Hell or Richmond

by Ralph Peters

  The Sharpshooters broke, just took off at a run. As Brown and his men watched, it looked as though the brigade might crumple from the left. But the 79th New York took matters in hand, making a charge that stopped the Rebels for an exchange of volleys. The Sharpshooters stopped to rally down the slope.

  More Union guns fired overhead, digging up dirt in fields behind the Rebs. Ahead, an enemy battery unlimbered its guns along a tree line.

  Then it all went crazy. The sudden way combat did. The Sharpshooters no sooner got back to the line than another wave of Rebs rose out of nowhere. The Union guns north of the river dropped their range and opened again. The shells struck the 79th New York and the Sharpshooters, sparing the Johnnies entirely.

  The brigade line collapsed like dominoes going down.

  The Rebs wheeled a touch to the right to come at the 60th Ohio and the 50th Pennsylvania from the front, as well as the flank.

  “Steady!” Brown called. He understood that panic was contagious, knew it all too well. “Steady, boys!”

  Officers gathered in the road, too far away for Brown to hear a word, then Cutcheon rode back to rally the fleeing regiments. The order was given to fire on the approaching Rebs. Men used the top fence rail to steady their aim.

  When the Johnnies replied, a splash of blood left Captain Burket’s shoulder. He clutched himself and dropped hard to his knees.

  Lieutenant Brumm ran forward.

  “Doudle!” Brown shouted. “Take a man and get the captain out of here.”

  The corporal moved sharply toward the captain, who knelt as if frozen in prayer. Captain Schwenk ran across the firing line to reach Burket, risking his life like a lunatic. After a quick pause and a word with Brumm, Schwenk dashed back to his company again.

  The men knew what to do. And canal men were stubborn, not least when angered. As Doudle and one of the Eckert boys dragged Burket off, a fair amount of profanity rose from the ranks. Burket was as well-liked as a captain could be. And he was their old harbormaster.

  The Johnnies were close enough to hear the profanities and echo them. They all stood there shooting at each other, just knocking each other down, until they could barely manhandle their rifles for the sweat.

  Whether at a half-heard order or not, the 60th Ohio began to give ground on their left. Not running, but inching backward. Instinctively, the 50th began to step slowly rearward, leaving the fence.

  As soon as the Rebels realized what was happening, they hooted and hollered and jeered. They began to step forward. Warily at first, then ever quicker.

  There weren’t even all that many of them, Brown realized. The Rebs might have had the numbers to their advantage, but not by much over the whole brigade. There was no honest reason why they should win. He resented every backward step. And it wasn’t only about the captain. An odd, hurt pride had flared.

  But they didn’t have a brigade anymore. It was just the 60th Ohio and them, with the 60th falling back more quickly now, letting the Rebs come in hard on Company A.

  “Goddamn it,” Brown said, and he was not given to profanity.

  The Johnnies soon owned the crest. Waving their red rags and jeering from the fence line. Hardly bothering to shoot.

  Bareheaded, Captain Schwenk ran out in front of the 50th’s left, saber held high. He turned his back on the Rebs, daring them to shoot him.

  Schwenk had a good bass voice and it served him well. He bellowed, “Fiftieth Pennsylvania! Halt.”

  Astounded by the display, the men obeyed.

  “Fix bayonets!” Schwenk ordered.

  The men obeyed that command, too. Brown could feel their rekindled rage, swelling again like flames. Crowds of thoughts rushed by, none of them kindly.

  Schwenk wheeled toward the enemy, pointed with his sword, and shouted, “Charge!”

  For once, the Johnnies were taken by surprise. Bewildered. They popped off a few shots, but made no serious effort to hold the crest. Not with maddened blue-bellies flashing thirsty bayonets.

  The regiment let out a cheer. Men broke ranks and ran forward, as if they were freshly rested, watered, fed, and set to a footrace.

  Captain Schwenk still led from the front, sword extended, as if the blade were pulling him along. Although Schwenk wasn’t his captain, Brown felt protective. Dozens of other soldiers felt it, too. They swarmed around the captain, determined to outpace him, as they vaulted over the fence or bullied right through it.

  The last Rebs just broke.

  Looking around in wonder, Brown saw that Cutcheon had led up the 20th Michigan from the reserve and the Michiganders had almost caught up with the 50th. More blue units were fording the creek as well.

  “Pennsylvania!” someone yelled. The other men took it up.

  Say one thing for the Johnnies, Brown decided, they were fleet of foot, once they got going.

  The Reb artillerymen fired a few rounds over the heads of their retreating comrades, but the shells didn’t do much damage. Made a wild noise, though, toppling end over end.

  One brave Reb officer tried to rally the remnants of his regiment, but they had no time to form. The Pennsylvanians crashed into them. Rifle butts and bayonets, even fists, came into play. The melee was over before Brown could reach the Rebel he had singled out, but he saw Schwenk cut a man down with his sword.

  Slopped with blood, Schwenk soon after halted the companies following him, letting the last sorry Johnnies slip away. Brown realized he was winded, dizzy, and sun-touched enough to puke. Yet, somehow, he and the other men managed a cheer.

  Ordered to reassemble back on the crest, the soldiers dragged themselves up past the dead and wounded Rebs. Brown was content to let the litter bearers earn their pay.

  Lieutenant Brumm found him. “Captain’s wound won’t kill him,” he said. “Unless the surgeons do. Won’t be back for a while, though.” He shook his head and looked up at the sky. Pure blue spread above a lace of smoke. “Christ, Brownie. I didn’t want it to be like this.”

  “No good man does, sir. Captain Schwenk’s waving you over.”

  After Brown called the company roll and found that they had come through without a man killed, he ordered his soldiers to take off their shoes and stockings and dry their feet properly. Then he had a detail collect canteens and head to the creek before its water grew unfit to drink, and he sent in a scrawled requisition for ammunition. Being first sergeant had almost begun to fit him.

  When Brumm came back, he passed on orders to dig entrenchments along the crest. The men were hardly delighted at the thought of navvy labor in the heat, but most were relieved at the prospect of an end to marching and fighting for the day. For his part, Brown felt an angry discontent.

  Up ahead, the road was open: The Rebs looked to be plain gone. No gambling man, he still was ready to bet they’d be ordered down that road, sooner or later. And he had a fair notion of what would be waiting for them, if it was later. Tired or not, they needed to seize their chance.

  They never could seem to grab the apple dangling in their faces.

  Bill Wildermuth came up beside him, blouse stripped off for work.

  “You thinking what I am, First Sergeant?”

  “Not sure I ever knew you to think at all, Bill.”

  But Wildermuth was serious. “I used to kind of like the notion that General Burnside was slow. Didn’t mind getting to the barn dance late, not one little bit. I’m beginning to change my mind, though.”

  Four p.m.

  Tally house, Union right flank

  Meade stood between Grant and Hancock on the high ground above the Po. It was a battle to control his temper. Grant had come up, impatient to find a way to flank Lee, chewing his cigar and putting questions directly to Hancock that Hancock, who had just arrived, couldn’t answer: How many fords are down there along the Po? Is there good terrain behind that Reb battery yonder? Meade longed to say, “I could tell you that, if you hadn’t taken my cavalry away. You’ve left this army blind.”

  Instead, he said: “Duane
is conducting a reconnaissance of the crossing sites.”

  Behind them, Hancock’s last, dusty division closed on the corps.

  Grant took the butt of his cigar from his mouth and flicked off a wealth of saliva. “Quicker to send down a regiment or two.”

  “He has other men with him,” Meade said in a placating tone. “Duane’s a good engineer, he won’t waste time.”

  He sensed the swirling behind Grant’s placid exterior. Still smarting from the embarrassment over Sheridan, he was learning to step carefully.

  Meade waved a fly from his beard.

  The various aides to the senior generals, as well as three of Hancock’s division commanders, Barlow, Birney, and Gibbon, stood close enough to respond to a raised voice, but far enough off not to pry into quieter speech. Everyone understood the code, and the distances between the clusters of men were as precise in their way as the place settings at a Chestnut Street dowager’s dinner.

  Where the groves parted on the high ground beyond the river, a few Confederates had been observed shuffling along the road to Spotsylvania, but not enough to merit artillery fire. Wagons came along now, in a dawdling line. Meade estimated the range at a mile and a quarter, but saw no point in opening on them, either.

  One of Grant’s hangers-on spoke up: “Ought to put some shot on those damned wagons.”

  Meade turned toward the man. “And what good would that do? Scare a few niggers and old mules?”

  Rawlins, who had been needling Ted Lyman, said, “Hell, I’d not only shell ’em, I’d have troops across the river by now.”

  Bypassing Meade, Grant told Hancock, “Why not give them a few rounds? Let your boys range their guns?”

  Hancock knew the suggestion was an order. He turned to his chief of staff and told him, “Have the First Rhode Island and First New Hampshire batteries open on that train.”

  Morgan hopped to the task, and Meade said nothing.

  In minutes, the cannon let loose. The battery officers had taken the range with impressive accuracy, and the first shells burst close to the wagons. The reaction up on the road was instant chaos, a jamboree of confusion, with teamsters steering off the road in every direction, lashing their beasts, or jumping from their wagons.

  A number of the watching officers chuckled.

  The Confederate battery across the river replied. Its officers were good judges of distance, too. One of the first shells struck the Rhode Island gunners. Men came apart as they flew into the air.

  Hancock’s other batteries joined the exchange. The earth trembled under Meade’s boots.

  Grant sidled up. “Might be an opening over there. Send some men across and see what’s what.”

  Meade took the opportunity to teach Hancock a lesson about breaking the chain of command. He addressed one of Barlow’s brigade commanders directly.

  “Brooke, send two regiments across the river to reconnoiter. The Hundred and Forty-eighth Pennsylvania, I think. And perhaps the Hundred and Forty-fifth.”

  “Shall I take that battery, sir?”

  The Reb guns would pull out soon enough: They were taking a beating.

  “No. Just have a look and report.”

  It wasn’t enough for Grant. Fifteen minutes later, with the Pennsylvania regiments fording the stream below or scrambling over the water on a log, the general in chief said, “Have Hancock send over a division, clear that high ground.” Instead of letting Meade pass along the order, Grant turned to the Second Corps commander. “Win, can you get a division over there quick? Get hold of that high road?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell you what,” Grant said. “You get one division over there to start. But have the rest of your men ready to follow, if we find an opening. See if we can’t put you on Lee’s flank or in his rear. With your whole corps.”

  “Mott, too, sir?” Hancock asked, with eyebrows pinched.

  Meade interjected: “Remember, Sam? We sent Mott’s division to Wright, to tie in his left with Burnside.”

  Grant discarded the well-chewed end of his cigar. “Everybody but Mott,” he told Hancock.

  Hancock turned to Barlow, waving over the lanky New Englander, and began to repeat the order. Barlow brightened at every single word.

  “You’re the spearhead, Frank. Carpe diem, all that.”

  Barlow spoke up in his flinty voice, loudly enough for the generals to hear. “I’m authorized to drive anyone I find?”

  Meade felt that matters were getting out of hand. He waved up Biddle, who carried his best map, and had the sketch spread on the grass.

  “Look here,” Meade said. “The river turns sharply from southeast to southwest behind those trees.” He pointed toward Lee’s lines. “To get at Lee from that direction, we have to cross the Po twice.”

  “It’s not the Mississippi,” Grant said.

  “And it’s late in the day,” Meade added. “We only have a few hours of daylight left.”

  Across the Po, light skirmishing pricked the afternoon.

  Grant looked at Hancock, glanced at Barlow, and returned his attention to the corps commander. “Get as far as you can. If you can’t force the second river line tonight, set up for a morning assault.”

  Hancock nodded in a show of enthusiasm, but Meade saw concern in Win’s eyes. He was glad Humphreys wasn’t present: His chief of staff might have exploded in outrage. And Meade didn’t want to lose the man the way he had almost lost Griffin. This was exactly the kind of off-the-cuff affair to which Grant was prone and that Humphreys despised. Humph would have demanded a proper reconnaissance and some faint semblance of an actual plan.

  When Humphreys heard about Sheridan’s legitimized theft of the cavalry corps, Meade had needed to grasp his chief of staff by the arm to restrain him from marching over to Grant for a showdown.

  That humiliation over Sheridan had incensed Meade to the point where he had considered quitting command. But the sentiment faded. He would not quit, nor would he be driven to it. And, he had reminded himself, Grant had his good points, too. Lee was doubtless in shock, or something akin to it. Grant did make war, and with little regard for niceties. Better a Hun than a Hamlet.

  But Grant needed an opposing mind to balance him, to counter his impulsiveness. Meade still believed he was meant to lead the Army of the Potomac.

  Grant’s thoughts leapt to even greater endeavors and he turned to Meade again.

  “Tomorrow,” the general in chief announced, “I want an attack all along the front. So Lee can’t shift any forces against Hancock. Make that work, George.”

  Meade saw a dozen objections and stammered as he began: “The Sixth Corps … Sam, there’s been some turmoil, remember. Wright’s new to command at that level, he’ll want time.…”

  “If Wright can’t fill Sedgwick’s shoes,” Grant said, “find someone who can. I want an attack all along the front tomorrow.”

  A commotion down the slope caught everyone’s eye. Barlow cantered along waving a sword as his men rushed toward the river and their destiny.

  FIFTEEN

  May 10, one p.m.

  Headquarters, Army of the Potomac

  Meade worried about Barlow and his men. Grant had made a mess of things, and the army’s finest division was at risk. But Wright could not be put off any longer. His effort mattered, too.

  To the southwest, the noise of skirmishing threatened worse to come for Barlow. And after Warren’s failed morning attack, Meade lacked an appetite for further setbacks. Every one of Grant’s schemes had come to nothing: The decisiveness Meade had admired at first had revealed itself as mere impetuosity. He intended to attempt something properly organized, an assault Ted Lyman might term “scientific.” If Grant approved the change to his grand attack.

  He turned to the general in chief. “Best settle matters with Wright. That business we discussed. He’ll have plenty to do.”

  Grant nodded. He looked even untidier than usual. And tired. They all were damnably tired.

  Meade waved across
the yard to his chief of staff, then pointed at Wright, who stood where Sedgwick should have been, and David Russell, chosen by Wright to lead his old division after he vaulted up to command of the Sixth Corps. Wright was a handsome, imposing man who looked a general’s part, while Russell was lean as an Indian and wore a narrow beard over his top buttons. David Russell, Meade knew, had graduated near the bottom at the Academy, but proved himself a good man on the battlefield.

  Humphreys led them over. After routine greetings, Meade asked, “Well?”

  “That young engineer you—,” Wright began.

  “Mackenzie,” Meade said.

  “Yes, sir. Mackenzie. He claims he’s discovered the best point to strike their line. Up along the west side of that salient.”

  “Have you looked yourself? What do you think?”

  Wright shrugged. “It’s as good a place as any other.”

  It was not a suitable answer from a fellow engineer. Meade let it pass. Wright looked blown. And still shocked by his sudden elevation.

  “And the assault force?” Meade asked.

  Wright waved off a halo of flies and gestured toward his subordinate.

  “General Meade,” Russell responded, “we’re assembling the twelve finest regiments in the corps. As a provisional brigade. It’s—”

  This time, it was Grant who interrupted. “Brigade ain’t much.”

  “No, sir,” Wright leapt in, “but those twelve regiments have the strength of a light division.”

  Meade told Grant: “I’ve ordered Mott to support.”

  “Tell me again how this dog’s supposed to bite,” Grant said. “Who’ll have the command?”

  The questioning annoyed Meade, who had explained things in detail. But he could not afford to show temperament with Grant. He had already had to resist making sharp remarks about the collapse of Grant’s off-the-cuff scheme for Hancock. For which Frank Barlow stood to pay the butcher’s bill.

  “Upton,” Wright said with a suspect grin. “This firebrand colonel I’ve got.”