The Battle of the Crater: A Novel

by Gingrich, Newt

  He chuckled at that and shook his head.

  “And so I, along with a Doctor Revel, a colored doctor from Indianapolis, helped to talk him into forming this regiment here. The men of the 28th.”

  He fell silent and looked away from James, and it was evident he was feeling a deep sense of pride.

  “I got an audience with him. Gave him my ideas, and he asked me if I would work for the state of Indiana, help mobilize the regiment, and be the sergeant major, the highest rank a colored man is allowed to hold.”

  He looked back at James.

  “After the years of exodus, I had a sense that, it was there in Indiana, that, with these men, I had found a home at last, and so that is why I am sitting here now with you.”

  “That is quite a story, Garland.”

  Garland just shook his head and looked at his cigar.

  “This is quite a cigar.”

  He leaned over, rubbing the glowing tip on a stone at the edge of the fire, putting out the glow, and without comment, put the rest of the cigar into his breast pocket, saving it for later, and stood up.

  The chanting was increasing again, the men knowing that in another few minutes they would have to fall silent and go to their tents.

  “Garland.”

  James set his sketchpad down, stood, and extended his hand.

  “God be with you. You are a good man and when this is over I’ll buy you a box of those cigars, and we’ll smoke them together in Richmond.”

  Garland forced a smile.

  “If the plan works. And if we are still alive,” he said softly.

  He held James’s hand firmly and there seemed to be a tremor of emotion.

  “Good night…” again the pause, “James.”

  He walked off and only seconds later was clapping his hands in rhythm with the rest of his men, the chant rising again.

  We look like men a-marchin’ on …

  We look like men o’ war.

  James stood silent, as somehow this song was theirs, not his. He turned and saw where Colonel Russell stood looking out at his regiment, but his features were fixed, solemn, and he knew in his heart what this man was thinking at that exact instant.

  How many of his men would still be alive to sing this song three days from now?

  And then from a distant camp it sounded. Dan Butterfield’s bugle call for lights out and the end of day … “Taps.”

  It echoed and reechoed, one of the buglers of the 28th raising his instrument to join in the call.

  The chanting died away into silence … until only the echo of “Taps” remained.

  JULY 28, 1864

  ENCAMPMENT OF THE 48TH PA VOLUNTEERS DAWN

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Colonel Henry Pleasants was out of his tent, hoisting suspenders over his shoulders, leaving his jacket behind, the furious cursing having awakened him.

  A group of his men were gathered around a wagon; nearly twenty more wagons were weaving up the road into the encampment and coming to a stop as well. Half asleep he had heard the excited calls of sentries that the supplies were coming in, and had decided to let one of his adjutants handle the beginning of unloading while he tried to secure a few more minutes of precious sleep, but the ever-increasing cursing finally drove him from his cot.

  “All of you!” he cried. “Attenshun!”

  The men of his command looked over as he approached. In their eyes he could see that they were like a crowd of expectant schoolboys, waiting for a favorite teacher to set things straight against an unfair teacher. But, miners that they were, they waited for their foreman to stand up for them against an infringement of their rights.

  An officer, a major, was dismounting, and shoulder tabs indicated he was staff. Pleasants recognized the officer, now glaring at the men who had surrounded the first wagon, as someone with Meade.

  The major made a show of stalking over to the crowd that was gathering.

  “All of you bastards stand back and out of the way, this is dangerous cargo.”

  “We know that better than you do, you pompous ass,” someone in the group cried, “but it ain’t the right equipment!”

  “You there!” the major cried, pointing at Sergeant Kochanski. “I want the name of that man and want to have him bucked and gagged!”

  Pleasants stormed up, moving between the major and his sergeant.

  “You will come to attention as ordered, Major!” Pleasants roared.

  The major glared at him.

  “And who the hell are you?” he sneered, and made a pointed display of scanning Pleasants’s sweat-encrusted shirt, devoid of any uniform jacket.

  “That’s the colonel of this regiment, it is,” Michael O’Shay, who had moved up behind Kochanski, announced.

  The major hesitated.

  “You will stand at attention, Major,” Pleasants said, voice pitched even, “when addressed by a superior officer.”

  The major ever so slowly stiffened, even as he shot an angry glance at the crowd gathering behind the colonel.

  Pleasants made a deliberate show of slowly turning around and facing the crowd that was gathering.

  “I heard no call for assembly. Now, all of you disperse; get in proper clothing for the day. No metal whatsoever, jackets and belts removed, any with hobnailed boots to go barefoot, all rifles, ball, and caps to be left in your tents. Now move it!”

  The men broke up and dispersed, except for Sergeant Kochanski and his brother, who were peering into the back of the first wagon after carefully dropping the tailgate. The miners knew caution when moving explosives, and were horrified to see that the tailgates of all wagons were iron chained.

  Stan had already dragged a box out on to the tailgate and was using a lever made of bronze to pry open the lid.

  “Your shipping manifest?” Henry snapped, looking back at the major at last.

  He snatched the proffered papers and scanned them quickly, lips pursed, anger slowly beginning to build.

  “It’s like it said, sir,” Stan interjected, “priming fuse, slow burn, ten-foot lengths.”

  Pleasants extended his hand for Stan to fall silent, continuing to examine the shipping list, then looking back to the other wagons slowly climbing up the slope to fall in behind the first one in line.

  “Please sign, sir, so I can be on my way,” the major announced, offering a pencil to Henry.

  Pleasants tore his gaze from the manifest and fixed the major with a cold glance.

  “I was told to expect, last night—not this morning—but last night, a shipment of ten tons of blasting powder, semi-coarse grade to be packed in barrels of twenty-five to forty pounds. Instead I see only four tons here of coarse grade. That I was to receive eight hundred feet of insulated copper wire, galvanic batteries, and detonating plunger. I do not see that listed here at all. That, as backup if the galvanic detonators fail, I was to receive six hundred feet of fast fuse, in hundred-foot lengths, and six hundred feet of waterproof leather hosing to house that fuse; I do not see that.”

  His fury began to grow.

  “And instead, I see this!”

  He walked over to where Stan was holding up a ten-foot length of slow fuse, snatched from his hand, returned to the major, and waved it in front of his face.

  “Instead, I find this! Ten-foot sections of slow fuse. What in hell am I supposed to do with it? The tunnel is exactly five-hundred-and-eleven-feet long! It will take a half hour for this to burn.”

  “Splice them together, I suppose,” the major said haughtily. “You’re the miners, not me.”

  “Fifty-one damn splices! You ever try that, Major?”

  “It’s your plan, not mine.”

  Henry flung the shipping manifest back at the major.

  “I’m not signing,” he snarled.

  “I have my orders, sir,” the major retorted. “Accompany these supplies until delivered and then report back directly to General Meade that it is accomplished.”

  “And damn you, sir, you will stand here
and count off every barrel down to the last ounce, and every box of fuse down to the last inch before I sign. So you can damn well wait! And then I’ll sign.”

  Pleasants stalked back to his tent and reemerged five minutes later. He left his jacket behind because of the brass buttons, boots barely on so that he walked awkwardly, and shouted for his orderly to bring up his horse but to keep him wide of the wagons because of his iron shoes.

  Work crews were falling in, some of them barefoot. He snapped orders to his adjutants to see that the powder was properly organized and ready for transport up to the covered way, and from there to the tunnel. His rage had spread throughout the entire camp, and he inwardly cursed himself for letting his temper explode.

  “All of you, shut the hell up!” he shouted, and his regiment of miners fell silent.

  “You dug a damn good tunnel lads, and I am proud of you. And by God I will ensure the army does this right for once. Get to work, be careful, I don’t need to tell you the danger. Loading detail for the tunnel itself, you know how to do it. The rest of you on sandbag details. Keep at it and move them up along the side of the covered way so they can be packed in quickly. I’m going to straighten this out with the horse’s ass that shipped this trash to us.”

  There was a muffled cheer from the men.

  He turned his mount and rode over to the major, who looked at him with barely suppressed rage.

  “You have just insulted General Meade himself, sir, and I shall report it as such.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t aware of that,” Pleasants replied, trying to act apologetic and innocent even though he knew precisely who he was insulting.

  “Tell me, Major, what headquarters did you say you were with?”

  “You heard me,” the major snapped, trying to regain some authority. “I am a staff officer with the headquarters of the Army of the Potomac.”

  Henry looked at him coldly.

  “Funny, I thought you were with the Army of Northern Virginia.”

  He spurred his mount and rode off to see what he might be able to salvage through General Burnside. At least he felt he could still trust Burnside.

  CHAPTER NINE

  JULY 28, 1864

  HEADQUARTERS, ARMY OF THE POTOMAC

  11:00 A.M.

  “I will see General Meade now.”

  Colonel Andrew Humphreys, Meade’s chief of staff, looked up at him with exasperation.

  “General, I have told you he is busy at this moment.”

  The bombproof bunker which served as Meade’s forward headquarters was well situated, dug deep, several rooms connecting, illuminated day and night with coal oil lights, the fumes of which only added to the hot stuffiness of the damp room. Several telegraphers occupied the other corner of the room, each one of them linked by wire to the various corps headquarters along the front and to Grant’s main headquarters back at City Point.

  The door—looted from some farmhouse—to Meade’s private room opened, and the general stepped out, jacket off in the heat.

  “Can’t this wait, Burnside?”

  “I don’t think so, sir.” He was now taking a far more formal tone.

  “All right then,” and Meade gestured to the steps that led up to the surface, lighting a cigar as he stepped out into the open, both of them squinting under the blazing sun.

  “It’s about the powder and the fuses and everything else, isn’t it?” Meade pressed, and his voice was low pitched. The headquarters encampment was alive with enlisted men and officers. There were couriers and the ever present reporters, who were looking over expectantly, but were being held back by provosts. Meade gestured to the high parapet, which faced the Rebel line 1,200 yards away. At their approach the sentries, keeping a bored watch, knew to withdraw out of earshot.

  “I just met with Pleasants,” Burnside began without preamble.

  “Who?”

  “Colonel Pleasants. Commander of the 48th, the regiment that thought up this tunnel project and have been digging it,” he paused, “even though your own engineers said it was impossible.”

  “Oh … him.”

  “He told me that rather than the ten tons of blasting powder needed, he has received only four, of a too-coarse grade. Worse, the fuses are not the kinds that were ordered. We were to have a galvanic detonator to ensure an instantaneous explosion, precisely as planned, and with a backup of quick fuse. Instead we receive slow fuse in ten-foot lengths. General, you were trained at the Point as well as I was on blasting obstacles. Lengths of ten-foot, slow fuse almost guarantee something will go wrong.”

  Meade looked at his cigar, inhaling deeply, blowing it out.

  “Ambrose, you have to work with what you have. This is the army, not some treasure chest you can pop open with an open sesame, and find everything you want.”

  “Sir, I put this request in a month ago. Surely, somewhere, some depot had what was needed?”

  “We are talking about today, Ambrose,” Meade retorted. “Today.”

  “I must press this,” and Burnside’s voice began to pitch up. “I had to send Pleasants to Washington to buy a theodolite and did so out of my own pocket.”

  “Most patriotic of you.”

  Burnside bristled.

  “I knew that if I put in a requisition, even if I were lucky, it would arrive as a Christmas present. If I had known there would be a problem with the detonating systems, Pleasants could have gone to Pennsylvania, to his old mine, and there purchased wire, electric detonator, and quick fuses by the mile.”

  “My engineers put in the requisitions to ordnance as ordered and this is what was shipped to them. So this is what you will work with.”

  “And what exactly was the order back to ordnance supply?” Burnside asked.

  “Are you questioning my integrity, General?” Meade snapped, a threatening tone in his voice. He had spoken loudly enough that onlookers had turned, attention fixed on what was obviously a confrontation.

  “If I had known this would be the result, I would have purchased the items myself, damn it.”

  “With what budget?”

  “My own money, if need be.”

  Meade stiffened and Burnside received the message that, though talking to a fellow major general, Meade was nevertheless in command.

  “Are you proposing, therefore, to set this operation back until you get these extras you are demanding?” Meade asked brusquely.

  Burnside shook his head.

  “Colonel Pleasants reports that the Rebels are digging countermines even now. One of them might be only feet away from our main gallery. If they break through, it is over. We have to go now, as planned. If we delay even one more day, I am fearful of their finding us.”

  “If they do break through into your tunnel, your orders are to blow the mine immediately.”

  Burnside sighed and looked over the parapet to where Fort Pegram stood, 1,200 yards to his left.

  “It will blow the fort, if we get the powder packed in by today, even if it is only four tons,” Burnside replied, his bitterness obvious, “but the plan, that will be lost, and with it a chance to win this war.”

  Meade looked at him coldly.

  “Do you honestly believe that?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “That this scheme of yours will end this war?”

  “Yes, I do,” Burnside replied sharply. “If we take the Jerusalem Plank Road and Blandford Church Hill, Petersburg is untenable and Lee’s army is split. With dash and luck, by the end of the day we could be finishing off Lee’s army out in the open, along the banks of the Appomattox, not trying to dig him out of those damn trenches over there. Even if some of his forces escape, the Rebels will have to abandon Richmond. Lose that, they lose Virginia. With Sherman knocking on the door of Atlanta, especially after the heavy fighting down there we’ve been hearing about over the last week, I think, sir, this fight right now is in our hands. The war-winning move.”

  He looked at Meade and at that instant wondered if he had said too much.
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  Meade just stared at him coldly.

  “I have heard that too many times, Burnside. Hooker at Chancellorsville, McClellan before the Peninsula, and,” he paused as if for dramatic effect, “your own words before Fredericksburg, and then that damn mud march you dreamed up: a campaign in January, when rain was all but certain, a month later.”

  Burnside returned his cold gaze.

  “You still blame me for that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” Meade said coldly.

  “If that is what you feel, then why in hell did you ask for this corps to join your army?”

  “I didn’t,” Meade snapped. “General Grant did. Grant insisted, but I will tell you this, Burnside, it was agreed for political reasons that you stay in command of this corps and that, sir, is the only reason you are standing before me now with this mad scheme, rather than someone else in command of the Ninth.”

  “Damn you,” Burnside, whispered, turning away.

  “What was that?”

  Burnside turned back to him, ready to scream the words. All of it, all of the sly comments, the behind-the-hand whispers, the disdain after Fredericksburg, all of it had trailed him every step of the way. Nobody seemed to remember his triumphs at New Bern, how he bested Longstreet at Knoxville. Yet here was this man in command, only a division commander when Burnside had commanded this entire army. The man who let Lee escape from Gettysburg and whom it was obvious Grant did not fully trust and thus traveled with this army, always looking over his shoulder.

  He struggled to control his temper; it would serve no purpose.

  “And tactical command on the field of action once the assault begins?” he finally asked, deciding he had to shift away from a topic that surely would give Meade the excuse to relieve him of his beloved corps right now. Meade stared at him as if daring him to speak out and thus provide an excuse in front of witnesses.

  “You will control your corps in the initial assault. But command of Fifth Corps, Tenth, and Nineteenth will remain under my direct control, not yours.”