Hell or Richmond

by Ralph Peters

  It took the cavalryman, who was not at his ease, a moment to grasp the meaning. Then he produced the bottles from his courier bag.

  “Compliments of General Hancock,” Lyman said, extending the gifts.

  Major Wooten did not accept them. Not immediately.

  “General Hancock? Must be right fine whiskey, what I hear of the man.” He looked down at the proffered bottles, not without, Lyman sensed, a certain longing. Then the major’s face brightened. He turned to a man with a sergeant’s stripes on what remained of a sleeve. “Uriah, fetch up our best tobacco, see what the boys have.” And to Lyman: “If you’ll accept an exchange, sir?”

  They sat on shot-down leaves on barren ground, the last light phenomenal in its sumptuousness and the air thick as India rubber with the stench of decaying horses. While they waited, Wooten spoke cordially, drawing in two of his subordinates. In a quiet voice not meanly meant, one of them stated, “You can never whip us.”

  To Lyman’s disappointment, Major Wooten did not open the whiskey.

  The Confederates were not unfriendly, but maintained an edge of reserve and a becoming earnestness of manner. It occurred to Lyman how serious—serious beyond mere death—all this was for these men, whose people and homes were threatened by invasion, who now faced hardships on the best of days. His own people lived in plenty, immune to war.

  “Starfish,” Wooten said at one point. “Now there’s a thing I never thought to study.”

  As darkness fell, firing broke out along the line back beyond the arc of trees. Wooten and his officers leapt to their feet to quiet things.

  When he returned, the major said frankly, “I would offer you the hospitality of our camp, but there’s little that suits.” His face was blue in the starlit night. Lyman caught the ghost of a smile, and in a voice still softer, Wooten said, “Times I smell the coffee from over your way, it puts me in mind of home. I do miss coffee.” He smiled gently. “Of course, a man can’t smell nothing but rot these days.”

  “If I should come again,” Lyman assured him, “I’ll bring along coffee.”

  With a gesture as flitting as a bat, Wooten dismissed the promise. “Thank you, Colonel. But we are not reduced to charity.”

  Neither of them spoke of the wounded men, but Lyman chose to believe that this major thought about them with the same humanity he himself applied.

  Just after ten, the major sent a courier to the rear to inquire about the answer to the letter. At eleven, a lieutenant delivered a note. Wooten read it by the light of a match, then passed it to Lyman.

  It stated that “General Grant’s aide-de-camp need not be delayed further.” A response would be passed through the picket line in the morning.

  Eleven p.m.

  Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia

  “No,” Lee said.

  “Sir,” Venable tried again, “it’s a matter of common decency.…”

  Eyes aflame, Lee turned on him. “No, sir! I have said, ‘No!’ Do you fail to understand me? General Grant must acknowledge his defeat.” He gestured toward the letter on the desk. “His wording is shameless, dishonest. He tries to preserve an illusion of parity, when he has disgraced himself.”

  “He knows he’s been defeated,” Marshall tried.

  Lee aimed his temper in the military secretary’s direction. “He will admit defeat. He must not presume upon mercy.” Again, he pointed toward the letter. “Read it, Colonel Marshall. No, let me read it to you, sir.” Animated to a degree that alarmed his aides, Lee snatched up the message from Grant and, voice startlingly harsh, repeated, “‘It is reported to me that there are wounded men, probably of both armies, now lying exposed and suffering between the lines.…’” Face heated to a darkling rose, he said, “That … is infamous, gentlemen. My soldiers are not lying between the lines. Those are his soldiers. If he wishes, after so much delay, to ease their suffering at last, General Grant must send out a flag of truce, not a flag of parley. He must admit defeat, and he must adhere to the protocols of war.”

  “Sir—”

  “I will not be persuaded!” Lee looked about as if surrounded by enemies. “This country … Virginia … has suffered … suffered. I would not be cruel … not cruel, but of necessity. Grant must ask for a formal truce and acknowledge his defeat.”

  His aides remained silent.

  Remembering himself, Lee straightened his spine and mastered his tone. “Colonel Marshall, take up your pen. I will extend to General Grant the courtesy of a reply. You may send it through the picket line in the morning.”

  Marshall waited. Venable brooded. Taylor looked away.

  “General,” Lee began, “I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your letter…”

  June 6, seven thirty a.m.

  Grant’s headquarters

  Call his bluff, Grant thought. He understood what Lee wanted. And he didn’t mean to give it to him. Not for one more day, anyway. He had calculated the time it would take—not long—for the Richmond papers to declare a victory for Lee, then have the rags pass through the lines. Their claims would spread across the North by telegraphic message.

  He did not mean to embarrass Lincoln while the political roosters were crowing up in Baltimore. It was hard enough that the New York papers were printing all too accurate casualty reports, early figures of between five thousand and seventy-five hundred men lost since June first.

  The assault on the third had failed. Continuing it had been a mistake. Given. But the army had suffered worse days. And more bad days waited ahead, this kind of war guaranteed it. The political dimension mattered, though. He saw that plain, as he never had before.

  He was almost beginning to find politics interesting.

  Yet, even as he told himself his delay in requesting a truce was for Lincoln’s benefit, he knew full well it was also a matter of pride. He hated letting Lee believe that, for even a single day, he’d gotten the best of him. Lee’s will had to be broken, as surely as his army had to be crushed.

  Rawlins looked up from reading the note that Grant had drafted to Lee.

  “Well?” Grant asked.

  “He won’t go for it. He’s got us over a barrel. And he knows it.”

  “I don’t know,” Grant said. “He likes to play the grand gentleman. This gives him time to think about it, without giving him too much. Proposed cessation of fires, from noon until three.” He scratched his beard, which needed trimming. “That should do to get them in.”

  “Those who are still alive,” Rawlins said. “Sam, it was unwise to—”

  Grant cut him off. “Don’t turn soft on me, John. I can’t have you go soft.” But he eased his voice. “Give Lee any encouragement, let him think we’re weakening, and a lot more men will die than just those boys out there.”

  “It isn’t good for the morale of the army,” Rawlins told him. “Listening to them. After three days. Fewer voices calling every day.”

  “Defeat isn’t good for an army’s morale, either.”

  Ten a.m.

  Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia

  “No,” Lee said. “He must admit defeat. Tell him that any parties he sends will be turned back, white flags notwithstanding. Until he asks for a formal truce. Tell him that.”

  Three p.m.

  Headquarters, Army of the Potomac

  Meade felt near despair. It was another hot day, fiercely hot. The wounded had been lying in the sun and rain for three and a half days. While Grant and Lee sparred over trivial points of honor. It had struck him that morning that the two of them, the man of Virginia and the man of the West, were two peas from the same pod.

  Rawlins came in, coughing from dust and consumption. Humphreys moved to intercept him, but Grant’s man was in a hurry and headed straight toward Meade. He waved another letter.

  “For God’s sake, get this over to Lee quick as you can. He’ll … he should find this acceptable.”

  Meade was surprised that Rawlins, who was ailing, had brought the letter himself. It occ
urred to him, a bit jarringly, that the fellow might actually care about the men. It was a surprising thought.

  “What does Grant say this time?” Humphreys asked. The skepticism in his voice was unmistakable.

  “He says,” Rawlins wheezed, “that he’s ‘compelled to ask for a suspension of hostilities’ and allows Lee to fix the time.”

  Meade nodded. “That’s the proper wording.”

  Five thirty p.m.

  Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia

  “No,” Lee said. “Not yet. Wait a bit longer, let him worry. I’d prefer General Grant receive the note about seven.”

  “Sir, that’s too late,” Venable said. “You specify the hours between eight and ten. They won’t have time—”

  “I know that, Colonel.”

  Nine thirty p.m.

  Headquarters, Second Corps, Army of the Potomac

  “I’m every bit as goddamned mad as you are, Barlow. You think I don’t give a damn about those men?”

  “It’s pitch black out there. And too late, anyway. What the devil good is a truce from eight to ten, if you don’t hear a word about it until after nine? I can’t send men out there now.”

  “You might want to watch your tone with General Hancock,” Morgan told him.

  “Go fuck a mule,” Barlow said.

  Hancock laughed too loudly. It carried a hint of madness. “I’d like to see that, I think. You’re man enough, Morgan.”

  Barlow shook his head. “I’m feeding shirkers and cowards, safe in the rear, and brave men are abandoned. It’s a disgrace beyond comprehension.”

  “Everything about war’s a disgrace,” Hancock told him.

  June 7, ten thirty a.m.

  Grant’s headquarters

  “Send it,” Grant said. “I’d shoot the man dead, if I could. ‘Virginia gentleman’ indeed.”

  Two p.m.

  Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia

  “All right,” Lee told Marshall and Venable. “But Grant must understand clearly that he is the supplicant, the wording must be precise.” A blade-thin smile shaped Lee’s mouth. “Tell him his white flags will be recognized between six and eight this evening. Make him jump.”

  Four p.m.

  Headquarters, Army of the Potomac

  “Thank God,” Meade said.

  Humphreys curled a corner of his mouth. “Who needs God, when we’re blessed with General Grant?”

  Eleven p.m.

  Barlow’s headquarters

  “They’re dead,” Nellie Miles told him. “Most of them. Almost all. I suppose it’s a wonder we found any still alive.”

  “Yes,” Barlow said. “A wonder.”

  Midnight

  Barlow’s tent

  She had brought salve and rubbed it, ever so gently, into his feet. First, she had cleaned him with soap, steady-handed, until the scales fell away and the raw flesh cooled. She patted him dry with a towel, then the ointment came out.

  “You really must look after yourself,” Arabella told him. “This is so much worse.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “It could become gangrenous.”

  He nodded. Then he closed his eyes, the better to feel her touch. It was as well that there was no true privacy. Everything was too grim, too shabby and foul, for deeper intimacies. But it was an immeasurable pleasure just to see her, to briefly feel her touch. He could have gushed thanks to every busybody on the Sanitary Commission for letting her come along on their inspection.

  “After the war,” he told his wife, “we’ll go to Newport. I’ll do everything that I’m supposed to do.”

  She laughed. Gently. “Frank, you’ll never do everything you’re supposed to do. And I thought we were going to Europe?”

  “First Newport, then Europe.”

  She smiled, as with a child. “And can we afford that?”

  “Yes, Belle. We can afford that.”

  “I should like to do both, that would please me so. Although I dread those wicked old cats in Newport.”

  “They won’t dare be wicked now,” Barlow told her. “Not to you, my love.”

  She smiled. That wry, wise smile that he found irresistible. “Oh, yes. ‘The general’s wife.’ I shall put on airs.”

  “No, Belle, that’s not it. They all know the things you’ve done. The nursing.” Astonishing himself after such a bad day, he smiled back at her. “I hear they call you ‘the Scavenger.’”

  She stroked his ankle, then fingered more salve from the pot. “I’m sure those old cats called me worse in the past. Frank, do you have any idea what it’s like to be a woman with a quarter of a brain? A strumpet fares better.”

  “I’m dreadfully proud of you, Belle. You know that, I hope?”

  And he looked at the woman he loved. Careworn, as weary as any soldier in the army. The nursing, the grimness, an unclean and morbid life. She did not lack courage, his steady Arabella. But the war had aged her fiercely. Ten years older than him, she now looked ten years past that. He loved her all the more.

  He felt the urge to embrace her, but she held his foot as tightly as a surgeon’s strap.

  “Frank?” He recognized her “schoolmarm” voice.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m told you exposed unarmed men to artillery fire. On purpose. And two were killed.”

  “They weren’t men. They were cowards. Shirkers. Brave men died in their places.”

  “That was childish of you. And mean.”

  He straightened his spine. “You don’t understand—”

  He stopped himself. She did understand. The damage he and his kind inflicted dropped into her lap. Like his hideous foot.

  “It was childish,” she repeated. “Really, you mustn’t do things you’ll live to regret.”

  He leaned toward her, earnest as death and loving her unreservedly. His wife, his only true friend. “Belle … Bella … dear Belle … I’ll regret all of this. You have no idea.” Emotions seethed out, tearing holes in his flesh to escape. “Grant … Meade … the lot of them. They left those men out there for four and a half days. Good men, the best, the finest I had.” He could not look at her, but turned his face sideward, gazing down into the shadows cast by the lantern. “I’m going to give it up,” he declared. “I’ll take that ridiculous job in the darkey bureau, I swear I will.” He wanted to stand, but his wife still held his foot. “I hate this war.”

  Arabella released him. Her smile perished. “No,” she said. “You won’t give it up. Frank, you love all this.” She struggled to smile again, but the effort faltered. “More than anything.”

  June 13, ten a.m.

  Cold Harbor

  Damnedest thing. Yankees just slipped off in the night, just flowed off like water. All the bands playing the evening before should’ve been a hint that doings were under way, but everybody was trench-tired and glad enough for the music, Yankee or not. Then, come dawn, there weren’t enough blue-belly pickets left behind to thumb your nose at, hardly worth the capturing. Nothing left but their death-stink.

  Another hot day, bound to be, when a man was sweating dirt like this before noon.

  “Get all that busted down,” Oates said. “Got to get to marching.”

  And they would, as soon as the road was clear of the leading regiments. Marching to Lord knew where.

  Yankees just disappearing like that. Again. One thing they were good at, anyway. No man took them for quitting, though. They were just gone elsewhere to renew the tribulation. And now the army would run like dogs to hunt them, hoping to run down a fox, but meeting the bear again.

  As the sergeants and officers still with the regiment got the men in order—none of it done without the usual grumbling that was as much a part of the army as bullets and beans—Colonel Perry rode up. He had the brigade again, with General Law wounded in the head and sent off.

  Perry looked glum.

  Oates didn’t have much to offer by way of cheer. But he’d grown to like Perry. Didn’t mind taking orders from
him, way things turned out.

  Perry halted his horse, soothing it in his born-to-it Georgia drawl, although he had adopted Alabama a time back and represented himself as an Alabaman.

  The poor devil’s face was longer than Abraham’s beard. Oates wished he had the gift of humor, would have liked to level a joke, some saucy story, in Perry’s direction. But he never possessed the levity required, just never felt or displayed it. He could laugh well enough, but could not make other men laugh.

  Was it bad news about the war?

  Pulling off his riding gloves, Perry said, “William, we need to talk some.”

  “Surely.”

  “Among two men. Two Alabama men. Come off a ways.”

  Oates felt the first unease. He followed Perry into a grove that had been shot through and shit in, the man-smell compounding the death-smell.

  “Don’t get fiery now,” Perry said. “You have a regiment to march a hard piece today. Just listen to me and hold yourself up like a man.”

  Oates liked things less and less. He nearly tramped in a pile.

  “What do you have to tell me?” he asked. Wondering if, by some strange how, Perry had heard news of his family back home before he heard it himself. Bad news. He was not prepared to lose his mother without seeing her again, that he would not tolerate. He’d even get down on his knees and pray with her, if that was what she wanted, if only she could be cajoled to live on. He’d pray right now, even try to believe in its usefulness.

  “Lowther back yet?” Perry asked.

  Nothing left to like at all, once that man’s name was mentioned.

  Oates shook his head. “Not since he run off pretending to be mortally wounded again. Hardly a wood splinter this time. But enough to take him to Richmond.”

  “I figured he wasn’t back,” Perry said. He sounded relieved, but in a way that only made Oates wary. “Now you hold yourself up honest and listen to me. Lowther’s coming back, all right. Soon. I don’t know when exactly. But some things are going to change, and neither you nor me are bound to like it.”

  “What’s that coward done now?”

  “It’s not what he’s done,” Perry said, “but what he got done.”