by Ralph Peters
Rebs were playing coldhearted poker. Clutching their cards tight.
Captain Schwenk pointed the way for the regiment with his sword. Brown wanted him to get on back behind the advancing ranks. He was supposed to be doing a colonel’s job now, not a fool captain’s.
He wanted Schwenk to survive this, didn’t know what would become of them all without him.
There were too many ghosts already, marching beside him, touching him. Brown was neither a superstitious man nor much moved by churchgoing. He sang hymns dutifully, and listened fitfully, and was ever a little relieved when a service ended. He never had the visions others talked of. But the ghosts were there now, always.
It unsettled him, because he loved practical things. He liked ropes tied in good knots, brass polished every day, and the deck of a barge swept clean. A good woman worth the holding. A well-oiled rifle. He had been pleased that morning when he inspected the company’s arms, still doing a first sergeant’s work, as well as a captain’s. The new men had learned. A month’s campaigning had left their uniforms in tatters and their shoes as thin as muslin, and they were filthy. But every man’s rifle was ready.
What would become of Frances, if he fell? Who might she marry? If he became a ghost?
He could smell her. She smelled like a warm kitchen on a cold day. She played hymns on her piano, but other things, too. She was a sensible woman, churched but not iced over, one who didn’t push too hard about anything that made a man uncomfortable, but who had her way of letting you know it was time to stop or keep going.
Had it not been so cold that day in the orchard, when last he had seen her at home …
The drums. The guns. Legs brushing through the grass. The brigade had reached the middle of the field.
Brown saw them, the first points of light, and heard the reports. Anxious men over there, too. Unable to hold their fire.
“Steady, boys!” Schwenk called. “Company commanders, maintain your lines.”
He was a company commander now, Brown told himself. Responsible for these men. How had it happened?
He turned his head and called, “Noncommissioned officers! Maintain the lines.”
Noncommissioned officers? He had two.
“They’re straight as a mule’s stiff pecker,” Corporal Eckert assured him.
Brown could feel the grass, the earth, moist earth, through the new hole in his shoe.
The bearer waved the regimental colors. As if signaling to the Rebs, Here we are, Johnny. What the dickens are you waiting for?
The Rebs weren’t waiting anymore.
Everything hit them at once, the fire from concealed guns, a staggering rifle volley, a burst of rain.
Men fell. Dozens, it seemed.
Someone called, “Charge!” Then Captain Schwenk was running ahead of them, hollering, “Charge!” himself, and the men followed after, first at the double-quick, then just plain running.
Another Reb volley ripped into them. Schwenk spun about, squirting blood from his side, and fell hard.
No time, no time. Don’t think about it.
“Come on!” Brown yelled. “Charge!”
The men stayed with him, even came abreast of him. The Johnnies were firing on their own now, as fast as they could reload. Maybe even faster, as if they had loaded rifles waiting, or other men reloading for them.
Off to the right, the colors went down. Someone raised them, struggling with an awkward grip. Then Company C was in advance of the colors, with Brown hollering and not even aware of it, just doing, another beast trained to his task.
Canister tore a hole in the regiment’s center, just to the flank of Company C. The colors had disappeared, left behind, God only knew where.
More shots. Volleys again, from the flank. The guns. Men staggering. Red sprays of blood. Cries of shock, despair. The wounded calling. No officers.
The entire brigade came to a standstill short of the Rebel lines. As if there were an invisible wall they could not push their way through. Men milled like unnerved cattle, directionless, bleeding. More and more of them dropped to the earth, wounded or not. Some ran.
His men were still with him, most of them. Brown raised his rifle in one hand, to rally them, to lead them forward.
More guns opened, from the other flank this time, knocking men over the way a storm wind toppled weakened trees.
And Brown saw it, the madness, the impossibility, the complete, shameless, hopeless swindle.
Men disappeared in clouds of blood. A sergeant from Company B threw his arms wide, embracing an invisible sweetheart, and fell forward. Men trying to withdraw were shot without mercy.
“Down!” Brown shouted. “Company C! Down. Everybody down! Now!”
They obeyed him, the boys who were left. Boys from his hometown, whose father he had become in the midst of war. A twenty-three-year-old father, these perhaps the only children he’d know. These men.
He hugged the ground as rifle balls probed the grass, hunting untouched flesh. Canister snapped overhead, and, at some distance, Brown heard the shriek of Whitworth guns. Farther away, on the other side of the world, men cheered, though he could not say who, or for what.
The earth, wet earth.
Slowly, he inched back toward his men, staying as low as his muscular shoulders allowed, colliding with the shreds of a man from Company D, little more than a head, a few bones, and rags of flesh. The dead man had shared coffee with Brown back on the North Anna. He had told of a wife and children.
He found Isaac Eckert. Or Isaac found him. Their shoulders touched.
“Christ,” Isaac said, “where’d they get you?”
“It’s not my blood. Get your head down.”
“What the bejeezus are we going to do?” Isaac asked him.
“Wait until night,” Brown told him. “Then crawl back.”
Twelve thirty p.m.
Cold Harbor
Ulysses S. Grant suspended his attack. He had finally seen the battlefield.
EPILOGUE
June 5, four thirty p.m.
Cold Harbor, Hancock’s tent
“Damn it, Lyman,” Hancock said, “can’t Meade and Grant even provide their own white flag?” He turned to his body servant, an affected, lowbred Englishman Lyman rather disliked. “Give them something or other they can use. Not one of my shirts.”
“Of course, sir,” the Englishman answered. “Not one of your shirts, sir.” The man left the tent with all the airs he could muster.
Hancock wheeled back to Lyman, who had learned not to take the general’s outbursts personally: Temper was merely a privilege of generalship, if the specimens he had studied were indicative. “Damned disgrace, every bit of it,” Hancock roared. “Letting wounded men lie out there for two shit-shaking days.” A bull of a man, he snorted. “How many do you think have died already, Professor? While Grant and Meade have been fiddling with their pricks?”
“It’s been General Grant, not Meade, sir,” Lyman told him. He would not hear Meade, a gentleman, unfairly denigrated.
Flies buzzed. Barlow sat on a camp chair, glowering. Lyman knew that Barlow had kicked up the fuss that had, at last, driven Grant to send Lee a note requesting a cease-fire to gather in the wounded. He had been rather surprised at Barlow for showing such concern. Not like Frank at all. But there it was.
Rigorous of eye, Hancock inspected his visitor, tip to toe. Lyman had donned his dress uniform, the finest Boston’s tailors could provide, and he held white gloves. Carrying a parley flag had a whiff of medieval pageant in his mind. But Hancock, though he took pains about clothing himself, regarded the elegant outfit with disdain. His stare settled on Lyman’s sash.
“Grant, Meade, whoever … it’s a damned outrage,” Hancock growled. “Leaving those men out there. Have you listened to them, Lyman? At night? Have you?”
“Yes, sir. I have.” Lyman’s voice remained calm: All of this was a fascinating study in humankind. And he had indeed listened to the plaints of the wounded stranded between
the lines. Meade had listened as well. Everyone had. Except Grant, who kept to his tent, sulking like Achilles. Meade had pleaded with him to arrange a truce to bring in the wounded, but only Hancock’s last telegraphic message, putting things on the record, had finally moved Grant to offer a carefully worded letter to Lee that avoided any hint of a Union defeat.
That was the thing of it, Lyman recognized: Grant did not want to admit that, on that one day, at least, the army he oversaw had been defeated. Meade felt it had to do with the political convention coming in two days and the worry that the Confederate papers would announce Lee’s victory in bold type, complicating Lincoln’s renomination. For his part, Lyman suspected Grant’s rawboned vanity. Despite his homespun manner, Grant had the pride of an emperor. Lyman found it odd that so few saw it.
Another head poked in, that of a colonel Lyman had seen about but couldn’t name.
“Ah,” Hancock said, bending to stroke his thigh. “Hapgood. You know Lyman here.”
In a voice hewn from New England’s stone, the colonel said, “Missed the pleasure.” He, too, looked over Lyman’s uniform. But he held out his hand. Which Lyman took, careful to grip it firmly.
“Hapgood commands what remains of the Fifth New Hampshire,” Barlow put in. “Some of the men lying out there belong to his regiment.”
“Colonel Hapgood’s corps officer of the day,” Hancock explained. “He’ll see you on your way.” And back to Hapgood: “Don’t get Lyman killed, if you can help it. Meade’s unaccountably fond of him.”
A quizzical look had overtaken Hapgood, who seemed to have been summoned without explanation.
“Flag of truce,” Barlow told him. “That’s why Teddy’s dressed up for the ball. Impress our Southern brethren with our plumage.” His smile was a silent snicker, just showing his crooked teeth. Even to his friends, Lyman knew, Barlow was only intermittently friendly. One accepted it.
“About damned time,” Hapgood said.
“We’re just waiting for the general’s man to find him a white rag. You, Charlie, are to show Lyman and his equally well-attired cavalry sergeant the way.”
Hapgood figured for a pair of seconds. “Have to take him down to the flank. Keep away from the sharpshooters.”
Hancock had enough. “Lyman, don’t shit this up. Those men are dying.” He turned to an orderly who had the gift of making himself nearly invisible in the presence of high rank. “Find Major Mitchell. Tell him to give our imperial emissary two bottles of the best whiskey we’ve got.” Addressing himself a final time to Lyman, he said, “The liquor’s not for Dutch courage, Lyman. It’s for the Rebs, for goodwill. Maybe they won’t shoot you, if you pop out bearing gifts.” He stalked out.
“Really, Teddy,” Barlow said, “you’re the most important man in this army today. Do what you can, old fellow.”
“I have no power to negotiate, of course. Grant—”
“Do what you can,” Barlow repeated. A trick of the light let Lyman see that his friend’s eyes had grown ancient.
Hancock’s manservant reappeared. He held out a starched pillowcase, a phenomenon as rare in the camp as a petticoat. Hapgood took it, looked at Lyman, and said, “I’ll get this up on a stick.”
Lyman was anxious to go. The air in the tent was nastier than the death-smell beyond the flaps. It smelled like rotten feet. Extremely rotten feet.
As Lyman and his escort went out, Barlow called, “Keep him alive, if you can, Charlie. He’s not entirely worthless.”
* * *
Set back a hundred yards from the works, the headquarters of Miles’ brigade resembled a termite colony exposed by a lifted plank. Traverses led back from a trench and officers worked in shallow, canvas-topped pits to right and left that served as workplace and sleeping quarters. Everyone and everything was filthy. The stench would not be endured, yet men endured it.
Officers and men alike found Lyman’s garb amusing.
Hapgood explained the mission to Miles, who nodded, shrugged, and pointed toward the flank.
The two men rejoined Lyman’s cavalry sergeant escort and remounted, nudging their horses through a ravaged grove until the proper entrenchments gave way to rifle pits. Hapgood turned his horse into the sun.
Another colonel, grubby as a tyke who’d been leaping in mud puddles, clambered out of a pit and held up a hand.
“You know where you’re going, Hapgood? I’ve just had two field officers killed out there.”
The New Englander, who wore bullet holes through his hat, trousers, and scabbard, drew himself up, insulted.
“I do know where I’m going.” He nodded. “Some bullets may come through here, but none to hurt.”
Lyman was not reassured.
Hapgood led the way through another fringe of trees. Beyond lay open fields.
“You hold that white flag high now,” Hapgood told the sergeant.
They emerged into full light, letting their mounts go slowly. Twenty yards out, to the rear of another, sparser line of rifle pits, Hapgood stopped them.
“Stay here,” he said, and slipped down from the saddle. “This is as good a point as we’re like to find. Let me scare up an officer.”
Another interval of waiting began as Hapgood searched out the lieutenant commanding the pickets. Lyman had thought it all might be simpler, more dignified. As in Henry V, although Union straits were not as desperate as those of the French had been. He wanted to get on with the business, first because proximity to the wounded had driven home their need for succor still more strongly, and second, because he felt no fear, surprising himself, and wished to complete his mission before pangs of dread unmanned him.
At last, Hapgood flushed out the lieutenant, who edged up and called to the Johnnies to summon an officer of their own. After a bout of jawing on the Confederate side, someone was dispatched. That, too, took time. The brute sun of afternoon began its long decline into the evening.
A Confederate captain haggled a little, then called out for his men to hold their fire. The lieutenant did the same on the Union side, and Hapgood waved Lyman and his sergeant forward. The sergeant made certain the white flag remained visible.
“Best dismount,” the New Englander said. “Shoot you just for the horse.”
“Are you to come along?” Lyman asked. Tall and flinty, Hapgood gave him confidence.
The colonel shook his head. “Not ordered, not authorized. You’re on your own, here on out. But I’ll stick by, don’t worry. Make sure the boys don’t mistake you for a bear, you come back in.”
“Thank you.” Lyman offered his hand.
Hapgood gripped it hard. “You get this done.”
Lyman led the way across the longest field he had ever walked, aiming at the single Confederate standing erect behind the opposing rifle pits. There had been no more than a cavalry skirmish this far to the south, but the dead horses strewn about smelled as foul as dead men.
The Rebel officer stood with folded arms, watching them come. As Lyman passed the first rifle pit, a Johnny looked up from his rifle, expression frozen between spite and laughter. He and all of the other soldiers in evidence looked like beggars from a Hugo novel. Beggars with ready weapons.
“Jaysus,” the cavalry sergeant muttered.
Before they closed up to him, the Rebel officer turned on his heel and strode to the rear, around a corner of trees. Lyman followed. Late sun buttered a second field and gilded the oaks beyond. Shielding his eyes, he spotted a pair of officers in frock coats. Perhaps twenty soldiers, all in scavenged uniforms, hunkered along a tree line.
The soldiers took their cue from their officers and did not jeer or smile. Nor did they appear sullen. They were men accustomed to waiting.
One of the officers stepped forward. A major, he noted that Lyman outranked him and saluted. Then he extended his hand, as formally as if at a charity ball.
“Major Wooten,” he said. “Fourteenth North Carolina. To whom do I have the pleasure?”
“Lyman.” He accepted the Rebel’
s grip, which was strong without taint of bullying. “Army of the Potomac staff.”
“Ah,” Wooten said. “And you carry a message, sir?”
Lyman undid two buttons of his tunic to draw out the letter. “For General Lee, from General Grant.”
The major’s head moved so slightly, it couldn’t be called a nod. He did not accept the letter.
“I await word from my superiors … whether your dispatch can be received.”
Lyman felt a jolt of impatience. Bad enough that it had taken more than two days to move Grant to commit himself to paper …
Mastering his pique, he said, “I suppose things must be done properly.”
“Yes, sir. These days, many a man has little left, beyond the will to see things properly done.”
Viewed close, the major’s once fine uniform told of hardship. But the man bore himself as if he would have chosen no other from the grandest wardrobe. Pride shone through the rags of these men like candlelight through torn curtains.
Lyman recalled a conversation with Barlow, who had remarked, much to Lyman’s surprise, how he preferred the Confederate officers he’d met during his brief captivity at Gettysburg, when all thought him dying, to the manners and characters of his fellow Yankees. Lyman began to see it now. The Confederate major was utterly without pomposity, yet his dignity was as clean and sharp as a blade. He spoke softly.
Invisible, a horse galloped nearby. Moments later, a captain emerged from the trees. After saluting Major Wooten, he turned to Lyman and said, “I’m permitted the honor of receiving your dispatch, sir.”
“Captain,” Wooten said to his comrade, “you’ve forgotten your manners.” He raised his hand a few inches, hinting at a salute.
“Your pardon,” the captain said, saluting.
Lyman gave him the letter.
“There’ll be an answer,” the captain said. “You’re requested to wait on it, sir.”
The evening’s gold had turned to orange around them.
No sooner had the captain departed than Lyman remembered the whiskey. He started, as if to run after the courier, then contained himself.
“Sergeant? Our ‘peace offering,’ if you will?”
