by Jeff Shaara
Meade nodded, saluted. Grant returned it, and Meade moved away. Grant watched him, felt the headache again, moved toward the tent, and Rawlins appeared, rushed in front, lifted the flap. Grant looked at him, said, “Colonel, you will do me a great service if in the future, before we deal with these people, you remind me not to forget my cigars.”
MAY 10, 1864
HE HAD BELIEVED THE ARMY WAS READY, HAD THOUGHT THEY would begin a general assault all along Lee’s lines. Burnside was on the left, and if Lee had strengthened his flank, Grant knew Burnside had the numbers. The ground was not difficult, there was no anchor to protect the rebels from being swept away by the three large divisions that Burnside could push forward. On the right, Hancock was still finding rough going, his forces spread over a deep creek, movement hampered by woods and the guns of Lee’s left. Grant knew that Lee was responding to the threats to both his flanks, and so it was likely Lee’s center had been weakened. There was still Laurel Hill of course, with the mass of big guns that commanded much of the field, but a quick strike, a hard cutting blow to the center, could break Lee’s army in half. Both the Fifth and Sixth Corps were in position, and even some of Hancock’s people could shift to the left and add to the strength. All they would require was a first wave, one spearhead, to make a quick thrust at Lee’s position, break through, and then the vast numbers from the two corps could rush up support. By dark it could be over. The two halves of Lee’s army could be rolled up in two neat packages, or at worst, Lee would be gone, a headlong rush southward toward safer ground, a confused and panicked retreat.
The plan came from one young man, Emory Upton, ambitious, egotistical, with a good eye for tactics and a good eye on his own reputation. He was not popular with his troops, commanded a brigade with his focus clearly on a greater responsibility. But if his men had no particular regard for their colonel, the commanders above had great respect for his plan.
The attack would be Upton’s brigade, reinforced by four additional regiments from the Sixth Corps. Upton was explicit in his orders: there would be no firing, no stopping to shoot at the strong log works of the rebels. They would move quickly across the open ground, a tight spearhead, punching across the rebel line in one small break. Once beyond, the break would be widened, and Upton would be reinforced. Support would come first from another brigade to his left, and then, all along the front, a general assault that would prevent Lee from shifting troops to the damaged center.
The attack began with the same hopeful optimism this army had seen too many times before, and it was a failure from the first command. The troops assigned to support Upton’s men were not in place. Farther along the line, the Fifth Corps faced Laurel Hill, and the men there had no enthusiasm for assaulting a nearly impossible position. Hancock’s Second Corps was divided, still fumbling through the confusion on the right. Burnside was in the best position on the field, could have moved at any time toward a weak defense, a defense that was weaker still because Lee had pulled troops away, strengthening the rest of the line, something no one on the Federal side knew.
Upton’s men did exactly as he had planned, ran across the deadly open field, leaping up and over the rebel trenches. The fight lasted an hour. Behind him, Upton saw the open field empty of the vast support he was to have received, empty except for the scattered bodies of his own men.
GRANT LOOKED AT THE MAP AGAIN, RAN HIS FINGER ALONG THE curving arc of Lee’s lines. He made a fist, wanted to pound the table, shatter it into pieces, held his hand tight above the map, took a deep breath, let it go. He stood straight, looked at the faces watching him. No one spoke. He caught the eyes of each man, slowly, moved his stare through the group. Some returned the look, some looked away, and he thought, Yes, they know … the ones who will not look me in the eye, they know who carries the blame.
Most of them were there, the commanders who had failed their men. He still stared at them, and the silence lasted for a full minute, then two. He saw fidgeting now, saw Rawlins, standing to one side, nervous, shifting his weight.
“What is it, Colonel? You have something to say?”
Rawlins turned pale, hesitated, then said, “Uh … sir, do you have any orders?”
Grant looked back toward the assembled group, the firelight now reflecting off the polished brass, the gold braid decorating the sagging shoulders. He glanced at Rawlins, thought, They should stand here all night. He looked briefly at Horatio Wright, his first day in corps command, saw Meade, moving slowly forward, preparing for Grant’s verbal assault. There were others, men who had come to headquarters with their commanders, a few Grant did not know. He glanced at the faces, said, “Any of you … Colonel Upton?”
There was a silent pause, and Wright stepped forward. “General, Colonel Upton was wounded in the assault. He will survive, but he is at the corps hospital.”
“Keep me advised, General. He’s the only one of … us who did his job today.” He reached for a cigar, the last one in his pocket, rolled it over in his hand, then lit it slowly.
Meade cleared his throat, said, “General, I will forward to you General Wright’s official request for Colonel Upton’s promotion to brigadier general. We all are aware, sir, that he performed an extraordinary task today.”
Grant held the cigar tightly in his teeth, looked at Meade, said, “Fine.” He stepped toward the fire, flicked an ash out into the flames. The others began to move closer behind him, still quiet. He looked at them again, said, “Gentlemen, what do we have to do? Is it … too many men? Do we simply have too many men to coordinate an attack? Is it the reports, our intelligence? I was told Lee was weak in his center, only his flanks were strong. I am safe in saying, gentlemen, that Lee was most definitely not weak in his center.” He glanced around, knew already who was not there.
“I do not see General Burnside. Smart man.” He thought, No, no personalities, don’t single anyone out. No one is more at fault than I am.
Warren moved up to the fire now, a small, handsome man, always dapper, a wide gold sash across his waist. He said, “General Grant, perhaps we should have … discussed today’s plan in detail … a council of war perhaps.”
Grant pulled the cigar from his mouth, looked at Warren, was not surprised that this would come from him, the man whose attention to detail exceeded anyone’s in the army.
“General Warren, councils of war do not fight. They allow disagreements of opinion to affect judgment. The council of war you should be concerned with is this one.” He tapped the side of his head. “That seems to be a problem. My decisions do not seem to be reaching all of you with enough … authority. I had thought we had a plan today. If we had made a general assault, struck the flanks hard, then Colonel Upton’s strike at the center could have been supported. Am I correct that Upton was successful?”
Meade said, “Yes, sir. Quite successful, sir. His men broke through the enemy’s line, held a gap open for nearly an hour. There was … failure to exploit the success.”
Wright glanced at Meade, said, “General, there was not time … there was poor communication. Colonel Upton’s plan was precisely correct, sir. We … did not follow it up.”
Grant moved through the men, a path opening in the gathering of blue coats. He moved toward his tent, felt the frustration building, muttered to himself, “No, we did not follow it up … not at all.”
He stopped, turned, said, “What would you have me do about that? I could court-martial all of you, but someone would insist I be on that list as well. Fine. So we will move forward, move past this. This was a terrible day. I do not want to hear how much better we may have performed if John Sedgwick was here. He is not here, and I have confidence that General Wright can handle the job. Learn from this, gentlemen. If Colonel Upton’s plan worked, then we will use that. If those damned fortifications over there can be broken, if one colonel can take one brigade across that field, then we should consider what an entire corps could do. I have no doubt that the enemy is still where we left him today. We have given him no
reason whatsoever to change that. We gave him a victory today. If there was ever a day an army was not served by its command, this was it. Think about nothing else … think about the men we left out on that ground today. The opportunity is still there … Lee is still there, waiting for us. Next time, gentlemen, we will do it right!”
19. STUART
MAY 11, 1864
THE SCOUTS HAD REPORTED THAT SHERIDAN WAS MOVING SOUTH with nearly thirteen thousand horse soldiers, three times what Stuart could bring to the field. They were spread along the roads that led straight at the heart of Richmond, in a column over ten miles long.
He had ridden all night, rested now on the side of a wide hill. He lay flat in the thick grass, stared up at a cloudy sky, the clouds growing darker, rolling in from the west. He tried to focus, to concentrate on what would happen now, the fight with Sheridan’s cavalry swelling up in front of him. But he stared far away into the dark sky and saw only the sad face of his wife, Flora’s eyes still digging into him, a gloom from her that he had not expected.
He had seen her that morning, could not help himself. Flora and the children were close by, guests of an estate where they all had felt safe, far behind the lines, far from the threat of Grant’s army. But Sheridan’s advance had changed that, and Stuart would not let duty keep him away from his family. It had been inside of him for a while now, since the first fight at Spotsylvania. He would not talk about it, but everyone close to him knew the laughter, the swagger, was gone. The staff saw it as a new sense of danger, the focus on the new enemy, that Stuart, for all his arrogance and strut, would prove he was still the best cavalry officer of the war. Now the war was changing, and the men believed Stuart was changing with it, getting down to the serious business of dealing with a serious enemy.
He didn’t know what the men were seeing, had thought he was the same. But if they saw the change, it was because he was feeling it deep inside, a small black hole spreading inside of him. He had thought, it is her, it is the children, I have not seen them in so long. But it was deeper than even that, of missing his children, of holding his wife tenderly against him. He only knew it was important to see them, to leave the men and the pursuit of the enemy for just a brief time. The staff understood, of course, no one would find fault with that.
The ride had been fast and short, and he rode hard into the lush green yard of the grand house, had called out, saw the children first, the yard filling with all the children in the house, joyous cries, rushing toward this grand soldier on the fine horse, gathering around him, touching the animal. Then he saw Flora, rushing onto the porch, down into the green of the rich yard, and the tears came from both of them. It was painfully quick, he did not even dismount the horse, something holding him away, pulling him back. They touched hands, he had leaned down and kissed her, looked for a long moment into her eyes, through the tears, then rode quickly away.
He had not looked back, now wished he had, wished he’d said more to the two children. Staring at the dark gray sky, he tried to see them. We should have time, he thought, the time to sit, talk with them, smile at the playful stories. He had never let that bother him before, the war was his playground. He’d always thought the time would come later, gathering around the great fireplace, the marvelous stories of his great and glorious battles. He always saw a future bright with the promise of a life for his children, a life in a new South, independent, prosperous. It had never occurred to him that they could lose the war, that God would allow him to go home in defeat. He stared at the motion, the rolling wave of thick clouds, thought, No, it will never be like that. I would rather be dead.…
His men were in dismal condition, had ridden hard and long to catch up to Sheridan’s head start. The horses had not fared well through the winter, and every man had the responsibility to do the best he could with his mount, but the grain was scarce, and the horses had to subsist on worse than what the soldiers had. If the men accepted that there was not enough to eat, the horses showed the effects, the thin weakness of slow starvation. The spring had brought new growth to the open fields, and when the men rested now, the horses at least could graze, but it hadn’t been enough, the stamina was not there, there was no time. During the night, they pushed the horses hard, there was no choice, and so today neither the mounts nor the men were in shape for a hard fight.
They had thought it obvious that Sheridan was making a strong raid into Richmond—it was the largest Federal cavalry force ever assembled in one column. Stuart divided his smaller forces, sent one thrust at Sheridan’s rear guard again and again. But the attacks had no power, were only a minor annoyance, and they did not stop the great mass of blue from pushing south. Stuart had taken the bulk of his force on a parallel route, shorter, to strike at Sheridan’s exposed flanks, to hit him from the side, hurt him enough to slow the column, make them turn back to confront the danger from Stuart’s hard blow. It would keep Sheridan occupied so Richmond could prepare, give the defenders there the time to make ready.
They were north of Sheridan’s path, above a crossroads named for a long-abandoned stage stop, Yellow Tavern, only six miles from the streets of Richmond. He had sent word to Davis, asking for help from the small infantry force that crouched in the defenses around the city. But there hadn’t been time, and the defenders were watching the greater danger, to the east, where Butler’s advancing army was plodding forward.
Sheridan was coming from the northwest, and Stuart spread his men along the best ground, along the crest of the rolling hillsides above the intersection. The men were in a strong line, along the ridges, waiting for the long blue column to pass below them on their way down to the city. If Davis had sent the infantry, they could have slowed Sheridan enough for Stuart to hit him hard, trapping Sheridan from two directions. It might have been the only way the smaller number could turn back the great blue force. But now he understood there would be no help, there would be no infantry, that what forces he had above Yellow Tavern would be all he could throw into the fight.
He could hear the musket fire now, the feeling out, scouts from both sides pressing into the other. He sat up, saw his staff watching him, following his lead, and quickly the men were moving to the horses, the short rest over.
He had never believed it would happen this way, that the glory of all he had done, the reputation and the victories, would be overshadowed, slowly erased by an evolution he could not predict. As badly as his horses had suffered, the Federal horses had grown fatter. As his men were beaten down by the lack of supplies, by the poor food, the enemy was stronger, their equipment better. He knew about the Spencer carbines, of course, the seven-shot short-barreled rifles the bluecoats were using. It was a sad joke, the men complaining that the Yankees could load on Monday and shoot at you every day of the week. His men still used single-shot carbines, and even when they captured the new weapons, there was no way to load them. The arms makers in the South did not have the ability to produce the new-sized cartridges. But he did not see the new weapons as a turning point, as something that would turn the fight against him.
The Federal commanders had never understood the tactics, never used their cavalry to any advantage, the greater numbers, the better horses. He thought of Sheridan again, had wondered if there was anything about this man that was different, if he would bring something new, any kind of challenge, something to bring the excitement back to the glorious fight. At Spotsylvania his men had endured the repeating rifles, the stronger horses, but still they kept the enemy away, held Sheridan back long enough for the infantry to hold the important ground. Now there was no infantry, no piece of ground to hold. This would be a fight between men, one man pressing forward, one man doing everything he could to turn him away.
He climbed the horse, patted the neck, and the staff waited for him to give the order. He stared out to the west, then to the south, could see small wisps of smoke rising from the woods, from the small skirmishes. He knew his men would be falling back, the feeling out would be over very soon, and Sheridan
would resume the march, push his men forward in a clear open dash down the open roads to Richmond.
He thought of Sheridan, knew only what he’d heard, the small fiery man, full of hot words and reckless tactics. There was a difference in this man, something Stuart had not expected. He had become so used to the rest, Averill, Stoneman, Kilpatrick, men you never saw, who did not understand momentum, the value of quickness, control of the field. Stuart was used to having a fight go his way, as though he had orchestrated it, both sides, guiding the men into line, riding through the fight itself, feeling the rhythm of the battle, the momentum, the glorious action. Even if the fight was not perfect, if his men took the worst of it, there was something to be had from the fight itself, of pushing the horses across the dangerous ground, the screams, the thunderous sounds of the battle. It was the thing he lived for, the one thing about this war that made sense of the horror, of the loss of the men around him. That they would win, that his men would ultimately destroy the enemy, was never in doubt. If his men were ever unsure, all they would have to do was watch their commander, the wide cape, the plumed hat, riding through them with the sword high, yelling at them with all the fire in his soul. They would see it in his face, in his eyes, and would share the same fire, the spirit for the fight. It was fun.
He knew the change had come to him at Spotsylvania. The fight with Sheridan had been grim and desperate. The enemy had not run away, had been merely held away, a brutal fight for every foot of ground. He could not make the glorious rides, could not spend time in the rallying of his men, the playful shouts at the enemy. There had been no time for anything but the hard and deadly fight.
He knew how well that fight had gone, what an extraordinary day it had been. He’d seen it in Lee’s face, the softness, the glint in the old man’s eyes. He had learned that about Lee, long ago. You would not hear the words, Lee would not tell you if you did well, but there was no mistaking the look, the small quiet nod. Only once, the disastrous day at Gettysburg, had there been something else, the anger. Even then there was no scolding reproach, none of the loss of temper, the profane violence so common from men like Ewell. But Lee’s words had been very clear. Stuart had taken that with him, carried it now always, had never felt anything like the shock of that, the horrible aching image of Lee’s disappointment. It had brought him closer to the old man than even Lee had understood, and Stuart had made a vow to himself—there would never be any reason for Lee to be disappointed; he would never see that look on the old man’s face again.
