Hell or Richmond (11 page)

Longstreet had promised to be up before the next afternoon was out. That would leave precious hours when the numbers would not be so terribly unequal. If Grant and Meade could be lured back to Mine Run by late afternoon, if pride led them to commit their forces piecemeal … if Grant drove Meade to squander his best men against entrenchments …

Lee turned back to the main headquarters tent, where Marshall sat making clean copies of the day’s orders. Suicidal moths attacked his lantern. Taking care not to smear his work, the military secretary brushed a tiny corpse from the document at hand. Even paper was precious now: Nothing could be wasted.

“Colonel Marshall? We must send another dispatch to General Longstreet. Tell him he
must
honor his promise to join the army by late afternoon. Further orders will follow with details, but he must come up.” Lee tapped a finger at the corner of his mouth. “I would not wish him to construe silence from this headquarters as suggesting a lack of urgency.”

“He’s got a devil of a march to make, sir.”

“General Longstreet assured me he can do it.” Lee almost smiled. “But even generals want reminding.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lee knew Marshall’s biases. The military secretary was a brilliant mathematician with a knack for calculating time, distance, and the possibilities inherent in a soldier’s legs. As a rule, though, Marshall preferred orderly marches that let the men arrive in condition to fight. He did not like too much risk. Normally, Lee appreciated that quality. He needed men around him who could check his sudden impulses. And those closest to him sought to do so, with sometimes comical discretion. But tonight was not a time to take counsel of fear.

Longstreet would keep his promise and be up. After all, Jackson had marched farther and faster many a time. And if the generals in blue could be lured into folly, he and his army would deliver a telling blow to the reputation of the great General Grant, conqueror of Vicksburg and purported savior of the Union. Lee allowed himself the vanity to believe that he was not the mild opponent Grant had found in Pemberton or Johnston. And, ragged or not, the Army of Northern Virginia was composed of the finest soldiers who ever had marched into battle.

He needed sleep, but still had to write to the president in his own hand, to keep the strictest confidence between them. The Federals were active on the Peninsula again, and menacing the Valley with another force. Sherman was stirring in northwestern Georgia, and there was activity west of the Mississippi. Grant clearly intended to overwhelm the Confederacy, and he could not be allowed to maintain the initiative. Instead of striking the Southern armies from every side, those people must be beaten in detail. Grant’s proposition had to be turned on its head.

And he needed Pickett’s division to rejoin Longstreet’s command. It was an infernal frustration that men who faced trivial threats inflated them when they spoke to President Davis, leaving him afraid of spooks when real dangers were present. He had to make his case in logic even Jefferson Davis could not dismiss.

It would be another long letter, and he would get too little sleep again. War was for the young.

He turned back to his adjutant. “All right, Colonel Taylor. Let me know if word comes from General Stuart. Wake me, if necessary. And tomorrow, if the Lord sees fit to bless our enterprises, we will trouble those people in the Wilderness, then beat them at Mine Run.” He smiled and, despite his weariness, this last smile was a full one. “I would offer you some of Mrs. Rhodes’ excellent buttermilk, but I fear Colonel Marshall had no inclination to share. Good night, gentlemen.”

It would not be a good night for Robert E. Lee of Virginia. He would dream, terribly, of the long blue columns he had watched from the top of the mountain. In his dream, they would be everywhere.

Night
Germanna Ford

“I’d like to get out of the Wilderness,” Meade said. “It’s a wretched place that’s only fit for bushwhacking.”

Grant leaned toward the fire, scratching the ground with a stick. “Think Lee wants to fight in there? That what you’re saying?”

Ever wary of unfriendly ears, Meade glanced around. All of the staff men had kept a proper distance, allowing the two commanders a private parley. Beyond the fire, the faces of Rawlins and Congressman Washburne haunted the shadows, though. Their heads together, the two looked like conspirators, glancing now and then toward the generals. Meade imagined them snickering: He found all politicians suspect. The blasted Committee on the Conduct of the War was a grotesque display of the corruption that blighted every effort to defeat the Confederacy. His public shaming gnawed at him, and he didn’t trust a single elected official. Not even Governor Curtin. Or Lincoln, who allowed himself to be swayed by boastful frauds.

Still, Meade warned himself, Washburne was Grant’s advocate and protector, and the man had nothing to do with the committee’s disgraceful shenanigans. The congressman had yet to show any hostility to him, and Meade meant to keep it so. Careful not to descend into obsequiousness, he took pains to be courteous and helpful. Even if he would not make Washburne a friend, he did not need another foe in Washington.

“I don’t think Lee wants to fight in that tangle, either,” Meade explained. “But we’ll see blood, if we delay. Given the opportunity, he’ll try to draw us out, try to get us to attack him at Mine Run. That’s what he wants, I’d bet my shoulder straps on it. And if Lee calculates that he has to bloody our noses to provoke us, he’ll come on fists up.”

“Good,” Grant said.

Meade stiffened. “But…”

Grant tapped the ground, then cocked his face toward Meade. The man’s eyes were impenetrable but glowing, a trick of the firelight.

“Recollect what I told you, George.” Grant’s voice was quiet, but firm. “Where Lee goes, there you’ll go also. I mean to get at him, and sooner’s better than later. And once we get him by the tail, I don’t mean to let him go.”

“All well and good, Sam … well and good, of course … but Humphreys’ plan is sound and I’d like to stick to it. We have to march hard tomorrow. To outflank Lee. If he takes up the Mine Run line, we need to be in position to envelop him. A frontal attack would be murderous. We need to adhere to the plan and resume the march.”

Grant put down his stick and fished out a fresh cigar. This time, he failed to offer one to Meade. “Plans get you started. That’s about all they’re good for. I don’t want this army stretched out like a concertina, that’s asking for trouble. I want to be ready to hammer Lee the moment he leaves his hole. I want Burnside up, the entire force together. I mean to hit Lee with everything we have.”

“Well, you won’t be able to do that in the Wilderness, Sam. A fight in there would be a drunkard’s brawl. Wait until tomorrow, wait until you see the ground for yourself. Lee could hold us up with a handful of regiments. Oh, I’m all for consolidating the Army of the Potomac. And with Burnside, too. I don’t want to move rashly. But I want to get through that hellhole. And the Ninth Corps won’t be here for another day, at least. We can’t let General Burnside delay this army.”

As Meade waited for a reply, a leaping flame made it look as though the derelict house in the background were ablaze. Meade declined to believe in omens.

Taking his time about lighting his cigar, Grant said, “Burnside will be here tomorrow afternoon. I have his word.”

“He won’t be. He
can’t
be. His men don’t have their campaign legs yet.” Meade hoped to leave it at that. He had to be careful not to appear too critical of Burnside, whose corps remained independent of the Army of the Potomac, thanks to Burnside’s seniority on the rolls. It made for a damnably awkward chain of command, with Burnside ordered to cooperate with Meade, but receiving his orders only from Grant’s headquarters. Meade hoped the arrangement would work, but had his doubts.

“A fellow tells me something, I take him at his word,” Grant said calmly. “Until he shows me that his word’s no good.” Cigar still unlit, he canted his head, looking at Meade the way he might have looked at a horse he still wasn’t quite sure of. “I want you to get everybody tied in proper. Figure out where it’s best to hold up Hancock’s advance tomorrow, then have him reach back and tie in to Warren’s left. And Warren should reach for Hancock, as soon as he makes Parker’s Store. Sedgwick’s corps can link into Warren’s right, when he comes up. I want an unbroken front, if Lee comes on. Or if we have to go for him.”

“Lee won’t just let us arrange ourselves. He’s not like that,” Meade warned. “He’ll start in skirmishing to throw us off balance. He’ll probe for a weak spot and try to delay us, buy himself time. He’ll test you. Based on my own not altogether pleasant experience, I’m convinced he’ll want to draw us toward Mine Run. The place is a fortress for him and a waiting slaughter pen for us. And all the while his cavalry will be out, looking for a way into our trains and stirring confusion.” Meade grunted. “Stuart loves to read about himself in the Richmond papers.”

Grant’s voice remained quiet, but his cigar stabbed the air. “If Lee wants a fight, he’ll get one. If he comes up, you’re to pitch into him. Wherever he may be. Attack
him
.
Before
he attacks you. Get your teeth in his leg and chew.”

Meade felt queasy: Grant didn’t understand this battlefield. Or Lee. He saw the plan, their fine plan, collapsing around them.

“Yes, sir,” he said. But his voice was empty.

“As for cavalry”—Grant eased his tone back toward friendliness—“you’ve got Sheridan angrier than a stepped-on cottonmouth. He thinks it’s a mistake to detail two of his cavalry divisions to guard the rear, with only Wilson to cover the army’s front.” The unexpected mirth of Grant’s expression threatened to explode into a laugh. “Of course, I’m cleaning up his vocabulary considerably.”

“If General Sheridan has a complaint, let him bring it to me.”

Grant chuckled, fighting back the insistent laugh. “Oh, he will, he will. Have no doubt of that. Phil’s got him a temper shorter than the man himself. His last dispatch burned my fingers. I had to pass it off to young Badeau.”

“General Sheridan will always get a fair hearing from me,” Meade said stiffly. “But I think I know how to handle my own cavalry. Stuart’s not to be trifled with, Sam. Sheridan’s about to find that out.”

“Bedford Forrest wasn’t to be trifled with, either,” Grant told him.

An aide approached and offered them fresh coffee. Meade declined, but Grant accepted. And he finally lit the cigar.

Meade had grown more than unsettled. The heat of the fire had begun to make him dizzy. It was a hot night, more July than early May, and bad for the troops, who would discard even more of their blankets.

Grant seemed unaffected. He even had his tunic fully buttoned, which wasn’t his habit.

“How long will Lee wait?” the general in chief asked. “Before he moves? I don’t mean just skirmishers.”

Meade looked into the firelight, as if it held the answers. He did not want to reply lightly and pay for it later.

“I’d say … we have a day. Or the better part of one. Longstreet’s corps was in bivouac between Gordonsville and Mechanicsville. He’ll have to march forty miles, if not more. He won’t reach Lee before tomorrow night.
If
he moved promptly today. And given the numbers against him, Lee will want to have Longstreet up before he risks a general attack.”

“You think it’s going to take Pete that long? After all I’ve heard about Jackson’s Foot Cavalry?”

“Jackson’s dead.”

Grant let out a mouthful of smoke. “And Longstreet isn’t his equal?”

Meade warned himself to step carefully: Grant and Longstreet were known to be old friends.

“Longstreet moves … with more precision,” Meade said. “Anyway, I don’t believe he can reach Lee before tomorrow night, not in any effective condition. And Lee won’t want to get into a major fight without Longstreet’s corps on hand. He learned that lesson at Gettysburg, I think.”

Grant drew heavily on his cigar, as if smoking it were a pleasure and burden at once. Exhaling, he smiled that troubling, close-lipped smile again.

“That so? And what did you learn at Gettysburg, George?”

“I learned,” Meade told him, “that Lee never has to be taught a lesson twice.”

PART

II

WILDERNESS OF BLOOD

FOUR

May 5, dawn
Kelly’s Ford

“Where you going, Private?” Sergeant Brown demanded. He had spotted the boy slipping off in the mist that rose from the river. If the shorter of the company’s two John Eckerts meant to empty his bowels, he was headed in the wrong direction. And if he didn’t intend to have a squat, he had no excuse to go anywhere. “And where’s your cap?”

Rumpling pale hair with an awkward paw, the private said, “I was just going down for to wash my feet. I think I don’t need no cap, Sergeant Brown.” The boy pronounced the rank and name as “Sarchint Brawn,” his Dutchie accent thick as mashed-up beans.

“You wear your cap everywhere, Private. And what did I say about washing your feet? Stand up proper when you talk to me.”