by Jeff Shaara
DOWN IN THE WIDE CRATER, THE MEN COULD SEE WHAT WAS HAPpening, that they could no longer push forward, that the great plan to cut Lee’s lines in two had stopped in a mass of confusion and fear. The men were crushed together in a suffocating mass, a solid sea of blue with nowhere to go. The crush was getting worse, more and more men coming forward from their own lines, guided by the deadly fire of the enemy into the only place that was safe. Some continued to fight, aimed their muskets up at the crest, waited for the face of the enemy to appear, the careless man who stood up to see the astonishing sight spread before him. But the blue soldiers who tried to fight were held back, could not even reload their guns, the growing crush of men now pressing them together into a helpless tide.
As more lines of blue came forward, those who saw the hopelessness, the chaos, tried to return to their own lines, the safety of their own works. But troops were advancing in a tight line, through the only places where the men could move, blocking the escape of anyone who tried to run. The officers could see it now, the great mistake, that Burnside had not ordered the front of the earthworks cleared of brush and cut trees, and so there was no way to get back into their own works, as long as men were still being sent forward. Down both sides of the assault the rebel muskets and big guns were all pointing now toward the center, and if the gunners could not see the crater itself, they had a clear view of the open ground behind it, the flat space between the lines. The officers who tried to stop their units from making the deadly mistake, who tried to halt their men before they reached the crater, now found themselves in the open, under the massed guns of both flanks. If a man tried to leave the crater, escape back to his own lines, the rebel muskets were ready, and if the aim was not good, it did not matter, because the blue masses were too great a target, too many to hide from the storm of lead.
As the gray troops reached the edge of the crater, some remembered Spotsylvania, the bloody angle, the horror of knowing your enemy was so close, a few feet away, and some hesitated, crouched low against the ragged mounds of dirt. There was something different this time, something more horrible, even the officers could see it slowly spread through the men. There would be prisoners, thousands … yes, the fight was over, the Yankees were trapped, there was nowhere they could go. Those who could see, who eased toward the crater from the sides, understood that this was something truly extraordinary, that right in front of them thousands of men waited, helpless.
But the fight was not over, and along the edge of the crater there were men who still felt the rage, who still saw the Yankee as the hated enemy, who knew only that over the crest of this hole men waited to die, and so they would die. Slowly, the noise of the voices rose, the cries of the fight returning. Down the line, rebel gunners were still sending their shells into the mass of blue, most still not understanding how simple a target they had. The gray soldiers could hear the sounds, watched overhead as the high arc of the mortar shell landed beyond the crest, straight down into the packed horde of blue. Now bayonets began to go over the edge, men throwing them like spears, and the ones who could see into the hole watched in horror as the faces stared up, the eyes watching the hand of death reaching right for them, slowly, too slowly, and the men were packed so tightly together that there was no getting away.
There were cries of “Surrender,” and many of the gray soldiers moved to the crest, offered to pull the men in blue out and over, offering survival, escape, and many accepted the hand, scrambled out of the crater to become prisoners. But now the rebels began to see the faces of the black soldiers, the shocking reality that many had never seen up close, that those men in blue had put the Negroes into the fight. Many of the blue soldiers were surprised as well, saw the screaming mass around them swell with the men of Ferrero’s division, the last troops across the field.
A few voices began to ring out, a sharp cry of anger from some of the rebels, and many of the gray soldiers stopped accepting surrender, stopped taking prisoners, would not accept that the man who was like you, the man you respected as your enemy, would fight beside the Negro, would take up arms against the men they saw as their own kind. Now it was becoming something new, it was not a fight at all, not a battle like any of them had ever seen. In the crater, the black soldiers could see it in the eyes of the men beside them, that if the white men were taken prisoner with the Negroes, the result would be barbaric, ruthless. Some of the Federal soldiers still reached out, waved a handkerchief, anything they could find, still tried to surrender, but when the black soldiers tried as well, they were struck down, if not by the musket of the enemy, then by the man beside them, by the incredible horror of blind madness.
The men trapped in the crater were sentenced to death, a decision that came not from the minds of the rebel commanders, or even the irrational fear and anger that makes wars. Those men in gray, who understood that the fight was over, could only watch in shock, friends watching friends, officers watching the men under their command, helpless to stop the rising flow of blood. The men in blue felt it as well, heard the screaming roar of madness all around them, saw their own men taken down by the bayonet, the sword, stared in utter horror as the muskets began to swing, the bayonets finding the soldier who was your comrade. The faces spread the terror, the savagery, the mindless insanity of the beast, and the men who held on to their humanity stared in utter horror as the rules of war, the last fragile string of human decency, was pushed aside by those whose blind hatred would only be fed by slaughter.
30. GRANT
JULY 30, 1864
THE LOSSES WERE STAGGERING, NEARLY FOUR THOUSAND MEN, most of them struck down in and around the crater. He had not seen Burnside, not yet, but that would come. The reports were being written, but already what was said privately was the most damaging, the personal details that could never be put into official reports.
The First Division, Ledlie’s division, had simply panicked, had marched straight into the confusion of the big hole and then stopped. Jim Ledlie himself was the focus of the comments, the speculation. He was the only man in his division who knew what they were supposed to have done, but he never gave the orders, never led his men around the crater, to the side, the clear open advance into the shattered lines of the enemy. Instead his men marched straight ahead, straight into the crater itself, and Ledlie could not stop them, because he wasn’t there. Grant began to hear it himself, that Ledlie had been drunk, far behind the awful place where his men went to die. This was not new, not a surprise to the other commanders of the Ninth Corps. Grant was already being told that Burnside knew Ledlie’s reputation yet had still allowed the man to command the first wave of the assault.
They were riding back to City Point, another sunset, another horrible day. He rocked with the rhythm of the horse, stared ahead quietly. Behind him the staff was strung out in line, and no one was talking.
They had never heard him explode in anger. He never erupted the way Meade did, the hot words flowing hard into the pale face of the subordinate. But he was feeling it now, building inside of him, boiling up in a raw red fury. He felt his heart beating, held the reins in a tight grip in his hand, stared straight ahead. He was as angry as he had ever been. The names rolled around in his mind, the puzzle had already come neatly into place. The plan had been a good one, and he’d placed confidence in his commanders that it would be carried out, that the instructions would be passed down to the officers, that the men would know what to do, that they would in fact be led.
He was angry at himself because he’d allowed Meade to interfere, to criticize Burnside’s use of Ferrero’s division. Burnside was right, they had trained for weeks, they would have known what to do, they would not have marched straight into that hole. But if the Negroes were angry at not leading the assault, they could not complain about being left out entirely. Burnside had sent them in anyway, when it was already clear that the plan had failed, the rest of the corps massing into a hopeless tangle. If they had missed their opportunity to lead the way, they had not missed their oppor
tunity to die.
He had heard of the decision to send Ledlie in first, the drawing of names out of a hat, and it made his eyes clamp shut. His face held the expression tight, the loud yell held down deep. Draw names out of a hat? It was almost comical, an army run by lottery, responsibility by the luck of the draw. But there was nothing comical about the loss of four thousand men.
Burnside will go, he thought. That was definite, the order already etched hard in his mind. He knew Lincoln would allow him to handle that any way he wanted, and if it was to be today, he would have the man flogged, drag him by the collar right into the crater, make him look at the horror of what he had done. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, thought, No, you cannot give in to that, you cannot just explode.
He forced himself to see beyond the anger. There is the right way to handle these things, he thought, there always has been, especially for the men who have served for so long. There was nothing to be gained by public humiliation, by shaming the man. The letters would be written, sent to Halleck in Washington. Burnside would be given leave, maybe a month, with instructions that his staff could accompany him. There would be no confusion about what was really happening, and Burnside was experienced enough in command to understand that. After the leave expired, he would be told to simply wait for a new assignment. It was the most discreet way to handle the dignity of the veteran commanders. The newspapers would not jump on the story, put the name in shameful headlines, because in fact there would be no story.
He could see the river now, rode across the open ground toward the tents. The camp came to life, the aides began to move out, to take the horses. Grant ignored them, pushed the horse out toward the water, stopped at the edge of the high bluff. He looked across, saw distant trees, the hills turning dark with the setting of the sun. He heard another horse, saw Porter now, slowly moving up beside him. Grant looked at him, knew that Porter would sit quietly, as long as he did, to listen, and that if he wanted to be alone, it would just take a small shake of the head and Porter would be gone.
Grant turned to the water again, felt himself let go, a long slow breath, the anger now giving way. “Colonel,” he said, “I never have seen an opportunity such as that, and I never expect to see it again.”
Porter said nothing, nodded.
Grant rolled the names through his mind again, thought, No, it does no good. There is nothing to be gained by singling anyone out. The men will know, the officers will know.
He looked at Porter again, said, “It was not the men. Whatever is said about this, from the papers, from Washington, it was not the men. I believe that the men would have performed every duty required of them had they been properly led.” He paused, said, “Or had been led at all.”
Porter still said nothing, and they sat quietly for a long moment. Grant thought, Another horrible day, another day that could have changed everything. I cannot be there, I cannot oversee every operation, every command.
He stared at the darkening river, saw the lights now on the big ships. Down below, men were beginning to look up at him, could see the perfect silhouette in the last glow of the sunset. Some wanted to cheer, to salute him with a rowdy call. But most were quiet, gathering on the wharf, on the decks of the ships, staring at the distinctive figure, the shapeless hat, the slouch in the saddle. They watched as the dark form slowly turned the horse and moved away. They did not see him take the cigar from his pocket, and they could not hear his thoughts, already moving beyond this awful day, the new plan, the motion of the army already in his mind, the chess game in progress again.
31. LEE
SEPTEMBER 1864
IT WAS ONE PIECE OF PAPER, A FEW SIMPLE WORDS, AND IT CUT INTO him like the violent stab of the enemy’s sword. John Bell Hood had evacuated Atlanta. Sherman had won the long fight, the continuous moving battle from Chattanooga.
He had been unusually candid about Hood’s appointment, told Davis that he felt disappointment in Johnston’s resistance to Sherman, that he’d thought Johnston would bring the fight to Sherman instead of the constant retreat. But he knew Hood was not the man to lead that army. There were none who could put the fire into his troops better than the big Texan. But he understood that Hood was impatient, would try to please Richmond, justify the appointment by doing the opposite of Johnston, taking the fight straight to Sherman’s vastly superior army. And it was not once, but three times, three bloody fights, Hood slamming his men into the strength of the Federal forces, until finally there was nothing left to hold Sherman back. Now Atlanta, the great rail center, the gateway for the crops and hard goods of the deep South, was in Federal hands.
Lee read the telegram again, put it down. There was little in the way of detail, no troop numbers, no count of casualties. It did not matter. He stood, moved to the opening in the tent. He saw the men moving about, Taylor at the field table, the paperwork moving through, the business of headquarters. He watched for a long moment, thought, It’s as though nothing has changed. The war is the same as it has always been, these boys, these good boys, holding the line against those fellows over there. But it was not the same, and it was growing inside of him like some great sickness.
North of the James, close to Richmond, the enemy had made a push, a brief strike, with the result that they were now that much closer to the capital. Lee had done what he could, had sent men who could be pulled from the defenses to the south, had summoned Ewell to call out the Home Guard, the cripples and boys and government clerks, to line the trenches east of the city. The Federals had not pressed it, seemed content to make the point, and the point was made clear by what happened down south, below Petersburg.
The Federals had moved west, struck out at the supply artery that stretched straight down from the city, the Weldon Railroad. There had been a good fight, a poorly coordinated assault by the enemy, but in the end it was the numbers, and Lee could not stop it, and so the Weldon was now behind Federal lines. It was one more lifeline, one more way to feed his army, cut off. But it was not from some great strategy or brilliant tactical move by the enemy, it was simply the movement of troops, the extension of the blue lines. With the threat of Richmond, Lee had to pull men away from Petersburg, send them north, and so when Grant moved his men out below Petersburg, Lee had no reserve, no way to meet strength with strength. The earthworks, the solid line of defenses, was over twenty-six miles long, and Lee’s army did not have enough men to make any kind of strong defense without pulling men completely off some part of that line.
There was still a chance in the valley. Early’s forces, most of the Second Corps, were still intact, the fertile farmlands of the valley still under control. Lee knew that Early was no longer a serious threat to Washington, but the valley was defended, the Virginia Central Railroad still open. It was a force of fifteen thousand men that Lee needed desperately at Petersburg, but just as desperate was the need for the crops from the Shenandoah. Lee had heard that Sheridan was now on his way there, that the vicious David Hunter was no longer in command. Lee did not know Sheridan’s strength, thought, They may just stay to the north, around Harper’s Ferry, keep Early contained. There is victory even in that. We must not lose the valley.
He had thought of going out, riding the horse, but the day was grim, dreary, still very hot. The lines were an unpleasant place, there was nowhere he could go and feel the pride, hear the cheers, the wide grins coming from hungry men. The front lines were like some horrible wasteland, stripped of green, of any of the beauty that had been this part of Virginia. The trenches themselves were mostly covered, protection from the constant shelling, the impact of the mortars. For miles the land behind and between the lines was barren of life, as though the men had made a new world in the misery of the underground, moved only in tunnels, through the mud and darkness that bred sickness. He would not go there now, would not see the men being carried out, disease taking many more than the guns of the enemy. He turned back into the tent, suddenly felt the weariness, the sadness. He sat on the cot, looked down, though
t, Virginia. It was always … this is where I chose to fight. It is the only choice I could have made. Look what we have done, what man has done to God’s land. There has to be a price for that. God cannot ignore … no, He has not ignored. Lee stared into the side of the tent, thought, There has not been one day, not since this campaign began, when there was not some fight, somewhere, when we did not have casualties. There is death every day. The hand of God.
He had been thinking about Richmond, looked at the maps, at the long lines, the miles of defense. He’d seen it clearly for a while now, thought about it again. There is no way we can keep Grant out of Richmond. It will be impossible to stop him if that is where he wants to go. He can send twenty thousand men at the city and simply push his way in. The only defense would be to abandon Petersburg, move the army north. And then …
He stood, began to pace, felt the anger, the frustration. I did not expect, ever, to be doing this. To just … wait, while the enemy decides what to do next, where the next fight will be. From his first days in command, when the army was so very strong, led by the good men, the men who would bring victory, Lee had made the fight on his terms, found the advantage. He always knew his enemy, understood where the mistakes would come, knew how to strike at opportunity. Now, he thought, we are weak, and we can only … respond.
He had sent a letter to Davis, a long and serious plea. There was a great untapped resource of manpower in the South still, men who had not fought at all, some by choice, some by the rule of law. But Lee knew Davis could try to change the law. The age of the soldiers was fixed, from eighteen to forty-five. That could easily be changed, lowered to seventeen and raised to fifty, possibly even higher. There were still men who escaped from the fight by employing themselves in exempt positions, noncombat jobs every army must have. There had been great resistance to arming the Negroes, but there were thousands of freedmen who could be employed as teamsters, railroad workers, thousands of jobs along the lines of supply now held by able-bodied white men the army so desperately needed. It was only a question of organizing, convincing the state governments. Lee had stressed it to Davis, how the army was losing strength every day, but if Davis ever had the power, the persuasion to energize the states to answer the call, he did not have it anymore. Many of the states saw the war now as a simple issue of survival, and if there were men in Georgia who could be brought to the fight, they would stay in Georgia, defend Georgia. Lee was beginning to understand that what had created the Confederacy in the first place, the cooperation of the states, was falling apart as well. As the losses grew, the states pulled away from the larger fight, looked to their own. Lee did not need Davis to tell him that whatever strength the army had now, in the filthy desolate trenches at Petersburg, was all the army he would ever have.
