Darkness
came
at
last
and
the
fighting
died
away,
and the
Federals
dug
in
where
they
were
and
counted
their losses.
These
were
fairly
heavy—a
total
of
some
2,200
for the
two
army
corps—but
the
Confederates
had
had
substantial
losses,
too,
and
750
Southern
prisoners
were
on
then-way
back
to
the
provost
marshal's
stockade.
All
in
all,
the day's
action
had
been
a
success.
The
Confederates
had
been driven
out
of
Cold
Harbor
and
the
Federal
grip
there
was secure.
Also,
it
appeared
that
this
might
be
a
good
jumping-off
point
for
a
major
attack.
Cold
Harbor
was
not
far
from
the
Chickahominy,
and there
was
no
more
room
for
shifting
to
the
left.
But
the place
was
right
on
the
Confederate
flank,
and
while
Lee had
sent
a
good
many
troops
down
here
they
had
been kept
very
busy
and
it
did
not
seem
probable
that
they
could have
built
a
strong
defensive
line.
If
there
was
any
place along
the
line
where
an
attack
might
succeed,
it
was
right here,
and
success
here
would
be
dazzling
because
the
Chick
ahominy
ran
across
the
Confederate
rear
and
a
beaten
army trying
to
retreat
fast
across
that
river
would
be
in
dire
trouble.
Here,
perhaps,
was
where
the
blow
that
would
end
the war
could
be
struck.
On
top
of
these
considerations
there
was the
obvious
fact
that
a
blow
could
not
very
well
be
struck anywhere
else.
It
was
either
fight
here
or
develop
a
whole new
campaign.
10
These
points
had
great
weight,
and
Grant
considered them
and
decided
accordingly—which
is
to
say
that
he
ordered
an
all-out
attack
for
daylight
the
next
morning,
with Wright's
and
Smith's
corps
to
be
reinforced
by
the
twenty-odd
thousand
in
Hancock's
command,
and
with
the
rest
of the
army
throwing
its
weight
in
where
it
was.
Yet
between a
decision
by
the
lieutenant
general
commanding
and
the ultimate
appearance
on
the
firing
line
of
the
soldiers
who must
make
that
decision
effective
there
were
many
separate steps,
and
at
Cold
Harbor
all
of
these
were
steps
leading down
into
great
darkness.
There
is
a
house-that-Jack-built quality
to
the
tale:
this
went
wrong
because
that
went wrong,
and
that
went
wrong
because
of
what
happened
just before,
and
that
in
turn.
.
.
.
Attitudes
of
mind
and
habits of
thought
formed
when
Cold
Harbor
was
as
remote
as
the mountains
of
the
moon
were
still
at
work,
each
one
affect
ing
what
was
going
to
happen
next,
all
of
them
put
together forming
a
recipe
for
disaster.
Whatever
was
going
to
be
done
would
have
to
be
done very
quickly.
The
whole
idea
was
that
at
half-past
four
on the
morning
of
June
2
the
Confederates
facing
Cold
Harbor would
be
off
balance,
unprepared
to
resist
a
solid
blow. That
assumption
might
well
be
correct;
and
yet
it
was
as certain
as
anything
could
be
certain
that
the
Confederates would
not
stay
off
balance
or
unprepared
very
long,
and that
what
was
possible
at
dawn
might
be
utterly
impossible by
midafternoon.
The
big
attack
that
was
set
for
dawn,
in other
words,
had
better
take
place
at
dawn
and
not
at
some other
time.
But
the
reflexes
of
the
chain
of
command
in
the
Army
of the
Potomac
had
never
yet
been
trained
for
speed.
There was
power
here,
and
bravery,
and
simple
determination— but
the
furious,
implacable
insistence
on
doing
simple
things quickly
was
not
there
at
all.
It
had
been
bred
out
of
the army
in
the
leisurely
days
of
1862,
when
half
a
month
one way
or
the
other
did
not
seem
to
make
very
much
difference and
the
delay
of
a
mere
day
or
so
did
not
make
any
difference
at
all,
and
nothing
that
the
tough
little
man
from
the West
had
been
able
to
do
had
changed
things
very
much.
In
all
the
history
of
this
army,
no
general
had
yet
been disciplined
for
being
just
a
little
bit
late.
Back
of
almost every
defeat
there
was
the
story
of
chances
lost
because some
commander
had
not
done
what
he
set
out
to
do
with the
necessary
vigor
and
speed.
The
assumption
always
seems to
have
been
that
the
man
on
the
firing
line
would
somehow
make
up
for
all
slackness
and
all
delays.