Some of the more excitable around headquarters claimed that they had been able to hear artillery fire. That was absurd; the battle that was most likely unfolding was over a hundred miles away; though late the day before, he did believe that he had heard some gunfire from Grierson engaging Hampton.
Grant sat wrapped in silent gloom. The doctor from the headquarters hospital had just left his tent Herman Haupt was dead.
He had died two hours ago from acute dysentery. The genius who had been responsible, perhaps more than any other, for the miracle of moving an entire army nearly a thousand miles, supplying it, bringing it nearly up to fighting level, was gone and Grant raged at the loss.
Grant cursed himself. He should have ordered him relieved from duty weeks ago, and yet he had used him. Used him up as easily as he would use a division of troops to take a hill, buy time, storm a fort, watching dispassionately, knowing that a thousand would die by his command to go forward.
And yet, in the using, what had been achieved? He looked at the final manifest that Haupt had submitted to him only yesterday before staggering out of the tent and collapsing facedown on the ground. Rations to feed seventy-five thousand for a month stockpiled, three hundred rounds of rifle ball per man, three hundred and fifty artillery rounds, mixed, solid shot, shell, canister, eight hundred and fifty more wagons coming in, three thousand six hundred mules to pull them, two thousand nine hundred remounts, four hundred tons of oats, pontoon bridges, enough wagons, some of the replacement bridges for the railroad, and, of course, the men, still not enough men.
One more division was starting to come in; already the trains were unloading them, but he would have preferred another entire corps. Couch's militia had proven to be little more than an abysmal waste. They had signed for ninety days, and most of them were making it clear that in three more weeks they were out of the army, but for the moment he still had them.
He wasn't ready to go; his plan had been meticulous, well laid out, and now Sickles had completely destroyed it.
That Sickles would meet Lee, alone, was now a foregone conclusion. The telegraph line from Perryville, up to Philadelphia, New York, and then to Harrisburg had been fully restored and had been buzzing all day with reports from "The Army of the Potomac before Baltimore." The first reports boasted of a victorious advance; the last, dated an hour and a half ago from a correspondent with the New York Tribune, reported heavy fighting and casualties.
He knew what would happen; there was no doubt of it in his mind.
"Ely?"
He turned, and felt embarrassed. Ely was down there with Sickles, most likely to no avail.
His tent was empty. He thought of Elihu, wishing he was present to offer some advice, though Grant was a man who seldom if ever now sought the word of another.
He thought of a drink but that thought only lingered for a second. There was no need of it now. Maybe, just maybe, after the war was over, he would indulge himself, just one more time perhaps. But not now.
He contemplated the odds that Sickles had now given him. Even, at best, but then again maybe a bit better, or, on the other hand, somewhat worse, if Lee pinned and shattered the Army of the Potomac once and for all. The old plans were out and it was time to recast them. That in and of itself did not bother him. Sherman had once said he had ice water in his veins. Now was the time to prove it. Reaching over to his desk, he pulled out a sheet of paper, drew a pencil from his breast pocket, and began to draft his orders to the army.
Twenty Miles East of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
August 19,1863 7:30pm
The train rolled slowly westward, the long rays of the setting sun casting shadows across the Pennsylvania farmland. John Miller stood against the open doorway of the boxcar as it rattled along on its journey, the scent of wood smoke from the locomotive wafting past.
They had left Philadelphia an hour after dawn, the city wild with rumors that Wade Hampton would be into the town before midday. It amused him in a way. Whereas only a week before many of the citizens of that fair city had been openly disdainful of black soldiers, more than one now begged them to stay as they paraded down to the depot to take the train. That disdain, however, had not been shown by the colored of the city, who turned out in droves, proud of their sons, their brothers, and fathers, waving American flags, shouting with joy as the columns of troops marched by.
He was now a company sergeant, and absently he reached up to touch the three stripes on his sleeve. From the little time he had been in service, he knew enough to realize he and his men were not yet ready, but some emergency had called them, and now they were heading west—rumor was, to Harrisburg. It was a bit of a mystery as to why they were pulled from Philadelphia, what with rebel raiders about, but he and his comrades had quickly surmised that the threat could not have been great if an entire division of them had been taken out of the city.
As the trains passed from Philadelphia across New Jersey, then switched westward to Allentown through a mountain pass at Hamburg, and now rolled through a beautiful valley flanked by mountains, he was awed by the size of this nation, its changing nature, the people he saw.
As they passed through northern New Jersey, the land seemed to be one of factories belching smoke, not unlike Baltimore, rail sidings packed with cars loaded with artillery, limber wagons, ambulances, boxes of rations, beef and horses packed into boxcars like the one he was in, all of it seemingly guided by some invisible hand pushing its cargo by force of will to the front lines.
The people who were along the tracks had looked upon him and his comrades with amazement Here was a colored division going to war. Where in the past he had learned to stand detached, head lowered, as if he was not really a man, now he stood looking them in the eye, and many of them waved, some shouting blessings, a woman in a village in western New Jersey passing up a basket of fresh-baked bread.
Perhaps Frederick Douglass was right; perhaps the blue uniform, the cartridge box stamped us, and the rifle in his hand had at last bestowed upon him the rights of citizenship; perhaps he could now claim this land as his as well. And that thought filled him with a swelling of pride, a sense of what he was about, of what he would now do for this land.
The memory of his dead son caught him for a moment. The land would not belong to him, it never would, but for his. daughters, for his grandchildren, perhaps for them, at last the promise would be true. He looked back into the boxcar, to the regimental sergeant major and a young private asleep against the sergeant's shoulder.
They were an interesting pair, with an interesting tale. The sergeant claimed that his father worked in the White House for Abraham Lincoln and he had grown up there. Soldiers were used to tall tales, and though the man was well-spoken, could read, and wrote with a beautiful hand, no one had believed him until only this morning, when a note with THE WHITE HOUSE stamped on the envelope had arrived. The sergeant, half-asleep, still had the letter and envelope clutched in his hands.
Everyone in the boxcars aboard the entire train now knew the content by heart:
To Sergeant-Major Washington Madison Quincy Bartlett
I take pen in hand to wish you and your comrades well. Know that your father is safe here in the White House and sends his blessings. Sergeant, the duty you and your comrades perform in service to our Republic shall write a new chapter in the history of our nation. The sacrifice in blood you lay upon the altar of our country shall be forever honored and remembered by a grateful nation.
Sincerely, Abraham Lincoln
Sergeant Miller knew that if this promise would indeed be honored, this was now a cause worth dying for.
Headquarters Army of Northern Virginia
August 19,1863 10:00 P.M.
It had been a long day. General Lee looked up at Venable and nodded wearily. "Was it really that bad?" Lee asked. "Sir, it's hard to say, but I saw what was left of Pickett. The division most likely took fifty per cent casualties, maybe more. I can't speak for McLaws, but I know Robertson was hit hard as well, but
we stopped them cold."
Lee wearily shook his head. Pickett had been ordered to delay, to draw back slowly, not get into a head-on confrontation with an entire corps, two corps actually, from the sound of Venable's report.
Every man lost was one less man available for the real fight, the confrontation with Grant that Lee knew would come next. So far it had, more or less, gone according to plan. Sickles was in the field on his own, the garrison in Washington still immobilized, Grant still in Harrisburg. No news from Wade Hampton, but that was to be expected; in another day or two he would most likely cross the river with details regarding the dispositions of the enemy forces.
He had to defeat Sickles in detail. Not just another defeat and retreat, but to take him out of battle forever. Then turn back on Washington, harass it, and wait for Grant to emerge and come to the relief of the city. He had assumed all along that Grant would do so, but would do it in conjunction with Sickles, a combined force he could not have defeated except with extreme luck. Pickett wasting his division in a stand-up fight... well, he would deal with that later.
"Get some rest, son. Colonel Alexander will find you a comfortable place and a surgeon to look after that wound." "Sir, I should report back to General Longstreet." "An order from me, son. Get some rest, get your wound attended to. Tomorrow you'll have more than enough to do."
Venable nodded.
"Thank you, sir. And bless you."
"And God bless you, too," Lee responded.
Venable left his tent.
Lee looked back down at the map spread before him. Longstreet, with Hood overlapping his position, had things well enough in hand. Together they could parry any thrust Sickles might offer, and it was more than fair to assume Sickles would indeed attack come dawn.
He would have preferred that it was Hood or Longstreet guiding the next step in his plan, but the simple logistics of marching order had put Beauregard on his left, and thus it would be Beauregard's role to spring the trap come morning. Instinct told him that he should move to that flank. Beauregard was an unknown quantity and that was where his moral influence could have the greatest impact. He decided then and there to arise long before dawn and ride to the left of the line.
There was nothing more he could do now. Outside his tent he could hear his weary troops marching by, men who had forced-marched over forty miles, the last of the columns coming up, exhausted, staggering, the stragglers now filling the roads as well, provost marshals guiding them to where their units should be deploying.
Judah Benjamin had come up to join him and was asleep now in the next tent, stricken by the intense heat of the day. He longed to talk to him but knew he could not disturb the man. He had been dangerously ill by the time he reached headquarters, and even now a surgeon was still attending him, wrapping his body in cool, wet towels.
What I would give now for but one more corps, he thought yet again, the conversation with Rabbi Rothenberg still" haunting him. If we had acted that day, that very day when Maryland had declared for the Confederacy, even now a hundred thousand more would be mobilizing across the South. There was many a man of color already in the ranks, those of half blood, quarter blood, servants loyal to their masters, even here and there freemen who had fallen in with local friends, but the majority? The vast majority, they of course would never fight for a cause that in the end only promised them bondage.
France would be inconsequential this year, most likely always. The crisis was here and it was now. I have but one army left; I spent a fair part of it at Gettysburg and Union Mills. I spent more of it before Washington and now again today on Gunpowder River. I can spend no more and yet still hope to win.
But one corps more and how different it might all be, a decision that, if given the chance, I myself would proclaim and adhere to. We are saddled by this madness of slavery, this abomination that sets men against men, though of a different color, nevertheless, still created by the Creator. The rabbi was right; in Heaven would we dwell separately? What would the Savior say of this?
Too many thoughts were beginning to flood in, diverting him from the moment, the task ahead in the next day, the next week.
He leaned over and blew out the coal oil lamp. Standing up, he unbuttoned his tunic and took it off, draping it over a chair, and then knelt
"My God. Guide me as to what Thy will shall be. May there be some purpose in Your eyes for the suffering that now afflicts our nation. Those who fell today, both friend and foe, I beg You to grant them eternal joy in Your presence, and grant peace to those who mourn. I beg this in the name of Jesus. Amen."
He lay down upon his cot and tried to go to sleep while outside his tent men continued to march through the night.
Chapter Twenty
Headquarters Army of Northern Virginia
August 20,1863 4:00 A.M.
'T'here had been precious little sleep, and with the JL announcement that Pete Longstreet had arrived, Walter had come in as ordered, bearing a cup of coffee, and gendy shaken him awake. As Lee stood and stretched, he wiped his brow; the night was sultry, hot, promising another day of killing heat. He pitied his men having to fight in this.
Walter handed him the tin cup, and he gratefully took it, gingerly holding the handle, blowing on the rim, inhaling the rich fragrance.
He caught a glimpse of Longstreet standing outside and motioned for him to come in. Pete looked haggard, eyes dark, blood staining his uniform. Venable had told him about their nearly getting overrun by the charge, of Pete in the middle of it, pistol drawn, dropping a Yankee at nearly point-blank range.
Pete was carrying a cup of coffee as well, and Lee motioned for him to sit down on one of the folding camp chairs.
"General Longstreet, a favor this day," Lee said.
"Anything, sir."
"Stay back from the fighting."
Longstreet lowered his head.
"It caught me by surprise as well, sir, that charge, the way they came in. I didn't expect it."
"Even if they didn't charge, you were within easy range of musket fire. I cannot bear to lose you, sir, you have become my right arm."
He chose that phrase deliberately and Longstreet looked up at him startled, features suddenly going red.
"Thank you, sir. I will of course follow your orders."
"Very good, General; now tell me what has transpired."
He briefly reviewed the previous day's action, Lee shaking his head as Pete described the breaking of Pickett's division and the relentless Yankee charge that followed.
"I thought all division commanders were clearly aware that we cannot afford the loss of a single man in such an action. Why did General Pickett press the attack so? Why did he not fall back as we discussed in our last staff meeting prior to the return march on Washington?"
"Sir, you know George. His enthusiasm for a fight was up; he thought he saw a chance to drive the Yankees."
"An entire corps or more?"
"I know. I should have come up earlier to supervise him, but the long march; frankly, sir, I'll confess I was on the point of collapse myself from the heat."
"Don't blame yourself. That is why we are supposed to have division commanders, men who can think independently when required, but also men who can balance that independence with an understanding of the broader scope of the plan. I am gravely disappointed in General Pickett for throwing such a fine division into a frontal battle when he should have given ground back slowly, leading Sickles into our main advance."
"I agree."
"I am not going to relieve him, but I shall indeed talk to him once this fight is over. Now, tell me, how bad was it?"
"The returns still are not in, a lot of stragglers, but I believe we lost close to five thousand men yesterday, roughly four thousand of those with Pickett. Garnett is dead, Kemper severely wounded and out of this campaign."
Lee sighed. Another division fought out Four veteran divisions fought out since June; Heth, Pender, Anderson, and Pickett nothing more than shattered wrecks. God,
how much longer can we bear this cost?
"There is one positive side to this," Longstreet interjected. "Pickett savaged their Third Corps. We took some prisoners when they finally fell back, and word is that their First Division is now a hollow wreck."
'Trading man for man is a game we can never win," Lee replied.
"I know that, General, sir, but as you have told me repeatedly these last few weeks, this is a battle against General Sickles. That was his old corps and he had his pride in that corps. Well, sir, I understand that pride. His men took terrible losses yesterday, but ultimately they did drive one of our best divisions from the field. Sickles will be spoiling for a new fight this morning."
Lee nodded in agreement.
"Everything is set?"
"Yes, sir. We will engage just after dawn, then retreat as you planned."
Lee smiled, blowing again on the rim of his cup. Yes, Longstreet was right. It was a chess match, and Sickles would move aggressively forward, especially if he thought he saw the queen moving off the field. His passions would be up after yesterday's losses and the momentary glimpse of what he thought was victory. Lee understood that feeling; it had almost seized him as well more than once.
"Fine then, General. It's after four in the morning. Daylight will be upon us soon. God watch over you. I am going to join Beauregard on the left and I will see you at sundown when we close on Sickles's army."
Headquarters Army of the Potomac
August 20, 1863 4:30 A.M
Gen. Dan Sickles stepped out of his tent, stretching, looking out across the plains south of Gunpowder River. The smoke from a thousand circling camps hung low in the early-morning mist, men gathered about the fires, cooking breakfasts, orders ringing in the still air, companies beginning to form up.
All of it filled him with a deep pleasure, a love for all that this had given him. The smell of fatback frying, the wood smoke, the rich heavy air of an August morning, the shadowy glimpses of companies forming lines, companies forming into regiments, and regiments into brigades, all these were sources of satisfaction.
Men were beginning to load up, rolling up blanket rolls and slinging them on, buttoning uniform jackets. A group of men from one of his New York regiments were gathered in a circle, on their knees, heads bowed as a priest offered absolution and then communion. Nearby another group, Baptists probably, were standing with heads bowed as one of them read a Psalm.
Grant Comes East - Civil War 02 Page 44
