Hell or Richmond (15 page)

“Yes, sir.” The young man saluted and turned toward his mount.

“Major Pendleton?”

The boy pivoted. “Sir?”

“You may not need a rest, but I recommend you grant your horse a few minutes. He will be hard used this day.”

As we all may be, Lee told himself.

Lee and Hill had ridden ahead of the main body of the Culpeper native’s corps. Hill knew the ground as well as any of Lee’s generals. Which was to say imperfectly. The Wilderness was not a place to hold men’s interest in better times, and past campaigns had rushed through it, gripping the roads. Even Jackson had only pierced its edges, leaving these brambles and swamps an unknown world.

Lee consoled himself that the generals in blue suffered ignorance worse than his own. He counted on that to render them wary and slow.

If Longstreet was still many miles to the west, another welcome face appeared in his stead. Waving his hat and its long widow’s plume, Stuart encouraged his mount to prance up the slope toward Lee and his staff. The man was incorrigible. But his theatrics tricked a faint smile out of Lee.

With the grin of a naughty child, Stuart dismounted, saluted all present, and strode toward Lee and Hill.

“My compliments, gentlemen.” Instead of saluting, he tipped his hat. “General Lee, sir, General Hill. Lovely day. Bit warm. Hot, actually. D’you know that Wilson? Grant’s new boy? Not Sheridan, the other one. Engineer fellow they gave a division of cavalry? Insult to the mounted arm, as far as I’m concerned. Well, we just gave young Master Wilson a spanking he’ll remember. Fellow had the nerve to stand and fight. He’ll learn, I s’pose.” Stuart laughed merrily. “Oh, it was splendid!”

Lee suspected that it had not been splendid at all, but deadly and ugly. The Federal horsemen had improved much over the years, and their numbers were daunting. But Stuart was Stuart. The man would laugh at his funeral. And call for a banjo tune.

“I’ve got cavalry to my front,” Hill told Stuart. “New York boys. Scrappy.”

“Like me to see to ’em?”

“Oh, I expect we can handle them. Just wondering why your boys didn’t run ’em off earlier.”

Lee felt compelled to enter the discussion. “Perhaps,” he told Hill, “we might press them a bit harder now. Since General Ewell reports troops moving southward. We must possess the crossroads.”

Alert to every gradation of Lee’s tone, Hill said: “Yes, sir. Kirkland hasn’t been slouching, I didn’t mean that. The Yankees have been giving a fair account of themselves.” He glanced at Stuart. “Up here, at least. But I’ll see to it that we finish things up right now.” He strode off to give orders to an aide.

It was always a difficult thing, finding the correct words and the precise tone to make men do what had to be done without exciting their tempers or wounding their pride. A hint that a man had faltered turned bravery spendthrift. And men had a genius for hearing what they wished to hear, be it for good or ill.

But the crossroads up ahead had to be seized and held, if the army was going to fight upon this ground. Hill had been too slow, content to await the arrival of more men. Should they be forced to withdraw to Mine Run before Longstreet arrived, the crossroads could be held by a rear guard, preventing those people from mounting a strong pursuit and creating disorder.

Time, it was always about time. It was the factor in war that had no give.

Grant and Meade just needed to allow him a little time now. If he could fix them, hold them passively before him, until Longstreet appeared …

Around him, staff men who had not slept lay in the shade to rest. Orderlies groomed horses, while others started a fire for the coffee Lee no longer dared to drink in quantity.

At least his bowels had been merciful this day. And his heart beat painlessly.

Good omens? He prayed the Lord would let him survive to see his duty through.

Stepping from the shade into the sunlight, yearning to see more of the fight than the undergrowth allowed, Lee asked: “What other news have you brought us, General Stuart?”

Belatedly drawing off his riding gauntlets, Stuart said, “Hancock’s down on the Catharpin Road. Same as earlier, sir. Sedgwick’s back between Warren and the river, just plain crawling along the road down from the ford. His men are packed thick as fleas on an old shuck mattress, I’d love to have a few batteries up there.”

“General Burnside?”

“He’s across the Rappahannock, but still well north of the Rapidan. He won’t be worth much until tonight.” Stuart smiled. “Maybe not then, either.”

Lee’s mien grew earnest. “I need you close now, General Stuart. Parry their cavalry, blind them. The southern flank must be held open for General Longstreet. His approach must not be detected.”

“I was thinking, General, that I might have a go at their trains in the meantime. Fitz could do it. Just another brigade or so, bring up his numbers a little.”

“No. Not now. I need you to safeguard our flanks. And to keep me informed. We must not be embarrassed by General Grant in our first encounter.”

“Man’s a famous drunk. He won’t get any farther than Joe Hooker.”

Lee let the remarks pass, but he was tired of such flippancies. He knew too well the cost of underestimating an opponent. As he had George Meade at Gettysburg.

Eastward, along the Plank Road, the firing expanded. Hill’s aide had delivered the general’s message forcefully. The crossroads soon would be occupied. And they would see to the next order of business.

Hill rejoined Lee and Stuart. Pretending mortification, he said, “Jeb, you’re sweating, boy. I didn’t think a cavalryman ever broke a sweat.”

Stuart doffed his hat and bowed. “You will note, General Hill, that I am dismounted at present. Thus—to my immeasurable sorrow—I must be counted among the infantry. And I have observed that infantrymen sweat copiously, sir. Indeed, their perspiration is extravagant.”

Hill shook his head and his grin showed a broken front tooth. “Stuart, I swear. This war ends, I’m going to stuff you for a peacock and charge admission.”

Lee felt the heat strike suddenly. A wave of it swept over him, its effect almost prostrating. He turned to step into the shade, but was stopped by a sight that astonished him.

Not two hundred yards away, a blue skirmish line emerged from the gloom of the trees, headed straight for the generals.

Lee thrust out his hand and gripped Stuart’s forearm.

“Gently,”
Lee said.

Turning his back on the Federal troops—who advanced with bayonets fixed—Lee forced himself to walk slowly. But his heart beat like a drum calling men to arms.

“Gently,” he repeated as staff men rushed toward him, betraying alarm. “Colonel Taylor, let us go quietly. We must not appear troubled.”

He kept on walking down toward the road without looking back. Taylor called softly to an aide to bring Lee’s horse.

Still no shots, no shouts.

Hill’s man, Palmer, galloped past to hurry forward any troops he could find. Behind himself, Lee heard shouted commands and whinnying horses as the staff men tried to decide whether it was wiser to put up a fight or just get away.

Good Lord, Lee thought, veering as close to harsh language as he ever did, were they to take him, Hill, and Stuart at one grab …

Still no shots. Lee could not understand it. But he would not, could not, turn. Those people must not recognize him.

Where had they come from? Federal troops weren’t supposed to be anywhere near. They could only have forced their way through the heart of the Wilderness.

The realization chilled him.

An orderly brought up the horse and saw Lee mounted. He was about to spur the mount into a gallop when Stuart overtook him.

The cavalryman was laughing.

“Yankees hightailed it,” he said, speaking through his mirth. “They were just as surprised to see us as we were to see them. Somebody shouted, ‘Right about!’ and off they went like rabbits. Probably in Philadelphia by now.”

The relief Lee felt was real enough, but had a queerness to it. His spine softened and he slouched like an old man, an indulgence he never allowed himself in the presence of subordinates of any rank. It was almost as if he had relished the danger, had wanted something to happen, something definite, permanent, and had been disappointed. The sensation was new, and he did not understand it.

Lee corrected his posture. “I feared a grave misfortune,” he told Stuart. “This army could not spare you or General Hill.”

The young man riding beside him laughed again. He loved to laugh, to play the cavalier. But Lee could feel the days allotted for merriment running out.

“Oh, they never would’ve caught up with Powell Hill or me. My man Boteler was dead asleep under a tree, though. Should’ve seen his face when he woke up. Yanks would’ve bagged him sure.”

Lee felt a surge of temper. It was not a joking matter. Tragedy had been averted only by the mercy of the Creator. He needed Stuart to comport himself sensibly now, to avoid theatrics and unwarranted risks.

Before Lee could speak, the first troops of Hill’s main body came into view. The weary men cheered at the sight of him.

Eleven thirty a.m.
Brock Road

Brigadier General George Washington Getty never lost his composure in front of his men, but there were times when he came close. This was one of those times.

First, his division had been stripped of one brigade. Then Meade’s bald-headed schoolboy, Lyman, had arrived with orders for him to make a forced march to the Brock Road and Orange Plank Road crossing, which had been left undefended, except for a handful of jockeys off in the wilds. The folly of failing to cover that crossroads was insufferable. Even on the crudest map, a beardless lieutenant could see the junction’s importance.

Now his division’s men were marching hard, racing two miles from the rear in a frantic effort to arrive before what might be an entire Confederate corps. And Hancock apparently was so far south of the action that he might as well have been off fighting Seminoles.

Getty held his frustrations inside as he galloped ahead of his troops, accompanied only by his staff and some couriers. He was a Regular, a veteran of Mexico and of Florida’s endless swamp fights, and he did not intend to fail his army today.

At last, he could see the crossroads in the distance. There was heavy firing ahead.

What happened next further strained his self-control. A gaggle of blue-clad horsemen streamed back through the junction, riding as if the devil were at their heels. Careless of Getty and his staff, they thundered past, raising dust and flinging up clots of dirt. One called:

“Rebs are up that road. Thousands of ’em.”

A captain came on at a slower pace, barely a canter, accompanied by a handful of his troopers in fair order. Getty waved him to a halt.

Keeping his voice low and stern, he demanded, “And where are you going, Captain? Shall I help you find the enemy? Who’s your commanding officer?”

The captain was not daunted. “I know where the Rebs are, General. I’m from the Fifth New York, and we’ve been holding them off for five hours. We’re out of ammunition, and we’ve been out. Take it up with Colonel Hammond, if that’s your pleasure.” The horseman grew angrier. “If you want to know where I’m going, tell me where you and your fancy-boys have been.”

Getty waved the captain off and spurred his horse forward, shouting to an aide to ride back and order his men to come on at the double-quick.

Five hours? Even allowing for heat-of-battle exaggeration, it suggested infernal neglect. What had Meade’s staff been doing all the while? And then to send Lyman down with a flurry of commands, jumping the chain of command and sending his division to fix the mess made by the neglect of others …

Getty gave his horse the spurs again, letting his officers keep up as best they could. A few more horsemen passed them, galloping for the rear. Blood marked more than one man. A crimson-pated sergeant could barely stay in the saddle.

Five hours? Even had it been only three, or even two … why had nothing been done? Cavalry couldn’t be expected to hold back infantry that long.

He rued his tone toward the New York captain.

Getty reined up in the middle of the crossroads. His horse lifted its forelegs at the hard tug on the bit, then settled down. The general’s staff filled in around him.

There were no more blue-coated cavalrymen to be seen, but a few hundred yards down the road there were plenty of men on foot. They wore gray uniforms.

How far back was his first regiment?

“Gentlemen,” Getty said, raising his voice just slightly above the fuss, the horse jangle and gunfire, “my orders are to hold this point at any risk, and I always obey my orders. Arrange yourselves to my left and right, as if preparing to charge. Color sergeant to me.”

“Sir … you’re not really going to charge them?”

“No, Major. But
they
don’t know that.”

His officers and a pair of couriers nudged their horses forward to Getty’s flanks, filling up the crossroads as best they could. It made for a meager offering.

Bullets tore past as Rebels paused to fire. The men in gray advanced carefully, unsure of what might be waiting for them, of what the Yankees might have up their sleeves.

Let them pause over their doubts, Getty prayed to the old god of soldiers. Let their imaginations course with possibilities. Let them feel a twist of dread at each step.

“Steady, gentlemen,” he said.

Clipped by bullets, small branches fell, their new leaves brilliant even in the shade. An orderly gasped and folded onto his horse’s mane. Blood burst from his mouth.

“Steady,” Getty repeated. “No man moves, except at my command.”

The general considered drawing his saber, but decided against it. A display of confidence was of more use than bravado.

“General,” an aide said, “at least move back yourself.”

“The division will arrive shortly, Major Wolcott. Meanwhile, our place of duty is right here.”

The Rebels were gaining confidence, moving more quickly. The blessing was that fewer paused to fire.

They know, Getty thought. The bastards have seen through the bluff.