Freedom (Gone For Soldiers)

by Jeffry S. Hepple

  William N. Pendleton, Lee’s artillery chief, nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “General Anderson?” Lee turned toward Richard H. Anderson, who had replaced James Longstreet as commander of the First Corps. “You are to move out along the road that General Pendleton will construct.”

  “Yes, sir,” Anderson replied. “My objective?”

  “Your objective is the crossroads at Spotsylvania Court House.”

  ~

  It was not quite midnight when General George Meade reached Todd’s Tavern on Brock Road. “Is that Sheridan’s cavalry?” He waved his arm at the bivouac area across the road from the tavern.

  “Yes, sir,” a voice from the dark replied.

  “Somebody find Sheridan for me and find him right now!” Meade bellowed.

  A short time later, General Phillip Sheridan came out of the tavern and crossed the road to where Meade and his staff had gathered. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “No,” Meade shouted. “I did not want to see you. I wanted you to clear this Goddamned road to Spotsylvania Court House. You should be there, not here. Why are these men sleeping?” He pointed to the camp.

  “Colonel Gregg’s brigade was stopped at Corbin’s Bridge by Wade Hampton and Rooney Lee’s cavalry, sir.” Sheridan’s voice was level and calm but his face was red and the veins in his neck stood out like ropes. “Gregg withdrew to here under fire and the rest of the division soon arrived to drive the Rebs off.”

  “That doesn’t address the question of why your cavalry’s asleep,” Meade said.

  “I was coming to that, sir,” Sheridan said. “Three brigades of Paul Van Buskirk’s division are at a standoff with Fitzhugh Lee’s cavalry about a mile south of here. Lee’s dug in behind barricades and I decided that we couldn’t dislodge him in the dark so I ordered the men who’re not engaged to bivouac here.”

  “Do you understand that we’re in a race with Robert E. Lee to reach Spotsylvania Court House?” Meade asked.

  “No, sir. I wasn’t told that. Your orders to me were to clear the road. There was no timetable and no note of extreme urgency that might have prompted me to undertake very dangerous night maneuvers in a forest as dark and dense as this wilderness.”

  Meade took a deep breath. “Yes. You’re right. I mistakenly assumed that you understood General Grant’s plan.”

  “Do you want me to roust my troops and attack the Confederate blocking positions now, sir?”

  “Yes, General, I do. Getting to Spotsylvania Court House before the enemy is of the utmost importance.”

  Map by Hal Jespersen, www.cwmaps.com

  May 7, 1864

  Whitfield County, Georgia

  Robert Van Buskirk and William Sherman were bent over a map. “Johnston’s entrenched here on Rocky Face Ridge,” Robert said. “His lines extend eastward across Crow Valley.”

  Sherman nodded. “Formidable.”

  “If we demonstrate against him at Buzzard Roost in Dug Gap with Thomas’s and Schofield’s armies, McPherson should be able to slip through Snake Creek Gap and strike the Western and Atlantic Railroad at Resaca.”

  “We don’t have any intelligence from Resaca,” Sherman said.

  “If McPherson encounters stiff resistance he can withdraw to Snake Creek Gap until we can reinforce him. If he takes Resaca, Johnston will have to abandon Rocky Face Ridge.”

  “Why would Johnston do that?”

  “Once we have Resaca we’ll control the railroad and telegraph lines south of Dalton and Johnston will have to abandon his headquarters at Dalton or bring his army to us,” Robert answered.

  Map by Hal Jespersen, www.cwmaps.com

  May 8, 1864

  Todd’s Tavern, Virginia

  It had taken most of the day for Grant to reach Meade’s headquarters, and during that time he’d received only a few sketchy reports. “So fill me in, please, General,” he said to Meade. “I’m starved for information.”

  Meade rubbed his eyes. “The big news is that I may have to kill Sheridan.”

  Grant chuckled. “Why?”

  “Yesterday afternoon, I ordered him to clear this road for the infantry. When darkness fell he withdrew all but a handful of his troops and established the bivouac that you, no doubt, saw across the road.”

  Grant nodded.

  “At about midnight last night, after an argument with me, Sheridan agreed to mobilize and clear the road. But nothing happened until dawn this morning when Paul Van Buskirk’s cavalrymen attacked Fitzhugh Lee’s barricades on the Brock Road and were repulsed.”

  “Van Buskirk has a single brigade and Fitz Lee has a whole division.”

  “I know that,” Meade said. “Sheridan did it to spite me. I finally had to order Warren to break through with his infantry. Fitz Lee retreated to a ridgeline just south of the Spindle farm where he was reinforced by two of Anderson’s infantry brigades, an artillery battalion and unknown units of J.E.B. Stuart’s cavalry. We had one report that Stuart himself has taken command.”

  “So that’s where Warren is now? Facing Stuart?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I read on a report that after taking heavy casualties, Warren dug in across from Laurel Hill,” Grant said, “but I couldn’t find any Laurel Hill on any of the maps.”

  Meade nodded. “The Confederates have named their position Laurel Hill. I don’t know why.”

  Grant made a face. “You might suggest to General Warren that using the name of unknown landmarks in reports to headquarters is a bad practice.”

  “I will,” Meade agreed.

  “So where do we stand now? Do you have any plans to break the deadlock at Laurel Hill?”

  “I ordered Sheridan to send a division of his cavalry to attack Stuart’s rear. He sent McIntosh of Wilson’s division from Spotsylvania Court House up Brock Road. McIntosh had only a single cavalry regiment opposing him, but Sheridan ordered Wilson to break off the attack and withdraw up the Fredericksburg Road before McIntosh even made contact.”

  “Sheridan must have had a good reason to stop Wilson. Did you talk to him about it?”

  “He’s impossible to talk to. When I tried to, he called me names and said that he could whip Stuart if I’d just let him.”

  “He called you names?” Grant asked. “We can’t allow that.”

  “To be fair, I probably started the name-calling. I sometimes say things that I shouldn’t when my temper gets the best of me.”

  “Well, I still can’t have my generals fighting with each other.” Grant looked out the window for a moment, thinking. “Sheridan usually knows what he’s talking about. If he says that he can whip Jeb Stuart, let him do it.”

  “Sir?”

  “Send him at Stuart. Tell him to get going by first light tomorrow.”

  “That will leave us with no cavalry, General Grant.”

  “Keep back Paul Van Buskirk’s brigade. That’ll give us all the eyes we need for the moment.”

  Meade gave Grant a questioning look.

  “What?” Grant asked.

  “Van Buskirk seems an odd choice, in view of the fact that you just dismissed him from your staff.”

  “I didn’t dismiss him, I set him free. He was like a caged lion. He’s just not cut out to be chained to headquarters.”

  “He was Buford’s aide-de-camp, wasn’t he?”

  “Buford’s one of those old-fashioned horse-soldiers whose headquarters is in his saddle.”

  Meade shrugged. “Very well, General. I’ll send Sheridan at Stuart after I detach Van Buskirk from his command.”

  “Do you hear that?” Grant cocked his head for a moment, got up and walked to the door, then opened it to listen.

  Meade followed him. “What?”

  “Small arms,” Grant said. “It sounds close.”

  “That’s Barlow from Hancock’s division,” Meade said. “He’s just to our rear. Jubal Early’s tried to move him a few times. That’s probably Early again.”

  “You do know that A.P. Hill’
s been taken sick and that Early’s got his corps now, don’t you?” Grant asked.

  “Yes, sir. Hancock’s whole corps is right there on the Catharpin Road. If Barlow gets in trouble, Hancock will swoop in.”

  Grant closed the door and walked back to the table with Meade. “I’m still unclear about what you plan to do about Laurel Hill.”

  Meade consulted his watch. “Sedgwick should be extending Warren’s line to the east by now.”

  “Let’s take a ride out there and see.”

  May 10, 1864

  Beaver Dam Station, Virginia

  Smoke from the burning warehouses had turned the sunset to blood-red. Johnny and Urilla Van Buskirk were standing just inside the picket fence of a small frame house and watching the ten-mile-long column of Philip Sheridan’s Union cavalry ride by. Urilla was wearing a dress that she’d “borrowed” from the absent owner of the house. It was too small and showed or accentuated more of her figure than was commonly acceptable in polite Virginia society. She raised her hand, then smiled and waved to a young captain who had doffed his hat to her. “Rot in hell, you Yankee bastard,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “You seem to be making quite an impression,” Johnny teased. “You could earn a fortune, if you were so inclined.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” she growled. “It’s been so long since you’ve visited my bed that I might just set up shop here and give away my favors.”

  Johnny’s face colored. “Please, Urilla. This is neither the time nor the place for that discussion.”

  “You brought it up.” She sniffed, then raised her hand and waved to another admirer in the Union column.

  Johnny adjusted his crutches. “I’ve counted thirty-two artillery pieces.”

  “How many men do you think there are?”

  “Over ten thousand.”

  “Lord, have mercy.”

  “We need to get to Richmond and tell Jeb what he’s about to be facing.”

  Urilla looked over her shoulder at the house. “Do you suppose the people who live here left any food when they ran away? I didn’t go into the kitchen.”

  “We’ll eat in Richmond – after we tell Jeb what we’ve seen.”

  “Surely he’s already been told. Who could miss ten thousand troops?”

  “I can give him details that no civilian would notice.”

  Urilla squealed at the sound of an enormous explosion. “God’s teeth. What was that?”

  “They’re destroying the locomotives at the railroad station. We should go now.”

  “How are we going to get past them to Richmond?”

  “There’s a plantation road that parallels the Richmond road through the woods. It joins it at an old abandoned tavern on the outskirts of town.”

  “Is it safe?”

  “Yes. It’s not on any maps. But it might not be in the best of shape so we need to try to reach the tavern before dark.”

  “What if the Yankees get there first?”

  “They won’t. They’ll stop here for the night and won’t get there before noon tomorrow. If we hurry we can tell Jeb what we’ve seen and he’ll have time to get back and set an ambush.”

  “How many men does Jeb have with him in Richmond?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe five thousand.”

  “Half as many as the Yankees?” She watched the riders passing by for a moment. “With those odds, what chance does he have?”

  “He’s Jeb Stuart,” Johnny replied. “The Yankees don’t have a chance against a legend. Let’s go.”

  May 11, 1864

  Yellow Tavern, Virginia

  By mid-morning, General Jeb Stuart had his troops in position behind a ridge that ran parallel to the Richmond road and sharpshooters hidden inside the abandoned Yellow Tavern building. At about noon, when the Union vanguard was passing, Stuart signaled the attack.

  Caught by surprise, the Union troops scattered at first, but their officers soon rallied them and counterattacked.

  At 2:45 PM, Johnny and Urilla Van Buskirk were in the Confederate rear with the supply wagons, the baggage trucks and the ambulances. “I just want to get a little closer to see what’s happening,” Johnny argued.

  “Sorry, sir,” the sergeant at the barrier said. “General Stuart and General Fitz Lee both warned me that y’all’d try to get forward. They said they’d have my hide if I was to let y’all through.”

  “Come on back to the buggy, Johnny,” Urilla urged.

  He shook his head. “Listen to that. I’ve never heard so much firing.”

  “It’s them Spenser repeating rifles that the Yankees have now,” the sergeant said.

  “That and the ten thousand Yankee troops pulling ten thousand triggers,” Urilla added.

  “Make that thirteen thousand,” the sergeant replied with a sour look. “They freed over three thousand Union prisoners at Beaver Dam Station yesterday.”

  Johnny looked up at the sun, then struggled to get his pocket watch while keeping his balance on his one leg. “How long has it been?”

  “It’s not quite three,” Urilla grumbled. “You just looked.” She touched his arm and pointed toward the front. “Something’s wrong.”

  Johnny looked toward the distant ridgeline and saw a group of riders coming toward them. One man was riding ahead, waving his arms and shouting something. Behind him, two men were riding abreast of another who was slumped in his saddle and trying to keep him from falling. Outriders flanked the three with several more riding behind them. “Ambulance!” Johnny shouted. He turned around. “Bring the ambulance forward! Hurry!”

  “Who is it?” Urilla asked

  Johnny was squinting toward the riders again. “Jeb. He’s lost his hat but that’s his cape. I’d know it at any distance.”

  “Oh dear.” Urilla put her fingers to her lips.

  The sergeant removed the barrier to let the ambulance pass through and left it down.

  “Sergeant,” Johnny said. “Tell whoever’s in charge of the party with General Stuart that we’re going to Saltville to get Mrs. Stuart.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Johnny turned and started across the rough ground toward the buggy.

  “Shouldn’t we wait to see where they’re taking him?” Urilla asked.

  “They’ll take him to Flora’s brother, Charles Brewer. He’s a prominent doctor in Richmond.”

  Urilla ran to get ahead of him. “Johnny. They’ll send a wire to Flora and some army unit close to her will escort her back. By the time we get there, she’ll already be here.”

  “I have to do something,” Johnny said.

  “Stop.” Urilla blocked his way. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  Johnny had no choice but to stop. For a moment he looked like he’d argue with her, but then he dropped his head. “Damn it.”

  Urilla was watching the drama where the ambulance had stopped. “It’s bad. Abdomen. Lots of blood.”

  Johnny squinted. “Dark blood. Liver maybe. He’s not gonna make it, Urilla.”

  “I’ll go back and tell the sergeant that we won’t be going to fetch Flora.”

  May 12, 1864

  Richmond, Virginia

  At noon, when President Jefferson Davis had paid a short visit to Dr. Charles Brewer’s home and office, the streets had been filled with people. Now, as the sun was setting, and the news of Jeb Stuart’s death had spread, the crowd was beginning to thin.

  Urilla helped Johnny down the front steps. “Dr. Brewer’s right. You look awful. Let’s find a hotel. We can come back to see Flora after we’ve cleaned up and had a little something to eat.”

  “No. We’ll wait in the buggy for her. She’ll be here any minute.”

  “We don’t know that. It could be midnight before she arrives.”

  “Then we’ll wait until midnight.”

  “Excuse me,” Urilla shouted at the people who were blocking the gate. “Please let us through.”

  Seeing the haggard-looking, one-legged man, the crowd parted. An old m
an near the front reached out to touch Johnny on the shoulder. “Thank you, General.”

  Johnny stopped to look at him, but the face wasn’t familiar. “Should I know you?”

  “Mr. Crocker’s my name. Used to be Private Crocker.” The man showed the stump of his left arm. “I was with you from Manassas to Fredericksburg.”

  “Sorry. I don’t remember your face.”

  “Can’t blame you for that. I never was this close to you or this clean, until now.”

  “The Confederacy is grateful for your service and sacrifice, Mr. Crocker.” Johnny resumed the painful walk through the crowd accepting greetings, condolences and pats on the back until he reached the buggy.

  Urilla climbed in, took his crutches, braced herself and pulled him up beside her. “I’m going to have to lead the horses until we’re away from all these people.”

  Johnny nodded. “Sorry I’m so useless.”

  “Stop it.” She jumped down, untied the reins and handed them up to him. “The brake’s set.”

  “I know. I’ll release it.”

  She walked forward and took hold of one of the horse’s bridles. “Come on, boys. There’s a bag of oats and a dry stall just waiting for you at the end of this road.” She looked back at Johnny. “I wish there was something nice for me there too. Other than a lonely bed.”

  May 14, 1864

  Washington, D.C.

  Secretary of War Stanton handed a telegram to President Lincoln.

  “Grant?” Lincoln asked nervously.

  Stanton nodded. “To Halleck.”

  “Bad?”

  “No,” Stanton said. “Only a bit disappointing.”

  Lincoln read the message aloud. “We have had five days almost constant rain without any prospect yet of it clearing up. The roads have now become so impassable that ambulances with wounded men can no longer run between here and Fredericksburg. All offensive operations necessarily cease until we can have twenty-four hours of dry weather. The army is in the best of spirits, and feel the greatest confidence of ultimate success.” Lincoln looked questioningly at Stanton. “He’s just saying that he has to wait for the rain to stop. What’s wrong with that?”