Hell or Richmond (61 page)

Griffin reined up just long enough to say, “Damned fine work there, Wainwright. You’re not completely worthless.” He swept an arm toward the Confederates, who had disappeared into groves and gullies and distance. “Who’s fucked for beans now?”

Nine p.m.
Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia, near the Miller house

“We cannot abandon Hanover Junction,” Lee said from his throne on the upthrust root of an oak tree of biblical age. Looking around at his gathered generals, he waited for someone to brave a suggestion as to a course of action. Ewell, Anderson, and their flocks of subordinates stood about the map spread over the ground. In the lantern light in the purple dusk, the faces were those of weary, uneasy men.

The day had turned against them. His son’s reports had been faulty, and Hampton’s were little better. Hill had squandered his opportunity, sending one division into the maw of a Union corps. And moments before the lighting of the lanterns, word had followed that the artillery fire off to the north had heralded an assault on the redoubt defended by Henagan’s men. Those people—Birney’s division of Hancock’s corps—had stormed forward under a brief and isolated shield of rain, and Henagan had failed to hold the northern end of the Chesterfield Bridge. Compounding the effects of the reverse, Lee did not believe the south bank could be held at that site, nor did his engineers.

He chastised himself for being sick, for giving in to his body’s complaints, and for his errors of judgment. He had misled Hill, even before the corps commander misled himself. Now, as soldiers’ fires dotted the meadow in the gloaming, he forced himself to sit erectly on the bench nature provided, to keep his features steadfast and his voice infused with confidence. He
refused
to be ill. As he refused to be beaten.

He had sent a message to Powell Hill to remain with his corps and position it advantageously, but the true reason for the order was that he did not want to lose his composure with the man. Whatever he had believed the situation to be, Hill had owed it to his troops to ride to the sound of the guns, to reinforce the attack when it became clear those people had crossed more than a brigade or two. If only Hill had struck with his entire corps …

Regrets never won a single battle, Lee reminded himself.

“Well, gentlemen?” he said. “Do we retire behind the South Anna? I dread it. The rail line
must
remain open.”

“Fight ’em along the railroad,” Anderson offered. “Embankment makes a good line.”

As night settled over the landscape of men, horses, and mules, of lush spring and rising damp, Lee said: “No, General Anderson. Warren could turn General Hill’s left too easily that way.”

“I’m with you, sir,” Ewell put in. “Got to hold Hanover Junction. Just got to. Can’t do that, we might as well head straight for the Chickahominy. Or Richmond.”

“But
how,
General Ewell? Hancock will cross the river in the morning. Warren is already on our left, on solid ground and entrenched. Our position … our present position … appears untenable.”

His belly bit him again, but he kept his features steady.

The generals fell silent. A few miles to the north, the Union guns bombarded positions Lee had ordered abandoned. That spendthrift shelling was seconded by artillery off to the west, where Hill had failed and, if reports were to be believed, once proud brigades had broken and fled the field.

The pestering insects grew louder than the men surrounding Lee.

“Sir, if I may?” The speaker was Colonel Martin Smith, his senior engineer, a man who possessed a genius for plotting fieldworks. Lee knew that whatever the colonel had to say would be reliable, for good or ill, and his words would be spoken temperately. The colonel had waited to offer his views until the generals had talked themselves out, so no man’s pride was threatened. Smith preferred making fortifications to making enemies.

A Northerner by birth, Smith had married south. Lee knew his type full well: the insecure man who feared putting a foot wrong, a gifted man who let fools step ahead of him.

Lee nodded:
Go ahead.

In a tone ill-suited to the hour, the ailing Ewell said, “Well, the floor recognizes Colonel Smith, our favorite Yankee. Do tell, Colonel, do tell.”

Ignoring Ewell, Smith knelt at the head of the map, across from Lee and careful not to block the cast of the lanterns, whose glass was under mad assault by moths.

“Sir, I rode across the army’s front today. And beyond it. There’s a natural line of defense, we’d just have to cut some trees in front of the batteries.” He traced a finger along the map. “That old stage road to Ox Ford? It follows the line of a ridge that’s better than any ground we’ve held since Mine Run. It rises from the rail line … just over here.” He tapped the current position of Hill’s Corps. “Then it slants northeast to the river, to Ox Ford. The high ground up there’s a natural bulwark, absolutely commanding.”

Guts in turmoil, Lee nodded. “I saw that ground myself. Go on.”

“The bluff follows the river east for a half mile, then drops off toward the Chesterfield Bridge. But a spur runs southeast, back toward the rail line.” He retraced the entire position, west to east.

“That’s another damned salient,” Ewell burst out. His voice squeaked, as it often did when the man grew excited. “Had enough of that at Spotsylvania.”

Annoyed by the man, by his unthinking language and brashness, Lee felt the impulse to give him a public dressing-down. But Ewell was ill and this was no time for a rupture.

Lee signaled for Smith to resume.

Speaking even more carefully, the engineer said, “Of course, it
appears
to be something of a salient. General Ewell’s correct, in that sense.”

“Damned right I am.”

“But there are other factors in play that render the position advantageous. This ‘salient’ has no vulnerable apex, no tip, but a half-mile wall of natural battlements towering over the river.” The engineer sought Lee’s eyes across the map. “A direct assault by the Federals at Ox Ford would be disastrous for them. And the legs of the position, stretching back to the railroad on both flanks, follow splendid terrain that begs fortification. Beyond, the rail embankment provides a base, extending our flanks.”

Lee grasped the brilliance. “It splits their army in two! Should they rush forward. I see it, Colonel, I see it.” Lee almost smiled. “We must conceal ourselves, our strength. And lure them to divide the wings of their army.”

“Precisely, sir,” Smith agreed. “It’s Napoleon’s ‘strategy of the central position.’”

“Napoleon!” Ewell snorted. “Hah!”

Lee concentrated on his engineer. “Once they’re across the river … by the time they discover what we’re about … for one of their flanks to reinforce the other, those people will have to make
two
river crossings. And march several miles.”

As more officers caught the vision, they crowded around the map. For a few bright minutes, Lee soared above all illness.

“If,” he went on, “they reinforce Warren, passing another corps over the river on our left … a third corps would have to remain … at least two divisions of a corps … on the north bank to bind the wings of their army together. Any such force would be fixed in place and useless.” Lee pointed at the tattered map. “That would leave a single corps exposed on our right, south of the river.”

A major could not contain himself. “Hancock! We could trap Hancock!”

Porter Alexander put in, “Artillery can control the Chesterfield Bridge, keep off reinforcements.”

“Or keep Hancock from getting away,” Early said with bloodlust in his voice.

Anderson, whose corps held the center, added: “He’ll be caught up in a vise. Whether he swings west, or heads straight south, don’t hardly matter, once he’s crossed that river. Either way, he comes up against entrenchments to his front. While we envelop him.”

“Exactly!” Even Venable, a creature of worry this day, had grown excited.

“Gentlemen…” Lee considered rising, then decided the wiser course was to remain seated. “We must thank Colonel Smith for his diligence. I believe we see a way. Should matters develop as hoped … should it be the Lord’s will … we may destroy the finest corps in the Union army tomorrow.”

Eleven thirty p.m.
Grant’s headquarters

Standing in the hallway, Grant said: “Well done, George. Compliments to Warren. Sixth Corps up?”

“Wright crosses at first light, over Warren’s bridges.” Cheap candles sputtered. “We’ll have two corps over the river on our right well before noon. Really, it’s going splendidly.” Meade did not add, “For once.”

Beyond the two men, who spoke privately, Grant’s intimate staff had given up work for the evening and filled a shabby parlor. The westerners bantered over pipes and cigars, draining mugs of coffee. Grant’s Red Indian, Parker, seemed to be the butt of ribald teasing about a woman.

“Hancock still not across?” Grant asked, tone sharpening.

“He’s got the north end of the Chesterfield Bridge. Rebs tried to burn it. Birney drove them off.”

“He had that bridge hours back. Why didn’t he cross?”

“Guns across the river. And entrenchments. No good sense of how many Rebs are over there, in those trees. Win wants to have his entire corps up when he crosses. No sense going in piecemeal.” He did not add, “Again.”

“Missed opportunity, seems to me,” Grant said.

“He’s concerned about needless losses, the Confederates—”

“Missed opportunity,” Grant repeated. “Just get him across in the morning. Lee’s about beat. Can’t let up on him now.”

“Lee may not—”

“He’s just about beat. Prisoners we bring in look like scarecrows. And those Negroes you sent up. Bill figures them for honest. Talked to ’em myself. Said Gordon’s Division was on their master’s land, but marching off south. Don’t want Lee to slip away. If he isn’t already gone.”

“Hancock will cross in the morning, Sam. At the railroad bridge as well.”

“Not like Hancock to get the slows.”

“Every man in the army’s exhausted. Win’s a good judge of how hard he can push.”

“Lee’s men are worn out, too. Worse than ours, I’d reckon. Smash ’em up one more time, and put an end to things.”

Meade found Grant unreasonable. Hancock had done the best he could by day’s end, and Birney had performed brilliantly at the redoubt. But as for pushing across the river with twilight coming on … no one knew what was on the other side. And what the Negroes had to say was of interest, but they were Negroes, after all, and given to tale telling. He was sorry now that he had passed them on to Grant, after Hancock sent them up. He had thought Grant would be pleased at their news, however doubtful, but forgot Grant’s impetuosity.

They were all so wickedly tired. Was anyone thinking clearly? The army had been either fighting or marching for three solid weeks. Privates and generals alike resembled ambulatory corpses.

Except for Grant, who seemed as robust as a bear.

“Regret our disagreement about the Pamunkey took a hard turn,” Grant told his subordinate. “Figured Lee was going along this way, think I’ve got a sense of him. Now we just have to bag him.”

Easier said than done, Meade thought. “Well, I’m glad to be proven wrong, if it means we can break Lee. I’d like to see an end to this.”

“Something else to tell you,” Grant said. “Order goes out tomorrow. Under my hand. Putting the Ninth Corps directly under the Army of the Potomac. Arrangement hasn’t been working, it’s all cockeyed.”

“Sam, I … really, I
thank
you.” Meade was surprised and flustered. And grateful. Even though the action was overdue. “I do think it’s for the best, you know. It’s going to improve coordination immeasurably. I’ll treat General Burnside with tact, of course.”

“Just keep it quiet until the order’s issued. Oh, tell Humphreys, he needs to know. Nobody else. Don’t want Burnside to hear it first as a rumor, get his back up. He’ll put a good face on it, but he’s going to feel raw.” Grant yawned. He didn’t cover his mouth. There were gaps in his back teeth. “Has his hands full. Getting his corps to Ox Ford. That’s why I’m holding off until tomorrow. Let him take care of his business, see if he can get his men across the river. Before he gets his dose of salts.”

“The heights are formidable. Along that stretch.”

“Hardly Chickasaw Bluffs.” Grant searched his pockets for a cigar and discovered a lone specimen. He looked at Meade. “Offer you one, but this here runt seems to be all I’ve got on my person. We’ll see what Burnside has to say, come morning. Rebs may all be gone, wouldn’t be surprised. Lee knows he’s licked. Anything else?”

Meade had meant to complain about the lack of adequate cavalry to reconnoiter ahead of the army, but Grant’s promised action on the Ninth Corps made him feel a complaint would be ungracious. Damn Sheridan, though. Damn the man.…

“Nothing pressing.”

“Well,” Grant said, “just get Hancock across that river first thing. If Warren can brush away a Reb rear guard, I figure Win can. Then we’ll see if we can’t catch Bobby Lee.”

Midnight
Right wing of the Army of Northern Virginia

Damnable.
That was all the whole business was, plain damnable. Worn as a hard-whipped nigger and jacketed in filth, louse-bitten and flea-bitten, raw-crotched and all but moldering, Oates never had believed he would sink so low that he’d fall to thinking first not of fine woman-flesh, but of a bathtub like Colonel Toney’s back home, with a stream of hop-to-it house niggers to carry up all the hot water a man could want. If he had taken proud care of his uniform in days past, he still would not have accused himself of being an overly tidy man, no, there never had been one hint of highborn fussiness about him, but, by God, for a man to smell himself stinking twice worse than the lowest riverbank hoor run out of Natchez, to scratch himself bloody and curse himself breathless and still go on feeding half the insect population of Virginia with his person, it was just a damned shame. And his men were worse by a drunken grocer’s measure.

Did anybody on high know what they were doing? Even Evander Law, back in command of the brigade, could not make sense of things and just repeated, “Do like I said. Picking sores don’t help. You do like I told you, the mighty on high have spoken.”