The Battle of the Crater: A Novel (George Washington Series)

by Newt Gingrich

  “Yes, sir.”

  THE CRATER

  2:00 P.M.

  “Oh, my God, here it comes!”

  Garland braced himself. He had pulled three rifles to his side, all of them loaded, prepared for this moment.

  A swarm of Rebs came charging up out of the trench they had seized in the first assault … How long ago was it? If it had been charged in the beginning minutes of the battle, the trench would have been empty altogether.

  He aimed square at the chest of the officer leading the assault, squeezed, and to his rage and delight—but also to an inward horror that would haunt him later—he saw the man tumble backward, breath knocked out of him.

  He threw the rifle aside, picked up another, aimed at a sergeant who, screaming with rage, had pushed the officer to one side, looked back to urge his men on, and then pressed forward. In the smoke and confusion he was not sure if he had hit him.

  He dropped that rifle and picked up the third. There was another man, towering above him; he pointed the rifle skyward and squeezed, but the percussion cap had fallen off, and the hammer just clicked. The Rebel above him was aiming straight down, squeezed, and somehow missed.

  Garland threw the misfired gun aside and picked up the last one. From the corner of his eye he saw the drummer boy, screaming with rifle in hand, and a Rebel dropping in front of him.

  “Good lad!” Garland cried to him.

  You’ve just killed a boy, and you are a good man.

  The thought barely had time to register. The Rebel who had missed him was lunging down with a bayonet. Garland half rose to his knees, parried the blow, knocked the Reb’s rifle upward, and pressed his gun into his chest, squeezing the trigger.

  The Rebel jerked backward.

  And then the swarming attack was upon them. Men were screaming, cursing, sobbing, mingled together, Rebel and Union, black and white. Men from both sides were shooting, lunging, and swinging clubbed muskets.

  He had thought that surely there must be something noble in war, but at this moment, it was a fight in a gutter, in a sewer, among men driven mad by heat, rage, and the lust for blood.

  The men of the Fourth, holding the crest of the crater, unsupported by the thousands clustered below, were beaten back; their temporary advantage, of holding ground under cover, had been lost at last to a surging tidal wave of Rebels. Gaining the crest of the crater, the Confederates were now pointing their rifles downslope, shooting into the seething mob of confused, leaderless, terrified men.

  One of the few officers who could have led them, General William Bartlett, was down, his cork leg blown off by a bursting mortar round. He screamed for his men to rally, to carry him if need be, to charge back up the steep slope of the crater and retake the rim. But there were too few to listen, too few with the strength, let alone the will, left to fight after nine long hours of that madness. They were finished, cartridge boxes empty, canteens empty, wilting in 100-degree heat.

  Garland stood defiantly, empty rifle raised, driven half a dozen feet down from the rim.

  “Garland!”

  Two voices called to him at once. He spared a quick glance back. It was Russell and Reilly, falling back into the mob that carpeted the bottom of the crater.

  Garland looked back up. With each second, more and more Rebels were gaining the rim, falling flat, aiming into the crater, and tossing empty rifles back to men behind them, who handed loaded weapons forward. He was stunned to see a crew of four men dragging a Cohorn mortar to the very edge of the crater, and others lugging boxes of twelve-pound shells. As if realizing the absurdity of their efforts to drag the mortar forward, given their hold on the rim, they simply took the shells out of their wooden sabots within the ammunition boxes. One Rebel pressed a lit cigar to the fuses, which sputtered to life, and then heaved them into the seething mass of Yankees below them.

  “Garland!”

  He saw at least two Rebels aiming at him, firing; he flinched but by some miracle they missed him. He caught a glimpse of the drummer boy, hanging on to a wounded comrade and refusing to retreat. Garland grabbed him by the ankle, pulling him back.

  “Come on, boy!” he screamed.

  They slid down the face of the crater, Colonel Russell screaming over and over, “28th to me! 28th to me!”

  A quarter of the men who had surged forward with him were now falling in by his side.

  General Bartlett was at Russell’s side, braced up by two men of his command, minus his cork leg.

  “For God’s sake get out! Get out!” Bartlett screamed, his voice edged with hysteria. “Take your men and get out while you still can!”

  Russell looked back up at the lip of the crater and made his decision.

  “28th, back to our lines. Follow me, my men; follow me!”

  It was as if his cry set off a vast wave that had been building for hours. By the thousands the men trapped in the crater, seeing that at last the Rebels had gained the rim to their right and center, started to claw their way up the eastern slope, in a desperate bid to get back to the safety of their lines.

  2:05 P.M.

  “Another telegram from Meade, sir,” Vincent whispered, holding the sheet of flimsy paper.

  “Just read it,” Burnside replied in exhaustion and defeat.

  Vincent sighed.

  United States Military Telegraph.

  * * *

  Inform the men within the crater to dig a trench out and thus escape before sunset. I expect you to pass this order on immediately.

  Burnside looked up at him and said nothing in reply. Could not the man simply walk out of his own bunker and see that the men of the Ninth, by the thousands, were fleeing the crater and, without fire support, were being slaughtered as they tried to regain their own lines?

  2:15 P.M.

  The surge of men, black and white, most of them panic-stricken, swarmed up the east slope of the crater, while only fifty yards away on the opposite slope Confederate infantry poured devastating fire into them.

  “Let my men help you!” Russell yelled, looking at Bartlett.

  He was greeted, strangely, by a smile.

  “I stay here with my men. Godspeed and good luck to you and your men, sir. Now get the hell out of here!”

  The offer made, Russell nodded and held his sword aloft, shouting for the men of his regiment to rally to him. Miraculously, the national colors were still in their possession, and he pushed the flag-bearer up the nearly impossible slope, men above them sliding and falling, some of them unable to climb another step, others collapsing with a rifle ball in their back.

  Russell gained the lip of the crater, screaming at the flag-bearer to save the colors and run. He hesitated, looked back, stifling his own terror, and reached down to haul up Garland and then the artist. Garland in turn reached back to pull up the drummer boy, and after him a wounded comrade that the drummer boy would not abandon.

  Within seconds, hundreds and then thousands of men were swarming across the field at a run, while from either flank the Rebels were pouring out of their entrenchments, slamming in a devastating fire to either flank as the tormented souls ran the gauntlet of hell.

  Garland saw the young man the drummer boy was pulling along go down, shot in the head; the drummer boy screamed. Garland turned back for the boy, who collapsed a few seconds later, clutching his arm. He went for the boy, but James was on him, shoving him away.

  “Run! For Christ sake, run!”

  Shamed by his terror, Garland ran. With each step he was propelled by rage, a desire to turn, to somehow reverse all that had been done this day, all that had been done across a lifetime, all that had been promised … all that had been lost.

  Together with James and Colonel Russell he reached the edge of the trench that meant the safety of their own lines. Men of the 48th reached up to pull them in, the trench piled thick with men, in places two and three deep. Soldiers of the 48th were shouting for them to head for the safety of the covered way while they themselves stood, rifles poised, pouring
fire into the Rebel flank, which had swarmed out of their trenches, and finally driving them back.

  The exodus of thousands from the crater decreased to hundreds, then scores, and finally only a ragged few who would rise, sprint a few feet, and then drop.

  Cries for mercy and surrender could still be heard from within the crater, begging for quarter.

  And then, finally, a merciful silence. Silent except for the pitiful thousands of groaning wounded who still lay on the field.

  2:45 P.M.

  Colonel Henry Pleasants, forlorn and alone, sat by the collapsed entryway to the tunnel which, just thirty-four days ago, he had started with such hope, with even the dream that perhaps he might be an instrument to bringing this war to an end.

  His gaze took in hundreds of men piled into his trench, dead men and wounded men too exhausted now to even move.

  “Merciful God,” he whispered through his tears. “What have I done?”

  4:00 P.M.

  Vincent held the telegram but did not even bother to take it over to his commander, who sat in the far corner of the bunker, whispering to himself.

  United States Military Telegraph.

  * * *

  All records of communications of this day are to be preserved and delivered to this headquarters, no later than 6:00 p.m. this evening. The telegrapher of your headquarters is to report to me immediately. All regimental, brigade, division, and corps commanders are to submit to this headquarters, no later than 6:00 p.m. tomorrow, their after action reports.

  This is to inform all of you, that upon the direct orders of the Commander of all Union forces in the field, a court of inquiry into this debacle shall convene within three days.

  General George Meade

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  AUGUST 1, 1864

  11 P.M.

  “Hey, Yank, got another one of your darkies over here. He’s still breathing.”

  James Reilly, with Sergeant Major Garland White by his side, followed the stretcher bearers over to where Rebs stood, gazing down at a man lying still, barely visible by the light of torches and lanterns.

  Garland raced to the prone man, and knelt down by his side.

  “It’s Corporal Barnes,” he cried, taking the man’s hand. “He’s one of ours.”

  “He won’t be for long,” one of the Rebs replied coldly. “Gut shot from the looks of him.”

  “Back off, and just leave us be,” Garland hissed.

  James was now at Garland’s side, followed by the stretcher bearers.

  “Dead one, anyhow, waste of effort to carry him back.” Two of them walked off. The third Rebel, an officer, stood silent.

  The weary orderlies, men from the 28th, put down their stretcher. They knelt around Corporal Barnes, one of them beginning to weep.

  James stood silent, thinking he should have his sketchpad out to capture this moment, but it was far too personal, too painful. It was obvious that Barnes was near death. In the cold calculus of war, the Rebs were right; it was a waste of effort to carry him back. They should husband their strength for men who could still be saved, or better yet, saved and returned to combat duty.

  They gently lifted the corporal onto the stretcher, and he groaned weakly, able to say only one word.

  “Water.”

  One of the men opened his canteen, and the Rebel officer finally spoke.

  “Gut shot like that, it might not be good for him.”

  James, surprised by his compassionate advice, looked at the man, and found something familiar about him. If Barnes was indeed shot in the stomach, the water would only pour out into his abdominal cavity and make things worse, but he was dying anyhow. After lying out here for a day and a half, nearly every man found alive was begging for a drink.

  They gave him the water, picked up their burden, and set off, with Garland holding a lantern to guide the way.

  “Why in God’s name didn’t your general ask for a truce yesterday?” the Rebel officer sighed.

  James stepped closer.

  “Don’t I know you?” he whispered.

  “Captain Sanders, 25th North Carolina.”

  “James Reilly, with Harper’s Weekly.” James hesitated. “You were a correspondent for some paper out of Raleigh. Remember? We had more than one drink while covering the Democratic Convention down in Charleston back in 1860.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation on Sanders’s part, and finally he extended his hand.

  “Of course I remember you, Reilly. What a tragic farce that was. We both knew where it was going to take us.”

  James took Sanders’s hand and the man winced. Looking down in the darkness, he saw it was bandaged.

  “Got burned a bit by the blast.”

  “So you were in it?”

  Sanders nodded and sighed.

  “Strange. I was actually inside the fort when it blew. One of my men…” he hesitated and for a second James thought the man was about to lose his composure. “A lot of my men.”

  He sighed.

  “Why did I live?” he asked, and it was obvious to James that the man was in shock. “But nearly all my men…” and his voice trailed off.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, really? You’re sorry and that’s it?”

  There was a bitter edge now to his voice, and he started to turn away.

  “Sanders, for God’s sake, I am sorry. Sorry for this whole damn madness, and if I remember you correctly, you are, too. You no more wanted this damn war than I did.”

  Sanders stopped, turned, and looked back at him.

  “Got a drink? I remember you as a drinking Irishman and damn all, I could use one.”

  James reached into his haversack and pulled out a pint of whiskey. He had been saving it for later, after buying it from a sutler for two dollars, so that once this night was over he could indulge in a damn good drink. Seeing this man he had known and had befriended some years ago caught him in the moment. He also figured that a drink or two might allow him to hear the other side of what had happened. If Sanders was any kind of gentleman, he would not just take the bottle and leave.

  Sanders took the bottle without comment, pulled the cork, and took a very long drink.

  “Good stuff,” he whispered. “Strange, you sometimes dwell on one thing to drown out your misery, and all I could think of was that I needed to get drunk, damn good and drunk.”

  “Well, I doubt if there is enough there for both of us for a good drunk, but it could be a start.”

  He handed the bottle back to James, who forced himself to take only a sip before handing it back, watching as Sanders gulped down several more ounces.

  “Smoke?” Sanders finally asked.

  Though he still had several halfway decent cigars of his own, James muttered agreement, and Sanders pulled out two cigars, handing one to James. After fumbling in their pockets for a lucifer to light them, they approached a stretcher bearer team carrying a wounded Rebel back toward their lines, and each got a light from a torch.

  “Did you see any of it?” Sanders asked.

  “Yes. I was back at headquarters when it started, then went forward with one of the colored regiments.”

  “Who, in God’s name, thought this one up?” Sanders snapped, almost a snarl, before taking another drink.

  “Bill, you know I can’t talk about that,” James replied while puffing his cigar to life. It was fairly good Virginia or Carolina tobacco.

  “Of course I know that, but this is madness! For Christ’s sake why didn’t you ask for a truce a day ago? A lot of these men were still alive then.”

  On this question, James no longer cared if he were giving a Rebel information or not. Besides, their high command most likely knew already.

  “Burnside asked for one as soon as the fighting was over. Even hoisted a white signal flag.”

  He spat out the tip of the cigar and looked down at the ground.

  “But then Meade fired off a telegraph message to Burnside demanding to know who authorized t
he truce, and stating that it was the prerogative of a commanding general only, that he had not authorized it, and to resume firing on your lines.”

  “Goddamn him,” Sanders hissed. “We lost a couple of men out in the open who were giving water to the wounded between the lines. Damn him.”

  James took a sip of the whiskey and handed it back.

  “All right, then, I told you something. Now, you tell me something. We’ve been hearing rumors that colored troops were executed after the fight.”

  It was Sanders’s turn to sigh and look at the ground.

  “It was madness, all of it madness, James. Look, I’ve been in damn near every fight since the Peninsula. When men are out in the open, a hundred, two hundred yards apart, there’s room for mercy when a man is down. But here?”

  He pointed back up the dark slope to the lip of the crater, to the trenches on either side.

  “You come across an enemy when you turn a corner and he is only five feet away, it becomes madness. Men become like animals, kill first or be killed.”

  “That was during the fight,” James replied sharply. “I was in the final charge and saw that. Yes, I saw it, from both sides. No prisoners.”

  Sanders was silent for a moment.

  “I was knocked cold from the blast. Think I got a cracked head, a concussion from it. It’s still hard to hear. So I was out of it for most of the fight.”

  “I’m not asking about you, personally, Bill, though I am sorry to hear you were hurt.”

  There was a long moment of silence.

  “Yes, after our boys retook the lip of the crater, the cry went up to kill all the colored. But if you write about this, for God’s sake, report that General Lee passed specific orders that all troops, colored or white, and all officers of colored troops, were to be treated according to the rules of war.”

  He took another long drink.

  “As you know, I was against slavery. My family refused to own them. We hired free blacks to work the fields of our farm. So, yes, I tried to stop it, so did most of the officers. It is bastard reporters from papers like the Richmond Examiner who call for more blood, and I bet your paper will, too.”