A Stillness at Appomattox (27 page)

What
would
come
next,
indeed,
was
fairly
obvious:
a
big attack
along
the
Plank
Road,
where
the
disordered
pieces
of A.
P.
Hill's
Confederate
corps
lay
crisscross
in
the
darkness. Lee
had
fought
with
part
of
his
army
missing,
and
the
missing portion—Longstreet's
corps—would
not
be
up
until
midmorn
ing
or
later.
What
was
in
the
cards
therefore
was
a
hard smash
at
Lee's
right,
to
overwhelm
it
before
Longstreet's rough
veterans
could
get
on
the
scene,
and
the
fighting
was apt
to
begin
as
soon
as
the
first
faint
light
broke
over
the
eastern
sky.

Grant
wanted
the
attack
made
at
four
o'clock,
but
the corps
commanders
were
having
much
trouble
getting
their disordered
divisions
sorted
out
and
Meade
persuaded
the general
to
allow
a
postponement.
Burnside's
IX
Corps
was south
of
the
Rapidan
now,
and
Burnside
was
under
orders to
get
his
men
down
to
the
Plank
Road
and
join
in
the
assault. Meanwhile,
by
a
little
after
five
in
the
morning,
Hancock
got his
own
troops
and
Getty's
thinned
division
from
the
VI
Corps lined
up
for
action,
and
he
immediately
sent
them
west
on both
sides
of
the
Plank
Road.

They
ran
into
action
at
once.
Hill's
Confederates
had hardly
so
much
as
tried
to
straighten
their
lines
during
the night—all
of
the
ordinary
difficulties
of
moving
troops
in
this jungle
were
infinitely
intensified
in
the
darkness—and
they were
not
in
the
best
shape
to
meet
an
attack.
But
they
were very
tough
characters
and
they
started
firing
as
soon
as
the first
Yankee
skirmishers
came
crashing
through
the
underbrush,
and
beneath
the
low
branches
the
gray
half-light
of dawn
became
spectral
with
wispy
layers
of
smoke.
The
skirmishers
waited
to
let
the
main
battle
line
catch
up
with them,
and
then
everybody
went
plunging
forward
and
the battle
of
the
Wilderness
was
on
again.

Hancock
was
a
driver,
and
he
sent
his
men
on
like
a
flood tide.
From
their
dark
bivouac
north
of
the
road,
Wadsworth
's
division
from
the
V
Corps
fell
into
line
and
came
tramping down
at
an
angle,
flanking
some
of
Hill's
men
and
knocking them
out
of
the
way.
The
Federal
battle
line
was
more
than
a mile
wide
and
it
moved
with
enormous
weight,
overrunning the
islands
of
stubborn
resistance
and
shooting
down
the Rebels
who
were
groping
for
new
positions,
and
an
unearthly racket
of
musketry
went
rolling
up
the
sky.

Back
by
the
crossroads
Hancock
was
elated.
The
wound
he had
received
at
Gettysburg
still
hurt
him,
and
he
had
official permission
to
go
about
in
an
ambulance
if
he
chose,
but
he was
astride
his
horse
today
and
as
reports
came
back
he
felt that
everything
was
going
as
it
should.
To
one
of
Meade
's
staff
officers
he
called
out
gaily:
"We
are
driving
them,
sir-tell
General
Meade
we
are
driving
them
most
beautifully.

He
was
robust
and
handsome
and
the
joy
of
battle
was
on him,
and
to
look
at
him
as
he
sat
his
horse
in
this
moment
of triumph
was
to
understand
why
the
war
correspondents
liked to
tag
him
"Hancock
the
superb."

Yet
even
as
he
exulted
in
his
success
he
was
beginning
to fret.
Burnside's
men
were
coming
down
much
more
slowly than
had
been
expected.
They
were
supposed
to
take
part
in this
big
attack
and
they
should
be
here
now,
but
they
were not
showing
up
and
Hancock
began
to
worry.
He
told
Meade's man
that
with
their
weight
added
to
his
own
column
of
attack
"we
could
smash
A.
P.
Hill
all
to
pieces!"
⁸

Yet
things
were
going
well,
regardless.
Two
miles
west
of the
crossroads
where
Hancock
was
waiting,
the
cheering
Federals
were
sweeping
in
on
the
edge
of
a
meager
little
clearing around
the
Widow
Tapp's
farm,
where
Lee
himself
stood among
his
guns
and
tried
to
patch
up
a
dissolving
battle
line. Just
beyond
him
the
white
tops
of
the
Confederate
wagon trains
were
visible,
and
if
Hancock's
men
could
just
go
driving
on
across
this
clearing
Hancock's
goal
would
be
won.

And
there
was
a
moment,
just
here
by
the
Tapp
farmstead, with
dawn
coming
up
through
the
smoke
and
the
Northern advance
breaking
out
of
the
trees,
when
the
authentic
end
of the
war
could
be
glimpsed
beyond
the
ragged
clearing.
If Hancock's
men
could
go
storming
on
for
another
half
mile, Lee's
army
would
be
broken
and
it
would
all
be
over.
It
may be
that
the
Army
of
the
Potomac
never
came
nearer
to
it
than this—neither
above
the
Antietam,
nor
at
Gettysburg,
nor
anywhere
else—and
final
victory
was
just
half
an
hour
away.
But the
magical
half
hour
flickered
and
was
lost
forever,
and
if any
Northern
soldier
saw
victory
here
he
saw
no
more
than a
moving
shadow
distorted
by
the
battle
smoke.