The Damned of Petersburg Read online

  The woods looked thinner here, the briars trampled, and a man could see a ways in. At the edge of the trees, the company trudged through a pool that reeked like a bad unit’s latrine. For all Brown knew, it might have been just that.

  Church men cursed their Creator.

  Company C was among the first to pierce the uneven tree line. The battle noise on the right had grown stubborn and constant, and men were still killing each other off to the left. Yet things were so quiet to their front it was worrisome.

  A line of Rebs rose from a trench. They fired, muzzles flickering through the rain. Brown was relieved that none of his men had fallen.

  Captain Brumm dashed out in front of the regiment. He stumbled, then steadied himself and called, “Pennsylvania! Charge!”

  No volley. Just charge them. The men responded with wolf howls and lowered bayonets.

  They were on the Rebs before many of the Johnnies could reload. The Rebs had taken over a Union trench, and the parapet faced the wrong way to do them good. Brown’s men leapt down into the ditch, firing close enough to chests to set wet wool to a smolder, then wielding their rifles as clubs, most of them shy of using their bayonets, a quirk Brown had learned to accept.

  The Johnnies who could get away took off, fast as they could go. Brown grabbed one Reb man-child by the collar: The boy had just stayed too long and paid the price. Skinny as starvation itself, the lad was no match for Brown’s left hand and the canal-man’s strength behind it. He threw the lad to the bottom of the trench.

  Brown didn’t bother to threaten him with his sword, just kicked him lightly and said, “You stay there now, don’t be no fool.”

  He scrambled out of the trench on the far side and topped the berm. Wasn’t much shooting, but familiar voices were yelling, cursing, and grunting. He spotted Charlie Oswald and Joe Long going at it hand to hand with two Rebs just past the trench. It looked like Charlie and Joe had the advantage.

  But in the hot-colored seconds that mark time in battle, Brown noticed something else. Amid the confused retreat of the Rebs, a color-bearer and two of his guards had lingered a hundred yards off, backs half-turned. Trying to rally their regiment, Brown figured.

  He dropped his sword and picked up a discarded rifle, an old Belgian model. Then he ran hard for the Rebs, roaring as he surprised them from the side.

  Startled, the Rebs whipped around to face him. But Brown had the rifle up, ready.

  “Surrender,” he said.

  One of the color guards started to raise his rifle.

  “Drop that.” Brown held his muzzle five feet from the man’s chest. “It’s over, Johnny. See sense.”

  Both of the men with rifles threw them down, their faces as long as boys whose dogs had died. The sergeant with the colors stood there dumbstruck, jaw moving up and down but no words coming out.

  Brown gestured with the musket. “Get on now. You know which way. Let’s go.” He was starting to worry that other Rebs nearby might take an interest.

  He ran his prisoners back to the breastworks, with his entire regiment cheering him on and Rebs beginning to shout at him to come back, damning him to Satan’s lowest caverns. Just short of the berm, with his comrades reaching to pull the Johnnies in, Brown grabbed the red flag from his prisoner.

  He’d forgotten how heavy a wet flag could be.

  He jumped atop the parapet, waving the banner defiantly, with men around him yelling like Saturday drunks and inviting the Johnnies to come back over and get it. He hadn’t made a decision, didn’t mean to act like that. He just did it. Some higher power had taken over and made him.

  Robbed of their flag and insulted, the Rebs rallied well enough to send a nasty volley in Brown’s direction. He staggered, almost fell, but felt nothing more. He just stood there, holding up the flag and wondering.

  The heel of his shoe had been shot away. His hat flew off next. Still, he lingered an extra few seconds, aware now of his foolishness but stubborn, swinging the flagpole harder to unfurl his prize.

  A sudden thrill of fear saw off his pride. Still clutching the Rebel banner, Brown leapt down in the trench.

  His boys returned fire, relishing the chance, proud of themselves and of him. Charles Burket was struck dead. Billy Wagner fell. Charlie’s cousin Adam had dropped earlier, a bullet through his brain. But Company C had taken a flag, proof of their worth.

  The Rebs gave up and shifted off, leaving Brown with the colors and his three captives. Seated behind the berm, the mud-smeared Rebs wept bitterly. But Brown and his boys couldn’t help rubbing it in. He and First Sergeant Losch spread out the flag, revealing more holes than a cheese got at by mice. It belonged to the 47th Virginia and had been “Presented by the Ladies of the City of Richmond.”

  Captain Brumm came up grinning to offer congratulations. “Lieutenant Brown…,” he began formally. Then his grin grew wider. “Brownie … damn all, I can’t say whether you’re the bravest man in this regiment or mule-kicked crazy, but that was a stunt I’ll remember all my days.”

  The Reb sergeant buried his face in dirty hands.

  Levi Eckert had slipped over the berm to retrieve the rifle Brown had used. He came back laughing in that high cackle of his, shoulders shaking in merriment. Tears squeezed out of his close-set eyes.

  Levi looked at the dejected Rebs, at Brown, at the captain, and back at Brown again.

  “This rifle here,” Levi said. “Did you know it wasn’t loaded?”

  Six p.m.

  Risdon house

  Clingman was going to lose that leg, Mahone was certain. The brigade commander had been carried past on a litter dripping blood, with not just his jaw but his whole face locked up tight, fighting the pain and failing. As for Clingman’s counterpart, Mahone had located Colquitt as he rallied his men in a clearing. He’d hoped to use Colquitt’s Brigade to support Weisiger’s Virginians, but Colquitt had fewer than two hundred men still with him. The rest were scattered over the battlefield, caught up in random encounters or just befuddled.

  Matters had grown so uncertain that Mahone had led a miniature charge himself, to rescue part of his staff grabbed by stray Yankees. He’d watched the capture take place, startled at first, then lit up to a fury.

  As for his Virginians, Weisiger had led them forward as ordered, but with more Yankees turning up where they shouldn’t have been, he’d had to halt and position himself for defense. The Federals had brought up their Ninth Corps—most of it, anyway—and Mahone had heard men muttering to expect no quarter after the mine-pit slaughter. It wasn’t the sort of scare-talk he liked to hear.

  Now another blue-coated brigade, perhaps a full division, was tromping up the wagon road from the east, aimed at Weisiger’s rear. And the Virginians were still a half mile short of the Weldon.

  Had he had two more brigades …

  It appeared that his men had captured almost a division’s worth of Yankees, which would have been hailed as a triumph another day. But Lee wanted the railroad. And that meant Billy Mahone wanted it, too.

  Six fifteen p.m.

  50th Pennsylvania, Weldon Railroad

  The Johnnies had come back at them three times. The first attack had been a screecher, fairly bold, with the braver graybacks almost reaching their line. The second gained less ground before it faltered. The third Reb advance spit a volley and melted away. There was still some fighting to the right and rear—Brown could hear rifles prickling—but it felt as though things had turned their way and weren’t going to change back.

  In the gloom, General Willcox, his division commander, came by to praise Brown’s valor and promise that his brevet rank would be made permanent soon. All generals sounded the same when they talked to soldiers, as if selling patent medicines from a cart.

  Brown was tempted to ask about that mackerel but decided it was wiser to be quiet.

  Six thirty p.m.

  Weisiger’s Brigade

  More Yankees out there than the Lord had ever needed to make. Yankees and more Yankees, just no
end to them. Captain Hugh Ritchie Smith, General Weisiger’s adjutant and a Petersburg man himself, was worried beyond his habit. He dashed along, slipping now and then in the grab-a-man mud.

  Ahead, he saw the general, still up on his horse, a damned-fool thing.

  The rain from above had eased a touch, but the rain of bullets seemed worse with each next minute. The Yanks had been working their way around both flanks, pushing the Virginia Brigade and a smattering of Georgians back on themselves, and the 12th Virginia had paid a hard tithe to Mars. On his last errand over to his old regiment, delivering an order to fold back a hundred yards, he’d found only two members of the color guard still on their feet—one of whom was his brother, Billy, a sergeant and a bit too gallant for sense.

  Just wasn’t a good day. Not a good day at all. Started off mighty and got stuck in the mud.

  Smith reported back to the man he served. Weisiger hardly noticed. The general was occupied with Colonel Groner of the 61st, who was just back after his Spotsylvania wound and standing, brave and comical, on crutches turned upside down so the padded ends could help him through the slop. Groner had made the approach march on those crutches, every step of it, telling Weisiger and Smith that he’d missed enough of the war already and didn’t have a mind to stay behind.

  “It’s my damned city they’re after,” he’d told anybody with an ear to hear.

  Weisiger pointed. Groner saluted.

  “Just push ’em back hard enough so they think twice,” Weisiger added. And Groner levered himself back toward the 61st Virginia. Minutes later, the regiment rushed forward with a yell, knocking back a Yankee approach that had gotten a little too close. The 61st relied mostly on rifle butts to persuade the Yankees to remove themselves. Ammunition was getting alarmingly low.

  “What’s Mahone waiting for?” Weisiger said aloud, speaking to no one. “What the devil’s he waiting for?”

  Work done, the 61st limped back to the line to await the next surge of Federals. Mostly, though, the Yankees were fighting smart, closing to a hundred yards and pouring in fire, volley after volley, far more than their targets could return. Sometimes, when they felt full of themselves, a Federal regiment charged. But that rarely turned out happily for the blue-bellies. Instead, they inched forward, firing as if their ammunition was endless. Which it likely was, Smith reckoned.

  “Sir?” Smith said. “You might get down off that horse. Do the men good, they’re worried over you.”

  Weisiger gave a snort. “I’ll get down, all right. But then you’re getting up, Hugh.” He smiled, not unkindly. “Ride back to Mahone. Tell him the Yankees have us all but surrounded. And they’re determined to finish the job.”

  The general slipped from the saddle, splashing mud. His horse stood uneasy. Smith soothed it.

  “Stay low. Don’t need another dead hero like Girardey.”

  It jarred Smith to hear Girardey mentioned now. Not Weisiger’s most attractive side. But, then, rare was the man devoid of jealousy. The adjutant knew how deeply the general had resented the credit lavished on Girardey over the mine-pit affair, when Weisiger’s Brigade had done the work. And then that spectacular promotion, envied by all. Weisiger had not wept when word arrived of Girardey’s death. He’d just said, “That’s a shame,” and gone back to business.

  Plenty of death for all. Good men grew callous.

  Heart banging, Smith put a foot in the left stirrup and rolled up into the saddle. Before he turned to ride off, Weisiger spoke once more, again to himself and to no one:

  “Should’ve let me go in right behind Colquitt.”

  * * *

  When he glimpsed Hugh Smith riding back too soon to have gotten to Mahone, Weisiger felt stricken. Had the Yankees already shut the gate behind them?

  His men were falling fast.

  Well, the Virginia Brigade was not going to surrender. Not while he commanded it.

  The adjutant rode straight for him.

  If the Yankees hadn’t known where to aim before, they surely did now, Weisiger thought sourly.

  As Smith splashed up, the adjutant looked brighter of face than expected. Horse was bleeding, though.

  “Met Bobby Henry on the way back, sir. With orders from General Mahone. We’re to withdraw behind the mill trace.”

  Handsomely timed, the Yankee fire eased.

  “Hugh, get off that horse and handle the left. I’ll see to the right. The brigade will pivot on the Twelfth Virginia, moving back by regiment, in echelon. Groner’s got a piece of ground to travel, and the Sixty-first is already bloodied up. We’ll need to help them get off.”

  They could whip the Yankees man for man, Weisiger never doubted it. Do it any time, day or night, rain or shine. But it never was man for man anymore. Not since Gettysburg, really. Kill one Yankee, a half dozen more sprang up like Hydra’s heads or the spawn of dragon’s teeth. And Grant, the beast, was no fool. Halting prisoner exchanges for all but a handful of well-connected officers. Good men rotted while the South bled white.

  Reaching Groner just as the Yankees unleashed a hail of musketry, Weisiger said, “Virge, we’re getting out of this mess. Sixty-first leads the pullback. Get ’em moving.”

  “None too soon for me.”

  Weisiger nodded. A round ripped past his ear. “Once you get the regiment back in those pines, you turn over command and take my horse. Get on back to Little Billy quick. Can’t spare you again, you’ve had your holiday.”

  A soldier toppled beside them. Blood throbbed from his neck.

  “Rather take my chances with the crutches,” Groner said.

  * * *

  As Weisiger drew up his brigade anew to fend off the Yankees, Mahone appeared, horse prancing despite the slop.

  Expression fixed in a meanness, Mahone said, “Got the prisoners off, great big horde of them. No more to be done now. Pull back your brigade sharp as you can, don’t give the Yankees a chance to even the score.”

  “How far back this time?” Weisiger asked.

  “Where we started this morning.”

  Ten p.m.

  Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia

  “Can’t say what’s keeping General Heth, sir,” A. P. Hill told Lee.

  Venable saw the look on Lee’s face harden, but his tone remained measured:

  “I suspect the day’s requirements have detained him. Let us proceed.”

  Venable watched the tableau of generals form around the map: Lee solid and restrained, the dominant figure; Hill bent forward, scarecrow-lean and eager to explain; Beauregard keeping a calculated distance, suggesting that the day’s disappointments had nothing to do with him; and Mahone, his finely cut uniform spoiled by mud, eyes burning like peat fires, mouth clamped tight.

  “We gave them a proper licking, sir,” Hill said. “We’re still tallying the prisoners, but it looks to be near three thousand. General Mahone rolled their Fifth Corps up like a carpet.”

  “But,” Lee said, “those people hold the railroad.”

  After a lead-heavy silence, Hill answered, “We came close, sir. I know that’s not enough. But we came close. Their Ninth Corps had come up, behind the Fifth. Warren had two full corps to call on. We—”

  “We failed to regain the Weldon line,” Lee said. The old man’s voice was clenched and cold, though still draped by civility.

  Venable saw Hill’s features weaken at Lee’s change in tone. Powell Hill knew Lee better than any other corps commander. Better, Venable believed, than even Longstreet knew him. Hill saw others clearly enough, while Longstreet saw his reflection.

  Nonetheless, Venable looked forward to the day when Longstreet’s convalescence would end and he’d return. Lee needed Pete Longstreet, needed all of them.

  Lee turned to Mahone. “General, I know your men fought bravely. I do not question that. But we fell short today. I would value your opinion as to why.”

  “Needed two more brigades,” Mahone said.

  Hill nodded in agreement. Beauregard watched for Lee’s res
ponse.

  The old man winced. He turned to Venable and his voice was searing, though not loud. “This lamp … the wick’s improperly trimmed. It’s smoking, it must be replaced.”

  Instead of calling an orderly, Venable leapt to the task. The wick was fine, he knew it. But Lee was not fine. The old man was struggling to remain the Robert E. Lee he wished the world to see.

  Silence prevailed until Venable carried in a fresh lamp from the hall and keyed out the offending flame. The new lamp threw more smoke than had the old one.

  Lee didn’t notice.

  “Always, always,” the old man said, shaking his head slowly, “the complaint I hear is of insufficient numbers. But there will be no more men, not in the numbers you wish. We must make do, gentlemen, we must make do.” He sighed, a rare occurrence. “Do I make myself clear?”

  The others nodded, murmured.

  “We did not regain the railroad today,” Lee repeated. “So we must do so tomorrow, before those people can better their defenses. We cannot afford to attack fortified positions, not if it can be helped.”

  The old man touched a hand to his chest, but he quickly dropped it away.

  “General Beauregard, General Hill … ready the strongest force you can assemble. At least two more brigades, beyond today’s composition. Accept risk along the lines where you think it best. But we must reopen the Weldon, I cannot rely on a single line to support this army and the city.” Quietly, dreadfully, he added, “I will not allow it.”

  After the generals left to pillage their lines of more brigades, Lee sat alone, pondering the map, while Venable scratched away in a corner, piling up papers that wanted the general’s signature. Marshall was down with the bellyache, doubling Venable’s load, and he never could make sense of the ordnance returns.

  At last, the old man rose. “Have we other business, Colonel Venable?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait for morning, sir.”

  Lee truly did seem old. The change in hardly a year was painful to witness.

  Hoping to lift Lee’s spirits a bit, Venable said, “If we fell short today, sir, still … three thousand prisoners…”