Hell or Richmond (16 page)

Where were his troops? He felt a surge of rage. But the expression on his face remained unchanged. And he did not mean to change it even in death.

He beat down the anger, reminding himself that his troops were good men, as good as could be found, and they were doubtless moving as fast as they could.

A round caught the division’s flag, tearing the silk. But the color sergeant righted it again.

Getty could make out Confederate faces now, their beards first, then their features. Men as lean as he was himself, as fierce. Brave men. But his own must be braver this day.

He could feel the tension in the men beside him, the awful waiting for death or a terrible wound. Miraculously, all but the orderly remained untouched.

“Steady, gentlemen. Just hold steady.”

A few of the Rebs got a cheer going, another version of their banshee’s wail. Some dashed up the road now, as if toward a prize.

“Gentlemen, your pistols,” he said. But he did not draw his own. As rounds snapped off on either side of him, Getty continued looking straight ahead. Staring down his opponent in the ultimate poker game.

Was this the start of a momentous battle? Or would he and these men be sacrificed for a diversion that would be forgotten in days? What did soldiers ever die for, really, if not for the call of soldiering itself? Was every glorious cause a mere excuse?

His officers and men soon emptied their pistols.

The leading Rebels had come within fifty yards. If they paused to fire now, their rounds would tell.

“Don’t reload,” he ordered. “Just keep pointing your pistols at them. Bluff them.”

Struck by a ball, a horse became unmanageable. The rider fought to keep it in the line.

It was a matter of seconds now. And the race would be lost.

Nothing Getty had ever heard sounded finer, more purely beautiful, than the cheers that rose at his back. And the manly cheers—deep Northern cheers—were followed by the pounding of hundreds of feet coming on at a run.

Frank Wheaton rode up beside him, leading his Pennsylvania Volunteers. The veteran soldiers knew what to do. Without command, they formed in line in front of the waiting horsemen.

Shortening his commands to the essentials, Wheaton barked, “Front! Fire!”

The first volley was a ragged one, but it told. Balls met the advancing Confederates, sweeping the road and scouring the brush.

The balance of fate had changed. The Confederates were outnumbered now, at least for the present. And they recognized it. Shouting curses, the shabby men withdrew, some of them pausing to shoot in a show of defiance. Others refused to bolt into the bushes, keeping to the road they had briefly possessed, suicidal in their courage and rage.

“Nicely done, Frank,” Getty said. “Now push your men out a little, would you? We’re on our own until Hancock decides to show up.”

The nearest Rebel dead lay within thirty yards.

Eleven thirty a.m.
Orange Turnpike

Meade found Warren beyond the shabby plantation house. Surrounded by his mounted staff and hangers-on, the Fifth Corps commander was arguing with Griffin, a tough old soldier.

Damned society ball,
Meade thought as he aimed his mount into the crowd. He could not see or hear one sign of the attack he had ordered Warren to make hours earlier. If anything, the skirmishing had dropped off on Warren’s front.

Warren and Griffin broke off their exchange at Meade’s approach, but their faces told the story: Warren wore the look of a truant caught out by his teacher, while Griffin’s expression remained hot and defiant. Meade thought Warren a fool for allowing subordinates to entertain themselves by listening to generals bicker. It was like a blasted minstrel show, with gunpowder for blackface.

“All of you,” Meade snapped, “clear out.”

The staff men and the merely curious nudged their horses off in every direction, toward an idle battery, or to the rear, or, in a few cases, closer to the troops gathered down in the pasture.

General Griffin did not go.

Meade mastered his temper as best he could, but spoke curtly: “I wish to speak with General Warren privately. If you don’t mind, General Griffin.”

Throwing invisible sparks, Griffin saluted and kicked his horse into motion.

When they were alone—as alone as they could be in full view of hundreds of onlookers—Meade said, “Damn me to blazes, G.K. How many orders to attack do I have to give you?”

“George—”

“You should’ve been at them hours ago. Grant’s fuming.”

“I’m trying to—”

“Our reputation’s at stake, man. Here. Now.
Today.
Grant’s been told over and over that the Army of the Potomac doesn’t fight. And here we are, the first damned time he orders an attack, and I might as well be giving commands to Chinamen.”

It was a struggle not to tear Warren into pieces, but the curious did not need to know any more than they already did, and he did not want to undercut Warren’s authority. Enough was enough, though. Back on the hill where Grant had chosen a stump for his headquarters, Rawlins had roared to all the saints and sinners in Creation, “I told you, I told every one of you: These eastern fellas won’t fight.”

Meade almost had to wonder if Rawlins was right.

“George … General Meade…” Warren seemed amazed that he might be allowed a word. His bird’s face was sharp with nerves, not fortitude. “I’m doing all I can. You told me Sedgwick would be up on my right, but there’s no sign of him. I’ve recalled Crawford, but he has high ground he doesn’t want to give up. And Wadsworth’s division is strung out in the undergrowth. You have no idea how bad this ground is, how difficult.”

“I think I have some idea,” Meade snapped. “What about Griffin?”

“He can’t attack alone.”

“He could have. Had he done so when first ordered.”

“George … we don’t know how many Confederates are out there, just that they’re Ewell’s men. We could be facing his entire corps.”

“I’ll damned well tell you how many Rebels are out there,” Meade said, temper bucking. “More of them every minute, that’s how many.” Sweat burned his eyes. “Could Wadsworth support him, if Griffin attacked now?”

Warren shrugged. “They’re not tied in, not properly. I have entire brigades moving Indian-file in that … that labyrinth. I’m trying to coordinate an attack that won’t be sheer chaos.”

Meade sensed that, at least on this day, Grant had been right, that the proper action would have been to pitch right into Lee, first thing in the morning, with the forces at hand, and damn the risk. Now Warren’s pursuit of an engineer’s perfection and Griffin’s reluctance to spend the lives of his troops had given the Confederates time to get ready. Warren liked well-organized set-piece battles, and Meade was not entirely without sympathy. But those days were going, if not gone. From here on out, it would be about who landed the first and hardest blow on the enemy.

And there was sense in Grant’s approach, given the taste Lee had developed for entrenching. A morning attack might have been bloody, but an attack delayed would be costlier. One had to be made, though. And every minute lost only strengthened the enemy.

He wished the order of march had been different, that Hancock had been here in Warren’s place. Had Win had Gibbon’s or Barlow’s divisions on this field in the morning, the only problem would have been holding them back. G. K. Warren was a brilliant man, but, for the first time, Meade wondered if it was possible to have too fine a mind to command effectively. What if intelligence only inflated dangers, while clouding opportunity? Hancock was no dunce, but no one would have mistaken him for a professor. Warren would have suited the West Point faculty.

Nor did Grant seem possessed of a shining intellect. But he won battles.

“If we wait a little longer,” Warren resumed, “I’m convinced we can get the Confederates to attack us. Then we’d have the defense’s advantages. The way we did at Gettysburg.” He gestured toward his waiting regiments: The men were digging entrenchments.

“It’s a different war now,” Meade said. “Delays only add to the casualty rolls. Order Griffin and Wadsworth to attack.”

“Griffin just wants to wait until Sedgwick comes up,” Warren pleaded. “He’s ridden forward to see things for himself, George. He says the Confederates overlap his right, that even if he’s successful, he’ll be enveloped.” Warren pawed his mustaches, a sad and friendless gesture. “Possibly on both flanks, if Wadsworth’s men can’t make it through that undergrowth. And there’s an open field a mile out, with Ewell’s men dug in on a ridge. Griffin says it’s a natural butcher’s yard.”

Meade saw the danger of being drawn into Warren’s endless arguments. There were always logical reasons not to do anything. Yes, the attack might fail. And thanks to the morning’s delays, it would damned well be costly, whether it worked or not. But it had to be made. And he needed to return to headquarters, to find out where Sedgwick’s lead division had gotten to and confirm that Hancock had reinforced Getty down on the Plank Road. It seemed that the only men in his entire army who’d shown their mettle had been a handful of New York cavalrymen.

Lee was probably gloating.

And Grant just sat there on his stump, whittling a stick and smoking his cigars, watching everything and saying nothing, letting Rawlins do his dirty work.

“You will attack,” Meade told his subordinate. “Immediately.”

SIX

One p.m.
Todd’s Tavern

Hancock saw Frank Barlow riding up in his checkered shirt and knew exactly how their exchange would run. Barlow’s reactions were as reliable as a rich man’s watch.

Young Barlow would never make a cavalryman, and that was certain, too. He sat a horse well enough to lead an infantry division, but an old soldier could tell at a glance that the New Englander had never ridden the plains with the old dragoons before the war. And the saber that dangled off his thigh appeared made for a giant. It would have excited ridicule, had it not been employed so earnestly. Barlow’s face was set hard, though, and his gracelessness on horseback somehow made him seem more determined and ruthless.

Riding up to Hancock’s position between the crossroads and a poor-man’s tavern, Barlow stopped his horse, saluted carelessly—as if he were the superior—and patted the animal’s neck. The beast’s mouth foamed. Barlow was hard on every living creature, and Hancock wondered how the boy got on with his matronly wife. Stonehearted Frank Barlow, with his crooked teeth and prodding talk? Did Barlow, too, have a soul behind those close-set, wintry eyes?

Before Barlow could speak, Hancock said, “Got your men turned around?”

The brigadier nodded. “They have orders to move as soon as the road’s clear behind them. What’s this about, sir?”

Hancock nodded toward the north, away from his interrupted line of march. Barely audible rifle fire rankled the afternoon. “Bobby Lee didn’t wait for our grand plan to come to fruition.”

“I don’t hear any cannon,” Barlow said. “If it was serious, there’d be artillery.”

Hancock shook his head. “Not artillery ground up there. No fields of fire, except along the roads. If George Meade’s going to fight in that damned jungle, he’s going to do it with infantry and little else.”

“Sir … I’ve been given orders to bring up the rear of the corps.”

Hancock beat down a smile before Barlow could see it. “You were in front, now you’re in the rear. I’m just turning this leviathan around as fast as I can. Before George Meade falls down dead with a heart attack.” Hancock stopped himself. “That was unfair. Meade’s doing the best he can. With Grant looking over his shoulder every minute. Christ, I’d hate that.”

“Sir, if you held up Mott’s division and let mine pass, my men are better marchers.…” Barlow took off his cap, exposing sweat-plastered hair, and wiped a dirty sleeve across his forehead. Hancock wore a starched white shirt each day, his one indulgence. “I’d like to get into the fight,” Barlow continued. “Mott could bring up the rear.”

Barlow was as predictable as the stink on an Indian. The instant he smelled a fight, he wanted to join it.

“No. I
want
you to bring up the rear. Longstreet’s out there, think it through. If Lee’s trying to fix us in the Wilderness, what do you figure he’s up to? If I know Marse Robert, he’s going to try to swing Longstreet around our flank and pull off another Chancellorsville. And he’ll come at this flank, if he comes at all.”

A passing regiment cheered at the sight of Hancock. The corps commander waved his hat in return.

“Longstreet’s not in front of me,” Barlow said. “I had scouts out, my own men. Since the damned cavalry’s nowhere to be found.”

“He may not be in front of you now, but he’ll show up all right.”

“Mott could watch the flank as well as I could.”

“No. You’ve got my largest division. I need you on the flank. If Longstreet tries to hit us, I want him to come up against something that’s going to hurt him back. Something that can stop him, until we sort things out. You hold the lucky number, Frank.”

“The damned cavalry should be out there, doing their proper work.” Barlow swept an arm toward the countermarching troops. “None of these contortions would be necessary.”

“Oh, they’re out there,” Hancock said. “Just not necessarily where we’d like ’em to be. I could hear a fuss off in the woods this morning. I figure our boys and Stuart’s bunch are playing tag with each other.”

A passing band struck up “Camptown Races,” but their playing was ragged and weak: dry throats and parched lips on a hot day’s march.

“Won’t win any prizes at the Academy of Music, that’s for damned sure,” Hancock said. “Well, now that we’re all pissing in the right direction, I’ve got to get up to the fight. Meade’s goddamned courier got here late and things sound a little unhinged. Just pull your men back and take up a blocking position along that rise. I don’t want to give up this crossroads until I know what the Hell else is going on.”

As Hancock turned northward up the Brock Road, his color sergeants kicked their horses to life and fell in at his stirrup. His staff, in turn, joined the cavalcade behind the flags of the corps. It made him feel vividly alive to ride into battle, and he savored the sensation every time.