Judgment at Appomattox--A Novel Page 2

  Union lines

  Brigadier General of United States Volunteers Napoleon Bonaparte McLaughlen approached Fort Stedman on horseback, wishing for daylight so he could get things settled. Of course, the Johnnies would probably withdraw long before that, unwilling to be caught in the open on one of their picket raids.

  As an enlisted man in the 2nd Dragoons before the war, McLaughlen had learned when to trust a horse. He was glad of that knowledge now, since he couldn’t see one damned thing beyond an occasional rifle flash. The dark was so thick you could bite it. The horse knew the roadway well, though, and kept to it even when spurred.

  Horse stink, man stink.

  McLaughlen had suffered several bad minutes, fearing that the Rebs had struck in force. He’d even sent off his staff to rouse reinforcements. But he’d found Fort Haskell secure in trusted hands, its frontage quiet and no one alarmed, so now he just needed to stiffen up Fort Stedman. Make sure all those sluggards were under arms in obedience to his orders.

  His horse shied around shadows.

  He thought the sky looked paler. Then it seemed black again.

  Somebody had gotten the jumps to the north, up between Batteries IX and X, by the feel of things. The Johnnies might have staged more than one simultaneous picket raid, out of either boldness or desperation.

  Grinding his parts against a saddle before the sun came up always reminded him of his frontier days. Damned well hadn’t suspected back then that he’d one day become a general. Even sergeant had looked a long way off.

  A frontier soldier got his coffee, though. Before he put a horse between his legs.

  This Reb disturbance annoyed McLaughlen, not least because he’d been working on his own plan to strike the Johnnies from Fort Stedman. He’d been trying, thus far without success, to interest his superiors. And this didn’t help, suggesting that the Rebs remained alert.

  He spurred the horse again, spending a bit of the anger he felt at the Johnnies. They were defeated and done with, but too proud to admit it. Anyone could see that Lee was finished. Everything from here on out was a needless waste of blood.

  McLaughlen was determined to take charge, to get his lines under control and end the nonsense before the morning muster. And find some cook fire where the coffee was boiling.

  Again the horse swerved to avoid shadows in motion. Shirkers, the general reckoned. Some of Hartranft’s green bunch, most like, straying in the dark. Their officers needed to get them under control.

  Too near, a cannon discharged and startled his horse. It made no sense. Had his mount grown confused? The direction of that flash seemed all askew.

  More noise than there should have been. Yet, not the bang and rumpus of a real fight.

  The slope stopped climbing and leveled out. It felt like the rear of Stedman. Smelled like it, too, that latrine stench. Matters seemed calmer here. The riflery, which had snapped down the line minutes earlier, had fallen off to isolated shots.

  Queer business, though.

  The horse took him right into Stedman, where the soldiers sounded disorderly and rambunctious. And seemed excessively plentiful. As if they had been reinforced too heavily, packed together uselessly. Perhaps they really were Hartranft’s new volunteers and dregs of the draft. That would explain the indiscipline.

  A cluster of man-shapes approached. McLaughlen reined up.

  “You there,” McLaughlen called, “you’re going the wrong way, soldier! Get back to your posts, every one of you.”

  Laughter.

  A voice that was utterly wrong replied, “Well, now, it does seem to this body that we’re heading just where we’uns want to go. That right, boys?”

  “Are you … a Rebel?” the general asked, bewildered.

  “I do prefer ‘Confederate.’ But ‘Reb’ does nice enough. Now you git down off that long-legged cow and surrender.”

  Outraged—not least by his folly—McLaughlen demanded, “Are you an officer?”

  “Don’t matter one lick. You dismount right now, or I’ll blow your head off.”

  McLaughlen sensed a pistol rising toward him. A merry, unforgiving crowd had gathered.

  The general got down. “I’m General McLaughlen and I demand to be treated with proper respect.”

  “Your pistol. Give it here.”

  McLaughlen handed it over, but insisted, “I can only surrender my sword to a fellow officer.”

  The men crowding close whooped at that.

  “Well, I’m Lieutenant Guinn, Thirty-first Georgia. But you hang on to your letter opener. You can give it to General Gordon, he’ll be tickled.” A big, unpleasant shape, the lieutenant turned. “Bradwell, take this high-flown gent on back to General Gordon, with my compliments.” He chuckled again. “Rest of you, let’s go. Sportin’s over.” But he turned once more to warn, “I don’t want him picked too clean, Bradwell. Hear me?”

  The private nudged McLaughlen through a reeking mass of Confederates. The two of them joined a stream of Union prisoners flushed rearward between advancing Rebel columns. McLaughlen let fly with his feelings for the world to hear.

  The soldier given charge of him finally said, “Genr’l, I never did hear a man cuss so powerful. Where’d you learn them words?”

  McLaughlen grunted. “I was a goddamned private just like you. And lucky if they don’t make me one again.”

  Five ten a.m.

  Union Battery IX

  First Lieutenant Valentine Stone, 5th U.S. Artillery, leapt from his horse, blouse flapping, and shouted, “Load spherical case!”

  Mack MacConnell had already had the men wheel a section of guns to point due south.

  In the first gray tease of light, Stone saw them coming: a long, uneven line of Rebs sweeping northward, half inside the Union works, the rest driving up the ground between the lines. Scampering ahead of them, small bands of his kind raced for safety.

  Those boys had put up a fight, though. He’d heard it from the innards of Fort McGilvery. Remnants of the 2nd Michigan they’d be.

  Within the battery walls and along the traverses, the men of the 20th Michigan, charged to protect the battery, cheered on their fellow Wolverines, urging them to run faster.

  There did seem to be a plentitude of Rebs. He wished those Michiganders would go to ground so his guns could fire.

  “Under four hundred yards, sir,” MacConnell called.

  “I see that. Damn me. Open on the Rebs outside the lines.”

  MacConnell shouted the orders. The gun crews were all but ahead of him. Muzzles shot flame, carriages recoiled, and smoke rose in the half-light.

  One round hit perfectly, tearing a gap in the line. The Michigan infantry cheered.

  Farther south, toward Stedman, it looked and sounded as though the Rebs had blown a significant hole in the defenses, with episodic encounters flaring and fading. More guns joined the fray, firing in multiple directions

  The boys from the 2nd Michigan figured things out. They either scooted off to the east or dove deep into trenches. So Stone’s artillerymen could do their work.

  “Left thirty degrees. Load spherical case. Ready canister. Fire at will.”

  There were just more Johnnies than Val Stone needed to see of an early morning. Yipping their high cry now. Flags whipped back and forth in the morning twilight, urging on the graybacks.

  To Stone’s immediate left, Al Day got his Michiganders ready. Waiting for the Rebs to close within two hundred yards. Not that Stone put much faith in musketry, even in good light. Artillery, that was the thing.

  First volley. Johnnies fell. Not enough.

  They screeched that ghastly wail. And on they came.

  The gun crews slammed in the canister rounds, while infantrymen reloaded with the speed of veterans who meant to live.

  A high Reb voice cut the tumult: “Best give up, Yanks. No use now, you’re beat. Throw down them rammers.”

  “Fire!” MacConnell told his gun sections. Before Stone could give the command.

  The Michiganders, too, fired another volley.

  Through the smoke, Stone saw the Johnnies wavering, some stepping forward still, others hesitating.

  First real light coming on. The field looked like hell on a Saturday, as far as Stone could see into the smoke.

  Reb officers rallied their men. One grabbed a flag. Urging his Johnnies to resume the attack.

  Stone’s gun crews fired without need of commands now. Pouring in the canister.

  A fuss of grunts, pounding feet, and jangling metal rose behind the battery. Colonel Ely had brought up reinforcements from Fort McGilvery. Stone recognized Captain Brown of the 50th Pennsylvania in the lead. No sword, just a revolver in his paw. Good man, Brown. His raggle-taggle veterans were barely half-dressed, but every man had his rifle, bayonet, and cartridge box.

  The Rebs stopped advancing, but appeared determined to hold their ground. Firing in support, artillery opened from the Confederate lines, able to identify targets now. And they knew the ranges, both sides had known them for months.

  It looked set to be an ugly morning in godforsaken Virginia. But Valentine Stone barely gave a damn about what might happen elsewhere on the field. This was his ground. And he meant to hold it.

  Five twenty a.m.

  Fort Stedman

  Gordon wore a lopsided smile, the right half fuller than the left, a memento of Antietam. He had been pleased enough by the progress thus far to scribble a note to Lee, reporting success beyond all expectations. Stedman had fallen easily, along with its flanking batteries, tearing a great hole in the Union line. His men had bagged hundreds of Yankee prisoners, including one irate brigadier general, whose discomfiture had all but made Gordon laugh.

  Now he feared his words had been premature, an effervescence of unmanly excitement, and his smile was a mask to inspirit the troops crowding into the fort, a human churn of intermingled regiments whose officers struggled profanely to sort them out in the dusk before sunrise.

  Those men had to believe that he believed. But Stedman was only the start. Taking those three rearward forts was crucial. It wasn’t enough to break Meade’s line, he had to split Grant’s army.

  He longed for word from his three special columns of picked men, or even from one of them. He had to know that those forts were in his hands and the path to Grant’s rear open.

  Meanwhile, he had to widen the breach, to push back the Yankee artillery already annoying his efforts, and to make it impossible for one Federal flank to aid the other.

  But the advance was slowing, he sensed it. His early success meant nothing unless the attack continued to keep the Federals reeling. A seized half mile of line, even a full mile, would not change the war’s outcome.

  In half an hour or less, the sun would crack open the sky and the last dividends of surprise would have been squandered. It was already light enough to read his pocket watch.

  He needed to hear from those special detachments, needed to have those forts. Devil it, he’d put one brigadier and two colonels in charge of the elite columns. Surely each man had the rank and skill to lead a mere hundred men? To accomplish a well-defined mission, with every advantage?

  He fought down the impulse to go forward himself. He needed to stay at Fort Stedman so couriers could find him and he could report to Lee.

  Why weren’t his men reporting?

  The air turned pigeon gray.

  On both flanks, the ruckus of battle lacked intensity. The surprise was spent, now they needed to fight. Surely his subordinates saw that much.…

  His aides, who knew Gordon as common soldiers did not, kept a wary distance. The corporal holding his horse watched him the way a fellow eyed a cottonmouth snake.

  Damn it, though, he did want to go forward and root out the problems. Those columns had guides, prepared maps, clear orders, everything.…

  The artillery fire from his own lines redoubled. The Yankees answered. Shot shrilled overhead.

  Where the devil were they, those three hundred men meant to serve as his Trojan horse?

  As if in answer—the wrong answer—Clem Evans emerged from the throng of waiting soldiers, cloak flapping around him. Gordon all but loved the man, whom he’d brought up behind him, first giving Evans “Gordon’s Brigade,” then command of “Gordon’s Division.” Clem, who meant to become a Methodist preacher after the war, was a splendid killer and—under other circumstances—good company.

  But Evans was one man whom Gordon had not expected to see within the fort. He should’ve been pushing southward, taking the redoubt the Yankees called Fort Haskell.

  At his fellow Georgian’s approach, Gordon stiffened his regal posture and forced his smile to widen.

  “Well, Clem, a goodly part of our prayers are answered. I trust you’ll petition the Good Lord for the rest.”

  “God’s labors never stop,” Evans said, voice clear amid the bang-jangle. “I find mine own impeded, though.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The lanes. Through the obstacles. They’re just not wide enough, sir, not in my front. We’re widening them now, but it’s a chore.” Clem chawed his lip. “Just got Terry’s Brigade through and forming up. Soon as they’re ready, we’ll make a more vigorous push.” Evans absentmindedly touched his side, his Monocacy wound. Then he looked sheepish about it: Gordon never touched his wounds when other men could see, not even that long scar where his cheek hollowed. “Thought you should know how things stand, sir.”

  “Clem, you’ve got to move now. Grab that fort. Before the sun comes over us. Before the Yankees catch their breath.”

  A man who would have endangered many a female heart, had he not been so devoted to his wife, Evans shook his head. It was meant only to clear his thoughts, not to signal despair. Gordon could tell, he knew the man.

  “We’ll take the fort, sir. But I’ll have to do it just with Terry’s men and the Louisianans, many as I can round up. My last brigade won’t be ready to go in for another half hour, maybe longer, way things stand. Those narrow lanes. And Yankee prisoners running all over do make things a sight worse.”

  “I welcome prisoners myself,” Gordon said, buttering his voice. “I find their dejection heartening.” He cocked an eyebrow. “I wish some other officers showed your alacrity about reporting, Clem.” He refreshed his smile. “Go on now. Take that fort.”

  The Yankee artillery added more guns to the fracas. In ashen light, shells landed near Fort Stedman. Mobs of men crowded toward inadequate cover.

  What was going on with those three detachments? Stedman and the batteries on its wings couldn’t hold more troops, they had to go forward to make room for others. Or everything would stagger to a halt.

  Clem couldn’t get enough soldiers through, Grimes seemed to have too many, and Walker’s situation was unclear. Ransom was attacking northward, all right, but seemed to have gone off on a war of his own.

  A staff man led a messenger to Gordon. Gordon knew the panting lieutenant to see, but couldn’t recall his name. He liked to call men by their names, to make them feel appreciated.

  The boy saluted. “Lieutenant Wilkins, sir…”

  “Oh, I know who you are, son. Now take yourself a breath and speak your piece.”

  “From General Lewis, sir. He says … said to tell you … he can’t find that fort you sent him after. Said all North Carolina couldn’t find it.”

  Great God Almighty.

  “What about the guide, the scout? He couldn’t find it?”

  The boy shook his head. With considerably more vehemence than Clem Evans had shaken his. “Just run off, General. Or got separated, maybe, in all the mix-up.”

  Gordon’s smile had disappeared.

  “Can you find your way back to General Lewis?”

  Nodding unconvincingly, the lieutenant said, “I believe so, sir. I think so. But it’s all trenches and bombproofs out there, it’s like some crazy run of gopher holes.”

  In a voice forged into steel, Gordon said:

  “Find General Lewis. And tell him I said to find that fort and take it.”

  Five thirty a.m.

  Prince George Court House Road, east of Fort Stedman

  Brigadier General “Black John” Hartranft bellowed, “Keep your alignment, boys, and keep on moving!” He held his horse to the rutted road as his men advanced on both sides of it. Damp with mist, his mustache clung to his lip.

  Poor situation for a division commander, leading one lone regiment into a fight. All anyone in blue could agree on so far was that the Rebs had serious intentions. This wasn’t just a blown-up picket raid, but a major attack. The Johnnies had broken the line and meant to keep going.

  Hartranft intended to stop them, or at least to cost them time. After a hardmouthed talk with a fellow general, he’d called up his nearest regiment, the 200th Pennsylvania, which had never been under fire. He’d summoned the rest of his division, too, sending off Captain Dalien and a pack of couriers, but his brigades had been dispersed as reserves behind the Ninth Corps line. It would take time for the regiments to converge to stem the breakthrough, and the entire division, or most of it, was formed of unblooded troops. So the 200th Pennsylvania would have to do, with its pimple-faced boys and calculating draftees.

  Blasts and volleys tore the feeble darkness, yet his blind advance went unmolested. For the moment. One thing of which he was certain was that the Rebs he would meet would not be green like his boys, but hard-nut veterans. Somewhere up ahead, they’d be advancing toward this road, or already on it. Ready to slash into anything dressed in a blue coat.

  If his men didn’t panic at the first encounter …

  “Steady, boys. Keep the pace, no lagging now. Nur weiter.”

  Well, he could command one regiment well enough. He’d learned that much the hard way, earning each promotion twice over across the bloody years, ever dogged by the shame of the first regiment he’d raised, the 4th Pennsylvania, ninety-day volunteers who’d rushed to Lincoln. Their term of service had expired on the eve of First Bull Run and, ignoring Hartranft’s pleas, the men had insisted on being mustered out. So the regiment of which he’d been so proud had marched away from the battlefield as other men marched toward the war’s true beginning. Hartranft had remained behind, a supernumerary on a hapless staff, doing his best to get himself killed and failing at that, too.