The Damned of Petersburg Page 24

  Lee gave the entire world a withering look, sparing only Charles Venable.

  “More prisoners to feed … and one less rail line to feed them. We must take back the Weldon road tomorrow.”

  * * *

  But Robert E. Lee did not retake the railroad on August 20. The attack could not be organized in time. And when his subordinates struck with all the force they could muster on August 21, their valor failed in the face of entrenchments constructed with speed and mastery. In the course of multiple assaults, the Confederates suffered great losses among their officers, including Brigadier General John C. C. Sanders, savior of the Crater, who bled to death before his twenty-fifth birthday.

  The field of Globe Tavern and its stretch of the Weldon line remained in the hands of the Army of the Potomac. Lee cut his soldiers’ rations by one-quarter.

  PART

  IV

  THE STATION

  NINE

  Eleven p.m., August 23

  Armstrong’s Mill

  “Father?”

  The unexpected tenderness of the word ambushed Wade Hampton. Preston always addressed him properly as “sir” in the presence of others. Now, in the heavy dark, the softer term disarmed him.

  A dying campfire teased wet uniforms.

  “Yes, son?”

  Testing his words before he spoke, Preston asked, “Do you worry? About General Hood? Atlanta?”

  The words our home were left unsaid. Millwood in its grandeur. Sand Hills newer, beloved. South Carolina. Family.

  “Best concern ourselves with the fight right here,” Hampton said.

  But he did trouble himself. About Sherman, relentless and hard and distant.

  “If Atlanta falls, though?” Words spoken in a whisper.

  Hampton almost replied that Atlanta was safe, the answer duty demanded. But if his position required him to defraud other men on such matters, he could not do that to his son, this fine young man in a drenched lieutenant’s garb, his smell that of wet wool, young sweat, and, ever and always, the cradle.

  “One city won’t decide this war,” Hampton answered, barely whispering. He felt refreshed conviction as he continued: “One great victory now, one more Yankee debacle … that’s all we need. It’s a matter of the election. Not of Atlanta.”

  “But if Atlanta falls … it boosts up Lincoln.”

  “He’ll need a sight more of a boost than that.”

  He dreaded the prospect of the city in Billy Sherman’s paws, though. If all of north Georgia fell—and he prayed it would not—South Carolina would be next. And his state could expect no mercy.

  Poking the fire with a stick, he spoke more freely than usual. “I do regret the dismissal of General Johnston. Although it means your brother can come up. Now that Johnston has no further need of him.” He interrupted his prodding of the embers. “General Johnston stands accused of not fighting to win, of being content to lose slowly. I fear that General Hood may lose too swiftly.”

  “So you do believe Atlanta—”

  “Wait and see. Meanwhile, we have our own work.”

  Preston took after his mother, Hampton’s first wife, although his face was fuller, the chin rounder. The boy was mustache-proud, eager for manhood, magnificently young. Hampton’s eldest son, Wade IV, followed the male line, with a full frame and full beard, that commanding presence. Preston’s carriage was upright, but eased by gentleness.

  The boy wanted to speak further, Hampton could feel it. But Preston had been well brought up and preferred few words to many.

  Major General Wade Hampton III, the newly appointed commander of the Cavalry Corps of the Army of Northern Virginia, sensed more of his son’s yearnings than he dared say. Preston mooned about home things, Hampton knew. He recognized the sentiment because he bore it himself and indulged in domestic reveries. Many a man might sing, “There’s no place like home,” but not all meant it. Too many men of his class felt more at home in a Charleston bordello or a planters’ club, drugged by whiskey and fables, dreading homes that meant carping wives and creditors. But Hampton loved “home” with a passion that even now, in middle age, could be hard to contain.

  Preston felt the same way. Worried that the war might one day scorch the walls of Millwood, leaving his aunties homeless under the live oaks. Or that vandals in blue might set Sand Hills alight. Oh, Hampton understood.…

  His stomach picked an argument, but Hampton chose not to rise and seek a bush. Not yet. It had been a long, hard day, with the prospect of worse on the morrow, and this repose with Preston was a treasure.

  His stomach bit him again. The rough beans and pone his mess had cooked up were unfriendly to his innards. A big man, a bear in form, he could outride, outshoot, and outlast most anyone, familiar with the manly arts since childhood. But his belly was ever rebellious, his lust for refined cooking tantalizing. He’d not only kept a goodly table himself, back in those perfect days before the war, but he had been a dinner guest of the aged Duke of Wellington and of the Marlboroughs at Blenheim Palace, where the company was better than the cutlets. He’d savored the morsels of Paris, washed down by the best Champagne, and his cellar at Sand Hills had been almost as well stocked with claret and hock as his father’s Millwood library had been with books, ten thousand volumes.

  His life had been one of privilege and beauty … almost of nobility, if the plantation aristocracy counted as such. Interludes of joy had been punctured by the pall of early deaths and, once, ripped by a scandal undeserved—and, for his sisters, irreparable—but the thrust of his life had been forward, busy, full, his responsibilities impatient of his sorrows. Ever, he had done his best to maintain a life of grace, of hospitality among his kind and fair dealings with inferiors. He sought to employ his wealth worthily, even embracing the vulgar duty of elected office—the latter to please his father, who envisioned not just a family, but a dynasty.

  And wealth there had been, or the long illusion of it. Reputed to be the richest man in the South, his father had died in 1858 a half-million dollars in debt, with first and second mortgages on plantations from South Carolina to Mississippi and his capital locked in his two thousand slaves.

  Slavery. That was what this war was about, no honest man could deny it. States’ rights, indeed: the right of a state to hold the Negro in bondage. Hampton granted the abolitionists that much. But it was all so much more complicated than the Yankees allowed. Hampton and not a few like-minded men had grasped that chattel slavery could not endure. But how were they to escape it? How to work their lands? How to retrieve their capital? All but the noisiest fools understood that slavery was a problem that had to be solved. But none of them could see a way to solve it.

  At the special session of the legislature, back in December of ’60, he’d taken the floor to oppose secession, knowing that his remarks would invite calumny. But that, too, had been his duty as a gentleman. He knew more of the world—not least of the North’s resources—than the hotheads and firebrands pounding on their desks. And he’d harbored no romantic notions of war, no dreams of glory.

  But war had come. And here they were in Virginia, far from Sand Hills, in a night as heavy as mourning. And Sherman was outside Atlanta, panting, vicious. With only a reckless brawler in his way, now that Johnston was gone.

  His world lay under mortal threat, Millwood and his spinster sisters, Sand Hills and his cherished second wife, the hunting trips to Cashiers Valley, Virginia, and the private steamboat landing in Mississippi, the old, expected deference, the pride …

  Yes, he was a proud man, but not a swaggering dandy like so many—not least these haughty Virginians, with their assumptions of superiority, their martial affectations and ignorance of the world beyond their counties. Hampton was a man who took pride in a tempered voice, in a well-tied cravat, in a bird brought down at a campfire-tall-tale distance, in shielding his kin against the storms of life.

  He had taken pride even in his repute among Negroes, his people well treated and proud of their status in turn, g
iven to bragging down at the gin that “I belongs to Marse Wade.”

  What would become of his slaves, if the Yankees won? Some, indeed, might manage decent lives, not all were ungifted. But the many? What awaited them, in their helpless millions? Lives of license and lawlessness, of promiscuity, poverty, and oblivion? They knew anger, but not ambition; lust, but not restraint. They sang like angels and had to be told it was time to wash their bedding.

  What would become of the Children of Ham? Whichever side won the war? The Yankees imagined a heaven on earth, but Heaven was far away.

  Preston said, “Can’t wait to see my brother.”

  With the faintest quaver in his voice, Hampton answered, “Do look forward to seeing young Wade myself.” A raindrop hissed off the embers. “See if we can’t get some work out of that boy.” Speaking over a belly growl, he added, “Why don’t you get some sleep now, Pres? Like to be busy tomorrow.”

  “Think General Lee will take up your advice, sir?”

  “And how would you know what advice I give General Lee? If I were to presume to offer any?”

  “I’m on your staff, sir. Even lieutenants know—”

  “Any lieutenant who hopes to be a captain knows when to keep his knowledge to himself.” Hampton shifted his jacket, its fabric still weighted with rain. Gentling again, he said, “All I did was to point out an opportunity. If General Lee wished to send down a force of infantry, those Yankees by Reams Station could be plucked. If we showed a touch of alacrity.” He ran a hand over damp hair. “Leave them unmolested, and I fear they’ll not only keep on ripping up track, they’ll reach for Dinwiddie Court House. And that would make the loss of the Weldon worse, a good sight worse, cut the wagon route, too.” He gestured toward the darkness. “But it’s up to General Lee.”

  “Folks say he likes you better now.”

  Taken a bit aback, Hampton replied, “He never disliked me, son. He just prefers Virginians.” He was about to let the topic fade, but found himself musing aloud: “It was a hard thing for him to lose Stuart, Pres. They had that bond. Then to be faced with putting me over his nephew and his own son…”

  “You wouldn’t favor me. Or Wade.”

  What could he reply? It was true. He had delayed a longed-for promotion for Preston to avoid the look of favoritism. Pres had earned that rise in rank, but Hampton would not allow it. Perhaps in a few months …

  “Point is … he did what he knew was right and gave me the cavalry. Just took him a little time to get used to the thought.” Wistfully, he added, “General Lee loved Stuart like a son. And I’m too long in the tooth to fill that position.”

  “But you’re a better cavalryman than Stuart was.”

  Hampton snorted. “Who says that?”

  “The men. Most all of them. They say the cavalry never loses now.”

  “Well, bad luck to say it.”

  How stubborn, almost truculent, the Virginia brigades had been at his first touch. His manner seemed colorless after Stuart’s theatrics, a comedown from the flashing cavalier. Worse, he made them fight dismounted, as infantry who moved fast, courtesy of horses—a lesson he’d learned from the Yankees, truth be told. And he’d proved his tactics worked, from Haw’s Shop and Trevilian Station onward, until even Lee was forced to acknowledge his worth.

  Pride, pride … beware of your pride, he warned himself.

  Preston parted his lips to speak again, but Hampton was quicker.

  “Go to bed, Lieutenant. That’s an order.”

  Six a.m., August 24

  Reams Station

  “Mother,” Barlow muttered.

  It was the first word Miles had understood since entering the tent. Frank lay on his cot, eyes closed, drool flowing from one corner of his mouth.

  “Get a litter team,” Miles told the orderly who’d fetched him. “And call up an ambulance.”

  White as a ghoul, Barlow began to shake.

  “Frank, you damned fool,” Miles said. Beyond canvas walls, the encampment bustled with work parties setting off to do more destruction and artillery pulling in at last after warring with swampy roads. “You horse’s ass.”

  Barlow gave no sign that he heard anything.

  He’d appeared without warning at Miles’ side the morning before, looking as though he’d crawled out of a graveyard but swift to find fault and bark orders. Working their way down the railroad from Globe Tavern, the men of the division had done well despite their exhaustion, tearing up the line nearly to Reams Station. But that had not been good enough for Barlow, who’d ordered Miles to send out two regiments immediately to clear away any lurking Rebs, burn the station, and occupy the old fortifications, a crude set of earthworks thrown up in June, when Wright and his Sixth Corps had marched out to shield cavalrymen returning from a raid. Frank hadn’t thought the men were giving their best—but then he never seemed to anymore.

  Hancock, too, had been startled by Barlow’s return. But Frank had put up a good front, not even trifling to offer assurances that he was fit to return to division command. He simply took over again.

  Now here he was, laid out like a dying fish. All he needed was a club on the head.

  Serve you right, if you died, Miles thought. Instantly, he regretted it.

  The litter bearers arrived, two slumping bandsmen, followed by Barlow’s adjutant. They recoiled at the sight before them.

  “Well, take him up,” Miles said. “And tell the driver to take the shortest route to the nearest railhead, no delays. General Barlow’s to be rushed to City Point, with priority on transport.”

  “You might want to put that in writing, sir,” Barlow’s adjutant said.

  “You put it in writing, it’s your job. Just get him out of here.”

  Christ, I sound like Frank, Miles told himself. He pushed the canvas aside and left the tent.

  He’d been disappointed at Frank’s return, of course. He wanted to command the division himself, had assumed he would, that Frank would be out for a lengthy convalescence. Then Frank had pulled his latest stunt, not only upsetting the command arrangements, but instantly sparking resistance in the men. The surviving bits of the Irish Brigade had given them mutinous looks the evening before.

  Now he had to resume command and rearrange things again, to see that the details from the other brigades were on their way, along with sufficient regiments to guard them. And the cavalry would ask for support again, he didn’t doubt it. He already heard the pops of distant skirmishing. He could only hope they’d go another day without an attack—the men certainly weren’t in shape for a fight.

  Rebs couldn’t let them continue wrecking the line, though. That was certain as snow in a Boston winter.

  Well, there’d be no snow today. That was another certainty. It was high August at its fiercest, set to be another day of dueling sun and squalls. Hard on men given no time to recover after ten days of constant marching and fighting. To cap the exertion, they’d pushed so hard on their way back from the James that the infantrymen were calling themselves, not happily, “Hancock’s cavalry.” And they’d gone straight to work tearing up the railroad, extending the destruction Warren had wrought. The division was played out, used up, and morale in Gibbon’s division seemed even worse. But the Second Corps was always Meade’s and Humphreys’ first choice for hard tasks.

  Did they understand that it wasn’t the corps it had been? How awfully it had been used up since May?

  Miles began to wonder if Frank wasn’t getting away at the right time. If matters went awry now, he’d be the goat, not Barlow. After all the damage Frank had done.

  Well, you got what you wanted, he told himself. Now get yourself in hand. The men needed rest, but first they had to work. And to fight, if the Rebs came up. His job was to see it done, and no excuses.

  First, though, he had to see Hancock, to inform him about Barlow. And Hancock wasn’t in the best health himself.

  They were becoming an army of invalids. Miles felt hearty himself, though. Almost jaunty, despite the
lack of sleep.

  Yes, he wanted to command the division. No matter how tired and worn the men might be. No matter the risks.

  He strode through the interior of the entrenchments, an ugly, irregular horseshoe of mud walls, with hundreds of yards between one arm and the other. The brigades bivouacked outside the works were the lucky ones: The fort already stank of human presence. And it struck him again how poorly conceived the old defenses were. The shape of the lines, bent back on each other, invited bombardment by well-handled artillery.

  Well, that wasn’t his problem. Gibbon’s division was taking over the works. Miles’ men would spend the day in the open, to the south.

  At least, his men could round out their rations down there. This countryside hadn’t been picked over yet, still not denuded of crops like the Petersburg lines. The men had roasted green corn the evening before, and the most enterprising among them had “captured” chickens.

  Still, he’d be glad to finish and rest the men. They needed sleep and shoes, new uniforms to replace their rags, and a few days with no duties beyond the commonplace.

  Avoiding a mud-slathered limber and gun, he spotted Charlie Morgan ahead, standing in front of Hancock’s tent and overseeing the circus. Morgan saw him, too.

  Hancock’s chief of staff waved.

  When Miles got close, Morgan said, “We’ve heard. Dear Christ. Come into the tent, I have something to show you.”

  Miles followed him under the canvas. Hancock wasn’t there.

  Anticipating his question, Morgan said, “He’s out back. Two men out of three have the bloody runs, but he has to grunt it out.” The chief of staff fussed among the papers covering Hancock’s field desk. At last, he extended a sheet to Miles.

  “Typical Barlow,” Morgan said. “Came within the half hour.”

  It was a surgeon’s certificate of disability.

  “Left the hospital on his own authority,” Morgan went on. “In defiance of medical opinion. For what ‘medical opinion’ may be worth.” Morgan’s cynicism bordered on wonder. “He’s ordered to take a convalescent leave—twenty days, Miles, twenty full days, for Christ’s sake.” He rolled his eyes. “No matter how sick I was, I’d turn the best whorehouse in Washington inside out in half that time. And what does Barlow do? Defies the order. He’d rather tear up railroad ties.”