by Ralph Peters
Nor did Jubal Early make things easy. Ever cross about something or other, he’d driven John Breckinridge, a decent man, if a proud one, to finagle a new command in southwestern Virginia.
And Sherman sat on Atlanta, a mouser cat digesting a feast and pondering his next meal.
Why did the Lord test the South so?
A raindrop tapped Lee’s upturned cheek, and loneliness overcame him. He sought Walter Taylor’s tent, where a lantern burned.
Lee tapped the canvas and lifted the flap. Startled, the aide jerked his back straight in his camp chair.
Taylor began to rise. Lee gestured: Keep your seat. Then he extended a hand toward Taylor’s cot.
“Please, sir.”
The general eased his arthritic bones onto the blanket.
“Writing to Miss Saunders?” he asked, adding, “If the question is not indecorous.”
Features taut with guilt, the young man reddened.
“One needn’t excuse a letter to one’s sweetheart,” Lee said. His voice, his bearing, recalled sunlight and laughter, a finer age. “Once duty is answered, of course. Indeed, I should think it another form of duty. If a pleasanter one.”
“Do you need something, sir? Have I forgotten—”
Lee waved down the question. “I thought,” Lee began his lie, “there might be late news from Georgia.”
“No, sir. It’s quiet, I believe. Sherman’s—”
“Yes, Sherman. But we will not speak of such things. If there is no news.”
Lee longed to empty his heart of his many griefs, his mind of his endless concerns. But he dared not speak. Not to this fine young man. Nor to anyone.
Nonplussed by the situation, Taylor asked, “Is Mrs. Lee well, sir? I neglected to inquire.”
“As well as might be hoped.” What had he to complain of, really? His wife’s indispositions? Was he not all but inured to them? His unwed daughters? They might find husbands after the war. His sons were alive, survivors—though not untouched—and that approached a miracle. He and his wife were blessed, indeed, compared to President and Mrs. Davis, who had lost a child unseasonably. Unattended for a fateful moment, the boy had climbed over a balcony, a tragedy made ridiculous by war.
The loss had not smoothed the president’s temperament. Or improved his judgment.
At times it was so hard to see God’s justice. The heavens, life, all things remained inscrutable and mute. But wasn’t the poet right: “… presume not God to scan”? Man could not know His wisdom or His glory. To think otherwise was presumption. No, blasphemy.
And yet he longed and prayed for a sign from God.
To break the silence—as heavy as a shell for a naval gun—Taylor said, “I still find it appalling, sir, that the Federals see fit to employ black troops. It cannot suit the conduct of civilized warfare.”
Lee looked at his aide and met warm eyes—eyes that surely Miss Bettie Saunders must love. And eyes that, Lee hoped, would remain open and alert for many years.
“In war, Colonel Taylor, ‘Right or wrong?’ is a fool’s debate. I have only learned that with difficulty. If a man aspires to high command, he must ask only, ‘Is it wise?’ This is a hard truth for all of us, I fear.” He looked down at the trampled grass and balding earth of the tent’s floor. “Those people would be fools not to find more soldiers where they can. And you see how they press us.”
“But it’s barbaric. Arming niggers.”
Lee nodded. The advent of the Colored Troops troubled him, too, if for different reasons.
“Perhaps so, Colonel. Perhaps that’s so. It may even be a sin in the Almighty’s book. But let us credit their valor, we must do that much. Their Negroes fought well these past days, with more discipline and result than their paler comrades. They fought … sacrificially.” Lee arched an eyebrow, seeking clean, clear words. “I do not condone their use, of course. I cannot, it revolts me. But I understand it.”
“You’ll pardon me, sir,” Taylor said, “but it’s … unworthy of gentlemen. But, then, I suppose the Yankees aren’t truly—”
Lee stood up. “I’ve interrupted you.” He forced a smile. “You must write your letter, we must not disappoint our dear ones. Please pass on my good wishes to Miss Saunders.”
“I will, sir.” Taylor hesitated. “Is everything all right?”
A frightful mood had gripped Lee. Not a foul mood in the common sense, but one imbued with a biblical sense of dread.
“At times,” the elder man confided, “I fear that wars might not be won by gentlemen. Not anymore. If ever they were. Good night, Colonel Taylor.”
Knees aching, Lee moved to leave the tent, then paused, captive to the grandeur and terror of life, touched for one moment by a force beyond reckoning.
A smile possessed him, a grim smile from the abyss. In a mild voice, a gentleman’s fine voice, he spoke again. “When we repelled the Negro troops, when we finally stopped them after those futile charges, that butchery, I saw our error.” He recalled the slaves whipped, reluctantly, at Arlington, the boredom with which the sheriff’s man wielded the lash, the illusions of his kind, his lifetime, his country. “We consoled ourselves with the shallowness of their faculties … and missed the depth of their hatred.”
He lifted the canvas to make his way into the darkness.
FOURTEEN
Eight a.m., October 24, 1864
City Point
Grant stood alone in the morning light, charged by the smell of bacon. The autumn sun gilded the James below but faltered against the chill. Across the river, trees bared themselves in bright death, and clouds fled across the horizon, as white as flags of surrender. It was a day to make men pause, of wonders insistent.
He bit off the end of a fresh cigar but hesitated to light it and foul the air. For a few fine minutes, all the surrounding contraptions and wealth of war were rendered harmless parts of a greater spectacle. The river churned with side-wheelers and steam tugs. Scavenging gulls swooped between the crowding vessels. On the wharf, hired Negroes passed crates from hand to hand or heaved up barrels, overseen by white men savoring coffee from tin cups.
Better cups of coffee in those hands than whips, Grant reckoned.
He recognized the cough at his back: John Rawlins, his friend.
Stepping close and following Grant’s gaze, Rawlins said, “Ask myself sometimes if Lincoln has any inkling what he’s done, what’s going to happen when millions of them cut loose.”
“Less than Southerners fear and more than Northerners want.” Grant looked at his chief of staff. “Be all right, most of them. Give them a fair shake. Colored Troops surprised us, no reason the rest of them shouldn’t. Just give them a fair shake.”
As he’d sweated side by side with Negroes on his Missouri farm, his hands had grown as callused as theirs, his lot fallen almost as low.
Ever the cynic, Rawlins said, “Fair shakes are rare for white men. You know that. Better than I do.” He drank from a cup that spread a flowery scent: honey in hot water for his lungs.
“Like breaking a long bone,” Grant said, “busting the South and slavery. Take time to heal, I know. Mighty inconvenient and uncomfortable. But many a bone mends stronger.”
“You’re the unlikeliest optimist I know.”
Grant smiled. “I’m the unlikeliest general you know.” He turned more fully toward this trustworthy, profane man, whom he feared was dying. “John, something I want to warn you about. I may need you to go back west. In your capacity as chief of staff. Straighten out the St. Louis mess. Settle Rosecrans, see Thomas.”
“Just got back, Sam. I’m starting to think my company’s unwelcome.” He drank, coughed, and drank again.
Grant touched his friend’s upper sleeve. “The only person more welcome to me is Julia. And I get more work out of you.”
A steamship hooted, a bully among the lighters, coasters, and tugs.
“She settled in, then, the little ones? School business all arranged?”
“Wish it was. That wom
an…”
“Sam, I’ve never seen a better marriage.”
“I suppose.”
Rawlin sighed, lungs gurgling. “Washburne’s on me about the furloughs again. Sending the troops home to vote.”
Grant nodded. “And Stanton’s hounding me.” He smiled again: Despite all concerns, this seemed a day worth living. “If he thought he could persuade me, he’d probably want me to pack up and march us all north. Can’t see beyond the election.”
“Can you?”
Grant hesitated. “I think it’ll be all right. I do, John. Don’t want to call down bad luck, but I think it’ll be all right. Cedar Creek fight was trumps, Phil pulled it off. Nobody wants to quit when they think they’re winning. Atlanta may have been the turning point, but the Valley drove it home.”
“Hope you’re right. I think you’re right. People are tired, though. And the Army … you saw the desertion figures.”
“Saw Sharpe’s figures, too. Johnnies are coming across the lines in droves. Hungry, and it isn’t even winter. Worried about their home folks. Rather be in my shoes than in Lee’s.”
“That damned traitor deserves everything he gets.”
Again, Grant paused. Then he said, “Being defeated by anyone’s the second-worst punishment Robert E. Lee could suffer.”
Lowering his cup, Rawlins asked, “What’s the worst?”
Grant’s eyes sparkled. “Getting whipped by me.”
Rawlins cackled. “Sam, there are times when I think you’re more of a devil, just more of a wicked scourge, than folks suspect.”
“I just know what defeat can do to a man. Knew it long before this war came along.”
“You got back up, though.”
“Lee won’t.”
“Sure of that?”
“I lost a potato crop and my commission. Lee’s going to lose everything he’s lived for.”
“If Lincoln wins.”
“He’ll win. Don’t say I said so.”
Behind the sprawled headquarters, a locomotive got up steam on the military railroad.
“Really wise to have Meade attack again?” Rawlins asked. “With the vote so near? If it doesn’t go well … Sam, I can hold up that message, that’s what I came out to say.”
Down on the wharf, two Negroes began fighting. A white foreman watched the set-to long enough for blood to fly before calling on the other coloreds to stop them.
Just need a fair shake, Grant told himself. Just a fair shake.
“Meade and Humphreys have a sensible plan, I think it’s sound. Three corps this time, swinging well to the west. Test the Rebs along that flank, find the end of their line, and curl around it. And I’ve made it clear that no one’s to assault strong fortifications, no frontal attacks. If we can’t get around their flank, Meade’s to call it off.”
“Things do take on a life on their own.”
“Worth the risk. Take Petersburg and reelection’s guaranteed.”
“And a defeat?”
“Won’t come to that. Won’t let it. Hancock will be on the far left. Itching to redeem himself after Reams Station. He won’t get whipped again.”
“He might try too hard.”
“Meade’s job is to see he doesn’t.”
A gull swooped near, as if spying.
“George still riled about those newspaper tales?” Rawlins asked.
“Mad as a bear with his hind leg in a trap. Can’t say I blame him, either. Lies, start to finish. Do what I can to help him, but…”
“He brought it on himself. Refusing to toss the scribblers a bone now and then. High and mighty. It’s a different age, Sam. We all have to bow to the power of the press. Pretend to, anyway.”
“George Meade can’t. He’s a gentleman, the old-fashioned kind. Hates journalists worse than he hates the Johnnies, just brought up that way.”
“Well, he’s paying for it.”
But Grant was thinking on Meade the man. “He really can’t help himself. No more than Lee can. Can’t bear shame. Of any kind.” He smiled, not without rue. “Times are I think failure was the best thing happened to me. Taught me a man can outlast just about anything.” His small smile sharpened. “I don’t recommend it as a practice, though.”
Ten forty a.m., October 27
Boydton Plank Road, south of Burgess farm
With his Gettysburg wound oozing through his trousers and paining him to damnation, Hancock watched the Rebel wagons flee. A mile up the road, their canvas tops swayed, just visible through wet mist, heading for the crossing at Hatcher’s Run. Had a small detachment of cavalry been on hand, he could have taken them.
At Hancock’s side, Brigadier General Tom Egan said, “Well, that’s a plum should’ve been plucked.” In temporary command of Gibbon’s division, Egan was looking for a fight, Irish to the tips of his mustaches. Hancock was certain he’d find what he was looking for.
“Order Rugg to unfold his brigade and anchor his right on the Plank Road,” Hancock said. “His skirmishers will feel toward White Oak Road.”
“Shall I have Rugg push out White Oak?”
“Only the skirmishers. Until Mott comes up. I sent Mitchell off to hurry him.”
“Yes, sir. Not a bad morning, I daresay.” Egan turned to pass on Hancock’s orders.
No, it had not been a bad morning, not in the military sense. Just the damned thigh plaguing him again. He hadn’t spoken to Meade about it yet, but he feared this would have to be his last attack. Riding was an agony, but walking more than a few steps was unbearable.
How good it would be to go out on a victory.…
The men were game, surprisingly so. It was almost as if his veterans had risen from their graves. The corps had advanced rapidly, striking deep and surprising the unprepared Johnnies. Unable to hold even one of the stream crossings, Hampton’s cavalrymen had hardly slowed the two divisions Hancock had on the march. And judged by the sound of the scrapping to the southwest, Gregg’s mounted division was advancing, too.
He wished he had Miles with him, though, his entire corps, three divisions. But one division had needed to stay in the Petersburg lines, and Miles’ soldiers merited the rest.
Miles had turned out to be a solid replacement for Frank Barlow, who was still sick abed in Boston two months on. War was hard on the body, young or old. Even Charlie Morgan, his chief of staff and long of iron health, sat his horse grimly this day, wet through and puke-up sallow, unwilling to stay behind when the corps went forward.
It had been a cracking-good morning, though, on-and-off rain be damned. But the hard fighting came in the afternoons and not the forenoons now, so the true test lay ahead. His corps had advanced splendidly, but his progress had opened a gap on his right when Warren’s Fifth Corps halted miles behind, stymied by entrenchments. Hancock had been assured that Warren would send up Crawford to cover the flank, but he’d learned to distrust promises. He wanted that division in the flesh.
The flesh was always the weakness, ever the flesh.
Of course, Humphreys’ detailed plan had all but collapsed. Plans generally did. On the right of the advance, Parke had met strong works. Then Warren faced the same problem. The Johnnies had extended their entrenchments farther west than scouts and spies had reported. So only Hancock’s corps and Davey Gregg’s horsemen had found a gap. Now they were striking deep, but unsupported.
If Meade would push Warren to send two divisions, not one … White Oak Road appeared undefended, the route to the South Side Rail Road naked of troops. Hancock longed to give the order to turn his entire corps in that direction, to move before the Johnnies could react. But first he had to clear out the last Rebs up along Hatcher’s Run to secure his flank. And he needed goddamned Warren to do his part, to make an effort.
Quick-marching past the generals, Egan’s men showed handsomely, as if the chill in the air evoked better days. And the rain had paused.
To the north, two Secesh guns went into battery but had trouble finding the range.
Returned
to Hancock’s side, Egan said, “They know we’re here now. Some of them, anyway.”
“When Willett comes up, deploy his brigade over there, at the foot of that slope. We’ll need to clear out those Johnnies on the ridge. And by those buildings. Then push on to the mill bridge, you’ll need to take it.”
Without waiting for orders, two batteries of the 5th U.S. Light Artillery jangled across a field, swinging their teams around smartly and jumping down to unhitch the guns.
Egan stretched in the saddle. “Rebs are going to find themselves on the dirty end of young Beck. Lad’s got the gunner’s eye. Ho, there’s Smyth.”
“As soon as he closes, move against that ridge, Tom. Mott should be up soon, we’ve got a jump on the Rebs. And if Warren gets his hands out of his damned pockets…”
It had been a good morning. But Win Hancock needed a splendid afternoon. One last splendid, praiseworthy afternoon.
Lieutenant Beck’s guns went into action. In less than three minutes, the Reb fieldpieces pulled off.
A bad leg, but a good day.
Eleven fifteen a.m.
Gravelly Run
The courier’s horse threw back more slop than poor-white children got into a pig wallow. Grudgingly, Hampton turned from the rifle pits. His men were holding the crossing against Mott’s division. Which meant that his opponent was Hancock again.
Well, this was as good a day as any to finish him.
“Let’s see what this is about,” he told Matt Butler, one of whose brigades had the duty at hand.
The spattered courier reined up, hailed by a sizzle of bullets. Across the creek, the Federals readied a charge.
“General Hampton … Yankees … Hancock…”
“Breathe easy, son. Where are the Yankees?”
“Behind you. Up on the Plank Road, just south of where White Oak Road branches off.”
That wasn’t possible. He’d have heard the firing, the commotion.
“Dearing…”
Still gasping, the courier told him, “He’s not there, sir. General Heth wouldn’t release him, said he needed him. That’s what I was coming to tell you. When I near run into the Yankees.”
Struggling not to reveal his shock, Hampton turned back to Butler. “Dearing was supposed to cover White Oak. Lord. Matt, pull your boys off, there’s no point holding here now. We have to move.” As more rain teased, he asked the rider, “Plank Road open anywhere behind Hancock?”