Hell or Richmond (42 page)

FIFTEEN

May 10, one p.m.
Headquarters, Army of the Potomac

Meade worried about Barlow and his men. Grant had made a mess of things, and the army’s finest division was at risk. But Wright could not be put off any longer. His effort mattered, too.

To the southwest, the noise of skirmishing threatened worse to come for Barlow. And after Warren’s failed morning attack, Meade lacked an appetite for further setbacks. Every one of Grant’s schemes had come to nothing: The decisiveness Meade had admired at first had revealed itself as mere impetuosity. He intended to attempt something properly organized, an assault Ted Lyman might term “scientific.” If Grant approved the change to his grand attack.

He turned to the general in chief. “Best settle matters with Wright. That business we discussed. He’ll have plenty to do.”

Grant nodded. He looked even untidier than usual. And tired. They all were damnably tired.

Meade waved across the yard to his chief of staff, then pointed at Wright, who stood where Sedgwick should have been, and David Russell, chosen by Wright to lead his old division after he vaulted up to command of the Sixth Corps. Wright was a handsome, imposing man who looked a general’s part, while Russell was lean as an Indian and wore a narrow beard over his top buttons. David Russell, Meade knew, had graduated near the bottom at the Academy, but proved himself a good man on the battlefield.

Humphreys led them over. After routine greetings, Meade asked, “Well?”

“That young engineer you—,” Wright began.

“Mackenzie,” Meade said.

“Yes, sir. Mackenzie. He claims he’s discovered the best point to strike their line. Up along the west side of that salient.”

“Have you looked yourself? What do
you
think?”

Wright shrugged. “It’s as good a place as any other.”

It was not a suitable answer from a fellow engineer. Meade let it pass. Wright looked blown. And still shocked by his sudden elevation.

“And the assault force?” Meade asked.

Wright waved off a halo of flies and gestured toward his subordinate.

“General Meade,” Russell responded, “we’re assembling the twelve finest regiments in the corps. As a provisional brigade. It’s—”

This time, it was Grant who interrupted. “Brigade ain’t much.”

“No, sir,” Wright leapt in, “but those twelve regiments have the strength of a light division.”

Meade told Grant: “I’ve ordered Mott to support.”

“Tell me again how this dog’s supposed to bite,” Grant said. “Who’ll have the command?”

The questioning annoyed Meade, who had explained things in detail. But he could not afford to show temperament with Grant. He had already had to resist making sharp remarks about the collapse of Grant’s off-the-cuff scheme for Hancock. For which Frank Barlow stood to pay the butcher’s bill.

“Upton,” Wright said with a suspect grin. “This firebrand colonel I’ve got.”

“Heard the name,” Grant said. “Can’t place him.”

Wright grunted. “Good fighter. And the most arrogant, self-righteous shit to wear a uniform. Bread-and-water Methodist who farts scripture. Abolitionist, of course.”

“And the finest brigade commander in the Sixth Corps,” Meade added.

“That so?”

Russell, who had been Upton’s fellow brigade commander the day before, spoke up: “Yes, sir. Upton’s a bit of a character, but he’s splendid in a fight. ‘Barlow with a Bible,’ Uncle John used to joke.”

Turning again to Grant, Meade added: “Upton’s been deviling everybody to try out an idea of his. May be sense in it. Rather than sending out long, thin lines and pulling up for a shooting contest, he believes an assault in column on a narrow front—an attack that stops for nothing—would punch through Lee’s entrenchments. Relying on speed and thrust. And bayonets.”

“Like to see that,” Grant said.

“Then you approve?” Meade asked. He wanted a firm commitment in front of the others.

“Well,” Grant began, with one of his slope-shouldered shrugs, “I don’t see why not.” He contemplated the ruins of his cigar. “You don’t want a brigadier to lead it? Twelve regiments, that’s a lot of cotton for one colonel.”

Meade exchanged looks with Wright and Russell.

Grown sullen around Grant, Humphreys broke his silence. “This army’s brigadiers have had their chance. Upton’s hungry. And mean. The way those Bible-pounders tend to be. He’ll bring down the wrath of Jehovah on the Rebs.”

“Or the wrath of Emory Upton, anyway,” Wright said. “Not sure which one might be more unpleasant.”

Meade had one more matter to settle regarding Upton. “The man’s ambitious,” he told Grant. “He’s been pestering every one of us for a star. As far as I’m concerned, he earned one last autumn, but he doesn’t have the political weight.” He slapped at an insect bothering his cheek. “A word from you, though … I’d like to authorize Generals Wright and Russell to tell him he’ll make brigadier, if he breaks Lee’s line.”

Grant snorted. “And if he doesn’t?”

Wright said: “He won’t be expected back. He can try commanding cherubim and seraphim.”

“Sounds like you don’t like him very much.”

“‘Like’ is not a word that springs to mind.”

The general in chief blew smoke into the afternoon heat. “Still set for five o’clock, George? No dawdlers today?”

Meade shot Humphreys a look:
Don’t you say a word, I’ll handle this.

“Yes, sir,” Meade said. “In accordance with your orders. At five, Warren, supported by two of Hancock’s divisions, will attack the ridge again. To the Fifth Corps’ left, Upton’s assault on the salient will constitute the Sixth Corps’ primary effort. Mott, detached from Hancock, will attack on Upton’s left and exploit any break in Lee’s line.” Choosing his next words carefully, Meade asked, “Have you heard from General Burnside?”

Grant shook his head. “We’ll get him moving. I’ve sent Badeau to see to things.” He scratched at his ginger beard: Virginia’s insects were persistent skirmishers. “If this Upton fellow’s attack don’t work, something else is bound to. Lee can’t be strong everywhere.”

Grant still had not said a word about subordinating Burnside and the Ninth Corps to the Army of the Potomac, the only reasonable solution to the confusion that was manifest. Burnside needed rigorous supervision. Lacking it, he contributed precious little. The campaign cried out for unity of command, but Grant had to find his way to his own conclusions.

As the man had finally come to his senses that morning regarding the wild-goose chase upon which he had launched Hancock the afternoon before. The Second Corps had not had time before nightfall to breach the second line of the Po, and, of course, Lee had brought up forces during the night to secure his flank. Worse, when Grant had finally taken a proper look at the map, he had grasped the point that Meade had sought to make: Hancock’s corps was cut off from the army by the river, thrust into a perfect trap, its position an invitation to Lee to destroy it.

Grant had ordered Hancock to withdraw, and Win had pulled back Birney and Gibbon, leaving Barlow’s division as a rear guard while the others recrossed the river. Now Barlow had to extricate himself, with the Rebs swelling around him, and Hancock had gone out personally to see to matters. For his part, Meade did not believe Lee was going to let Barlow stroll back unmolested.

Meade sighed.

Everyone looked at him.

“Problem, George?” Grant asked.

“No, sir. Thinking about something else.” He waved a hand. “These damned flies.”

“Sight worse crossing the Isthmus,” Grant said. “This Upton. West Point?”

“Class of ’61,” Wright said. “As he’ll be only too glad to tell you.”

“And this mad dog’s still a colonel?” Grant tapped the ash from his cigar. “Even without pull in Washington…”

“He was stuck in the artillery for two years,” Russell explained. “As a captain. Before he took a regiment and got his jump.” Russell, a sober sort, broke into a smile. “I don’t know an officer in the corps who hasn’t heard Upton’s ‘why I’m not a brigadier’ story.”

Humphreys spoke up again. “First-rate soldier, though. Brilliant work at Rappahannock Station. Knows how to take a fortified line. And to bluff. If he wasn’t a damned Methodist, he’d take the drawers off all of us at poker.”

Meade noted that Russell let the slight go by. Russell, too, had been a hero of Rappahannock Station.

Wright smirked and said: “Upton travels with a whole damned library. When he isn’t reading the Good Book, he’s crabbing through de Saxe or God knows who. Oh, General Humphreys is right, he’s quite the soldier. However…”

Grant smiled, but this was Grant’s curled little smile, an expression that made Meade wary nowadays.

“Sounds almost like you’re trying to get rid of him,” Grant said.

Wright looked surprised. “No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just … I wouldn’t say he’s the corps’ most popular officer.…”

Grant’s smile persisted. “Wasn’t all that popular myself.”

Off toward Barlow’s division, artillery pounded.

Two thirty p.m.
Along the Shady Grove Church Road

“Brooke, can you hold?” Barlow asked.

Bullets from Rebel skirmishers hunted men in blue.

“I can hold them,” the colonel shouted back. “Don’t know how long, though. Prisoner claims Heth’s entire division’s out there.”

And Mahone’s division sat just across the south bank of the Po, ready to pounce. Outnumbered as much as four to one along his forward line, Barlow intended to draw blood as he withdrew.

“I need you to hold for a quarter hour, at least,” Barlow told the brigade commander. “Give Smyth and Miles time to entrench at the bridgehead.”

He was fighting with only two brigades up, Brooke’s men and Paul Frank’s lot.

As the racket increased, Brooke pulled his horse close to Barlow’s. “I can do that, a quarter of an hour. Maybe longer. If Frank holds.” The colonel looked doubtful about the prospect of that.

“I’m on my way to the right to have a look. Just hold them, John.”

They had beaten off the Reb skirmishers handily. But great gray waves would break over them soon.

Artillery rounds shrieked overhead, Union guns firing blindly from north of the river.

Before Barlow could put the spurs to his stallion, Hancock rode up. Barlow had been furious about the botched operation the evening before, then about being left as the rear guard again. But Hancock had returned to fight beside him, after withdrawing the rest of the corps to safety. Courage canceled many another sin.

No one saluted. The Rebs were too close.

Hancock nodded to Barlow, then to Brooke. “Looks like you drew the short straw, John.”

“Made sense, sir,” Brooke replied. “Given our dispositions.”

Barlow caught the note of criticism. Hancock had left the division spread out to cover what had been the corps’ front that morning. Even entrenched, the defense was as thin as Japan paper.

Hancock turned to Barlow. “Miles and Smyth have closed at the bridgehead. And all of the guns are across, except for Arnold’s.” His eyes shifted back to Brooke. “The pontoons are secure, they’ll be there when you need them.”

“First, I’ll have to get to them,” Brooke said.

Barlow beat down a smile. Brooke was no toady.

And the colonel had a right to be disgruntled. Once Brooke abandoned these entrenchments and passed through the grove to his rear, there remained a half mile of open ground between his men and the paths down to the bridges. All the way, they’d be under artillery fire. Withdrawing was going to be tricky, to say the least. And Paul Frank, his weakest colonel, would have even farther to go than would John Brooke.

That morning, as the corps withdrawal began, Hancock had explained Grant’s decision to leave Barlow in place as long as possible to deter Lee from shifting forces away from his left. The rationale was little consolation. The wait thereafter had been grim, until George Meade, bless him and all Philadelphia, had sent down orders to withdraw the division.

It looked as though he had waited an hour too long.

As for Hancock, Barlow was glad of his presence now, despite his taste for independent action. With an extended front to cover, he couldn’t be everywhere. If Hancock just saw to the bridgehead, to Miles and Smyth, it would be an enormous help. And Hancock, regal as Henry V in the saddle, was always an inspiration to the men. Barlow had been frustrated with his superior of late, finding his hero to be a bit of a hen, but Hancock shone today with his old verve.

“Here they come!” Brooke shouted.

The three officers looked across the road and down a fallow field. Red banners waving, a motley gray mass advanced up the long incline.

The Rebs let loose with their wild squeaking and hooting. They picked up their pace.

Barlow turned to Hancock and Colonel Brooke. “I’d best see to Paul Frank. Brooke here can manage.”

Hancock smiled. Voice raised to be heard, he told Brooke: “I believe, Colonel, that your division commander has just dismissed me from his forward line.” And turning to Barlow: “I’ll see how your micks are doing, then go on to Miles.”

As Barlow kicked his horse to life, Brooke called to his men, “Hold your fire, damn it.”