Hell or Richmond

by Ralph Peters

  “Yes, sir. Sure do.”

  Upton looked at him hard, at the pale eyes in the night, trying to judge whether this man would do as told, or run away the moment he had the chance.

  “Don’t know if I’ll find my way any good,” the man volunteered. “Coming back, I mean. It’s dark, General.”

  “Just come toward the firing. Now go.”

  The soldier scuttled off, clutching his rifle.

  A few dozen voices raised a Rebel yell. Blurs rushed off to the right, toward the stretch of entrenchments his men still held. Rifles blazed from the ditch. The foray disintegrated.

  If they didn’t come on in force, these men would hold. He moved along until he found a captain.

  “Name?”

  “Archibald, sir.” Or that was what Upton believed he had heard. The name didn’t matter, really. What mattered was that the man had spoken his name and assumed Upton had heard it.

  “I’m putting you in command of this stretch of the line. See that these men dig proper entrenchments. If I can, I’ll have spades brought forward, but they’ll construct a proper line if they have to use their fingernails and teeth. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Organize a rotation of the men, one-third firing, one-third digging, one-third resting in place, but ready to repel a rush by the enemy. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Captain, you will not quit this line. If you withdraw one step, I will have you shot. Do you understand that?”

  “General, you don’t have to threat—”

  “Did you understand me, Captain?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Execute my orders.”

  Upton turned from the man and strode rearward into the grove. He did what he could not to step on or kick the wounded. The dead mattered less. Men’s souls, not their bodies, had value. The dead were saved or damned, as their lives and the Lord determined.

  He had to speak with Russell, if the man’s wound had not driven him to the rear. He needed to be reinforced. The men needed ammunition. The worst of the wounded had to be gathered in. And he could not count on the soldier he had sent rearward. The need for certainty demanded he do this himself, now that things had settled down into harassing fire.

  First, he prowled the pine grove until he found his horse. A black shape in the blue night, the creature was still alive and breathing monstrously. Its kicks had grown feeble, warding off great pain.

  Whether from sight, or smell, or the sense that animals possessed, the horse alerted to his approach and raised its head slightly in greeting. Huge eyes gleamed like wet china.

  Upton shot the horse with his revolver.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  June 2, noon

  Ninth Corps line, Union right

  “I don’t need a commission,” Brown told the captain. “The men need rations.”

  Steam wisped off their uniforms. It had rained at dawn. Before the sun dried their rags, the Rebs had probed them again. Then it rained again, just long enough to drench everybody, and the sun came back to boil them in wet wool.

  “They’ll fight, sir,” he continued. “They’ll march. They’ll dig all the way to China.” Brown wanted to shake the captain’s arm, to be sure the man was fully awake. “But they need to be fed.”

  Captain Schwenk looked to the side before meeting Brown’s eyes anew. “I’m trying, Sergeant Brown. Nobody in this division seems to be responsible for anything anymore.”

  Schwenk was a good man, Brown knew. Best officer in the regiment. Certainly, the best one still alive. So many officers had been killed or wounded that Schwenk was the senior man left, filling the colonel’s position.

  The strain showed. Normally a solid man, the captain looked starved himself, eyes sunk so deep in his skull that crevices showed between his eyelids and brow. Virginia grit and powder burns had painted his face for a minstrel show, mirroring the faces of his men.

  A fly settled on the captain’s cheek. Schwenk seemed unaware.

  Brown didn’t want to add to the captain’s burdens. He knew Schwenk was doing his best. No man was better suited to lead the regiment. And yet he could not stop himself from adding, “It’s been two full days, sir. I told the men we’d be on half-rations, not no rations.”

  “I’ll see that the men are fed today. That’s a promise.” Schwenk shook his head hard, waking himself again. “Christ, what I wouldn’t give for a pan of eggs. And some scrapple.”

  Brown did not want to think about that. But he did. His mouth tried to water, but couldn’t. The liquid in his canteen was so foul, he sipped only enough to stay on his feet.

  “I promise you the men will be fed today,” Schwenk repeated.

  Brown accepted that. He had gotten what he had to say off his chest. And he didn’t want to become the sort who confused complaints with doing. He asked: “Any word on Lieutenant Hiney’s leg, sir?”

  “Won’t have to come off. So they tell me.”

  “Corporal Cake?” Brown lifted his cap and passed his fingers through clots of hair, yearning to be free of lice.

  “Won’t be dancing for a time, but he’ll be all right. Queer business, one bullet, two men. And both in the leg.”

  Skirmishing erupted again. Neither man bothered to look in its direction.

  “Wasn’t even much of a fight,” Brown said. “Just more grinding down. We brush up against the Rebs, they brush up against us. Nobody makes any headway, but the company’s a little smaller.”

  “And the regiment,” Schwenk put in.

  “Then we march off again, and they march off just as quick,” Brown continued. “And it just keeps going along.”

  Schwenk told him: “It’s called ‘maneuvering,’ Sergeant.” His tone had grown uncharacteristically bitter. “It’s what generals do between one mistake and the next.”

  Lusting for sleep, Brown said, “Guess I’d better get the men ready to march.” He didn’t like the dead sound of his voice, but didn’t know how to make it sound right, either. “Know where we’re going, sir?”

  “Pulling back by that church, for a start. Then south again, I suppose. General Burnside may not know himself, way things seem.”

  “Wouldn’t mind not smelling corpses for a while.” Brown tried to smile, but failed. Some days before, in the course of a brief, grabbed sleep, he had dreamed of returning home to Frances. He carried the death-stink with him. She ran from him, screaming.

  “Just bear in mind what I told you,” Schwenk said, returning to the start of their conversation, “and I’m not going to have any arguing. I intend to push you for lieutenant. As soon as I can put one clean hand to a clean piece of paper.” His mouth took on a lemon-bite twist. “I wish it could be a captaincy. Given the captains who’ve managed to survive.”

  “I could go on fine like this,” Brown offered. Although he wasn’t sure that anything would ever be fine again. “Just the way you do, sir. Rank doesn’t matter.”

  “It damned well does matter. Listen to me. Lieutenant Brumm wanted you to have the company. Ahead of Lieutenant Hiney. Yesterday, Hiney begged me to put you in charge and keep you there.” He reached inside his blouse to scratch himself. “Anyway, you’re the senior man now. What do you want? Some green, parade-ground Napoleon to take your company? Some on-the-teat brat commissioned by the governor? And kill everybody who’s left? If I can’t get you an officer’s rank, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

  Schwenk’s voice had broken discipline, revealing nerves and strain. It pierced Brown. They had both seen so much death in so short a time.

  Now and then he thought he was going mad enough for manacles. The rest of the time he just felt hungry and tired. Fear was a luxury up there with feather pillows.

  He fingered his hair again, then scratched his scalp. Wishing he had the learning to speak words of comfort to the good man standing before him. Schwenk’s responsibilities dwarfed his own. He’d been acting like some private, whining like a woman. />
  “Well, I suppose if they’re dumb enough to make me a lieutenant…”

  “I’m more concerned that they’re dumb enough not to,” Schwenk told him. “Anyway, the war might be over long before it goes through. So don’t buy yourself a new uniform just yet.”

  “Fine with me, sir.”

  “It’s settled, then.” Schwenk clawed at his armpit. “Know what paradise would be to me right now? A bath and a plate of sausage.” He grinned, showing unclean teeth. “I joined up believing war exalts a man. But it only humbles us.”

  “No, sir,” Brown said. “It shames us.”

  Three p.m.

  Cold Harbor, Union left

  “Thank God they’ve postponed it,” Gibbon said, steadying his horse. “My men are blown. I’ve been on hellish marches, but last night…”

  “Night marches are most appealing on a map,” Barlow said. “Paine ought to be whipped. In front of every soldier he misled.”

  “How far out of the way do you think he took us?”

  Barlow shrugged. “Five miles, at the very least. Of choking dust, then rain to glue it on. I’m almost beginning to sympathize with my stragglers.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Barlow wanted to dismount, strip off his boots and stockings, and order up a bucket to soak his feet. Without the slightest change of expression, he said, “What we escaped today comes in spades tomorrow. Your front any more promising than mine?”

  Gibbon wiped the sweat from his mustache. His horse dropped a steaming pile. “There’s only one point where I’ve got any hope of punching through. And that’s one chance in a hundred.”

  Barlow offered his wry smile-for-all-purposes. “You’re more hopeful than I am, then. Have a look at that hill out there. I wouldn’t want to attack it this afternoon, and I certainly don’t fancy going there in the morning, after they’ve had all night to decorate. Get out your field glasses and take a good, long look.”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “Perfect artillery position, absolutely commanding. Nothing comparable over here, of course. Too much to ask of anyone to perform a reconnaissance of the positions we’re ordered to occupy. Might take the sport out of it. Better to roll the dice.” He breathed deeply, trying to enliven himself, but only filled his lungs with the fragrance of horse droppings. “I’ve had Miles out skirmishing. He reports they’ve already built themselves a regular line of works. With half a mile of open space in front. I won’t call it an invitation to butchery, since proper butchery serves a useful purpose.”

  Underscoring his point, a section of enemy guns fired over the line his soldiers were busy hacking into the earth.

  “Careful of the sarcasm, Frank. You’re getting a reputation.”

  “Oh, I can still kill ragged men as well as any general. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Anyone on your left?” Gibbon asked. “Any danger of being flanked?”

  “I hardly know. I’ve got a mile-wide gap between my left and the Chickahominy. Cavalry were supposed to cover it, according to the high priests in the temple.” The cut of his smile deepened. “Know what the mighty powers sent down? One regiment, on jades. They scampered off as soon as somebody shot at them.”

  “Christ,” Gibbon said.

  “Not certain he bears on the problem. Although there’s a certain sacrificial element.”

  “At least we didn’t have to go straight into the attack. I suppose I’m a brainless old soldier to you, but I’m pleased with the mercies I get.” Gibbon’s weather-worn face grew grimmer. “I’m not certain I could have gotten the men to go forward today. Not far, anyway. They really are dead on their feet, the sorry bastards.”

  “They’ll be dead on their bellies and backs tomorrow,” Barlow assured him. “The time to attack was this morning. We didn’t get here in time, and the opportunity was lost. Late is not better than never.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe old Meade doesn’t see the senselessness of this ‘grand assault across the entire front.’ When the Rebs will be ready and waiting, for all that’s holy. The only hope, and a slight one, would be a narrow attack in deep echelon on one decisive point. Not this all-in-and-hope-something-good-happens nonsense. Meade has to see it.”

  “Meade does, Grant doesn’t.”

  “Small consolation. Gibbon, I don’t care to make this attack. It’s damnable folly. Oh, I’ll do it, of course. And you will, too. Along with the rest of this army, more or less. Come four thirty a.m., we’ll behave like little gods, deaf to the lamentations of mere mortals. Because not one of us has the spine to do otherwise.”

  “And God damn us all.”

  “Redundant.” He sighed, but even that had a cutting edge. “I shall speak with Hancock. One last try. Ease the suppurating conscience.”

  “He’s unwell.”

  “Better than being dead out in that field. He needs to persuade Meade to call it off.”

  “Frank, I told you. It’s not Meade, it’s Grant. You don’t think for one minute that Humphreys would concoct something like this? It’s slops.”

  “Hancock to Meade, Meade to Grant.”

  “Grant doesn’t care to know. Have you ever seen him at the front? Even once? From what I hear, he sits back there reading telegraphic messages, writing to Washington, and letting his staff kiss his feet. You’re wasting your time.”

  “Preferable to wasting my division.” He wouldn’t have minded if somebody with a great wet tongue had kissed his feet, at the moment.

  Humphreys shook his head. Wearily. “You do surprise me. A month ago, you would’ve charged through an ocean of blood, sacrificed ten thousand men, and called it a good day’s work.”

  “Was it a month? Or a hundred years?” Watching Gibbon wave off a halo of flies, he let his smile widen. “You know, Gibbon, this is an interesting phenomenon. I’ll have to ask Teddy Lyman about it.”

  “What are you on about now?”

  “A living study in the degradation of a classic human type, Homo bellicus.”

  Gibbon took the bait and looked at him quizzically.

  “We’ve fallen so low,” Barlow said, “that the flies prefer you to a pile of fresh horseshit.”

  Four p.m.

  Gaines’ Mill

  Lee dismounted from Traveller, landing flat-footed enough to jar his spine. It reminded him of his frailty.

  He passed the horse’s reins to an orderly. The corporal’s uniform was beggarly, but his eyes were eager. Lee patted Traveller’s neck and thanked the man.

  He was better, much better. Perhaps he had grown too confident, though. He had ridden as far as Mechanicsville before locating Breckinridge that morning. Normally a reliable young man, Major McClellan had guided the soldiers from the Valley astray. Nor had he communicated the terrible need for haste.

  Chastisement would come later, within measure.

  His body obeyed him again, but not without effort. Riding his new lines, he had inspected the ground his army occupied, then gone on to the southern stretch that waited for more soldiers to arrive. It had been a draining effort in the heat, and he had been plagued by fears he dared not reveal, expecting those people to attack before he could get enough men in place to repel them. Here, within the sound of Richmond’s bells.

  Two years before, he had fought upon this very ground, with what he had deemed success. But now those people had returned, after all those bloody months. Over the last, terrible weeks, he had parried Grant again and again. Yet, here they were, facing off on fields picketed with bones and rotting leather from battles past. He had observed soldiers playing toss with a skull, and had admonished them.

  Jackson had been with him then, in their first great campaign together. And Stuart had fairly danced around McClellan. So many good men had served him well, only to fall away.

  If he could not resurrect Tom Jackson before Judgment Day, Lee mused, he would at least have welcomed McClellan’s return to command. How much better to face a cautious general captive to his fears than these remorseless
men and, above all, Grant, who seemed to advance as relentlessly as the plague.

  He did not know what he could have done differently. He did not know what else he could do now, beyond what he was doing. The army had not let him down, but, privately, he wondered if he had not let down the men lost from its ranks. And those still with him.

  But this day Grant had not attacked, which was a welcome blessing. He now had enough men on the field—men who had trudged southward yet again—to make an assault on his lines so costly that even Grant would feel it.

  If they did not come tonight, they would come in the morning. Those people were running out of room, nearing the impossible obstacle of the James. Grant would fight because he had to fight.

  Deserters claimed that Union morale was poor. Lee yearned to believe it. Yet, deserters were contemptible men, no matter the army they fled, and he was ever wary of their claims.

  Still, if it was true, if the Army of the Potomac was nearing collapse …

  He dared not ask the Lord God for a miracle. But he would have been thankful, had the good Lord delivered one.

  On his worst days, he foresaw losing the war, a thing once unimaginable. Angered by events yet to transpire, he raged and thought he would take his men to the hills to fight as partisans, anything to avoid the gross indignity of surrender. In calmer, wiser moments, though, he knew he would not carry out the fantasy. He was too old for the life of a guerrilla. Too old, perhaps, for the weight he already bore.

  Correcting his bearing at every step, he approached the headquarters tent, miffed that no one had emerged to greet him and annoyed by the thought he might need to return to the carriage tomorrow.

  Today had been crucial, though. This was the day he had needed to be on horseback. Hancock had stolen a march on him and Lee still could not understand why an attack had not swept over his entrenchments early that morning, before his line was extended and prepared.

  Was it possible that Union morale truly was that bad? Might there have been a mutiny?

  He warned himself not to luxuriate in daydreams, but to deal with the facts at hand.

  Belatedly, Marshall emerged from the tent. The two men almost collided.