The sound of horses struck Meade’s ear and motion caught his eye.
Sheridan. At last. Meade’s nostrils flared.
He set his plate on the sandy ground and stalked toward the horsemen.
“General Sheridan!” he snapped. “I’ll have a word with you.”
Gently, he told himself. Calmly. Sensibly. But it did no good.
A little man with a cannonball head and a brawler’s chest, Sheridan strode up, tearing off his riding gloves.
“And I’ve been meaning to have a word with
you,
” he said.
“In my tent.”
“Any damned where you like.”
As he marched under the canvas, with its illusion of privacy, Meade thought that, if he missed any man nowadays, it was poor John Buford.
When Meade turned to face Sheridan, the two men almost collided.
As though this were his tent, not Meade’s, Sheridan threw his flat-crowned hat on the desk, unsettling the papers. The cavalry chief’s mouth opened, but Meade, overcome by rage, got in the first blast.
“Damn you, man, do you know what your blundering’s cost this army today?
Do you know?
Where were you, off in some shebeen? You left the cavalry blocking our key route south. And doing precious little else, I might add. You held up Warren’s corps, and now there may be a thousand men dead and dying, thanks to your negligence. And Lee’s got the best of the ground under his feet.” He drew himself up to his full height, towering over the Irishman. “Sheridan, your dispositions have been inept, an amateur exercise, and we all have paid the price. Then you stranded Wilson at Spotsylvania…”
Sheridan had been reddening. Now he exploded: “
You! You
dare challenge
me,
you overbred horse’s ass? After you almost got Wilson captured yourself? You listen to me, you high-flown sonofabitch. If you think I’m going to let you shit on me, you can wipe your ass with a corncob and have it for dinner.
You
don’t know a goddamned thing about men
or
goddamned horses. At this rate you’re going to wreck the entire cavalry corps, you shit-sucker. If my men blocked anybody, it was because
you
interfered.
My
dispositions were sound. So don’t piss on my plans and tell the world it’s cologne water.…”
Frozen in astonishment, Meade gaped. Even Rawlins didn’t dare …
He had not meant for things to go so far. Belatedly, Meade gripped his temper.
“Sheridan, I—”
“And Warren’s no goddamned soldier,” the little man resumed, “so don’t blame his fucking incompetence on me. The problem isn’t my cavalry, it’s your worthless infantry, I’ve never seen such disgraceful acts on a battlefield, such outright cowardice.…”
“General Sheridan, let us—”
The Irishman looked up at Meade with eyes not short of murderous. “And as for Stuart, I’ll tell you all you need to know about goddamned Stuart. You just get out of my goddamned way and I’ll give you his fucking head. I could whip Jeb Stuart, if you’d let me.” Sheridan snorted, a little bull, and allowed himself a loathsome, superior smile. “But since you insist on giving orders to my men without consulting me, you can take command of the cavalry corps yourself. Show us all what a fucking frolic you can get up, you bastard.
I’m
not going to issue another goddamned order, so help me God.”
Meade reached out and laid a hand on the little man’s shoulder. He just managed to say, “No … I don’t mean that.”
Sheridan batted Meade’s paw away, took up his hat, and strode out of the tent.
It took Meade some minutes to gather himself, but in that time his own anger surged again. At the sound of horses galloping off, he left the tent, stalked by the wary expressions of his officers, and headed up the road toward the church, where Grant’s staff had placed themselves under the shade of better trees than the scrub pines allotted to Meade.
Relieved to find that Sheridan had not beat him to the church—from which they had flushed a few last congregants—Meade quick-timed through Grant’s lazing staff and made his way to the general in chief.
He found Grant deep in the shadows, with Rawlins and Washburne sprawled on the ground as their master puffed a cigar. Porter and Badeau hovered.
“I just had an interview with Sheridan,” Meade said. Despite his intended restraint, temper burned his voice.
Grant began to smile, then blanked his expression.
“That so?”
“The man’s as insubordinate as he’s incompetent. After the royal mess he made of last night’s march, he had the nerve to insult me to my face. Profanely, I might add. And then he started bragging that, if only
I
let him,
he
could whip Jeb Stuart.…”
Grant lowered the cigar. “Did Sheridan say that?”
“He did indeed. His insolence is unbounded.”
“Well,” Grant continued, “he generally knows what he’s talking about. Let him start right out and do it.”
Meade turned away from the barely suppressed smiles. Laughter trailed him as he left the headquarters.
Eight p.m.
Todd’s Tavern, Federal rear guard
As the last of the wounded were carried off, the two men drank bad coffee.
“Write up Robertson for a Medal of Honor,” Barlow said.
Miles tossed the dregs of his drink to the ground. “For sabering our own men?”
“For seizing the flag and rallying the the Hundred and Eighty-third Pennsylvania.”
“They hardly stayed rallied.” Miles looked off into the gloaming, toward the Confederate ghosts that haunted the night. “I’m ashamed.”
Barlow laughed, a cawing sound that drew the attention of the nearest soldiers. “Not your fault, Nellie. In fact, I’d say you handled things rather well. The new men are the problem. Not the veterans, the trash we’re getting now. Bounty jumpers and cutthroats. Draftees drooling from both sides of their mouths. They hold back, the good men are killed, and then the rest of them run.”
“A few won’t run anymore. Robertson can swing a saber.”
“I’ll see that he’s promoted, he’s earned his captaincy.”
“Plenty of vacancies,” Miles said, “after the last few days.”
Around them, the soldiers had begun to calm. The Confederate plunge toward Barlow’s main position had been ill-judged, and the Johnnies soon thought better of it. But the men were exhausted and less steady than usual.
Barlow’s thoughts returned to the 183rd, which had broken almost immediately when struck earlier in the evening. Miles’ brigade had advanced toward the Po to feel the enemy, but the Rebs had felt him instead. He had been hit on both flanks by Mahone’s division and by dismounted cavalry under Hampton. The only thing that saved his left was a commissary wagon just arrived to distribute rations. Careless of the volleys ripping the air, the hooting Rebs had broken off their attack to share out the food. With help from Smyth and the Irish Brigade, Miles had managed to extricate himself. But the 183rd’s collapse had been disgraceful. Only the enemy’s empty bellies had prevented a disaster.
Barlow rubbed his nose and said, “The Romans were a sensible people, you know. When a cohort behaved badly, they formed up its parent legion to watch as they executed every tenth man in the bad lot. Decimation worked.” He took off his cap and ran a hand over his sweat-flattened hair, feeling for nits. “We squander mercy and expect the brave to pay.”
“I hear Gibbon had another deserter shot,” Miles said.
Barlow’s features tightened. “Right by the roadside. Draped a sign around the corpse’s neck, it was quite a show.”
“The Hundred and Eighty-third hasn’t been a bad regiment,” Miles said. “Until now, I mean. The fighting in the Wilderness … Frank, it did something to the men. And not just the Hundred and Eighty-third.”
“Well, they’re going to see worse. If I read things right.” Barlow grimaced. “This coffee’s wretched. Have you had anything to eat?”
“I’ve got to see to my brigade.” But Miles paused. “You don’t think the Rebs will come at us again? My men need rest. A few hours, at least.”
Barlow shook his head. “Our Southron friends have had enough for tonight, I think. Thought they’d snap up a tasty morsel, but didn’t expect the whole steer.”
“Hancock seems worried.”
“Playing rear guard doesn’t suit him.” Barlow pawed his head again. “It’s not like him, though. Jumping at every snapped twig. When any fool can tell the fight’s to the south.” He slapped his hat on his head. “Go on, see to your men. And scribble some gush on Robertson, I’ll endorse it.”
Barlow turned away first, headed rearward, his path lit by low campfires. It had been a trying day, to put it gently. And Miles’ close call had been only one part of it. The problems had begun to unfold earlier, when Hancock bewildered him by reinstating Paul Frank in brigade command. After the man had simply fled in the Wilderness. It was unfathomable.
Then the Second Corps had been left in the rear, while Warren led the Fifth Corps into another battle as ineptly as he had done in the Wilderness. The word filtered back that every charge had been a muddled failure. Barlow didn’t share the regard that others had for Warren. The general affection for Sedgwick, he understood: Uncle John Sedgwick was an affable man, the sort who pleased the commons, if no genius. But Warren seemed unsteady, somehow paltry. He might have performed splendidly at Gettysburg, but his role had not been commanding men in battle.
And Hancock, Hancock … Barlow had begun to suspect that his superior might not last. Nor was it just the wound. In the saddle, Hancock still looked the part of the army’s
beau sabreur,
but Barlow sensed afflicted nerves in the man he had so respected.
He wondered if he might not take the corps himself, should Hancock depart. Birney and Gibbon had seniority, and corps command in the Army of the Potomac had thus far been reserved for West Point officers. Yet, Grant wanted fighters, ruthless fighters, and that meant opportunity.…
In the meantime, he had to get his boots off and soak his feet. Maintaining his composure while chatting with Nellie had been a trial. All day, he had yearned to scratch himself bloody and raw.
How he longed for his wife’s care now! Rather than being repulsed by the sight of his feet, Belle had been pleased to bathe them. Then she would paint them with salve and wrap them in compresses. He wished with all his heart that she were present. And, damnable thing, she nearly was. Her last three letters had reached him that day, along with missives from his brothers and mother—who had sent him a copy of
The Atlantic Monthly,
laden with dreary poems and duller ramblings: Whittier and Emerson still had no sense of the world. His mother was as blithe as ever, though, and Richard sent good news on their shipping investments. But the tidings that mattered most came from his beloved. She was in Fredericksburg, a few hours away on horseback, returned to her work with the Sanitary Commission. Perhaps, if the campaign slowed …
He had read her letters, her loving words, in the saddle and had needed to turn to brute thoughts to battle tears.
When the war ended, he intended to take her to Europe. London first, then, inevitably, Paris, and on to Rome. Perhaps Athens after that, even Constantinople. A good, long journey would cleanse their spirits and make a clean break from all this.
His wife had concluded her letter: “Protest as you wish, dear savage, but I know you take delight in what other men dread. Do have a care, for my sake,
cher barbare
.”
Ten p.m.
The Block House
Three generals ate by the light of a single candle. Their supper was bread and hard cheese, augmented by a crock of pickled beets, the gift of a local housewife and yet another food Lee dared not eat.
“Whipped them again,” Ewell said. “Dick here just plain whipped them.” The corps commander was so ebullient, so overripe in his confidence this night, that it troubled Lee.
“Oh, I’d say Stuart deserves most of the credit,” Anderson countered. “Just a downright wonder. I’ve never witnessed cavalry better handled.”
Ewell made a sour face. “Well enough, Dick, well enough. But he couldn’t have held that ridge if your boys hadn’t come up. In the end, it’s always the infantry makes the difference.”
“And artillery,” Anderson said. There was a faint awkwardness in his speech, the least hint of diffidence behind the soldierly banter. Any man called upon to replace Longstreet could not but feel daunted, Lee knew. But Anderson had done well this day, pushing his men hard and gaining precious minutes on those people.
“Is Gordon up?” Lee asked Ewell. It was easier to speak than to gnaw the resistant cheese. He had always had strong teeth, but they, too, had become casualties of war.
“Been up for hours. Preening like a peacock.”
“I should like to offer my compliments in person,” Lee said.
“Oh, don’t you worry about John Gordon,” Ewell told him. “I swear, there’s more mold here than cheese, things a man has to eat. No, sir, Gordon’s got his division, that’s the only compliment he needs.” Ewell smirked. “Not that Jube Early’s overjoyed about it.”
“I should think,” Lee said, “that General Early would have no objections. Given General Gordon’s record. And General Early’s own elevation to corps command.”
Ewell tugged at the cheese with brown teeth, wooden leg tapping the floorboards. “Oh, you know Jube. He’ll do, though.”
Yes. He would do. Because he would have to do. Powell Hill had grown so ill that he could not be left in command. And Early had been the best choice, if not an ideal one, to try as a substitute. He had lost two corps commanders out of three, at least for the present. The surgeons believed that Longstreet would live, but must suffer a long convalescence. Hill’s illness, the wages of sin, came and went unpredictably.
In all, more than a dozen generals had been killed or wounded, and no end of colonels had fallen. The army could not bear such extravagant losses.
The bright spot, the one bit of solace, was General Gordon. Lee felt certain now of the man’s abilities. In fact, he found it astonishing that one not formally trained to the profession could wage war with such art. And such audacity.