Grant nodded and returned the man's salute. "Sir, I'm Henry Hunt. You sent word for me to report." "That was over a week ago, General Hunt. What kept you?"
"Sorry, sir. The doctor said it was a touch of typhoid. I thought you received my telegram about that."
Grant shook his head.
"Most likely lost in all the confusion, Hunt. Never mind that, though. Are you fit now?" "Yes, sir, I am."
Grant looked at him closely, and for a second there was the memory of Herman Haupt, dead last week from dysentery. Anyone who served in the army sooner or later was stricken by the typhoid or dysentery, an occupational hazard that killed more than the bullets did.
"Walk with me, Hunt."
Grant stepped down from the veranda. The excitement in the town was beginning to die down, but curious civilians still lined the streets. He turned away and started toward the darkness of the parade field, Hunt by his side.
The last glow of twilight in the west was fading away, the sky overhead dark, clear with stars, the moon yet to rise.
"General, I know you are a good man. Your record at Malvern Hill, at Cemetery Hill the first day at Gettysburg, proved that."
'Thank you, sir."
"What happened at Union Mills?" "Sir?"
'Tell me everything."
"Yes, sir," and for fifteen minutes he talked, Grant did not interrupt as Hunt described the debacle which had unfolded, the bombardment which had failed to dislodge Lee, and the horror of watching the futile charge go forward.
He finally fell silent. Grant, having finished his cigar, reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a silver case, opened it, gave Hunt a cigar, and took another for himself. Henry snapped a lucifer with his thumbnail, sparking it to light, illuminating the two of them as they puffed their cigars to life.
"A few questions," Grant said. "Anything, sir."
"Could Meade have won? Or let me put it another way. When did it begin to go wrong?" Henry shook his head.
"Sir, I really don't like speaking poorly of the dead."
"He was a brother officer. If the roles were reversed right now—if it was I who were dead, and Meade in command, he'd ask the same question."
Henry nodded in reluctant agreement.
"The entire army should have been on the move as soon as word arrived that we were being flanked at Gettysburg," Henry said. "If so, the following morning we could have cut Lee in half, his troops strung out on thirty miles of road from just outside Westminister clear back to Gettysburg. We'd have had him for certain then."
"I don't know about that," Grant said softly, gazing up at the stars.
"Sir?"
"You are talking about Meade not acting like Meade. I suspect our rival somewhere over there"—he looked at Hunt while pointing off to the east—"Lee; had the measure of the Army of the Potomac before even one man stepped out on that incredible march to Union Mills. You must admit, Lee was masterful in that campaign."
"Yes, sir, he was," Hunt said quietly.
"He knew Meade would be slow to react, perhaps even to the point of first seeking a council of war, not fully yet in command, his fellow corps commanders still his peers rather than his subordinates. He knew Sickles would be impetuous—that is clearly evident from how he played him at Gunpowder River—but that Meade would rein him in." He stopped and puffed on his cigar for a moment. "General Lee had the measure of all of you from the start and played it accordingly."
Grant signed, and went on. "I remember once, down in Mexico, after the fighting stopped, some darn fool officers decided to go hunting. But it wasn't a hunt. They got their men to go up into the hills, form a line, and drive the game toward them. It was a slaughter."
The memory of it sickened him. How anyone could take pleasure in killing a dumb creature driven by fear was beyond him. War was little better.
"That was your Army of the Potomac," Grant said coldly. "You were boxed and driven."
"That has always bedeviled us," Hunt sighed. "It's as if Lee is always sitting in the corner at our meetings, wandering our camps at night. He seems to know even before we know."
Grant slapped the side of his leg with his hand.
"That stops now."
"Sir?"
"You speak of Lee as if he is a ghost or one of those mind readers at a county fair."
"Yes, sir, it was like that," Henry said. 'That bothers you, Hunt?"
'They were good men, sir. Damn good men. Warren, Reynolds, the boys with my command. They deserved better. A damn sight better."
"They will get it," Grant said calmly.
"Not those who are dead, sir."
"The dead are behind us, Hunt. What concerns you and me is now, and I tell you this, if you are to join my command, it stops now. I want you to understand that."
"So you want me then, sir?"
"Yes."
"For what, sir?" "What would you suggest?" "Artillery of course, sir." "That was my intention."
Henry grinned. After his dismissal from the Army of the Potomac by Sickles he thought he would never get a chance for action again. Grant was now giving him that chance.
"I'll confess, Hunt, out west, in those forests, those bayous and swamps, artillery wasn't much use, too much of a tangle and too often slowed us down. I understand it's different here, and frankly I can already see that just with today's ride."
Henry grinned.
"Sir, this is the best damn artillery ground of the war, right here, clear down into northern Virginia. Almost all the land is cleared. You'll notice the lay of the land, sir. Ridgelines tend to run south to north, or southwest to northeast, spaced at good range, every four hundred to a thousand yards or so. It's damn good ground for guns."
"And Lee has your guns now, doesn't he?"
Henry, his spirit broken by that comment, said nothing.
"How would you organize yourself?"
"Sir?"
"What would be your preference in organization of artillery for this army?"
"What do you have with you, sir?" Henry replied, filled again with enthusiasm.
"I have twenty-three batteries, a hundred and thirty-eight guns—eighteen batteries of newly forged three-inch rifles, or Parrott guns, the rest smoothbore Napoleons. General Haupt tried to bring more up. If I had another couple of weeks I could have made it twenty-eight batteries, but things didn't play out that way."
"Yes, Haupt," Henry replied. "Another good man."
"You knew him?"
"Briefly, sir. Met him in Harrisburg after the retreat from Union Mills. He sent me on to Washington to report. I heard he died last week."
"Yes. I've sent for Grenville Dodge, who served with me out West, to replace him."
"I saw Haupt's handiwork coming up here today, sir. It looks like his men have repaired ten miles or more of rail line today alone."
"I know. Now back to the question, Hunt. If I give you command of artillery, how do you see it organized?"
"Under one unified command, sir."
"And that is you?"
"Answering directly to you, sir."
Grant nodded.
"Go on."
"A single unified command, sir. You are right in that Lee does have my guns, damn it. He must outnumber you"—he paused before correcting himself—"us, in artillery by two or more to one. But many of his gunners are amateurs. It takes months, years, to train good gunners. If you give me a unified command, I can pick the spot for you on any battlefield, concentrate the guns, and tear him apart." "Offensively?"
Hunt hesitated and shook his head.
"Our guns just aren't effective for that. Don't get me wrong, sir," and as he spoke, Hunt warmed to his subject, "a three-inch ordnance rifle, with a good crew, can pick a lone rider off at a thousand yards, but once a battle starts, the smoke, the confusion ..."
His voice trailed off for a moment, as if he were remembering something.
"You had over two hundred guns at Union Mills, didn't you?"
"Yes, sir, and we didn't bud
ge them. We hurt them, at least I think we did, but not enough for Hancock, for Sedgwick, to break through. And in turn, their guns that survived our barrage just shredded our men down in that open field"
"What I figured," Grant said quietly.
"But if you need to anchor a position, or tear apart reb infantry out in the open coming at you—that I can give you."
"And Lee's superior numbers in guns?"
"Let him try and dislodge me. Just let him." There was a grim ferocity to Hunt's voice that Grant liked.
"The job is yours, General Hunt. You report directly to me. I'll cut the orders tomorrow morning to my corps commanders that all rifled guns are now assigned to your control. I know my corps commanders, and they'll squawk like crows over that order, so for now, let them keep their Napoleon smoothbores for close-in support, but the rest will go to you."
Hunt looked at him, more than a bit surprised. He had argued for this chance for two years, and now, with almost detached calm, this man from the West had finally given it to him.
'Thank you, sir. I won't let you down." "See that you don't," Grant said. There was a note of dismissal in his voice.
"Set up your headquarters with mine for now. Pull together what staff you need. I'm promoting you to major general as well so you don't have to worry about any fights with others. Ord and McPherson know better, but Banks and Burnside..."
"I understand, sir, and thank you."
"Just do your job and we'll get along well."
Knowing that their, conversation was finished, Hunt saluted and withdrew.
He watched Hunt leave. He sensed he had made the right choice with this man. He had a score to settle with Lee, and by giving Hunt his chance, not just to settle a score, but to prove his theory about a unified command of artillery, he would bind the man to him.
Alone, he walked the length of the parade ground to the flagpole. Someone had told him that for the last month rebel colors had flown from it, torn down just hours ago as their cavalry pulled out ahead of his advance.
He leaned against the pole, struck a match against it, and puffed yet another cigar to life.
It was good to be alone for a few minutes. He looked back at the barracks, aglow with light, staff inside, couriers riding up to the veranda, dismounting, and rushing inside, other couriers coming out, mounting, and galloping off.
He smiled. So many of them were boys, playing at this game, actually enjoying it. The day had been a good one, a fairly good march, though he would have preferred to make a few more miles.
He looked off to the southeast. Over there, just about a hundred miles away, was Lee.
Lee.
He wished for a moment that the old stories were true, the stories of Napoleon, Caesar, and Alexander, how they could slip into the mind of their opponents, sow doubt, and learn the deepest of secrets. It would be wonderful to turn the tables on this legendary soldier, to get into his mind as easily as he infiltrated the minds of so many of his opponents.
Foolishness, of course. This was an age of science, of machines, not of magic, and to waste another thought on such foolery was indeed a waste.
As he could not slip into the mind of Lee, he must ensure that Lee could never slip into his, never read his heart, never stir a note of discord or, worst of all, fear.
No, by simply doing that alone I can unnerve him. I've set my plans, made so hurriedly, thanks to that fool Sickles. I'd have preferred another three weeks, a month, to marshal more strength, but to have waited after the debacle by Sickles would have played against us, given Lee time to rest, to re-gather his strength and his nerve for the next encounter.
He sensed that just this move alone had most likely caught him off guard. Every other general whom Lee had faced, excepting Sickles, had always erred on the side of caution. Even Meade, in his blind panic to attack at Union Mills, was ultimately driven by caution, fear of how Washington would respond to his being outflanked and cut off.
Out west, in California, Grant had heard stories from mountain men who had seen wolves bring down their prey, elk, even old grizzlies. They did not charge in blindly, nor did they run away. Always they lurked, dashing in, pulling back, dashing in, in a hunt that might last for days, wearing their victim down to exhaustion. Always circling, always moving, never letting their victim rest, closing in, limiting their prey's movements, exhausting them—until at last the throat was bared and the kill made.
He continued to gaze southeastward, toward Baltimore. Chances were that Lee had forced marched back from the Susquehanna this day, concerned by word of the crossing at Harrisburg. He will have to rest for a few days while I am fresh. He will have to refit, reorganize, rest his men after their mad dash and brilliant campaign of the last week; then they will venture out to meet me.
He took another puff on his cigar, coughing slightly as he took it out of his mouth and looked at the glowing tip.
And yet I know this, he realized. Even as I plot my moves, Lee will plot his. Neither of us will get fully what we want. In war one never does until the very last day, when the guns finally fall silent and one side submits.
We both seek the submission of the other, and it won't come in one battle, one sharp moment of combat. It will be a grinding down, and tens of thousands will die in the weeks to come. I can move along several paths now, but then again so can he.
Was Lee sleeping now? He doubted it. Most likely, even at this moment he is looking toward me, thinking the same thoughts I do.
Grant let his cigar drop, and rubbed out the glowing embers with his foot. Turning, he went into his headquarters to get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a very long day.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ten Miles North ofHanover, Pennsylvania
August 23, 1863 6:00 A.M.
Captain, rider coming in." Capt. Phil Duvall looked up from the simmering campfire where he and Sergeant Lucas had been frying some fresh-cut pork, requisitioned from the farmer whose yard they were camped in.
It was Syms. How the man was keeping to the saddle was beyond him. A local doctor in a town they had passed through had dug the rifle ball out of Syms's calf, bandaged it, and told him to stay out of things for a week. Syms had just laughed, asked the doctor to cut his boot down below the wound and bulky bandage, remounted, and fell back in. Besides, to "stay out of things" would have meant staying behind to be captured by the Yankee cavalry that had been pressing them back all day.
Duvall had pickets a few miles north of where they were camped, watching the road from Carlisle. The Yankee regiment went into camp at dusk. They had pressed, but not to the point of aggressively seeking a fight, rolling him back, trading shots at long range, probing forward, he retreating a mile or so, and thus it had been all day, with no casualties on either side—just a steady, constant pressure to mask what was behind them.
It was indeed his old friend Custer. He had spotted him just before sunset, riding in the lead, about a mile off. Strange that he was not coming on more aggressively, Phil thought more than once after confirming who his opponent was. That was an indicator right there that George was ordered not to seek engagement, but just keep pushing him back.
Syms halted and Lucas stood up to help him get out of the saddle, the man grimacing as he dismounted and hobbled over to squat by Phil's side.
"Some coffee?"
"Love it, sir."
Phil poured him a cup, and Syms took it, looking hungrily at the slices of pork in the frying pan. Phil handed him a fork; Syms stabbed a piece and took a bite, cursing and muttering as he gingerly chewed on the meat, then took a long drink of the hot brew.
He sat down with a sigh.
"What do you have for me?" Phil asked.
"Infantry, lots of infantry."
"Where?"
Syms reached into his haversack and pulled out a sketch pad. Drawn on it was a rough map.
"There's a road here, the one that runs south of the main pike out of Harrisburg. It passes through Dillsburg and on to Petersburg, which we rode t
hrough yesterday morning. I circled far out to the left as you told me to. Waited till dark, then cut north using farm lanes and back trails.
"Their cavalry screen is tight. You can tell someone new is running that show. Before, we used to punch through Stoneman or Pleasanton as a joke. Not now. Every crossroads was manned, every village had at least a troop of cavalry guarding the roads. So it was a lot of cutting through fields and keeping quiet.
"Near Dillsburg I finally saw the infantry. Campfires by the hundreds."
"That puts them fifteen miles due south of Carlisle," Phil said. "It means they're heading this way." "Looks that way."
"You get any prisoners, identifications of units?" Syms shook his head.
"I'm lucky just to get back with what I told you, sir. I lost two men coming back; we got jumped crossing a road. We wounded one man and talked to him. He's with Custer."
"But the infantry?"
"I can't tell you, sir, but from the campfires it looked to be division strength."
Their conversation was interrupted by the distant pop of rifle fire. The men camped around Phil looked up, some stood, a few going over their mounts, which had remained saddled through the night, and began to pack up, tying on blanket rolls, checking revolvers for loads.
"Our friends seem to want another day of it." Phil sighed. He looked over at Lucas, asked for Syms's notebook, and quickly wrote out a message.
Detachment, Third Virginia Fifteen Miles Northwest of Hanover
Report has arrived that this night Union infantry in division strength camped at Dillsburg. Am facing at least a regiment of Custer's command. Will fall back toward Hanover.
Captain Duval
He tore the sheet off and handed it to Lucas.
"Ride like hell to Hanover. Be careful, they might have tried to slip around us during the night. Get this message telegraphed to headquarters. Wait there for me. I suspect we'll not be far behind you."
Phil leaned over, forked a piece of pork, and wolfed it down.
"Mount up! We move in ten minutes," he shouted.
Three Miles Southeast of Port Deposit
August 23, 1863 6:30 A.M.
Never Call Retreat - Civil War 03 Page 6
