by Jeff Shaara
The maps were spread across a large table, and Grant leaned low, scanned the dark pencil lines, the positions of the troops. The reports were all in, the staff was confident that the troop positions were accurate. He followed the curving line of the North Anna, tugged hard at the cigar, the smoke rolling around him. He moved now, around the table, looked at the maps from the south, from Lee’s point of view. He thought, We are in serious trouble, we have been in serious trouble all day.
He looked up at Porter, said, “Are you certain of this? Lee’s right flank is … here?”
Porter stepped forward, Meade easing up beside him, looking over Porter’s shoulder. Porter said, “Yes, sir. We scouted all through those woods. The enemy has a strong line, has dug in down to the southeast. General Hancock’s corps is directly in line to attack them, sir.”
Grant nodded, thought, Yes, and that’s what Lee would like us to do. He moved his hand along the map, out to the west. “How far is this? What is the distance over to the right flank?”
Porter was nervous now, sensed Grant’s mood, and Meade stepped up in front of him, said, “Too far. Six miles. Too damned far. We would have to cross the river twice to support Hancock. Twice.”
Grant looked up at Meade, saw the agitation in the man’s face, Meade now rocking back and forth. Grant looked at the map again, shook his head, thought, We gave Lee a chance … we made a mistake, trying to spread out on both his flanks. He had an opportunity today, a very good opportunity, and he did nothing.
He thought of the numbers, the reports from the staff. The casualties have been horrific, for us and for them, he thought. But Lee cannot absorb that, fight after fight. He is weakening, with every fight he is weakening. He has no choice but to dig a deep hole and wait for us.
He glanced up at Meade, thought, You know better than this, to weaken us like this, spread all over creation, facing a compact enemy. Now you want us to back away. This time you may be right. He said, “General Meade, I believe it is time for us to leave this place. Would you agree?”
Meade nodded, said quietly, hiding his words from the staff, “I thought it was not a good place … we should pull the army together. We can still put up a good defense.…” He ran his hand over the map, searching.
Grant said, “We do not need a good defense. Lee is in no position to attack us. We will pull the army together in the morning, and move on these roads to the southeast. We will be closer still to Richmond, and Lee will have to come out from behind those fat trenches and stop us.” He waited for Meade’s reaction, and Meade stared at the map, his face showing nothing.
Meade looked at Grant, said, “To the southeast … I will prepare the orders.” He began to move away, stopped, and said, “Sir.”
Grant moved away from the table, the meeting over. He felt a blossoming headache, thought, We are like some big stupid beast, blind to everything that does not hit us in the face. We have an enemy in front of us who is already beaten, may be beaten more than he realizes himself. Meade, Burnside … don’t they see that?
He walked to the edge of the trees, heard music now, a tuneless mishmash of banjos and harmonicas. The fires spread all along the road, far along the wide shallow hills. They know, he thought, the men know. If I could just convince the people who give them the orders.
He walked out into the road, looked up, saw a vast sea of bright stars, a cloudless perfect night, and now he thought of Sherman. You should be here, my friend, you would know how to make this fight. But he knew that would not happen, that Sherman’s war was in the West. He’d received word, Sherman had pushed Joe Johnston back toward Atlanta, was advancing slowly, deliberately, following Johnston’s gradual retreat. He smiled, thought of Sherman’s impatience. He is driving you mad, isn’t he, General? Johnston won’t fight you, he won’t come out and play your game. You press him and he gives ground. But Johnston will run out of ground too, just like Lee. They cannot just keep backing away, digging more trenches. We are strangling them, slowly, and with perfect certainty. It would already be over, if …
He dropped his head, stared into the dark. The word had come from below Richmond, below the James River. Ben Butler’s great thrust toward Richmond, toward the valuable rail center at Petersburg, had been choked to a halt. Butler had overwhelming numbers, but had allowed himself to be hemmed in by the geography of the land, by the great sweeping curves of the James River. Now his vastly superior army was trapped in a place called Bermuda Hundred, held there by a narrow stretch of land that Beauregard could seal with a small force.
He had no use for Butler, didn’t know anyone in the army who did, but Butler brought great political influence to his position. To suggest Butler was not fit to command an army in the field was a subject that even Lincoln avoided. Grant thought of the great plan, the good strategy; Butler should have been such a threat to Richmond, to Lee’s supply lines, that by now either Lee should have pulled back into the Richmond defenses or Butler should be right in his rear. Instead Butler had bottled up his army into an impossible place, and a few thousand of Beauregard’s soldiers were the cork.
The great plan had another weak point as well. In the Shenandoah, Franz Sigel’s forces had moved south with another great show of bluster and talk, had finally met the enemy, a strange mix of scattered rebel units, under the command of John Breckinridge. Breckinridge had even called out the cadet corps from VMI, throwing them straight into the fight at a small town called New Market. The boys in their new uniforms became men, leaving ten of their young comrades on the field, and Breckinridge and this strange mix of commands routed Sigel completely. The capture of the Shenandoah, the plan to deprive Lee of the crucial supplies, the one part of Grant’s plan that seemed the least hazardous, was now thoroughly erased.
He looked up at the stars again. Does all that matter, after all? The war is still here, the enemy is still Lee. Sherman is moving on Atlanta, and he will succeed, there is no doubt of that. Once Johnston has been defeated, Sherman will have cut Lee off from all support from the deep South, all the rail junctions. And if we move closer to Richmond, Lee will have to come after us. It may take only one good fight, one more chance, get Lee out in the open. We are so close.…
THE LAND WAS SWAMPY, CUT BY SMALL STREAMS AND LARGER rivers, patches of thick woods and small open fields. It was the same land McClellan had moved through two years before, the huge Federal army having pushed hard up the peninsula, the first thrust at Richmond. McClellan had moved through this ground cautiously, had always believed the rebel army was far larger, stronger, than his, and with his caution he gave away every opportunity. The defense of Richmond had been given to Lee, the failure of the western Virginia campaign forgotten, and during the Seven Days battles, Lee had used the land, the swamps and creeks, to his best advantage. McClellan finally pulled his great army away, back down the peninsula, chased by Lee’s tactics, and more, by the lost opportunities and ghosts he could not defeat.
Now Grant came into the same land, but from the opposite direction, and he had no illusions about the strength of the enemy that scrambled to intercept him, at every bridge, every crossing of the swampy rivers. The Federal army continued to push along the tree-lined roads, through the open lands that rose above the swamps, where farmers still planted and Lee’s army could still find food. Here, the roads began to come together, merging into the routes that led south, straight into the heart of Richmond.
The marches had been quick and efficient, and Lee had confronted them in small skirmishes, with cavalry and whatever strength he could press hard into their path. But Sheridan’s horsemen had won the race for a vital crossroads, a place where Grant had a choice, to move on toward the city itself or slide farther to the southeast, around the city, directly to the banks of the James River. Lee’s priorities were given to him by Davis, and he had responded in the only way that could save Richmond. The rebels now faced Grant’s numbers in a north-south line, Grant now on the eastern side, facing west. But Grant had captured the crossroads he’
d wanted, and Lee would have to guess where he might move next. But first there was an opportunity, this time for the men in blue. Lee had finally come out to meet them, extended in a line that spread out along a deep ravine, a winding stretch of open ground and patches of woods, west of the roadways Grant had captured. The intersection carried an English name, a type of traveler’s rest where one could find sparse shelter but no fire, no hot food. It was called Cold Harbor.
MORNING, JUNE 3, 1864
THE RAINS HAD COME AGAIN, THE DAY BEFORE, AND THE GROUND had swollen into soft mud. By dawn the rains had stopped, but the small creeks were again strong and deep, and the men who took their place in line were still wet and cold from the march the night before.
They were called Heavy Artillery, had spent most of the war in the comforts of the big forts, the strong fortifications around Washington, Norfolk, Fort Monroe. It had been a plum assignment, and most of these men had come into the army with some influence, the power of a family name, the favor of a politician, the means of securing the safe posts. But Grant changed that, had not seen the need for a powerful force of troops guarding the cities from an enemy that was far away. So the Heavy Artillery came south, marched in the footsteps of the men of both armies, the men who had always, up to now, done the real fighting. There was grumbling, desertion, the men who had grown soft in the comfort of the forts now beaten down by the heat and hardship of the march. But Grant wanted all the strength he could bring to the fight, and these men would replace many of those who were lost, the vast numbers of casualties from the vicious fights of May.
Many of the veterans gathered along the roads, whistled and hooted at the clean uniforms, pointed and joked at the slow march of the men whose belt line was still soft. No one welcomed these new units to the fighting strength of the army, saw only raw numbers, not men who would hold the line, who could be counted on to lead the charge.
When the first order came at four-thirty in the morning, many of the men who stepped into the open ground had never seen the face of the enemy, never heard the steady roar of the great lines of muskets, the sharp whiz and dull slap of the musket ball. With the first light, the orders came down, and the men moved out in wide solid lines, flowing across a flat clear space, some slowed by the ravine, some climbing up toward a vast dense line of fire, a strong line of the enemy, protected by the quick work of the shovel. The rebel lines had been dug with the skill of men who have learned the bloody lesson, who understand with perfect clarity the value of a deep trench and a heavy dirt wall.
When the full glow of daylight had spread across the flat open ground, had lit the bottom of the winding ravine, many of the dead of the Heavy Artillery would lie beside the veterans, men who had faced the guns in every fight, the broken remains of hard men who would never flinch at the flashes from the guns to their front.
The Federal assaults were halted, and those who survived sought whatever protection they could find, moving through the vicious storm of the enemy’s fire. They slid across the bodies of their friends, huddled together in small depressions in the ground, behind the shattered trunks of trees, anywhere there was blessed cover. When the orders came again, advance, resume the attack … the men who had marched into the slaughter and survived would not do it again. Many simply fired their muskets in the air, a show of noise for the commanders behind the lines, an angry protest at the needless disaster. They had moved across the small piece of ground into their worst nightmare of the war, a complete and utter failure, thousands of men shot down in a fight that lasted only a few minutes.
THE HORSEMEN MOVED THROUGH THE CAMP, ORDERS FLOWING OUT to all parts of the long line. Grant had listened to the hard wave of the first assault, the sun finally breaking through the clouds, and he had believed, from the first rattle of the muskets, this might truly be the final blow.
The reports began to come back to headquarters, and the mood began to change. By mid-morning the sounds of the fight were gone, just the occasional crack from the single musket, a small assault far to one end of the line, meaningless.
He climbed the horse now, had to see it, could not understand what had happened. In the trees to one side, beyond the tents of the headquarters, he had seen Meade, screaming like some great mad beast, a blistering tirade to some nameless officer. Grant did not ride that way, turned, moved straight toward the front, where the great burst of sounds had come, the center of the long line. He had stayed at the headquarters, would wait for it, the joyous word, the breakthrough. But after the first great wave, the musket fire had slowed. Now only faint scattered shots were heard, mostly to the north, where the fight had not been heavy, was not supposed to be heavy. But in front of him, where they should have punched through, swarmed up the shallow rise to divide and crush Lee’s army, there was only silence.
He had not said anything to the staff, saw Rawlins busy with some couriers, but he would not wait, thought, Something is wrong, again, and this time I will see, I will be there before it is over. The anger had swelled inside of him, and he gripped the reins of the horse, stared straight toward the front line, kicked the horse hard, began to move forward.
He heard a voice, turned, saw Meade riding hard after him, thought, Not now, felt the anger building toward Meade, but the look on Meade’s face was not what he expected.
Meade reached him, halted the horse, said, “Sir … it is no good. The brigade commanders report they are pinned down, cannot even pull away. The enemy has the ground, the position. Sir …” Meade paused, and Grant waited, had prepared himself for another tirade, listening with grinding patience while Meade puffed out in red-faced anger.
But Meade’s face was drained of color, a look Grant had not seen before, shock, the look of defeat. Meade lowered his head, said, “Sir, it has been a tragedy. We lost … a great number. The ground is … it is worse than anything I have seen, sir. Begging your pardon, General. I don’t know how else to say it.”
Grant stared at Meade, felt a hot sickness rising, thought, If this is your caution … if we have stopped because you ran out of nerve … He fought the anger, clenched his fists, took a deep breath, said, “Can they not advance? They should have carried the fight! Lee is not that strong. What happened?”
Meade still looked down, shook his head. “They will not advance. I ordered support, but the men would not move forward. It was—forgive me sir—it was a perfect slaughter.”
Grant waited for more, and Meade abruptly pulled the horse away, moved back toward the headquarters. Grant turned, looked out toward the lines, thought, This is … madness. It cannot be.
He spurred the horse, moved down a narrow ravine, heard shouts, the staff behind him. He felt the anger rising, thought of Meade’s caution, the face of a man who had lost the fire. I will see this, he thought, I will know what has happened. They cannot tell me there is no fight left in these men. He spurred the horse, pushed hard through a thicket of briars, reached a trail, turned the horse, moved toward the sounds that now emerged from the woods, from the ground in front of him. He moved forward along the trail, saw now the woods were thick with soldiers. Some were walking, moving slowly away from the lines, blank faces, bloody stains on ragged uniforms. Now he saw officers, men on horses, some on foot, and one man saluted him, but most did not notice him. He slowed the horse, and now the staff hurried up behind him.
Rawlins was suddenly there, said, “Sir, what are you doing? Where are we going? Do you have orders, sir?”
He looked at Rawlins, felt his anger boiling in his brain, felt his jaw clench, said, “What has happened to this army, Mr. Rawlins?”
Rawlins stared at him, said nothing, and Grant spurred the horse again, rode down into a shallow depression, saw a vast line of blue, huddled together in a solid mass, spread out on both sides of him. Now the sounds flowed out all around him, and he could hear shouts, the voices of his men, the cries and screams of the wounded. The sounds began to grow, and he pushed the horse up a small rise, saw vast blue clusters, men crouched together, ha
tless, bloody shapes, faces staring up into the sky. He stopped the horse, saw a row of big guns, the crews sitting on the ground, the officers staring at him quietly. He pushed the horse past the guns, climbed a small rise, and now he could see it, spread out in front of him. The ground was like a wide flat table, a few large trees, the bark splintered, the trees stripped bare. All across the rich green of the grass lay the bodies in blue, a thick carpet, reaching across the open ground. To the far side he saw the long tall mound, the fresh dirt facing him like a dark brown wave, motionless, frozen in time. The mound spread out in both directions, hidden behind brush, snaked and curved out across a wide field, then farther, disappearing into a patch of woods. He saw a glimmer of motion, a reflection behind the mound, the morning sun now reflecting off the thick rows of bayonets. There were small gaps in the mound, and he saw movement, and across the horrible field of blue it was the only motion he saw. It was the face of the enemy.
Rawlins was beside him, and the horse was jerked to the side. He felt them pulling him back down the rise. He heard the new sounds, a burst of firing, the musket balls flying over his head. He still tried to see over the rise, wanted to turn the horse, but the reins were not in his hand. He turned, thought, This is not real, a nightmare … But he saw Rawlins looking at him, the reins of his horse in Rawlins’s hand, and he knew Rawlins was real, that all of it was real.