Cain at Gettysburg (28 page)

“It wasn't like that, sir. I spoke poorly.”

“Oh, I know Dan Butterfield, don't think I don't. Where is the man?”

Meade entered the headquarters tent, impatient to be gone and ready to leap on any fault he could find. But he found none, other than a few misspellings by clerks assigned to the copying work.

“This penmanship's hardly legible,” Meade said.

“The men are tired, General Meade,” Butterfield said.

“Damn it to Hell, I'm tired, too. Which one of us hasn't slept in three days?”

Butterfield shrugged. “That would be pretty well everyone.”

“Me, that's who. The army commander. Because I have to check every damned clerical nook and cranny and do all the work myself.”

He knew he was being unfair. He knew it all too well. But he could not stop himself. He really did need sleep. But there would be none again this night.

Butterfield took the rest of his licking in silence, unwilling to give Meade the argument he craved. The army's commander scrawled his name on the last order.

“These need to go out immediately. I don't care how many damned horses you kill. Or couriers, either. No more overnight delays, the way you did with Pipe Creek.”

“The orders will go out immediately. If you'll allow me?”

Meade stalked off. “George, is my horse ready? Who has my horse? And get my other spectacles from my tent. Is the escort mounted?”

But before the commander of the Army of the Potomac could make his way to his horse, riders hurried into the headquarters camp.

It was Hancock. With Warren. Their appearance startled Meade. For a moment, he feared disaster had overtaken the army, that the two men had fled the field.

But as the generals stepped into the cast of a lantern's light, their faces wore no hint of panic.

They spotted him and saluted.

“Hancock? What are you doing here? And you, Warren?”

“Thought you might want to hear more than we could put in writing,” Hancock said. His voice was good, strong. “Slocum's up, he's taken command. Need to look in on my own corps, too. So you don't court-martial me for dereliction of duty.”

“It's been a devil of a day,” Warren, the chief engineer, said. A lean man with a cavalry mustache, Warren had the bearing of an English squire and the eyes of a bird of prey.

“It's been a
shit
of a day,” Hancock said. “And I need to piss like the horse that drank the creek dry. My kidneys aren't what they used to be.” He tipped his fingers to his hat again. “If you'll excuse me for a moment, General?”

As Hancock disappeared into the darkness, Meade asked Warren, “How bad is it?”

“Bad. But not irretrievable. Lee had a nasty morning of it himself. His numbers told, though.”

“Is his whole army up?”

“I can't say. There were enough of them to swarm us on both flanks. Hill's up, his entire corps. Ewell appears to have two divisions present. No one knows for certain about Longstreet.”

“Sharpe places him in the rear of the army, strung out behind Hill. But he may have reached the field already.”

Warren took that as a proposition. The man even smelled tired, reeking of a long day in the saddle. “I doubt Longstreet's up. Or they would've tried to take the high ground while they had us reeling. And they didn't. They ran out of fight in the town.”

“How good
is
the ground?”

“Good. What I saw of it. Defensible. Better than the ground Lee holds. Although his isn't bad: low ridges, with open fields between us. He has the town, but it's no help to him. He couldn't launch his main attack through those streets, he wouldn't have space to debouch and form for the assault.” Warren paused to take out a cigar. Striking a match, he caught himself and offered a cigar to Meade.

“No. Thank you.”

Narrowing his eyes at the first bite of smoke, Warren said, “Howard may have made a royal mess of everything else, but he got that one thing right: He saw the good ground right off. Kept von Steinwehr's division on it, with enough guns to hold. May have cost him the fight north of town and most of his corps, but old Oliver bought us a day.”

“How many men did we have on the field when you left?”

Warren blew a gun-cloud of smoke and said, “Couldn't say with any precision. They were still streaming in. Enough to eke by for now, I think.”

Meade nodded. “If the ground's good, and Lee spares us the morning…” He tallied the march tables in his head again. If Sedgwick drove his corps hard, the entire army could be unified by the next evening. Should his own inspection of the ground confirm that Gettysburg was the place to give battle, so be it.

Hancock reappeared. Despite his bulk and weariness, the man was as jaunty as a lieutenant. He clapped his hands together and announced, “Makes the night lighter and the day brighter.”

“Win, that had to be the longest piss in military history.”

“Hard ride. I've been holding my fire.”

“G.K. tells me that Howard at least saved us good terrain.”

“That he did, our Ollie O. And I expect he prayed on it, before he made up his mind. Divine inspiration, no doubt. Last I saw him, he was having a delightful supper in the cemetery gatehouse, while they carried in wounded men on either side of him. Model of Christian charity, our Ollie.” Hancock considered his tone, then changed it. “Hard day for the poor bugger, actually. Did his best, I suppose. Division commanders did what they could, but it looks to have been a brigade and regimental fight. And most of them
did
fight, don't think the Rebs got off cheap. And we've got ground I wouldn't want to attack, if I was in Lee's bright and shiny boots. Although I suppose we really should thank Buford for that, as much as Howard. And John Reynolds, bless him.” He lightened again, refusing to be dragged down by the day's tribulations. “It true that Buford's Comanche-mad over you jumping up Custer and Farnsworth to brigadier?”

“I did not inquire as to General Buford's opinions on the subject,” Meade said.

“Buford can be cantankerous,” Warren put in, “but he doesn't hold a grudge past the next cigar. I'd worry more about Judson Kilpatrick taking it out on Farnsworth.”

Meade noted his son standing off with his horse, wary of interrupting. There was no time for army gossip now.

“Well, gentlemen,” Meade declared, “I think I'd best be off to see our battlefield. Win, you'll want to rejoin your corps, keep your boys moving. They'll have eternity for sleeping.” He turned to Warren, whose cigar flared to light his hawk's eyes. “I'd welcome your company on the ride, G.K., but if you need to rest your horse…”

Warren shrugged. “You won't be doing much galloping, the road's packed up. Brutus and I can limp along well enough.”

Meade waved his son toward them. Young George held up his spectacles.

“This army's done limping,” Meade said.

PART

III

THE DAY OF THE GENERALS

ELEVEN

July 2, Early Morning

His thoughts were not soldiers and refused to be disciplined. During the wearisome ride to Gettysburg, Meade's ruminations had strayed to his father. Richard Meade had died, a broken man, at fifty years of age, hardly older than Meade now was himself. Trusting his fellow man had been the elder Meade's mistake.

Born in Cádiz on New Year's Eve 1815, George Gordon Meade missed his family's glory days. His father had grown wealthy as a Philadelphia merchant based in Spain, a country the older man loved. During the Napoleonic occupation, Richard Meade had lent his fortune to the Spanish crown to fund its desperate struggle against the French. When the monarchy was restored at last, his father's reward was prison for requesting the repayment of his loans.

First, the Spaniards cheated Richard Meade, then, when diplomacy freed him, the United States Congress cheated him as well. The remaining years of a bankrupt life had been spent in vain attempts to recoup lost wealth, with the family struggling to hold its social position. Upon her husband's death, Meade's mother had grasped West Point for a gentleman's education free of cost, only to feel mortified when her son embraced a military life.

Now here he was, filthy and worn, in a cemetery gatehouse surrounded by an army he commanded. The odd thing was that the specter of his father had not left him wary and fearful, as it usually did. Rather, he saw a grand hope for redemption: Fending off Lee would secure his family's place in Philadelphia for generations.

“It was a relief,” General Howard said. His pinned-up right sleeve dangled. The oil lamp pulsed. “I can't
tell
you what a relief it was. Lee should have pressed his attack. I really am not certain we could have held.”

Old cigar smoke and sweat thickened the air.

“But he didn't attack,” Meade said. “And you held.” Drained but determined, he looked around the candlelit room at the corps commanders present: Howard, Sickles, and Slocum, the latter just dismounted and in the door. Hunt, his chief of artillery, sat in the shadows. “What do you think, gentlemen?” Meade continued. “Is this the place to fight a battle? If the army comes up?”

“I am confident that the army can hold this position, General Meade,” Howard continued. Enthusiastically Christian, Howard was mannerly, narrow, and courageous. “As soon as Slocum arrived, we were all right.” The Eleventh Corps commander, who had been through a bitter day and had not slept, caught himself: “And General Sickles made a difference, of course. His presence.”

“Slocum?” Meade asked. “What do you think?”

“We can fight here. If we defend and let Lee come on.”

Slocum's appearance on the field had been unforgivably tardy, but Meade saw no use in admonishing him now. Slocum was a careful man, allergic to every risk, but assigned a position to hold, he'd cling to it stubbornly.

“Sickles?” Meade asked the man's opinion for courtesy's sake.

“Oh, my boys are up for a scrap. We'll give Bobby Lee a time of it.”

Disregarding the politician's bravado, Meade straightened his back to stretch out the saddle pains. There would be more time on horseback before the dawn. And thereafter.

“Well, I'm glad to hear you say so, gentlemen. I've already ordered the other corps to concentrate here, and it's too late to change.” He stepped to the local county map spread upon a table. A treasure procured by Howard, the map was useless for terrain, but it laid out the roads in detail. “Look at this.”

The corps commanders and Hunt crowded around.

“There's our problem.” Meade pointed to the black line of the Baltimore Pike. The road ran just in front of the gatehouse, then off to the southeast behind the army's right flank. “That's the only road to our rear that's properly made. I just came up the Taneytown road. It's too raw to support this army, should we be forced to withdraw. And all the other routes are in Lee's hands or between our armies.” Ambushed by a yawn, he mastered himself and scanned the weary faces. “Were you General Lee, what would you do?”

“Cut that damned road,” Slocum said. “I can hold him off, though. If he doesn't swing wide to the east.”

“He'd be a fool not to try to cut it,” Meade said. “That's plain as day.”

“There's rough ground on that flank,” Howard put in. “All hills, trees, and rocks. It would break up an attacker's formation. When they probed us, they didn't get anywhere.”

“They came through the woods at Chancellorsville well enough,” Meade said, and Howard was chastened. “Lee likes flanks.” He turned to Slocum. “At first light, I'll have Warren join you for a scout. An attack by your corps and the Fifth—once it's up—would correct our line. Push it out from the pike, give us some depth. I'll expect your opinion promptly, John.”

“What about
my
flank?” Sickles said. “The Taneytown road's just behind me. It's rough, but it ain't useless. And there's the Emmitsburg road to my front.”

Meade shrugged. “Just relieve Geary when it's light and take your assigned position. Hancock will fill in the line between you and Howard. When Win comes up, tighten your front.”

Even as the chains of exhaustion tugged him, Meade almost smiled. “This doesn't seem a bad position, gentlemen. We have the advantage of interior lines, and the rest of the army's nearby.” He glanced at his chief of artillery. “Hunt's reserve is in route, and I mean to let his gunners earn their keep. If Lee spares us till noon, he'll have a fight on his hands.” Meade grunted. “And if he waits any longer, he's a fool.”

*   *   *

Meade felt compelled to see more of the ground before he rested. Flanked by his son and Captain Paine, one of Warren's engineers, he rode far enough to the east to mark the wall of high ground shielding the Baltimore road. The wooded crests could not be explored on horseback in the dark, so he turned and clopped through the graveyard again, then followed the southward decline of the ridge amid the embers of campfires left to themselves. Off to the west, across broad fields, the enemy's fires smoldered in the moonglow.