The Battle of the Crater: A Novel (George Washington Series)

by Newt Gingrich

  “I can’t deny that,” James sighed.

  “And I heard that some of your white troops turned on the blacks toward the end.”

  James could only nod, too ashamed by what he had seen to speak.

  “Why didn’t they send those colored boys in?” Sanders asked.

  “What?”

  “Why? I’m just guessing here, but the way they charged, it was like they knew what they were doing, but your white troops didn’t.”

  James felt he couldn’t reply.

  Sanders finally nodded.

  “All right. Yes, some of the prisoners opened up, and for God’s sake, make sure someone reports that we took over two hundred colored men as prisoners, and in spite of what the Richmond papers say, or what that fool we have in Richmond as a president said, General Lee’s orders have been and will be obeyed. But yes, some of them talked and said they were supposed to go in first and if they had they would have won the battle.”

  Hearing that again filled James with a cold sense of rage, but he felt he could not comment.

  “I’ll tell you this,” Sanders whispered. “If they had gone in first right after the explosion, those boys might have crushed us clean through to Petersburg. Then, rather than us standing here picking up dead, I think this war would be all but over.”

  He took another long drink, and James inwardly sighed, sensing that the bottle was nearly empty.

  Sanders handed it back, and James could see the man actually smiled.

  “Being an old newspaper man myself, Reilly, I’ll have to ask that you don’t quote me on that. I think it’d cost me my rank.”

  “Agreed.” The two stood silent for a moment.

  “Have you seen inside the crater yet?” Sanders asked.

  “I was in it during the fight.”

  Sanders looked at him appraisingly.

  “I’m glad you got out alive.”

  “A lot of my friends didn’t.”

  Sanders turned and motioned for James to follow.

  Again memories resurfaced: of Cold Harbor; of so many battlefields at night; of lanterns bobbing up and down as the bearers stopped before each prone form, looking it in the face in hopes of finding a live comrade, then moving on.

  Last night had been an utter horror. Hundreds were spread over the slope separating the Union line from the crater. In the darkness they had cried out for water, for a friend, and most heartbreakingly of all, for their mothers. So very many, in their last minutes, turned back to childhood, calling their mother to come and comfort them. James had prayed and wanted to believe that indeed the spirit of more than one mother did hover over that field to embrace their dying sons and then bear them away from their nightmares.

  A brave few had ventured out laden with canteens to try and bring succor, but under orders from the high command, sharpshooters were to drive them back. Most, with no stomach for such action, would just put a warning shot close to a man. However, more than a few, still filled with the mad frenzy that lingers after a bitter fight, aimed and shot to kill.

  And thus, come dawn of the next day, the wounded still lay out there in the boiling heat. Some had the strength to try and crawl to safety, and rage filled both sides because too often these men were shot, rather than shown the tradition of compassion, which had so far ruled on most battlefields of this war once the fighting was over.

  If this damn war does not end soon, he had thought throughout the day, this hatred will finally burn so deep we will never recover from it.

  They walked past more prone, motionless forms—veterans of so many fields—as they approached the lip of the crater.

  James was used to the stench of death, but here it was so overpowering that he stopped and gagged, fearing he would vomit.

  He pulled out a bandanna, as Sanders already had, Sanders splashing a bit of the precious whiskey on his and then James’s. Tying the bandannas around their mouths and noses, they pressed forward, the whiskey blocking at least a bit of the stench.

  They reached the crest.

  “Oh, merciful God and all the saints have pity,” James whispered.

  With the truce, the Rebels who had reoccupied the crater had finally had the chance to “clean it out.”

  The lip of the vast crater, which covered nearly an acre of ground, was rimmed with torches. Several hundred men were at work, and the image was frightful, as if the men lining the crest were literally mining for the dead.

  Ropes were tossed down to the bottom, where men laboring like the damned in some Dante’s hell were looping the ropes around bodies, then shouting for the men above to haul away. Most of those who worked on the bottom were prisoners, black prisoners, armed guards standing and just watching. The bodies being hauled up the sides of the crater had been there for more than a day and a half in 100-degree heat.

  Like all the dead he had seen on so many battlefields, after a day under the summer sun of Virginia, Maryland, or Pennsylvania, their bodies had so bloated up that their uniforms looked small, tight, constricting; in some cases jacket buttons and flies on pants had burst.

  But this was worse, far worse. For these dead, hundreds of them, had been trapped inside a cauldron that held in the heat. Some of the bodies literally burst asunder as they were being hauled out, overwhelming the living men laboring to drag them out. The universal sound around James was one of gagging, vomiting. Men gasped for air. Some, in spite of orders or the threat of a bayonet prod, were breaking down, staggering away, or just collapsing into sobs.

  Along the far rim of the crater, wagons were drawn up in a row, and as the bodies were finally dragged out, they were hoisted up and dumped unceremoniously into the back of the wagons until, fully loaded, the driver could set off with his load.

  “We’re burying them all in a mass grave up by Blandford Church.”

  Sanders hesitated.

  “It’s consecrated ground at least.”

  “Got another live one down here!” a cry came up from below. “Yanks, it’s another one of your black boys.”

  On the near rim of the crater, James saw that Garland was again at work. He and one of the stretcher bearers were sliding down into the hellhole. James watched anxiously, for what was to distinguish them from the prisoners?

  Sanders seemed to read his mind.

  “They’ll be all right. Your prisoners are wearing white armbands. As long as they keep them on, they’ll be treated fairly. Again, orders of General Lee. But if any try to sneak off, they’ll be shot.”

  James said nothing, taking in the Stygian nightmare, knowing he had to sketch it later, and knowing as well that no newspaper would ever print it.

  Garland grabbed hold of the wounded man, called for a rope to be tossed down, and set to work.

  “I’ve been in a dozen pitched battles,” Sanders whispered. “My regiment was all but annihilated at Sharpsburg, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  James could only nod in reply, moving the bandanna aside to take a deep puff on his cigar and then regretting it. The smell had overwhelmed him; he dropped the cigar, turned away, and vomited.

  He was stunned when Sanders actually patted him on the back and offered him the bottle so he could rinse the sour taste out of his mouth with another drink. It was the last of the bottle, which he let fall to the ground.

  “Damn, I’m still not drunk enough,” Sanders sighed.

  “Nor I.”

  “So what next?”

  “It continues,” was all James said.

  He looked over at Sanders.

  “You know you can’t win. We will just keep wearing you down.”

  “You call this wearing us down?” Sanders snapped, pointing to the crater. “If every one of you damn Yankees could be brought here, to see this, that bastard in the White House would be driven out tomorrow, and we could all go home.”

  “What about the bastard in your White House?” James retorted angrily. “He was the one screaming about no prisoners and selling these men back into slavery. Bill
, I have to fight against that.”

  “Then I will see you on the next battlefield, if we survive.”

  The two glared at each other for a moment, as if about to fight the war on a very personal level, then James just lowered his head sadly.

  “Sorry, James,” Sanders whispered.

  “We’re all infected with it,” James replied.

  Sanders fetched two more cigars out of his pocket and handed them to James.

  “Keep your head down, James.”

  “You, too, Bill.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then James reached out and, rather than grasp his old friend’s burned hands, he just patted him on the shoulder.

  “Maybe, after this war is over, we’ll see each other again.”

  “Doubt it,” Sanders replied. “We’ll keep fighting. You know I have nothing against the colored, but using them in battle like this … First of all, it was murder the way they were thrown into this fight. Second, there’s many a boy in the ranks here who was not fighting for slavery, but will be damned if any colored troops are going to beat him down.”

  James sighed, watching as Garland continued to labor to hoist yet another comrade out of the crater.

  “They’re only men, just like us,” James replied. “And that, I think, is worth fighting for.”

  He patted Sanders again, regretting as he did so because the man winced. By the torchlight he could see that his head was heavily bandaged and burns had swollen his face. In another world this man would be in a hospital, but not this world.

  “After the war, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “A gallon at least,” Bill whispered. “Maybe with enough of it, we can forget.”

  He turned and walked away into the darkness.

  James moved along the rim of the crater to where the rescue party was laboring, lending a hand as they finally hoisted the wounded soldier out of the hell pit. His leg was gone below the right knee, the tourniquet which someone had put on over a day and a half ago still bound tight. By torchlight he could see that the shattered stump was already swollen to twice the normal size. The poor man would have to endure another amputation, most likely at mid-thigh, to stop the spread of gangrene.

  James extended a hand to Garland, who, gasping for breath, reached up to him for help getting out, triggering a flash memory of the assault, the two helping each other up out of the trench, which was supposed to have been spanned with footbridges.

  “Thank you,” was all Garland could say. It was obvious he was on the point of getting sick to his stomach as well, but his attention was focused solely on the wounded man, now being gently laid on a stretcher.

  Garland uncorked his canteen. The injured man was barely conscious. Garland offered him a drink, which he finally took, replying with whispered thanks.

  “What regiment are you?” asked Garland.

  “31st,” was all he could whisper. “I’m a soldier of the 31st by God.”

  “Yes you are,” Garland replied, and reaching into his haversack he pulled out a pocket Bible. The haversack was bulging with them.

  “This is the good book, son,” he said, pressing it into the wounded man’s hands.

  “Remember the Twenty-eighth Psalm?” Garland whispered. “‘The Lord my strength and my shield; my heart trusted in him, and I am helped.’”

  The wounded soldier could only nod.

  “Hold the good book tight, it will make you feel good, son.”

  Garland could barely contain his tears. The man he was comforting was obviously old enough to be his father, and yet he called him “son.”

  Garland looked up at the stretcher team.

  “Run. Run!” he cried. “Get him to help now!”

  The stretcher team set off as ordered.

  Garland stood back up, taking James’s proffered hand.

  “James Reilly, do I smell whiskey on you?” he asked.

  “Just to cover over the smell,” James replied.

  Garland looked straight into his eyes and James, to his own surprise, felt a power and with it nearly a sense of guilt.

  Garland finally relented and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “For the first time in years, I wish I had a drink,” he finally said.

  He looked back down into the crater.

  “God, how can we keep doing this to each other?”

  He turned his gaze back to James.

  “Remember this. Draw it. Tell the world of it and never let them forget. Never!”

  His voice was filled with anger.

  “Hey, we got another live one down here,” a voice rose from below. “At least this one’s white; I think he’s one of ours.”

  Without comment Garland slid back down into hell to offer a hand.

  HEADQUARTERS, NINTH CORPS

  AUGUST 2, 1864

  12:15 A.M.

  “Colonel Pleasants, thank you for coming. Sorry if I disturbed your rest.”

  Henry Pleasants stepped down into the command bunker. It was empty except for General Burnside, who sat alone, in a corner. A tin cup, from the smell of it filled with coffee and whiskey, was sitting in front of him.

  “No problem, sir; I couldn’t sleep anyhow,” Pleasants offered a bit woodenly. In fact, for the first time since the battle, he had finally drifted off into exhausted sleep a few hours ago.

  “Take a cup of coffee, it’s over in the corner there. Open the desk drawer and you’ll find something stronger to put in it.”

  Pleasants took the cup and filled it to the brim with what was now, at best, a tepid brew, but ignored the suggestion to pour some sour mash in. When summoned by a corps commander, even one might have had a few drinks himself, it was best to keep a clear head.

  Burnside motioned for him to sit down.

  “First off, Henry, I want to commend you and your men for the job they did. It was exceptional, courageous, and I only wish it had achieved the effect originally intended.”

  Pleasants could only nod his thanks, taking a long sip of coffee in hopes it would clear some of the cobwebs in his mind from being awakened after not sleeping for nearly three days.

  Burnside sighed and looked off.

  “Originally intended … intended…” and his voice trailed off.

  Pleasants took another long sip and as he gazed at the general he felt a surge of conflict. Burnside was a corps commander whom he had followed into battle for years, and whom he respected in spite of the scoffing of men from other units. Nearly all the men of the Ninth felt this loyalty and saw a side to him that others did not.

  But after this fiasco? This nightmare?

  Burnside was silent for a moment, and then stirred, as if snapping out of a dream as he drifted asleep. In front of him was a pile of papers, and he shuffled them nervously.

  “After-action reports. I am supposed to forward them to General Meade; actually they were expected more than six hours ago, though I tried to explain that the demand was nearly impossible so soon after such an action.”

  He sighed.

  “I was told they are expected anyhow.”

  “Sir, I sent mine in by one of my adjutants before six this evening,” Pleasants replied, wondering if that was why he had been summoned.

  Burnside smiled and shook his head. To one side of the stack were several sheets of paper. Even glimpsing it upside down, Pleasants recognized the handwriting as his own, shaky as it was, since he had barely been able to keep awake while filling it out.

  “That was part of the reason I called you in, Henry,” Burnside replied, and he picked up the report.

  “Is there a problem with it, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  Pleasants did not know what to say, and then was shocked to full awareness when Burnside tore the report in half and then in half again, tossing the papers to one side of the table.

  “Sir? What was wrong with my report?”

  Burnside smiled.

  “Henry, don’t you understand what is about to happen?”

 
“Sir?”

  “Ever seen a man hanged?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Serve in the army long enough and of course you would see at least one. The punishment was meted out to men for crimes so heinous that they did not even deserve the honor of a firing squad. Before the war he had seen more than one hanging back in Pottsville. Miners were a tough lot, and on a fairly regular basis there would be a murder, a quick trial, and a public hanging.

  “Well, Henry, there is about to be a hanging.”

  “Who, sir?”

  “Me.”

  Pleasants did not know how to react, hiding his confusion by taking another long sip of coffee.

  Burnside chuckled and shook his head.

  “Oh, metaphorically of course. We only hang privates in this army, never officers, and especially not generals. If anything, when you make enough of a mess of things, you can get a promotion at times. Either that or you are sent off to a nice safe posting, say commanding a depot or prison camp in New York, where you can safely sit out the war and be forgotten.”

  “Sir, by God, we know where the truth lies,” Pleasants replied, and now his voice was tinged with anger. “If the colored troops had been sent in first, as you planned, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now. Tonight we’d be in Petersburg, maybe even Richmond, celebrating the approaching end of the war.”

  “But we are not,” Burnside said sharply. “And someone will shoulder the blame and that will be me.”

  He seemed so calm as he said the words, as if talking about some impending reward or promotion rather than disgrace.

  “I will shoulder the blame.”

  Pleasants was silent at that. At this moment he did not have the willpower to argue that, indeed, there were points of blame. Rumors were sweeping through the encampments about the now infamous “drawing of straws.” Surviving veterans of all four divisions were declaring that if they could but set eyes on their division commanders, they would shoot them dead on the spot, especially the unfortunates who served under Ledlie, and the black soldiers of Ferrero’s command. Word was already out that, while men were falling by the thousands, those two had been safely behind the lines, a thousand yards off, already drunk.