Hell or Richmond

by Ralph Peters

  “Your pardon, sir,” the military secretary said, adjusting his glasses. “I was finishing an order.”

  “What time is it now, Colonel Marshall? My watch has grown unreliable again.”

  “We do have to get you a better timepiece, sir. We—”

  “A matter of sentiment. What time is it?”

  “Five minutes past four.”

  Lee’s features tightened, but his voice remained controlled. “I hear no guns.”

  “It’s a good distance away.”

  “No, Colonel Marshall. We would hear the guns.” A first note of agitation infected his tone. Early was fiery, but new to corps command. With Ewell sent off to Richmond as an invalid. “General Early must make this attack while there is time.”

  “Getting Early to attack isn’t a problem.”

  “A chance such as this may not come to us again. With General Burnside leaving Warren uncovered. If General Early catches Burnside in midwithdrawal…”

  Addled by his own concerns, a young officer thrust past them. When he recognized the men he had rudely handled, his apologies threatened to run out the decade.

  “Haste becomes a soldier on such a day,” Lee told him. “Go on now, Lieutenant.”

  When the boy had disappeared into the tent’s shadows, Marshall said, “Two Union corps hors de combat would certainly put a damper on their purposes.”

  “I count on General Burnside’s unique qualities,” Lee said, almost merry for that moment. “I trust he will not disappoint me.”

  “Never has before,” Marshall noted.

  Lee felt a sudden need to attend to personal matters. His recovery was still incomplete.

  From the north, the sound of cannon rolled down the barren landscape.

  “Little late, not much,” Marshall said.

  Lee began to turn away, but halted to ask, “Which division has General Early detailed against Warren’s flank? Has he informed us?”

  Marshall shook his head, but added, “Figuring from this morning’s dispositions, it must be Gordon’s.”

  Four thirty p.m.

  Ninth Corps headquarters, Bethesda Church

  The chicken was splendid! Simply splendid! No other way to describe it. Careful of his uniform, Major General Ambrose Burnside held the dripping breast gingerly, bending his bulk to take another bite.

  Best part of the day, this chicken. Best part of the day. No question, no question. Warren. Rude man, distinctly unpleasant. What did Meade mean, telling him to “cooperate” with Warren? Bad enough being subordinated to Meade, that was bad enough. He was so far ahead of Warren on the Army rolls it was contemptible of George Meade not to place him over both corps and give him command of the right wing of the army. Meade could do that, at least. But no: All of them were forever playing favorites, playing favorites.

  Delicate maneuver, a withdrawal in the face of the enemy. All the books said so, every one of them. Bit like breaking things off with a mistress. It asked maturity, skill. Warren was all thunder and no lightning, as far as Ambrose Burnside was concerned. Cooperate? Damned if he’d subject himself to that humiliation. Warren could take his bird beak and peck for himself.

  “Awfully good chicken,” he said, still chewing, “awfully. Compliments, my compliments. Simply splendid.”

  “Plenty more, General,” a grinning aide declared. “Virginia chickens been volunteering for the good old Union.”

  Burnside swallowed and said, “I’m sure the men are availing themselves of the bounty.”

  “They’re eating like pigs,” his commissary chief put in. “If there’s one hungry mouth in this whole corps, shame on him.”

  Burnside tossed away the bones and rested in the shade, gathering strength to assault another chicken breast. Bottle of chilled champagne would have capped the fare, just one good bottle. Hadn’t had a decent drop since crossing the Rapidan. Deprivations of war, dreadful business. Had to get in with Sheridan, that was the thing. Rumor had it the man kept a good supply, enough to waste on newspapermen. Befriend the fellow, worth the bit of effort. Word had it Sheridan disliked Meade, so they had that in common.

  Fortifying his constitution with a heel of bread—fine napkin it made, too, soaking the juice off a man’s chin—he surveyed the chicken parts piled on tin plates, selecting his target with a marksman’s eye. The commissary’s remark had troubled him, though. Couldn’t have the men indulging too recklessly. This wasn’t about killing chickens, after all, but war, cruel war! Soldiers needed a certain rigor, discipline. That was the thing, discipline! He tried to remember a French phrase he had read, something from de Saxe, but it eluded him.

  He grasped at the breast he had chosen. It lay just beyond his reach. About to roll forward onto a knee, he heard the clap-clap-clap of rifle volleys, followed by the thumps of a number of cannon.

  “What’s that, what’s that?” he demanded.

  No one had an answer. And a captain snatched the chicken breast upon which he had settled.

  “Find out, find out!” he snapped. “Can’t have this. Surprises, always surprises! Why ain’t I told anything?”

  As if in response, a horseman galloped up to the headquarters tents and was redirected to the officers clustered under the oak. The man stayed on horseback and came on as if he meant to charge right through their picnic.

  “Gather up the chicken,” Burnside ordered.

  The courier flung himself out of the saddle as smoothly as a trick rider in a circus. Nor did he observe the proper formalities, but aimed his eyes and words directly at Burnside, ignoring the staff and the proper chain of command.

  Burnside made a note of that.

  “Sir, General Crittenden says ’least a corps of Rebs coming down that ’ere Shady Grove Road, a-coming on with all but a brass band. General Crittenden’s got his line stretched out a little ways north of here, but he says you better bring Potter and Wilcox up, ’cause there’s a serious to-do a-coming on.” Belatedly, the man saluted.

  “I shall be the judge of whether my other divisions move or not,” Burnside told the man.

  “Yes, sir. I just—”

  “You are dismissed, my good man.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Burnside heaved himself to his feet. He was angry. First good meal he’d had in days, and the Rebs had managed to spoil it. They needed a lesson, a lesson.

  He turned to his chief of staff. “Send to Wilcox and Potter. They’re to move north at once and reinforce Crittenden. No shilly-shallying. Bring up my horse.”

  He was sure the chicken would be gone by the time he returned, dead certain. It was simply infuriating, no less than maddening. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Ambrose Burnside felt a young man’s vigor swelling in his breast. And rage born of righteous anger.

  After two attempts to swing into the saddle, he succeeded and spurred his mount straight to a gallop. He and his trailing staff had not gone far when they encountered fleeing soldiers. Many had discarded their weapons in their panic. Burnside gave his horse another kick.

  The sounds of battle swelled to a roar, but he felt no trepidation. The vengefulness he reserved for political squabbles had swung against the ill-mannered Confederates, and he saw with astonishing clarity what must be done. He even grasped that he had been attacked because he was perceived as the army’s weak point.

  The Rebels were going to learn differently.

  He had forgotten his hat, just left it on the ground under the tree. Bound to be stolen by some Irish scoundrel. Good hat, too. Expensive. The thought served only to stimulate his ardor.

  Round shot ripped through the trees. Rifle fire crackled. Not all of his men were running, no. Ahead, he saw a blue line in good order, stretching across the road.

  Fresh rain spattered.

  Ambrose Burnside was about to frustrate Robert E. Lee and give his best performance of the war.

  He even forgot the chicken.

  Four forty-five p.m.

  West of Bethesda Church

/>   “‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever,’” Gordon recited. It was a favorite refrain of Fanny’s. Fanny, who was in Richmond, so close but as good as separated from his embrace by oceans.

  The beautiful thing was the spectacle before him. Yankees ran pell-mell, their skirmish line surprised and their forward positions shattered. Disarmed and made prisoners, men in blue and others in Zouave dress shambled by, now and then glancing furtively at Gordon as he trotted forward. The Yankees who tried to form up were cut down, shot or clubbed, as his magnificent ragamuffins swarmed over them. Even those Georgians newly arrived and untested fought like lions. Their unsullied uniforms stood out at a distance, the gray so dark they almost looked like Yankees. Hollering their heads off, they slaughtered any Yankee who made a stand.

  His men thrust forward so quickly he almost had to spur his horse to a canter. Even the rain was battling the Yankees, blowing into their faces.

  Taking off his hat and sweeping it in a forward arc, Gordon cried, “Lord, boys, cavalry couldn’t keep up with the likes of you!”

  The soldiers nearby cheered him and charged on all the more fiercely.

  He spotted Clem Evans leading his old brigade, merry as a drunkard in a distillery, driving his men through the rifle pits.

  Colonel Terry had sent back word that things were going pudding-fine on the flank as well, where Gordon had placed a brigade to envelop the Yankees and slam into their rear. The message had barely reached him before he saw Terry’s bag-of-bones devils with his own eyes, racing down an open field at a right angle to his main advance, chasing Yankees like hellions at a fox hunt. The bewildered Yankees had to fight on two sides, those that had any fight left in them. Soon it would be three, if Clem Evans kept punching deep on the right flank.

  He had expected to hit the seam between two Yankee corps, and that alone would have been a handsome thing. But there had been no seam, just a flank hanging out like drawers on mammy’s clothesline.

  More Yankees raised their hands. Other ran like jackrabbits from a wildfire. And they still had not gotten a single piece of artillery into play.

  “Don’t slow down, boys,” he called to a pair of soldiers who’d paused to root through a rucksack. “Fun’s just beginning.”

  He almost added a phrase about his “brave Myrmidons,” but shut his jaw before the words escaped. He was done with all that now. Done with all the fancy talk, with everything but the killing.

  His men collided with the remnants of a Union regiment and swept right through it, leaving blue-clad figures on the ground, writhing or stone still, while others stumbled westward into captivity.

  Another glorious Rebel yell resounded. Caught up in the rapture, Gordon bellowed, “That’s the way, boys! We’re going to that church yonder, and not for a hymn sing. You keep on going!”

  A thing of beauty.…

  Five p.m.

  Fifth Corps right flank, west of Bethesda Church

  “Fucked for beans,” Charlie Griffin muttered. But he damned well wasn’t going to shout it out loud. Things were bad enough.

  And the damned rain, too.

  His men were running like he’d never seen them run before, pouring back from the skirmish line and their forward positions. And those were Rome Ayres’ men. On the right, Bartlett’s brigade had just plain collapsed, as if the burst of rain had melted their lines. From the saddle, Griffin could see the Johnnies pursuing the skedaddlers, descending from the flank and front, a screaming, squalling mob of scarecrows from Hell.

  That sonofabitch Burnside had just pulled out, with no word of warning. And not one soul in the brick-brained Army of the Potomac had seen fit to tell Charlie Griffin his flank was open.

  “You!” Griffin shouted. “Captain! Rally your men in those entrenchments. And hold your ground, or I’ll horsewhip you myself!”

  As he watched, a color-bearer was shot through the throat. Blood erupted from his neck and the white bone of his spine showed as he fell. Other hands took up the banner.

  First Bartlett, now Ayres. He’d ordered up his reserve, Sweitzer’s brigade, to occupy the old trench on the farm west of the church, warning the colonel to refuse his right. He intended to re-form the division on that line, his last, grim chance.

  A slash of rain cut across his face.

  Great buggering Jesus! Ayres’ Regulars were streaming back: He knew their flags at a glance, even soaked and drooping. It had been hard enough to see the remains of Bartlett’s toughest regiments, the 83rd Pennsylvania and 20th Maine, fleeing like girls in petticoats chased by a snake. Now this.

  Ignoring the bullets flying his way—downright insulted by them—Griffin drove his horse out into the field, cursing like a clapped-up sailor and waving his fist, to Hell with swords and niceties.

  “You quim-tickling sonsofbitches, you call yourselves Regulars? You’re not men enough to piss out a lucifer match. The goddamned Rebs are that way. Come on, I’ll show you!”

  It was an art, Griffin knew. You shamed the Regulars, but encouraged the Volunteers.

  “I can do more with two fists than you fucking ladies can do with a goddamned brigade.”

  The Regulars, most of them, stopped.

  “Form up, goddamn you,” Griffin told them. “If you’ve got a dripping cunt’s worth of pride left in you, form on your flags and follow me.”

  The men fell into ranks with remarkable speed. All they damned well needed was clear leadership.

  The Rebs were almost on top of them, spit-close. The Regulars bit off cartridges, shielding the powder from the rain.

  “Come on, damn it. Those are cartridges, not tits. You don’t have to suck ’em.”

  A shot clipped a lock from his horse’s mane.

  “Regulars! After me!” Griffin barked. He drew his sword for effect.

  A bearded sergeant, farm-boy big and slum-lad mean, stepped from the ranks and raised a broken-nosed face.

  “Get out of here, old man. You’re in the way.”

  His men cheered the sergeant and called for Griffin to get back to their rear. Another man shouted, “Git yerself kilt, we’ll have nobody fer to learn us our vocabularies.”

  The men laughed and cheered and went forward.

  It was rain in his eyes, Griffin told himself.

  The last time he saw the bearded sergeant, the man was racing ahead and shouting, “Knock the bastards down, then give ’em the bayonet!”

  Not enough to stop the onslaught, Griffin knew, but they’d buy time to ready a line. Chased by bullets, he turned his horse to the crisis on the right. Rome Ayres caught up with him.

  “You shouldn’t be this far forward. I can lead my own brigade.” Ayres touched the brim of his hat.

  “Then fucking well lead it, Rome. The Rebs are going through you like cholera shits.”

  “I don’t know where they came from. I heard a few shots. Before I knew it, the Zouaves were bolting.”

  “Dressing up like a fancy-boy never helped one peckerwood. Form over there, on Sweitzer’s left, and don’t give a goddamned inch.”

  Here and there, rump regiments were fighting their way back, not running anymore. Terrified strays still headed rearward, but not so many now.

  Thank God or the devil, and take your choice, Griffin thought.

  A battery came jouncing and jangling over the fields at last, approaching the new line without slowing down, as if it intended to run over his men. To the front of the guns—well to the front—Griffin recognized Wainwright, a cranky cuss with a mouth on him and his own opinion on everything since Genesis, but, for Griffin’s money, the finest gunner ever to straddle a caisson.

  The two men met by the trench line. There were no salutes.

  “Wainwright, where’ve you been, you sonofabitch? Pissing in the powder again? Off on the grand tour?”

  “Roads were blocked up with infantry, General. Headed in the wrong direction. I’ve seen horse races slower than those girls of yours.”

  “Just put your syphilitic sonsofbitches to wo
rk, Wainwright.”

  “Infantry must’ve got to the whorehouse first. Where do you want my batteries?”

  “Put one in that field. The rest wherever you can lay on canister.”

  A trace of bullets ripped the air between them. Both men grinned.

  “With your permission?” Wainwright tipped his cap and bowed from the saddle, dripping wet.

  “Any redleg worth a bucket of turds would’ve opened by now,” Griffin told him.

  As he spoke, a covered battery boomed in sequence, sending explosive shells in perfect arcs over his troops toward the Rebs.

  Sweet Jesus, Griffin thought, if I loved those redlegs any more than I do right now, I’d have to bend them over a gun carriage and bugger every one of them.

  Banishing his smile, he turned to a knot of Michigan Volunteers who had paused to fire back at their tormentors.

  “Good boys!” Griffin told them. “Brass balls and iron peckers, every one of you. Pour it into the sorry sonsofbitches.”

  A second battery began firing over his withdrawing soldiers. Within the minute, a third roared into action. They had the range of the Rebels from the first shot.

  Even before the artillery entered the fight, the attack had become disordered, broken up by its rapid advance, with the Johnnies coming on boldly still, but without the deadly power of men well organized.

  “Back to the diggings now,” Griffin told the men fighting around him. “Get back to that trench and we’ll give the bastards the bloody red fucking they’re begging for.”

  A frock-coated man raised his hand in remonstrance.

  “You, too, Chaplain,” the general called. “Get back behind that goddamned trench and pray like a broke-jawed cocksucker.”

  As he spurred his horse toward his stiffening line, Griffin glanced back at the Rebs, who had more spunk than prospects now. Shells exploded in their midst, dismembering those near the impacts. Wounded men jerked like fish tipped into a boat. To the rear of the Johnnies, an officer rode a black stallion, as careless of the rain of shells as he was of the rain from the heavens. His posture was as rigid as a knight in a picture book and everything about him spoke of fearlessness.