Hell or Richmond (34 page)

“I … I fear not, sir.”

“Kent, you’re an ass,” Meade said, and turned away.

Under the fly of the headquarters tent, Humphreys was at his duties as chief of staff, invigorated by the urgency of the moment, but no more flustered than Meade. He looked up at his superior’s approach.

“Well?” Meade asked.

“Neill’s solid. Sedgwick’s moving up more men. Upton led a couple of regiments into the fight on his own initiative.”

“That’ll be it for the night, then. Lee couldn’t sustain an attack in the darkness, they’ve done what damage they could.” He paused, then added, “What do you make of it all, Humph?”

“When they didn’t attack all along the front, I stopped worrying. Not that we haven’t had a blow.”

“Who got hit? Which brigades?”

The chief of staff shrugged. “If the dispositions I have are accurate, Shaler and Seymour got the worst of it.”

Meade smiled wryly, casting a glance toward the cacophony to the rear of the headquarters, in the forest and on the roads. “
That’s
the worst of it. Teamsters, hostlers, quartermasters … they panic at a sneeze.”

Humphreys let a ghost of mirth cross his face. “Shitting bricks. Like Gettysburg.”

Yes, like Gettysburg. When the rear echelon had collapsed in a fit of terror while the men behind the wall and the fence stood their ground and shattered the enemy.

“Tell Patrick I want him to get all that sorted out. Quickly.”

“He’s already at it, sir.”

“And let Sedgwick know that I never want to see that man Kent at this headquarters again.”

Humphreys almost forgot himself and grinned. “If
any
of us ever see Kent again.…”

Meade had been careful from the first to show no sign of alarm, and the men of the staff, at least, had patterned themselves on his comportment.

“Teddy,” he called to Lieutenant Colonel Lyman, a fellow whose discretion Meade trusted completely. “Go down there and let Grant know how things stand. Tell the general in chief I’ll join him shortly.”

“I’m surprised Rawlins isn’t up here tearing into us by now,” Humphreys said in a voice intended only for Meade’s ears.

“I’d better go down and see him. Grant, I mean. He’s been all right.” Meade thought for a moment, then said, “You and I may not agree with all of his decisions—”

“That’s putting it mildly. He fought this army piecemeal.”

“
We
fought it piecemeal. Following his orders.”

“We threw men away.”

“Humph, listen to me. I know you’re angry about how things have been handled. And Kent or no Kent, we’ve just had a bit of a scare. But credit Grant with one thing: He accepts responsibility for his actions. The man hasn’t tried to cast blame when things disappointed him.” Meade thought again of Grant’s whittling and his silence. “I’d say he takes setbacks with remarkable aplomb. I rather wish I had his even temper, I’d be better off.”

Humphreys grunted. “Grant may sit there like a wooden Indian, but I’ll bet he’s been jumping every which way inside. And I wouldn’t trust Rawlins or Washburne for an instant.”

In the background, the shooting had died down to occasional pocks, but the self-inflicted uproar in the army’s rear continued to make an appalling noise: crashing wagons, braying beasts, and the wails of terrified men. The provost marshal had his work cut out for him.

“They’re Grant’s men,” Meade said. “Naturally, their loyalty goes to him, not us.”

Humphreys gave an ungentlemanly snort. “Washburne’s loyal to Washburne. George, the man’s a politician, for Heaven’s sake. Haven’t you had enough of that sort of creature?”

“He’s Grant’s man.”

“That’s not the way he sees it. He thinks Grant’s
his
man.” Humphreys smirked. “Watch Grant’s face. From a distance. When Washburne starts wagging his finger.”

“Speaking of Grant…” Tired or not, he had to relate the latest developments to the general in chief, who had remained down in the hollow where his tent had been moved in the hopeless hope of quiet.

On his way down the path, Meade passed Lyman coming back.

“How is he?” Meade asked quietly.

“Odd, sir. He’s been so calm the past two days. But he strikes me as somewhat agitated tonight. I believe this last fuss got to him.”

“About-face, Lyman. Come along. I may want another set of eyes and ears.”

Stepping off again, Meade guided on the campfire ahead. The racket out on the road truly was a disgrace, the sound of fear.

As Meade emerged from the darkness, Rawlins and Washburne had been taking leave of Grant. They decided to stay.

Meade was about to report that Uncle John Sedgwick had things under control when a major Meade didn’t recognize crashed through the brush toward them.

“Great God!” the man cried, spotting Grant. “General, you must retire!” Out of breath, the major wheezed. “I know Lee’s methods, he’s going to throw his army between us and the Rapidan, he’ll cut us off from our communications—”

Shocking everyone, Grant exploded. Tearing the cigar from his mouth, he said, “You shut up, damn you.” He stamped the earth, a stubborn, outraged child. “I’m heartily tired of hearing what Lee’s going to do.” His eyes were cold no more, but blazed with fury. “Some of you seem to think Lee’s suddenly going to turn a double somersault and land in our rear and on both flanks at the same time.” He stepped toward the major. “
You, sir!
Go back to your command. And try to think what we’re going to do ourselves, instead of about what Lee’s going to do.”

Chambers emptied, Grant went quiet. Unable to raise his eyes from the fire now. No one dared speak.

The major disappeared.

*   *   *

When Grant shut himself in his tent, Washburne led Rawlins aside for as much privacy as the circumstances allowed.

“Is he all right?” the congressman asked.

“I think so.” Rawlins considered how much else to say. “It’s all been a shock of a kind. You heard what he said earlier. This isn’t like fighting Joe Johnston.”

Washburne gripped the brigadier’s forearm. “Don’t let anyone give him liquor.”

“You don’t have to worry. Not about that. Not yet. He’s been on his best behavior. And Bill would let me know if he saw trouble coming.”

“I don’t trust that darkey.”

Rawlins laughed, coughed. “You don’t trust anybody, El. You’ve become a Washington man.”

“Strikes me there’s more politicking right here in this army.”

“It’s no worse than out west.”

The woods and roads had calmed to the common sounds of an army’s rear.

“Listen to me, John,” Washburne said. “I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be staying with the army. Battles have to be fought in the capital, too.”

Rawlins smiled. “Spooked?”

“You know better.”

“Well?”

The congressman took a deep breath that was almost a piece of rhetoric in itself. As if he were about to address the House. But his voice, when it emerged, was hushed.

“About those murdered U.S. Colored Troops? That report?”

“Ferrero’s men.”

“You need to quash it. Knock heads, if you have to. Work through Humphreys, he’s got more political savvy than George Meade.”

“Word may already have gotten out.”

“No. It hasn’t. I sounded out Cadwallader. If he hasn’t heard anything, the other newspapermen haven’t.”

“Hard to keep the cold-blooded execution of two dozen prisoners quiet. Whatever the color of their skin,” Rawlins said. “Still, it’s hardly Fort Pillow.”

“It’s bad enough. Listen to me. Grant has enough problems piling up in front of him. We can’t afford to have Greeley and every holier-than-thou abolitionist from here to Bangor screaming for vengeance and making things worse for Lincoln. And our mutual friend.”

“Ugly business, El.”

Washburne swept a darker-than-the-darkness arm toward the battlefield. “Compared to this? There are thousands of
white
men dead out there. And there’ll be more to come, that’s clear enough. Tell me exactly how much a few dozen darkies weigh in those scales?”

“All right,” Rawlins said. “I’ll do what I can.” He imagined the bodies of the captive Negroes in blue uniforms, lined up and shot by Confederate cavalrymen. It bothered him, and he was hardly a firebrand. But Washburne was right: They didn’t need pressure from stay-at-homes to make the war less merciful than it was.

He came back from the dead men: “What else?”

“Meade.”

“What about him?”

“Is he right?”

“About what?”

“That this isn’t working. That the army has to fight Lee on better ground.”

“Of course he’s right. These damned woods. This isn’t war, it’s two mobs pounding each other bloody.”

“Sam can be stubborn. Once he starts in at something.”

“No, I think he sees it.”

“He won’t want to go at Lee again tomorrow?”

“He may feel their lines, see if there’s any weakness. But, like I said, it’s been a shock to all of us, him included. Johnston would’ve collapsed after two days of this. If he lasted two days. This is a new kind of war, takes some figuring out.”

“In the meantime, we’ve got to look out for him. As regards Meade now … what would your response be if you heard someone … say, one of those newspaper people … suggest that Meade just wanted to retreat? And Grant had to overrule him? To put fight in this army?”

“I’d say he’s a damned liar.”

“Would you? Think about it.”

“For Christ’s sake, El. Meade
wants
to fight. He just doesn’t like throwing men away.” He put his hands on his hips and stretched his back. “Nor do I, for that matter.”

“You’re not in question. Meade is. Listen to me, John. The people back home … the voters … have high expectations of our friend.
Very
high expectations. At least half of them think he should be in Richmond before next week is out.” Washburne rubbed pale hands together, as if he needed to warm them. “Do
you
think we’re going to be in Richmond before next week is out?”

“No.”

“And the casualty lists. When the newspapers publish the casualty lists from this … this bloodbath … and then the lists from whatever comes after … there are going to be questions.”

“There always are. That’s natural.”

“And it’s also natural enough to want someone to blame, if things go wrong. Would you prefer the people blame Grant or Meade?”

“El, you can be a real bastard.”

“And so can you. I’ve seen you, time and again. The way you’ve torn into Meade in public. You’ve got people thinking you’re the devil incarnate.”

“I’m just trying to keep them in harness. They all need to know who’s boss, including Meade. But to be fair, he’s done everything Grant’s asked.”

“So does a well-trained dog. Meade’s inconsequential. Compared to what you and I could make of Sam. What we
have
made of him.” Washburne grinned, teeth pale in the darkness. “As for being a bastard, I’m unashamed. I haven’t managed to stay in Congress by ladling out porridge for orphans. And I look at you, John, as the brother I inexplicably failed to have, a fellow bastard.” He patted Rawlins’ upper arm. “Between the two of us, we’re going to put Grant in the president’s house four years from now. But not if the public blames him … should matters with this army go awry. George Meade may be useful in more ways than one.”

“Meade’s a man of honor.”

“They’re the easiest to ruin.”

Rawlins shook his head in the darkness. “I’m not sure I could do that.”

“Oh, you could. You can. And you will, if need be. Fair chance, though, that we won’t have to ruin the man, just take him down a peg. Hear me out. I’m not asking you to
do
anything. Nor have I undertaken anything. Not yet. Perhaps such a necessity won’t arise and Meade can prance home to Philadelphia on his charger, hail the conquering hero! What I propose is merely that … if one day you should be asked to confirm that Meade proposed to retreat, while Grant insisted on defeating Robert E. Lee … all I ask is that you say nothing at all. Be enigmatic, you can do that. Let whoever might raise such a wicked query infer what they will from your considered silence.” He chuckled, inviting Rawlins to join in and be friends, as always. “After all, what’s one man’s reputation against the preservation of our Union? Or the presidency?”

Yes. What
was
one man worth? What, after all, did any of them matter? No more than those dead darkies by the roadside.…

“You really believe…,” Rawlins said, fighting down a cough, “you’re
that
confident about Grant being elected president?”

“If you keep him off the whiskey. And let me handle the newspapers.”

“I told you. There’s been none of that. He hasn’t gone on one of his binges in months.”

“Then I only have to worry about the newspapers.” Washburne chuckled. “And now I think I’ll find myself another cup of that government-purchased coffee. I fear I may have to investigate the purveyors. Say hello to Mrs. Rawlins, when you write.”

And Washburne was off.

Rawlins was tired. The smoke clogged his lungs fearfully. He made his way back toward his sleeping tent, erected in line with Grant’s, but not too near. By the campfire, he picked up a glowing splinter to light his candle. Bill, Grant’s grizzled Nubian, watched him from a stump.

After yanking off his boots, he took a long swig of water, coughed his throat clear, and bent to the battered trunk that held his belongings. He drew out a small wooden box containing an object wrapped in black velvet. With great delicacy, he unfolded the cloth. And he stared at the oval image in the gleaming silver frame.

It was a photographer’s rendering of his first wife.

*   *   *

Grant wept.

He had given orders to his manservant that he was not to be disturbed by anyone. Then he had dropped the flap of his tent and thrown himself onto his cot. He had wept more than once in his life. The years had not handled him gently. But he did not recall weeping with such abandon since the night after handing his letter of resignation to his commanding officer out in the Territories. The alternative had been a court-martial.