other gentlemen of the staff, let them feel the raw life of the infantry, if only for a half hour.

  He recalled the hard ride to Chattanooga the autumn before, the icy rain and mud that never quite froze. It had worn his companions to a nub and broken horses, but his only complaint had been a sore behind.

  Weather didn’t trouble Grant. Men did.

  Three thirty p.m.

  Headquarters, Army of the Potomac

  Meade was cross as a bear. And Major General Andrew Atkinson Humphreys could not blame him.

  “This is an outrage,” Meade declared. “Another outrage. Why, there isn’t sufficient time to plan, to reconnoiter. And this weather. Biddle, make yourself useful, or take yourself off.” And to Humphreys again: “We don’t have time to plan, to coordinate. And the corps, what are they supposed to do? Just blunder forward again? Can’t the man see the plain impossibility?”

  If you’d leave me alone to work on a proper plan, I might be able to do something for this army, Humphreys thought. He was vexed himself. Meade was tired, but everyone was tired. He had a right to be angry, but bombast was an indulgence they couldn’t afford. Meade needed to simmer down, no matter the wrongs done to him and the army. If Humphreys could buck up at fifty-three years of age, so could the rest of them. Including George Meade.

  Meade was right on every point, but that didn’t make a watch tick any slower. And each subordinate element needed time to plan as well. It was essential to send them clear, written orders, as soon as possible.

  Humphreys glimpsed Marsena Patrick, the provost marshal and the nastiest creature in the Union army, slipping out of the tent. Even he did not want to risk Meade’s wrath.

  “And taking away this army’s cavalry. It’s madness, madness,” Meade went on. “We have no idea where Lee might be shifting his forces, what he’s up to.” Meade folded his arms and tapped his foot, a caricature of impatience. “I don’t care if Sheridan takes Richmond and captures Jefferson Davis, he’s left this army blind.”

  Humphreys did his best to write through the tirade. He already had sent a courier to warn Hancock to prepare for a move to the army’s left, to a position between Wright’s Sixth Corps and Burnside’s ever-tardy lot. Even a march of a few miles was going to be wretched in the rain and the dark, and it would have to be full dark before Hancock’s divisions moved, to avoid detection. Hancock’s men were in for a rotten night. And a worse tomorrow.

  “A grand attack!” Meade grumped. “Well, I have nothing against a grand attack. I’d love to make one, in fact. Instead of shoveling out this army piecemeal and doing every damned thing in … in petulant haste. But an effort of this scope needs proper planning.” He turned to his son, who sat innocently by, drying off from a recent courier ride. “George, if you haven’t anything to do, I’ll soon find you something.”

  It had been a bad few days for Meade, Humphreys knew, and he was glad not to be in the man’s position: Being chief of staff was bad enough. The incident with Sheridan still rankled them all, but this very morning Grant
had unthinkingly insulted Meade and the entire chain of command again. Perhaps things were done that way in the western armies, but Grant’s peremptory order to Nelson Miles to send out two regiments to feel the enemy on the right had skipped over Meade, Hancock, and Barlow, leaving them all sour. Grant’s action may have been useful at the moment, but an army could not be run on ad hoc lines.

  “And Burnside won’t attack at four a.m.,” Meade picked up again. “Not a damned chance, and everybody knows it. He won’t even be awake at four a.m. And Hancock will have to make his assault alone.…”

  “Wright and Warren will be prepared to support him,” Humphreys said, without looking up from his field desk.

  Momentarily driven beyond words, Meade could only sputter. Fine drops of saliva struck Humphreys’ cheek.

  “But that’s not what Grant’s order says!” Meade railed. “Burnside’s supposed to attack. To keep Lee’s forces occupied. While Hancock concentrates on that blasted salient.” He bore down on Humphreys. “And even were we to take it, what good would that do?”

  “It could,” Humphreys said, still scribbling, “do Lee a good bit of harm.”

  Meade was not in a mood to be contradicted. “But how much? Enough to justify a madcap dash at things? Say we bite off his forces in the salient. Splendid! But then what? Surely, Lee recognizes the weakness of that position—he’s a damned fine engineer. He’ll have reserves positioned in depth, as sure as Philadelphia sits on the Delaware. We’ll bloody each other up”—Meade cleared his throat—“and have little more than casualties to show for it, mark my words.” Again, he bore down, leaning so close to his chief of staff that Humphreys could smell sour breath, old coffee, and fatback. “An attack on this scale demands thorough preparation.…”

  And I’m doing my best to prepare us, Humphreys thought. Close to losing his own temper at Meade as well as Grant, he knew he could not afford the luxury of it. He was worried about Win Hancock, who had been limping noticeably and seemed weary to the point of absentmindedness. Hancock had seemed back in form the day before, but on a headquarters visit that morning, Win had repeatedly stared into vacant space, with the deadened expression Humphreys had begun to see on too many soldiers.