Encounter at Cold Harbor (10 page)

The three men returned to their seats, and somehow Jeff felt drained and empty.

“Sure is hard to say good-bye,” Nelson Majors said. His face was grave, but then a smile came. “But it’s a little better knowing that Eileen’s there to take care of Esther.”

Jeff looked at his father’s face. He almost said, “Yeah, that’s right, Pa.” But he still had some stubbornness in him and, instead, just sat quietly and watched the countryside flash by.

The battle that came to be known as the Battle of the Wilderness was one of the most awesome and bitter campaigns in the Civil War. Four armies were involved—two Union armies and two Confederate forces made up of Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia and the army that had been hastily gathered in Richmond.

Jeff would alight from the train one day and on the next day hear the guns begin to sound. He overheard his father tell an officer on his staff, “I figure we’ve got around sixty-two thousand men, and it looks like the Yankees have about a hundred and ten thousand. We’re in for it this time.”

Quickly the troops were rushed into position.

That night General Grant started his army marching, hoping he could get through the Wilderness without having to fight there. The Wilderness was a tangled mass of undergrowth, saplings, hills, creeks. It was impossible to march an army across in order. The roads were winding, and just dragging their guns took all the strength that the Union troops could muster.

Gen. Robert E. Lee had not been caught off guard. Somehow, with that military genius that
belonged to him, he knew exactly what Grant would do, and he placed his smaller army directly in the Federals’ path.

When Lee called his staff officers together, he said, “There will not be large troop movements in this battle. It will be man against man, squad against squad. I can give you no orders except to say, if we do not stop the Union army at this point, the war will be over.”

It was Jeff’s job as drummer boy to sound calls to the waiting troops. They would hear the drummed orders and perform maneuvers—right, left, forward, charge, retreat. But here in such undergrowth, there really were no companies or battalions—just a mass of men. Jeff’s part in this battle would be very small.

He said to Tom—who had insisted on coming into the line—“Shucks, Tom! There’s no sense of having a drummer boy here. I’m gonna get me a musket first chance I get.”

Tom stared at his brother. “Pa will have your head if he sees you doin’ it.”

“I don’t think he’s gonna see much. You can’t see more than ten yards in this blasted woods.” He peered through the thick underbrush. “We’ve never fought in a mess like this before.”

“The Yankees haven’t either,” Tom said grimly, no doubt purposing in his own mind to do exactly as Jeff had suggested—get a musket and be what help he could.

Jeff moved away from Tom, the drum hanging from his waist. It felt like so much dead weight.

As he reached the end of the line, he suddenly found himself face to face with Chaplain Phineas Rollins. Chaplain Rollins was tall and rawboned and wore a perpetual smile. He had known Jeff for
a long time and greeted him cheerfully. “Well, it looks like a big one, Jeff,” he said.

“Sure does, Chaplain. You better get yourself back a ways. Stay at the back of the fight.”

Rollins looked around. He had been a soldier himself in his younger days. “I don’t think there is any ‘back’ to this fight—just the middle of the woods with men shooting.”

Then the chaplain noticed a young man who was watching them with interest. “Hello, Private. I’m Chaplain Rollins.”

“This is Ocie Landers, Chaplain,” Jeff said. “He’s a new recruit.”

Rollins put his big hand out, and the boy took it. “Good to see you, Ocie. Where are you from?” As he stood talking with the young soldier, the chaplain asked, “Do you know the Lord, Ocie?”

“Yes, sir. I got saved last summer.”

“Well, that’s good,” the chaplain said. He looked around. “Some of these other fellows aren’t saved. You might help me to tell ’em about the Lord Jesus.”

Ocie said, “I ain’t no preacher, Chaplain.”

“You don’t have to be a preacher to tell somebody that you’re saved.” He clapped the boy on the back, and the two were still talking when Jeff left.

Walking along farther, Jeff talked to other men and found that they were as nervous as he was. And then the sudden explosion of guns up ahead made him stop. It was rapid musket fire, and it sounded to Jeff, as it always did, like thousands of sticks being broken.

“Well,” he said, running back to Tom, “I reckon it’s going to happen. They’re comin’.”

“I think they are,” Tom said. “Come on, let’s get
us a musket. We can’t fight ’em with a muster book and a drum.”

Tom led the way to some spare weapons, and both of them picked up ammunition. Then they waited.

Finally Jeff, who had very sharp eyes, said, “I see the flash of guns up there. They’re comin’ this way.”

From that moment on, Jeff would remember very little of the Battle of the Wilderness. All morning he just fired, reloaded, and fired again. It was impossible to see anything. Once the muskets began to fire, black smoke filled the woods. Oftentimes he simply fired in the general direction of the enemy.

A lieutenant came by and led one of the companies off to the right. Jeff and Tom went along with their squad. It was then they found out that General Longstreet had been shot.

“And it was just about a year ago that General Jackson got killed—shot by his own men by accident,” Jeff said. His face was black, and he was panting from the heat. He looked upward through the smoke and said, “I can’t see that we’re winnin’ or losin’.” He had passed the bodies of several Yankee soldiers, but he had also seen bodies that wore the Confederate uniform.

Late in the afternoon, Jeff saw something that made his blood run cold. “The woods are on fire! We’ve got to get out of here, Tom!”

“I think you’re right.”

Jeff and Tom began backing out, away from the flames, gathering the squad as they went. When they got to safety, Tom said, “Let’s count everybody and be sure we all got out. I hope none of the fellas got hit.”

Jeff waited as Tom counted, calling out the men’s names. But when he called, “Landers!” there was no answer.

“Where is Ocie?” Jeff cried with alarm.

“He was right beside me back there,” Charlie Bowers said.

Curly Henson shook his head. “Then I reckon he got hit.”

Instantly Jeff said, “We got to go back and get him!”

“You can’t go back in there!” Tom said. “Not with the woods on fire!”

Jeff could not help but think of the boy who was perhaps dead but also perhaps alive.
If he’s alive and can’t move
, Jeff thought,
he’ll be burned up!

He said no more to any of the squad but quietly crept away. As soon as he was out of sight, he broke into a run. Ahead, the woods were glowing, but he ignored that. He knew that he could run into gunfire, not only from the Yankees but from Confederates who could not distinguish uniforms in the hazy air. But he kept going.

He ran down through a gully and up the hill the squad had occupied. “Ocie—Ocie, are you here?”

There was no answer, and Jeff pressed farther in. To his right a wall of fire now ate away at the dried wood and leaves and vines. The heat singed his face. He went farther on—and finally stopped in despair.

“Can’t get no further,” he said. He raised his voice one more time and called out, “Ocie, where are you?” He paused and thought he heard a faint voice say, “Over here!”

“Where, Ocie?” Jeff wheeled around and moved in the direction of the voice.

“Over here!”

He heard the voice more clearly, and then Jeff broke into a run. He saw a small form lying at the base of a huge oak. The fire was barely ten feet on the other side of him and closing in.

“Ocie, are you OK?”

“I got … shot in the leg.”

“Let me see.” Bending over, Jeff saw that his injury was not bad. It appeared to be just a flesh wound. “Can you walk?”

“Maybe I can if you help me. It hurts like fury, Jeff.”

“Then, come on—put your arm around my neck.” He helped the boy to his feet, and the two, their faces blistered by the raging flames, struggled back to safety.

When they were out of danger of the fire, Ocie said, “I asked Jesus to send somebody to get me, and I guess you’re him, Jeff—or maybe an angel.”

Jeff looked down at the smaller boy and grinned. “Well, I’ve been called lots of things but never an angel.”

“I sure was glad to see you comin’. But there’s some more of our fellas back there, I’m afraid.”

The thought sobered both of them.

When they were back with the rest of the squad, Ocie said again, “I’m sure glad you came, Jeff. That was bad back there—but I knew that Jesus would send somebody.”

J
eff looked around at his squad, all of them thirsty and hungry and exhausted. They had all hoped that Grant, who lost thousands of men in the Battle of the Wilderness, would turn and go back to Washington. All the other Federal commanders had done exactly this, including General McClellan.

“Grant’s a different sort of general,” Colonel Majors said. He had stopped by to encourage the boys. “He’s not going to back up, no matter how many men he loses. We’ll just have to keep on fighting.”

As Ocie watched the colonel walk on, speaking to other squads, he said, “That’s some pappy you got there, Jeff! He is really something!”

Jeff felt a wave of pride sweep through him but said only, “Yes, he is, isn’t he?” He had always been proud of his father but never more so than now. Some officers stayed at the rear, but Colonel Majors was always at the front. As Charlie Bowers said, “All you got to do is look around, and there’s the colonel right up in the front with the rest of us.”

One morning the colonel came to say, “We’re moving out.”

“Where we going, Colonel?” a lieutenant asked wearily.

“Spotsylvania. That’s where Grant will hit next. At least that’s what General Lee says.”

The lieutenant looked puzzled. “How in the world can General Lee
know
that?”

“General Lee’s got a lot of respect for Grant,” Colonel Majors said. “He said it’s what he would do if he were Grant. So here we go—Spotsylvania.”

Both armies moved out at night, General Grant indeed marching toward Spotsylvania. But General Lee moved his men faster, and when Grant got there he found the Confederates in place before him. During the next twelve days, Grant threw his troops again and again against the Southern positions. Union losses mounted higher and higher— much higher than those of the Confederates. The Federal forces, however, had replacements, while Lee’s army was steadily growing weaker, for there were too few men left in the South to fill the ranks.

One morning, when the battle had been going on for several days, Jeff saw his father coming back to camp, his face downcast. “What’s the matter?” Jeff asked.

“It’s General Jeb Stuart. He’s been killed in battle at a place called Yellow Tavern.”

Jeb Stuart was the greatest of the great cavalry commanders—the greatest on either side, most people said. The loss of this leader saddened Jeff. He had once met General Stuart in company with his father and admired him greatly. “That’s too bad. He was a great man.”

Colonel Majors stood silent for a moment. Then, “They’re getting us one by one,” he said quietly. “There’s only one end to that.”

“You don’t think we can win the war?” Jeff asked. This had never really seriously occurred to him.

Colonel Majors looked at Jeff, his eyes holding those of his son. “We’re just not strong enough, Jeff.
We do our best, but they’re just too many for us— too many men, too many guns.” He turned and walked away sadly.

And there, at the Battle of Spotsylvania, Jeff Majors realized for the first time that the South was going to lose the war.

After several hard-fought battles, the armies found themselves at a place called Cold Harbor. The Confederates had retreated almost daily. Now, General Grant decided to make a supreme effort to finish the Southern army. He faced his generals and said, “We’ll throw everything we have at Lee. We’ve got to stop this thing!”

Several of his officers tried to warn him. “General Grant, the Confederates have dug-in positions here. It will be suicide to put our men across that field.”

But Grant would not be swayed. He gave the command, and thousands of Union troops rose up and marched against the Confederate position.

Jeff was standing beside the colonel in the line of riflemen, and he saw the mass of men coming. “Look at that, Pa!” he said, forgetting again to use his father’s military title. “I didn’t think anybody would charge across open ground against riflemen like that.”

“It’s a mistake,” the colonel said quietly. “We made the same mistake at Gettysburg, and now it looks like it’s the Union’s turn.”

Jeff watched the troops come on and on and on.

His father cried out, “Fire!” and a sheet of flame literally wiped out the first wave of Federal troops. It sickened Jeff to see men falling in the dust.

His father put an arm around him. “It’s too bad you have to see this, Jeff.”

Again and again General Grant sent his troops forward, but the Confederates held fast. The field was full of dying and wounded before he finally called an end.

“We’ll have to take Richmond by siege,” Grant said. “We can never attack it head-on again.” Later on, after the war, he was to say, “The only thing I ever did that I regret during the whole war was to order the charge at Cold Harbor.”

Jeff was on the line when the last charge was made. When he saw the Yankees driven back, he breathed, “I just hope they don’t come back again.”

At that moment, he heard his name called.

“What is it, Tom?”

Tom was hurrying toward him. “It’s Pa. He’s been shot! I’ve got to get him back to the hospital in Richmond.”

“Not the field hospital?”

“No, they told me to take him to Chimborazo.”

Chimborazo was the largest Confederate hospital. It was overcrowded but was still the best place that existed in the Confederacy for a wounded man.