Finally
the
line
was
formed
as
Sheridan
wanted
it.
In
a boggy
woodland,
heavy
smoke
clouding
the
last
of
the
sunlight,
Sheridan
looked
down
the
shifting
mass
of
soldiers, turned
in
the
saddle,
and
called:
"Where's
my
battle
flag?" Up
came
his
color-bearer.
Sheridan
took
the
flag
from
him, raised
it
high
over
his
head,
and
went
trotting
along
the front.
The
line
surged
forward
and
got
up
to
the
Rebel works,
Sheridan
put
his
horse
over
the
breastworks,
and
the infantry
went
over
in
a
riot
of
yelling
jubilant
men—and
the Rebel
flank
was
broken
once
and
for
all,
and
the
men
of
the V
Corps
fought
their
way
down
the
length
of
Pickett's
battle line
taking
prisoners
by
the
score
and
the
hundred.
11
By
this
time
Warren
had
Crawford's
errant
division
far around
to
the
Rebel
rear,
rounding
up
fugitives
and
cutting off
the
line
of
retreat,
and
Warren
sent
his
chief
of
staff
over to
tell
Sheridan
about
it.
This
officer
found
Sheridan
on
the battlefield
and
trotted
up
proudly.
But
the
great
fury
of
battle was
on
Sheridan.
Warren's
corps
had
been
late
getting
to Dinwiddie
and
it
had
been
late
getting
into
position
at
Five Forks,
and
when
it
attacked
two
thirds
of
it
had
gone
astray and
Warren
had
gone
with
it;
Sheridan
did
not
in
the
least care
whether
the
reasons
for
all
of
this
were
good
or
bad,
and he
did
not
want
to
receive
any
more
reports
from
General Warren.
"By
God,
sir,
tell
General
Warren
he
wasn't
in
that
fight!" he
shouted.
The
chief
of
staff
was
dumfounded.
Warren
had been
doing
his
best,
no
one
in
the
Army
of
the
Potomac
ever spoke
that
way
about
a
distinguished
corps
commander—but Sheridan
was
clearly
implacable,
his
face
black,
his
eyes flashing.
The
officer
managed
to
say
at
last
that
he
disliked
to deliver
such
a
message
verbally—might
he
take
it
down
in writing?
"Take
it
down,
sir!"
barked
Sheridan.
"Tell
him
by
God
he was
not
at
the
front!"
Warren's
man
rode
away,
stunned.
The
next
to
come
up was
General
Griffin,
ranking
division
commander
in
the
V Corps—Regular
Army
to
his
fingertips,
rough
and
tough
and gifted
with
a
certain
magnetism—a
man,
in
fact,
cut
somewhat
after
the
Sheridan
pattern.
Bluntly,
Sheridan
hailed
him and
told
him
that
he
was
now
in
command
of
the
V
Corps.
Then
he
sent
a
courier
to
find
Warren
and
deliver
a
written message
relieving
him
of
his
command
and
ordering
him
to report
to
General
Grant
at
headquarters.
12
Pickett's
force
was
wholly
wrecked,
by
now,
with
the
front broken
in
and
victorious
Yankees
charging
in
from
the
flank and
rear
to
make
ruin
complete.
Yet
Sheridan
still
was
not satisfied.
The
enemy
must
be
annihilated,
all
escape
must
be cut
off,
that
railroad
line
must
be
broken,
no
one
must
relax or
pause
for
breath
as
long
as
there
was
anything
still
to
be accomplished.
...
He
was
in
a
little
clearing
in
the
forest, directly
behind
what
had
been
the
main
Confederate
line, and
through
the
clearing
went
the
road
that
led
from
Five Forks
to
the
Southside
Railroad,
the
railroad
Lee
had
to
protect
if
his
army
was
to
live;
and
just
then
there
came
up
to Sheridan
some
now
unidentified
officer
of
rank,
to
report triumphantly
that
his
command
was
in
the
Rebel
rear
and had
captured
five
guns.
Sheridan
gave
him
a
savage
greeting:
"I
don't
care
a
damn
for
their
guns,
or
you
either,
sir!
What I
want
is
that
Southside
Railway!"
The
sun
was
just
disappearing
over
the
treetops,
and
the clearing
was
dim
with
a
smoky
twilight.
Many
soldiers
were in
and
about
the
road
through
the
clearing,
their
weapons
in their
hands,
conscious
of
victory
and
half
expecting
to
be told
that
they
had
done
a
great
thing
and
were
very
fine fellows.
Sheridan
turned
to
face
them,
and
he
suddenly
stood up
in
his
stirrups,
waving
his
hat,
his
face
as
black
as
his horse,
and
in
a
great
voice
he
roared:
"I
want
you
men
to
understand
we
have
a
record
to
make before
that
sun
goes
down
that
will
make
Hell
tremble!"