George
Gordon
Meade
commanded
the
Army
of
the
Potomac,
and
when
he
rebuked
a
man
he
did
it
with
angry words
that
struck
sparks.
On
this
day
he
was
furiously
dissatisfied
with
the
job
of
his
cavalry.
The
tangle
which
his own
escort
troops
had
kicked
up
was
the
least
of
his
worries. What
bothered
Meade
was
that
the
cavalry
corps
itself,
Sheridan's
command,
had
failed
in
the
early
morning
hours
to
clear the
road
from
Todd's
Tavern
down
to
Spotsylvania.
Sheridan had
issued
certain
orders
for
this
movement,
and
Meade
had canceled
some
of
them
without
bothering
to
tell
Sheridan,
and it
appears
that
neither
man
had
planned
the
business
very well
anyway.
The
upshot
had
been
that
the
army
was
delayed and
missed
a
big
chance.
So
when
Sheridan
came
to
Meade's headquarters,
around
noon,
Meade
greeted
him
with
angry words
that
resounded
all
over
the
place,
loudly
denouncing him
for
letting
his
cavalry
get
in
infantry's
way.
Phil
Sheridan
was
an
uncomplicated
man
whose
chief
trait, for
good
or
for
evil,
was
a
driving
combativeness,
and
he
replied
in
words
just
as
hot.
It
was
Meade's
fault,
he
shouted, because
Meade
had
countermanded
his
orders;
he
was
fed
up with
it,
and
if
he
could
just
pull
his
cavalry
together
and
use it
the
way
cavalry
ought
to
be
used,
he
could
go
out
and
whip Jeb
Stuart
out
of
his
boots.
So
it
went,
back
and
forth,
with staff
and
orderlies
pretending
to
be
deaf
and
drinking
it
all
in, and
at
last
Meade
stalked
off
to
tell
Grant
about
it.
Back
of
this
row
was
something
more
than
a
mere
clash
of temperaments.
Meade
was
correct
in
blaming
most
of
the
delay
on
Sheridan,
but
Sheridan
did
have
a
proper
complaint. Army
headquarters
still
held
more
than
a
trace
of
the
crippling
old
theory
that
the
cavalry
corps
after
all
was
pretty much
a
staff
outfit
like
the
signalers,
its
commander
in
effect ranking
as
a
member
of
the
general's
staff
rather
than
as
a leader
of
combat
troops.
McClellan
had
seen
it
so,
and
only the
departed
Hooker
had
disagreed
with
him.
Sheridan wanted
to
use
his
men
the
way
Stuart
used
his—as
a
hard, compact,
striking
force—and
it
was
not
possible.
What
the generals
were
really
arguing
about
was
whether
cavalry
was to
be
regarded
as
a
fighting
corps
or
as
a
collection
of
train guards,
scouts,
and
couriers,
and
Grant
saw
the
point
as
soon as
Meade
began
to
talk
to
him.
When
Meade
reported
how
Sheridan
had
said
he
could whip
Stuart
if
he
could
take
his
men
and
go
off
on
his
own, Grant
looked
up.
"Did
Sheridan
say
that?"
he
asked.
"Well,
he
generally knows
what
he
is
talking
about.
Let
him
start
right
out
and do
it."
6
So
the
cavalry
corps
had
been
collected
in
one
imposing
mass—13,000
mounted
men,
plus
horse
artillery,
a
sinewy
column
such
as
this
army
had
never
before
mustered;
and
presently
it
set
out
on
a
wide
swing
that
would
carry
it
clear
away from
the
camps
and
battle
lines
and
take
it
down
cross
country
on
a
beeline
for
Richmond.
Stuart
would
not
dare
ignore it,
the
way
he
had
ignored
Stoneman's
raid
in
the
Chancel
lorsville
campaign,
for
if
he
did
it
had
weight
enough
to
go straight
into
the
capital,
or
to
work
ruinous
damage
in
the army's
nexus
of
transportation
and
supply.
He
would
have
to follow
it
and
bring
it
to
bay
and
get
into
a
stand-up
fight
with it,
and
then
it
would
be
seen
what
came
of
it
all.
When
it
set
out
the
cavalry
did
not
go
jingling
off
at
a
trot, pressing
for
stray
minutes
and
wearing
out
its
horses.
It moved
at
a
walk,
conscious
of
its
power,
as
if
it
had
all
the time
in
the
world.
Once
the
advance
guard
brushed
into
a Rebel
skirmish
line,
and
sent
a
few
squadrons
forward
to
tap the
line
and
see
what
it
was
made
of.
The
firing
grew
brisk and
the
squadrons
came
tumbling
back.
Up
came
Sheridan, hotly
asking
what
was
the
matter
here.
Too
many
Johnnies up
ahead,
the
men
told
him.