by Jeff Shaara
Grant had wondered about Johnston, just how long Richmond would listen to the explanations of retreat. He’d read the hostile joking in the southern newspapers, that Davis had already organized a fleet of transport ships at Savannah, ready to receive Johnston’s troops, prepared to carry Johnston’s retreat all the way to Bermuda. If there was bitterness in the humor, Grant knew that in Richmond no one was smiling, and especially not Jefferson Davis. And then the word had come. To no one’s surprise, Johnston had been relieved. What did surprise Grant, and bring a smile to the impatient Sherman, was the name of Johnston’s replacement. The defense of Atlanta was now in the hands of John Bell Hood.
No one questioned that as a commander of troops in the field, there were few on either side who could put the fight into his men as well as Hood. But the appreciation, the enthusiasm, for Hood’s appointment, came from both sides. The most recent letter from Sherman had made Grant smile, the childlike excitement barely concealed. Sherman knew that Johnston had been relieved because Davis had heard too much of retreats. Sherman also knew that if there was one rebel commander who needed no pressure from Richmond to make a fight, it was Hood. And the one man who had pressed for a fight more than anyone was Sherman. With Hood in command of the enemy, Sherman knew he’d get his fight.
He heard footsteps, turned, saw Porter stepping slowly, quietly forward. Porter would never say anything until Grant saw him first. The staff had come to understand that when he sat alone like this, quiet, the small motion of the cigar, you did not interrupt. Unless there was urgency, they would wait for the moment to pass and for Grant to bring himself back to the business at hand.
Grant held out the cigar, said, “Yes, Colonel?”
“Excuse me, sir, General Burnside is on his way. He should be here any moment now, sir.”
Grant leaned back against the tree, nodded, said, “Fine, Colonel. I’ll be along shortly.”
Porter saluted, backed slowly away. Grant watched him, thought, Yes, you too, Mr. Porter. You want to ride out in front, and lead men into the guns. I am sorry, young man, but it will not happen.
He thought of the others, the good staff, knew most of them were doing a fine job, would always be with him. Rawlins, of course, was the headmaster, had never dreamed of leading combat troops, probably had nightmares about finding himself actually having to look at the rabble of the enemy. Grant smiled, gave a small chuckle, thought, No, Mr. Rawlins, don’t ever let yourself be captured. They’d have to build you a special prison all your own. He knew Rawlins was his guardian, the great protector, had appointed himself the keeper of his public image. Rawlins was forever watching him, a small peek through the tent flaps, a bold intrusion into Grant’s private moments, something Porter would never have done. He’s afraid, Grant thought, afraid of the newspapers, of Lincoln’s enemies, afraid of me, of something I might do to embarrass us all. Or to embarrass him. He has found his purpose in life, to be a chief of staff, to be the caretaker of our good behavior. But Porter is very different, he has his eye … out there, beyond the front lines, where the adventure lies. He shook his head, stood up, stretched his back, suddenly thought of his oldest son, Fred. Yes, he would do that too, stare out past the front lines, see only the adventure, the daring, the heroics. But no matter how long this war goes on, and no matter how much he ever begs me, he will not get the chance. He will never see it for himself. The thought gave Grant a cold chill. He had never imagined the war would go on long enough for his fourteen-year-old son to fight. He stared into the dark, saw the boy’s face, then remembered another face, at Cold Harbor, the nameless young man who had died right in front of him. No, he thought, my son will not have the chance. What we do here, what I must order this army to do … this will never happen again. Once this is over, this country will carry this forever, the faces, the blood, the horror. It will be the last time. It must be.
THEY WERE THE 48TH PENNSYLVANIA, STRONG, HARD MEN FROM the deep coal mines back home, and some of them had been in this army since the beginning. For over a month now they dug and carried the dirt, slowly pushing farther into the side of the hill, hammering timbers into place, bracing the soft, wet dirt over their heads. The tunnel was narrow, only four feet across at the base, narrowing around their heads to two feet wide. None could stand up, the tunnel barely four feet tall. They did not mind the tight space, had no paralyzing claustrophobia, did not listen to the observers, men from other units who watched these dirt-encrusted men crawl into the black abyss and called them names like moles and gophers. It was the work they’d been trained to do before becoming soldiers, work none of them had forgotten. Now their colonel had convinced General Burnside that this was not only the work they were meant to do, but a good plan for the army as well.
His name was Henry Pleasants, and he was a Philadelphia engineer who’d grown up in coal country. He had stood beside the steep hillside, peeked up and over to where the rebels peeked up and over toward him, measured the distance between the sharpshooters as less than four hundred feet. It had been his idea to build the tunnel, a long narrow mine, to reach out underground to the strong rebel position across the deadly space and, with enough explosive force, blow it to pieces.
BURNSIDE HALTED THE HORSE, WAITED FOR AN AIDE TO TAKE THE reins, then dismounted, moved toward Grant.
“General Grant, a pleasant evening. I trust you are in good health.”
Grant returned a salute, said, “Quite well, thank you.”
Burnside turned to Meade, a slight bow, said, “General Meade, a pleasure as well. Are you in good health, sir?”
Meade nodded, and Grant thought, He’s still not comfortable around Meade, probably never will be. Burnside was a large man, every part of him round, and the wide face was accented by the huge tufts of beard that covered his jaw, framing his face like two handles. He was always jovial, tried to bring his own good cheer to every situation, but it was overdone, exaggerated, and he never seemed to be completely at ease. Everyone knew he carried the memories of Fredericksburg in some dark hidden place, but he never spoke of it, and Grant had rarely heard Meade speak of those days either. Now there was strain between the two men.
If there was an awkwardness to the command structure in the army, this was something far deeper, far more personal, between the two men. Burnside in fact outranked Meade, had been a major general well before Meade received his promotion. When McClellan failed at Antietam and allowed Lee’s battered army to escape, Lincoln’s patience ran out and McClellan had been removed. When Burnside was picked to succeed the popular McClellan, there had been little enthusiasm, but Burnside had always been cordial and polite to all. No one could think of any reason to dislike him, and he carried none of the political harshness of so many of the senior commanders. By rank, he was entitled to have his opportunity to win the war. The resulting disaster at Fredericksburg was laid directly at his feet, and no one knew the depth of his failure more than the man himself. But worse, Burnside had been in command of the Army of the Potomac when Meade’s division suffered its worst loss of men. It was Meade who had broken through the strong lines of Stonewall Jackson, and if the breakthrough had been supported, the Battle of Fredericksburg might have gone very differently than the extraordinary defeat it turned out to be.
Now the Army of the Potomac was commanded by Meade, and if Burnside tried to hide the awkwardness of their relationship by boisterous formality, Meade just let it lie. But he would never forget that while his division was fighting for their lives on that December day, this was the man who could have sent help, who had thirty thousand men standing idly by while Meade’s division absorbed a fearful slaughter. The man whose inability to make the decision, to seize the moment, cost not only the lives of Meade’s men, but certainly lengthened the war, and the loud joviality of the man’s personality would never hide the cloud that would always follow Ambrose Burnside.
Burnside now waited, looked back and forth at the two men, and Grant finally made a small gesture with the cigar, pointed to Meade�
��s tent, and they moved away from the fire. They ducked under the flap, moved into the darkness. Grant sat himself facing the back of the tent, the glow of the fires painting the faces of the other two men. He had long understood that their words alone did not tell the story, and he would always position himself where he could see the expressions on their faces.
Burnside and Meade both removed their hats, and Grant lit a fresh cigar. Grant said, “General Burnside, how is your plan progressing?”
Burnside seemed to inflate, his chest bursting with something Grant thought must be pride. “Splendidly, sir. Splendidly! We are ready on your command, sir! They have reached what Colonel Pleasants tells me is the proper depth. The charges are being placed as we speak, sir. All that is needed is the final coordination with General Meade’s command.”
Meade made a low sound, and Grant said, “General Meade, your comments?”
Meade shifted in his chair, said, “I have never placed much confidence in this plan, sir. If we are to make a breakthrough in the enemy’s position, it should be done with power and with a strike of considerable force, in a narrow front. I do not see how this … hole in the ground will accomplish anything toward that goal. I have not changed my position on this since the plan was originally introduced. Sir.”
Burnside looked at Grant, said, “Sir, what General Meade is describing is exactly the purpose of the plan, sir. A narrow front, yes, exactly. We have the troops ready, General Ferrero’s division has been drilling now for weeks. When the mine is exploded, they will make a quick thrust through the opening, taking full advantage of the confusion. Once the breakthrough is made, the rest of the corps will follow them through, and with General Meade’s support on either side, the breakthrough should cut Lee’s lines in two. By the end of the day, Petersburg will be ours, and possibly Lee as well.”
Grant leaned forward, said, “Ferrero? The Negro division?”
Burnside glanced at Meade, said, “Yes, sir. We have taken great care, they have been training for this mission in great detail, sir. I have absolute confidence that any man in that unit is as capable—”
Grant put up his hand. “General Burnside, I have no doubt about the fighting spirit of General Ferrero’s division. I am concerned that this division is new to the army. They have no field experience.” He stopped, looked at the small red glow of the cigar. “I am also concerned what might occur when the Negro troops appear behind the enemy’s lines.”
Meade said, “Yes, if they get that far. It’s not a good plan, not at all.”
Burnside put his hand on his face, felt the thick brush of whiskers. “Well, they are a fresh unit. But the training has been exceptional.”
“Training …” There was an edge to Meade’s voice. Grant now stood, moved to the opening of the tent.
Burnside leaned closer to Meade, said, “General, I assure you, we have the ability, the means to train these men. There is no reason they cannot perform the duty given them. Just because they are not white—”
Meade stood, his voice booming, “White has nothing to do with it, General. It is green I am concerned with. They are untested troops. You are trusting this entire operation to the performance of men who have never been under fire! You have four divisions under your command, three of them with experience! You have chosen the one part of the Ninth Corps that is the least likely to perform in this situation!”
Burnside looked at Grant, the confidence slipping out of his voice. “We trained them well, sir. It would be a message, show the enemy … it would be greatly pleasing to the President.”
Grant turned now, looked at Burnside, said, “General, it is not your concern what might be pleasing to the President. And it is precisely the message to the enemy that bothers me. Their response to that message … might not be what you anticipate.”
“Sir, what I anticipate is that the enemy will be defeated, that this plan will create a breakthrough that could end the war.”
Grant absorbed the words from Burnside, thought, There is no fire, he sounds like he’s reading it in a newspaper. He’s not even committed to his own plan. There was a long quiet pause, the sounds of the camp drifting into the tent. The two men were looking at Grant now, and he stared past them, to the back of the tent, watched the shadows moving on the glow of the canvas. He thought, Burnside has never performed, my orders have never moved him into the kind of action we have needed. Now … this is his plan, and he wants us to believe it will work without a flaw, that the coordination will happen as it must happen.
Meade made another grunting sound, said, “I am still doubtful the mine will even work. How do the miners breathe? My engineers tell me there has never been a tunnel that long, not that narrow. The powder won’t burn, there’s no air.”
Burnside inflated again, said, “Colonel Pleasants is extraordinary. He has devised a duct system, using a fire at the mouth of the mine. I have seen it myself. The fire draws the air through the duct, from the farthest point in the mine. It’s ingenious! The explosion will work, I assure you. They have split the end of the mine into a T, and I have, um … I have authorized the placement of powder into the mine. It is … all ready to go!”
Meade said, “It’s complete? They’re finished? How do they know it’s far enough, that it reaches the enemy’s lines? You call a cease-fire so your Colonel Pleasants could measure it?”
Burnside ignored the tone of Meade’s question, said to Grant, “Colonel Pleasants has measured the distance using sophisticated engineering methods. I observed him myself. We have absolute confidence that the mine is of the correct length.”
Grant had not been as hostile to the idea as Meade, had thought from the beginning that any plan was a good one if it worked. He’d heard the numbers, the amount of powder sent to the mine. Yes, it will make one big hole, he thought. But even if the mine worked as the miners said it would, he had the problem of Burnside. He looked at him now, said, “General, you will select another division to lead the assault. I don’t see why any veteran unit cannot take advantage of a sudden break in the enemy’s line and advance through it. You don’t need special training for that. When the enemy recovers enough to try to contain the break, untested men could lose their initiative, and might give back whatever advantage they have gained. General Meade …”
Meade was watching him, nodded.
Grant said, “General, you will order the Fifth and Eighteenth Corps to stand ready to advance against the enemy’s positions in the event the breakthrough occurs between them. General Burnside’s men may very well pull the enemy away from in front of both those corps. I don’t want spectators. Your forces must take advantage of whatever occurs, of whatever weakness might suddenly open up to their front.”
Meade said, “Certainly. I will see to it, sir.” Meade stood up, held his hat in his hand, motioned toward Burnside. “General Burnside, if your boys do as you say, then my boys will be right there with you. You may depend on that.”
Burnside stood now, clamped his hat on tightly, said, “This is splendid, gentlemen. I assure you, this will be a magnificent success. Colonel Pleasants has demonstrated the kind of initiative that the Ninth Corps has always been capable of.”
Burnside looked at Grant, and Grant knew there was more.
“Sir, when do we blow the mine?” Burnside asked. “When will the army be ready to assist our breakthrough?”
Grant glanced at Meade. “If you say the mine is ready, then preparations shouldn’t take long. I would say the assault should commence the morning of the thirtieth. That’s three days, plenty of time to organize the assault, instruct the division that will lead the way. Make it early morning, very early. Four A.M. That give you enough time, General Meade?”
Meade said, “The thirtieth. The orders will be prepared immediately, sir.”
Grant moved out of the tent, and Burnside waited for Meade, then followed him into the warm night air. Grant looked up at the stars, tasted the smoke of the cigar.
Behind him, Burnside whispered
to Meade, “Um, if I may ask … do you … can you spare, say, a good-sized length of fuse?”
JULY 30, 1864
THEY WAITED IN THE DARKEST NIGHT MANY OF THEM COULD REmember, stood side by side, packed together, men already sweating into their uniforms. Most of them had not made a predawn assault, at least not a successful one, and the low hum of nervous voices echoed through the web of trenches. They were Ledlie’s division, the First in Burnside’s Ninth Corps, and they had not known they were to lead the attack until the afternoon before. Burnside had not ordered them to the job, hadn’t measured their will or their ability against his other divisions. The division commanders had debated, argued, and finally, with Burnside unwilling to make the decision, they put pieces of paper into a hat, and so it was by chance that Ledlie’s men were standing in the heat of the darkness.
Their inexperience was typical of the many reinforcements to this army who had come south in recent weeks. Many of the men were from the Heavy Artillery units. For many this would be their first real fight, the first taste of crossing open ground with an enemy pointing his musket at your head. They knew of the plan of course, had been told about the mine, and how it would destroy the enemy, a wide-open gap they could burst through with ease. Their commanders had passed the word down—once the mighty blast cleared the way, it would be a simple matter to push through the enemy’s position, form a line out in each direction, their backup units flooding through the gap. To those who had been here awhile, the veterans who had seen other great plans unfold, there was little talk, even when the new men wanted to know, had to know, what it was like, what would happen.
The men of Ferrero’s division had heard only late the night before that they would not lead the assault they had so eagerly trained for. The Fourth Division would instead come up last, after the other divisions had completed the breakthrough. There was anger, confusion, and immediately the few reporters who kept themselves within earshot of any piece of news began to write down the comments. The mood was angry, bitter feelings about having been so well prepared, the expectations so high, the opportunity for some piece of glory, gone now by the simple decision from somewhere else, a commander most had never seen. The rumors flew easily, and most accepted what seemed obvious. These men would not lead the assault because they were black, because somewhere, someone up the chain of command did not want to give them the chance.
