A Stillness at Appomattox (34 page)

There
had
been
some
anxious
moments
at
headquarters,
for all
of
the
outward
calm.
After
the
needful
measures
had
been taken,
and
there
was
nothing
to
do
but
wait
for
an
hour
or
so to
see
whether
those
measures
would
work,
Grant
went
into his
tent,
lay
down
on
his
cot,
and
had
a
very
bad
ten
or
fifteen minutes
of
it.
One
of
his
staff
wrote
later
that
Grant
went
to sleep
at
once
and
slept
as
quietly
as
a
baby,
but
that
was
just part
of
the
legend.
The
army
had
rubbed
elbows
with
sheer catastrophe
that
night
and
Grant
knew
it,
and
when
he
was alone
he
could
be
as
much
tormented
by
suspense
as
anyone else.
²⁸

Yet
the
catastrophe
had
never
materialized,
and
on
the morning
of
May
7—forty-eight
hours
after
the
battle
began— the
two
armies
were
just
about
where
they
were
at
the
start It
was
a
foggy
morning,
and
there
was
heavy
smoke
from
the brush
fires,
and
officers
on
reconnoissance
could
see
very
little,
even
on
the
roads
or
in
clearings.
Along
the
Turnpike, rival
skirmishers
had
little
spats
now
and
then,
although
nobody
seemed
ready
to
bring
on
a
real
fight.
²⁴
On
the
Plank Road
the
Confederates
had
drawn
back—the
burnt-over
acres where
there
had
been
so
much
fighting
the
day
before
were no
place
for
a
battle
line—and
the
hot
day
wore
away
with little
active
contact
between
the
armies.

From
end
to
end
of
the
Union
line
there
were
breastworks —stout
affairs
of
piled
logs,
on
the
Brock
Road;
lighter
constructions
of
heaped
wood
and
earth,
deeper
in
the
forest— and
the
men
made
themselves
as
easy
as
they
could
behind these
works
and
speculated
about
what
was
likely
to
happen next.
They
did
a
great
deal
of
talking
about
it,
and
mostly
it boiled
down
to
the
simple
question:
Had
they
just
fought
a second
battle
of
Chancellorsville?

The
two
battles
were
very
much
alike.
They
had
been fought
in
very
nearly
the
same
place.
Each
time,
a
Union army
with
a
great
advantage
in
numbers
had
plunged
into
a forest
where
numbers
did
not
help
much,
had
seen
its
flanks broken
in,
and
had
had
very
heavy
losses.
(The
toll
for
the two
days
in
the
Wilderness
was
more
than
15,000
casualties, about
equal
to
Chancellorsville.)
After
Chancellorsville,
the army
had
admitted
defeat
and
had
gone
back
across
the
riven Would
it
do
the
same
thing
now?

In
the
Philadelphia
Brigade
the
men
were
cynical.
They agreed
that
by
all
precedents
the
army
would
retreat,
would grant
furloughs
lavishly
to
restore
morale,
would
spend
weeks reorganizing
and
ordering
new
equipment,
and—after
getting reinforcements—would
probably
think
about
making
some new
move.
That
afternoon
the
wagon
trains
got
under
way, creaking
slowly
off
toward
Fredericksburg.
A
Massachusetts soldier
admitted
that
"most
of
us
thought
it
was
another Chancellorsville,
and
that
next
day
we
should
recross
the river,"
and
a
cavalryman
said
his
comrades
"supposed
they were
on
another
skedaddle."
²⁵

Night
came
at
last,
and
couriers
sped
to
corps
and
division headquarters,
and
the
men
in
Warren's
corps—unspeakably weary,
after
two
days
of
fighting
and
practically
no
sleep-left
their
trenches,
fell
into
column,
and
started
marching. They
found
themselves
on
the
Brock
Road,
and
in
the
darkness
they
were
filing
south
immediately
in
rear
of
Hancock's men,
who
still
held
their
charred
log
barricades;
and
as
they marched
the
men
realized
that
they
were
not
heading
toward the
river
crossings
at
all
but
were
going
south
toward
the lower
edge
of
the
Wilderness.
The
road
was
crowded,
and
nobody
could
see
much,
but
as
the
men
trudged
along
it
suddenly
came
to
them
that
this
march
was
different.
Just
then there
was
a
crowding
at
the
edge
of
the
road,
and
mounted aides
were
ordering:
"Give
way
to
the
right!"
and
a
little cavalcade
came
riding
by
at
an
easy
jingling
trot—and
there, just
recognizable,
was
Grant
riding
in
the
lead,
his
staff
following
him,
heading
south.

This
army
had
known
dramatic
moments
of
inspiration
in the
past—massed
flags
and
many
bugles
and
broad
blue
ranks spread
out
in
the
sunlight,
with
leadership
bearing
a
drawn sword
and
riding
a
prancing
horse,
and
it
had
been
grand and
stirring.
Now
there
was
nothing
more
than
a
bent
shadow in
the
night,
a
stoop-shouldered
man
who
was
saying
nothing
to
anyone,
methodically
making
his
way
to
the
head
of
the column—and
all
of
a
moment
the
tired
column
came
alive,
and a
wild
cheer
broke
the
night
and
men
tossed
their
caps
in
the darkness.