by Ralph Peters
Surrounded by his staff on the high porch, by men whose spirits mixed courage and consternation, men whose wits had dulled as the month advanced, Lee sat, relieved not to be on horseback for a time, but annoyed by the carriage Venable held ready in case he could no longer keep the saddle. He knew himself and recognized that his body’s betrayals put him out of sorts, so he cautioned himself not to take it out on those who meant him well. But that carriage, with its torn seats and a hood like an old woman’s bonnet, was almost an insult.
Things that once had been managed with ease had grown frustratingly difficult as he faced these newly ruthless men in the uniform he had worn for so many years. He had parried them for twelve days at Spotsylvania, disappointing their every effort, despite the near calamity of the Mule Shoe and the appalling drain of casualties. By right of war, Grant and Meade had to quit the field. And they had done so, but only to move around his flank again, to march deeper into Virginia, forcing his weary army to outrace them at killing speed, his only advantages knowledge of the roads and interior lines. And the good hearts of his soldiers, he must not forget them. Now he was twenty-five miles closer to Richmond and pinned along this river by the need to keep open the rail link to the Valley.
Lee felt Richmond breathing at his back.
He knew from prisoners taken that Grant had robbed the defenses of Washington itself to replace his immense losses, impressing garrison artillery regiments into the infantry. But his own losses neared the unbearable, and he had begged President Davis to send what troops he could from Richmond’s defenses or the Carolinas, before courage succumbed to lowly mathematics.
Not all of the news had been bad, the Lord be thanked. After suffering through long days and nights of rain at Spotsylvania, his men had rallied to beat back a last grand attack and had done the work handsomely. Word arrived that Union armies had been defeated badly in the Valley and frustrated in the west, while Butler had been checked along the James. Beyond Virginia, only Sherman remained a threat. But the decision, Lee knew, would come here, between his weary men and the invaders chewing southward in their hordes.
On the wrong side of the scale, he had lost so many of his finest officers—not least, Stuart—that he had to worry about the reliability of this brigade and that division, even of entire corps. Hill had returned to command, but still looked ghastly, and Ewell verged on the unfit, unsteady of judgment and newly stricken with dysentery. After a fine beginning at the head of Longstreet’s corps, Anderson had proved lackluster. More than ever, Lee felt the need to control not just the army, but the actions of each corps with his own hand.
On top of it all, Mary was ailing again, and there was nothing he could do. He could not leave the army for even a day, and all the while his own health threatened constantly to unman him. If a grave indisposition came to pass, what would happen to his men, let alone his wife? He feared the battered army could not resist those people without him to lead it.
The swelling heat made all things worse, including the stench of his body and those around him. They had left the reeking fields of Spotsylvania days behind, but he still could smell the death on his clothes and person. He had written home for cotton undergarments for the summer, but received no answer. He longed to bathe.
Instead, there would be more fighting, perhaps on the morrow. He needed to know where those people would concentrate. He was nearly certain it would be downriver, closer to the confluence with the Pamunkey. But he was not certain enough. The cavalry had been ordered to maintain its vigil. Grant and Meade must not surprise him again.
How he longed for Stuart, with his dash and sure reports! Why could his brilliant cavalier not rise from the dead, a second Lazarus?
Lee caught himself: Such impertinence before the Lord came too near to blasphemy. If the Lord of Hosts had seen fit to call Stuart to his celestial ranks, his will be done.
Times there were when the Lord God’s will fell hard upon his children.
As he sat in the shade above a brown river on a sparkling day, Lee strained to divine his opponents’ intentions and longed for Divine Grace. It might do well, he told himself, to ask Parson Fox to pray with him before he departed to inspect the ground. But first there was the temptation of the buttermilk. The occasional sips he had braved in the past few weeks had done him no harm. On the contrary, they seemed to have aided his digestion: Perhaps his stomach’s chemistry had changed? And he wanted sustenance.
With his host hovering in anticipation, Lee reached for the beckoning liquid and began to drink it down.
The sky tore open. A round of solid shot smashed through the frame of the porch door, a body’s length from Lee. Within the house, splintering wood and crashing china triggered screams of terror, but, blessedly, not of pain. Lee had long ago learned to tell the difference.
His party’s waiting horses had grown unruly, whinnying for their masters and kicking at orderlies.
Lee drained the glass, rose, and brushed the dust from his coat. He told his pale host, “My apologies, sir. Our presence has inconvenienced you.” About to step off to remount, he added, “Your buttermilk was delicious.”
Two forty-five p.m.
The Moncure house: Headquarters, Army of the Potomac
“From Warren,” Humphreys said to Meade. Gruff of voice, he could not completely subdue a tone of excitement. “He’s at Jericho Mill. Listen to this: ‘The enemy made no show of resistance at this point. My infantry are fording. I do not believe the enemy intends holding the North Anna.’” He looked up from the paper and met Meade’s eyes. “He’s across the river.”
“Bless him,” Meade said.
Humphreys sensed relief from all the staff. Warren had performed disappointingly at the Wilderness and Spotsylvania, but today he had outpaced Hancock, who was just coming up and passing Carmel Church.
“Shall I send this up to Grant?” Humphreys asked.
Meade held out his hand. “Let me endorse it. Send an order to Warren. He’s to pass his entire corps over the river and entrench.”
Humphreys cocked his head, just askance.
Meade’s face sharpened. Humphreys read the expression: I still command this army.
“I see no conflict with Grant’s intentions,” Meade said. “Quite the contrary. Meanwhile, I want Warren across that damned river. With everything he’s got. And digging. Lee’s bound to counterattack. The moment he learns what’s happened.”
“Grant’s people don’t think Lee will contest the river line.”
Meade nodded. “And two days ago they insisted he’d fight to the death for it.” He bit off a growl. “We’ll see, Humph, we’ll just see. Until then, I want Warren across the river and digging in as fast as his men can dig. I’ll find out what Grant has in mind for Wright and Burnside, given developments.”
“Warren’s trains are backed up. At Carmel Church.”
“Remind him. That road belongs to Hancock. But make it clear he’s to get across the river with all his fighting strength. And he’s not to waste any time. The last thing I want is Warren dawdling for commissary wagons.” Thoughts moved across Meade’s face like clouds sweeping over a field. “Do his engineers have their bridging up? He’ll need to get artillery across. A lot of it. Soon.”
“George, the Fifth Corps has the best engineers in the Army.”
Meade nodded. “My old corps. Just get the order off to Warren, I’ll parley with Grant.”
Humphreys turned to the task. It was good to see Meade in form again. A decisive man by nature, he had been hobbled by Grant’s constant presence. But an argument Meade had lost two days before seemed only to have renewed his fighting spirit. Meade had proposed—soundly, in Humphreys’ view—that it made the most sense for the army to swing east and race Lee to the Chickahominy, to dash for the gates of Richmond. If the army moved east, there would be but one river to cross, the Pamunkey, and not all four of the rivers that fed into it. Hanover Junction, the key rail crossing, would fall of itself.
Instead, Grant
had chosen to head for the North Anna, unwilling to hear counterarguments, almost as if he meant to belittle Meade. Tempers were short all around after the last botch at Spotsylvania, a hopeless assault Grant demanded. Grant and his chorus of staff men—who seemed to do little real work—insisted that Lee would defend the North Anna to protect the junction. And the army must follow Lee, wherever he went. Meade had wanted to force Lee to do the following.
Subduing his temper admirably, in Humphreys’ opinion, Meade had then applied himself to his allotted task, getting the army across the North Anna River. The march from Spotsylvania had been fitful, confused by wretched maps that put roads and waterways miles out of place, but today the army had sparked back to life, scenting a conclusion to the wanton gore as its soldiers followed the dusty tracks that passed for thoroughfares deeper into Virginia.
Humphreys handed the dispatch to a courier. “For General Warren. Urgent.”
Cavalry had reported a small redoubt on the north bank, guarding the Chesterfield Bridge, along Hancock’s route down the Telegraph Road. There seemed to be some minor entrenchments on the south bank as well. But it had more the feeling of a rearguard effort than of a determined defense. And now Warren was across, a few miles upriver. Humphreys was glad of it, but it just didn’t seem like Robert E. Lee not to fight while he had the advantage.
Was Lee even there? Or was he retreating and licking his wounds, studying a defense of Richmond? What Humphreys saw before him and what he knew of Lee did not match up.
Meade was correct, of course: For now, Warren had to get his entire corps onto the south bank. And the Sixth Corps had to follow before any trains crossed, excepting a reserve of ammunition. In case Lee had set a grand ambush. Rations and niceties could wait.
What was Lee up to? Why had he let Warren cross?
Since Sheridan had recast the army’s cavalry for his personal use, reconnaissance had collapsed. While that foulmouthed little mick went gallivanting. Humphreys needed hard information, but Sheridan only gave men a hard time.
Teddy Lyman came in, gleaming with sweat and uniformed in dust.
“Infernal roads,” he said. “Half don’t go anywhere near where they’re supposed to.”
“We’ve noticed,” Humphreys told him. “Where have you been, Lyman?”
“At Warren’s ford,” the New Englander told him. “Map was utterly useless, had to get directions from a blackamoor. And he spoke some gibberish patois. Quite the spectacle, though. At the ford, I mean. When I left, Warren had a full division across, Charlie Griffin’s boys, with Crawford’s lot hard on their heels. The engineers got up a splendid bridge, really quite impressive. Frightfully quick, too. Despite Roebling’s meddling. Fancies himself quite the expert. German heritage, I suppose.”
Humphreys drew in his eyebrows. “No sign of Lee’s army?”
Lyman thought about it. “There may have been half a dozen irregulars, local men. I believe I heard somebody say.”
Humphreys could not understand it. Why would Lee let them cross that river unchallenged?
Three p.m.
Along the Virginia Central Railroad, east of Anderson Tavern
Lee slumped in the carriage. He wished to sit erectly, that at least. But his body betrayed him. Dizzy and sick, he had needed to dismount along the road and blunder toward the trees, undoing his trousers as he went, afraid that he would not remain in control of himself long enough to avoid shame. Venable had helped him back up from the stump, assisting him in matters as distasteful as they were embarrassing.
“You mustn’t tell them,” Lee had insisted. “They must not think me incapable.”
Venable murmured something in response.
Now Lee rode in the carriage, with tufts of horsehair bursting through rents in the cushions and a general air of poverty befitting a Methodist circuit rider. He disliked displaying himself in such an unmanly condition, but had to ride west, toward Hill’s corps, to look into the rumor that those people had forced the river. The heat, the heat. His stomach attacked him with razors, bending his body forward. Soon … too soon … he would need to dismount again.
Blue sky ahead. This heat, the blue sky. A fanged animal roamed his bowels. The army needed him. He must not waver … not waver …
The carriage approached a knot of soldiers, his soldiers. Lee straightened his back, an act of immense will. The soldiers removed their hats—straw or ragged felt, chewed around the brims, with here and there a crushed regulation cap—and voices as bare as the fields they had abandoned cried out well-meant words, good wishes, devotion. Lee maintained his solemn expression, unable to so much as raise a hand.
He could not go on. He must go on. Those people …
A horseman met the buggy and Lee’s retinue: a dispatch. Marshall seized it.
The world had grown unsteady. The sky quivered. He needed a private place. A cool place. To hide the body’s shame. To lie down. To rest. To gather strength again.
You must remain clear of mind, he told himself.
Sweat burst forth, not only from his wool-sheathed torso, but from his limbs and even the backs of his hands. His body was hot and the sweat was cold and everything was confused.
Just to lie down …
Fangs in his belly …
Marshall? What did he want?
“From Rooney Lee, sir. No major Union elements on our left. Only some minor doings at Jericho Mill, a few Yankees crossed at the ford.”
Lee felt his military secretary watching him. Venable, too, had come up. Venable and this vile carriage …
“A reconnoitering party,” Lee said, perhaps with too much emphasis. Almost with temper. “Those people will not cross there … not to their advantage … at most, a ruse.…”
“General Lee,” Marshall said, “if they have men across the river, even a few, General Hill must move against them. Before they can consolidate their—”
“They will not cross higher up,” Lee snapped.
The world hushed at the outburst.
“Sir…,” Venable said in a voice meant to soothe a child, “this is the turn to Ox Ford, the old coach road. Do you still wish to visit the ford? I could go myself. There’s really no need.…”
Why was there such doubt in Venable’s voice? Was it too hot for the pup? Of course Lee wished to inspect it. He needed to inspect the entire line.
Volcanic again, Lee’s bowels threatened to burst.
“The trees. Stop there. Those trees.”
He was not certain how long it took his party to reach Ox Ford, but the road was sunken, shaded, and cool for much of the way. At the bluff overlooking the river, he managed to dismount and walk, slowly, to the picket line. It was a fine position, high above the coursing water, with an overgrown island in midstream and lower, open ground on the opposite bank. The bluff could not be easily taken, if it could be taken at all.
There was no sign of those people.
He gestured for his field glasses. Holding them as steadily as he could, he scanned distant fields and groves. And saw nothing of import.
There were other fords, of course, at Quarles’s Mill and then Jericho Mill, farther up the river. He did not believe Grant and Meade would move their army so far west, but he needed to see the ground with his own eyes.
The way was long, though. And the heat … was killing.…
He craved rest, the chance to lie down and close his eyes. To gather strength for the battle, whenever it might come. The army needed him. They would not fight today, but, perhaps, tomorrow … or the day after.…
It made no sense for those people to cross higher up. No sense at all. Would it not be wiser to rest? Than to press on and risk debility?
What had Jackson said? Let us cross over the river. Not this river. Morbid thought. Rest under the shade of the trees. No. A cool room. Even a tent. Privacy. He dreaded soiling himself before the men. Not all his years in the army, in two armies, had hardened him against such a common disgrace.
He turned so quickly he almo
st lost his balance. His guts were in full revolt. But he would not let the men see him disabled. He thrust the field glasses into the nearest hands.
“The carriage.”
His aides closed around him.
“Away from here…”
“Yes, sir.”
Seated in the buggy again, forcing himself to sit as though he were in as full a command of his person as he was of the army, he beckoned Marshall to him.
“A courier,” Lee said. “Hill’s man. Now.”
Hill had been worried … worried … just returned to command and jumpy, unsettled. Seeing phantoms. In the heat. Under this blue sky. God’s blue. Not Union blue. Not the old blue … with which he had not kept faith … blue sky through myriad leaves, somnolent in the dead middle of the day. Where were they going? What road was this?
Where was Jackson? Longstreet? Stuart? They had left him behind.…
Not Longstreet. Peter had not deserted him. Longstreet would recover from his wound. Perhaps then …
Stuart! The man had never brought him a false report. Now Rooney. His son. His beloved son. But no Stuart. White House plantation burned. Act of spite. Two years ago now. Was it that long? Why could they not behave as gentlemen? Rooney doing his best. Must not shame the family. Lees of Virginia … his father’s shame, his brother’s … all he had done to make the name glisten again …
The rider from Hill’s headquarters waited beside Marshall.
