Cain at Gettysburg (43 page)

Meade took up the tin cup by the bucket of drinking water and wet his throat. The water was sour. As if death had infected it. Meade would have liked another gulp of brandy. To follow the glorious swig he had taken from Newton's flask that evening.

“All present, General Meade,” Butterfield said. Unnecessarily.

The chief of staff wanted to get things going, to get through the meeting so he could return to the many labors laid on him. But this was more important than any routine.

“Returns all in?” Meade asked.

“Yes, sir. I reckon we have fifty-eight thousand men present and fit for duty. Not counting the artillery and cavalry.”

Meade almost asked, “So few?”

Butterfield read his mind. Or perhaps his face.

“Casualties have been heavy. Both days. And straggling's a problem.”

“I want the straggling stopped. With all necessary force.”

As worn as any of them, Butterfield scribbled a note to himself.

“All right, then,” Meade said, surveying the room a last time. Men wanted leadership, that was the thing. Even Win Hancock did. Meade hoped he could supply it in adequate quantity. He still had moments when he felt himself an impostor in his position. “Gentlemen, let me begin by thanking each of you for your services this day. We avoided calamity … but more than that, much more. General Lee discovered that he could not break this army. Not
this
army. But I believe he will try us again tomorrow. So I have three questions for you. General Butterfield?”

The chief of staff wiped his mustachios, slicking off sweat or spit. He edged a paper closer to the lone candle—shackled by its own wax to the tabletop—and read:

“Question the First: Under existing circumstances, is it advisable for this army to remain in its present position, or to retire to another nearer its base of supplies?”

Speak now,
Meade thought.
Every last one of you. This is your chance, and I will not give you another.

The generals were called upon in order, from most junior to most senior, beginning with Gibbon and Williams, who had tempory charge of their corps: The regular commanders, Hancock and Slocum, oversaw the left wing and right flank, respectively. Small and raw-faced, Gibbon thought the army's position would serve, but needed corrections. Williams, with his mighty beard and cautious speech, was unwilling to take a clear-cut stand until his seniors had spoken.

Commanding the Third Corps in Sickles' wake, Birney declared, “My corps's used up. I don't expect the boys will be much good tomorrow, they're just fought out. I'm for holding right where we are, but don't know that I have a right to say so. Given that my men won't have much to offer.”

“General Newton?” Butterfield called on the man who had taken command of the First Corps only that morning, but still managed to be fourth from the bottom in terms of seniority as midnight approached. The battle had already taken its toll of generals.

Muscled like Hancock, but not so domineering, Newton said, “As an engineer myself, I don't like this position. Lee could turn it, had he a mind to. The lines themselves are good, we can fight them all right. But our flanks are hanging out like an old drab's petticoats.”

“Nothing against petticoats in general,” Hancock noted, drawing laughter.

“Then you believe we should withdraw from this position, General Newton?” Butterfield asked.

“I didn't say that,”
Newton answered hastily. “I was only pointing out the risks to staying here. In my view, this is no place to fight a battle … not if we had a choice. But the battle's been joined.…”

Newton had disappointed Meade. After the man's superb performance on the field, he was equivocating as badly as George McClellan. Meade felt the urge to intervene, to make it clear that they
had
to stay and fight. But he heard his wife's voice telling him to let other men have their say.

Meade glanced at Butterfield:
Move on.

One after another, the other generals simply said, “Stay.”

“Stay and fight it out,” Slocum snapped, adding intensity. He had the build of a sparrow, but the eyes of a hawk. “Come morning, I'll take care of those goddamned gains those piss-ants made on my flank. They're going to wish they'd stayed home in goddamned Georgia or Alabama or wherever the Hell they came from.”

“Sounds like we're of one mind, then,” Hancock said, drawing out a cigar. His tone declared that he was as impatient to get through the meeting as the chief of staff. “Rectify the position here and there, but without giving up the field.” He bit off the cigar's end and spit it out. “Personally, I think this is a damned good place to fight. If Pleasanton can get his nags out of their nose-bags and watch the flanks for once.” He lifted himself far enough from his chair to light his smoke from the candle.

Butterfield called them to order. “Yea or nay to the proposition that the army remains on this field?”

Every officer, including Newton and Gibbon, voted to stay and fight.

“Question the Second,” Butterfield said. “It being determined to remain in the present position, should the army attack, or await the attack of the enemy?”

Again, Newton and Gibbon disappointed Meade, both men a stroke too vehement in their insistence that the army was in no condition to attack immediately. Meade knew that. But it didn't have to be declared so loudly.

“Bobby Lee wants to keep battering his head against a wall, why not let him?” Slocum asked. Sedgwick, heavy and calm, nodded his agreement.

Puffing away, Hancock scratched an itch and said, “By all means, let Lee attack again, if he's fool enough. We're in a better position than we were this morning, with everybody up. But I say no attack on our side. Not right away. Unless our communications are threatened.”

“Yea or nay, gentlemen?” the chief of staff asked.

Again, the vote was unanimous. Meade was pleased. Thus far, they had given him all that he wanted. And each man had his money on the table.

“Question the Third: If we await attack, how long?”

In the distance, a battery fired, but no guns responded.

The order of answering had broken down and Howard spoke up first. Enlivened by his repulse of the late assault upon his batteries, he urged, “Attack sooner, rather than later. The army's mettle is up. Give Lee a surprise.”

Skinny and short-tempered, Sykes spit out, “I disagree completely. Give Lee a fair chance to come at us. We've got good ground and I don't see a need to hurry things.” He snorted. “Took him long enough to make his arrangements today, and Lee still couldn't bring it off. He'll be hot now, embarrassed. I say we give him time to make a mistake.” He rocked back in his chair. “And if he doesn't, there'll be time enough to go at him.”

“Unless he moves,” Gibbon said, still worried about the flanks. “If Lee starts shifting his army to our left, we
have
to attack him, it'll be too late to withdraw.”

Again, Meade restrained himself and let his generals talk.

“I'd give Lee a day,” Sedgwick told the gathering. He had the voice of a judge pronouncing sentence. “Give him one day. If he doesn't attack, then hit him as hard as we can.”

“Too long,” Hancock said, calculating afresh. “I say wait until four p.m. That's about when he attacked today. If Lee can't get off his aristocratic backside by four o'clock, we should go at him while there's plenty of light.” He grinned. “I'll bet you the poor bugger's missing old Tom Jackson. Every goddamned minute. Our friends in gray have a bad case of the slows.”

The discussion began to wander and repeat itself. Butterfield held up his hand. This time, he didn't ask for a vote, but just said, “The consensus is that the army awaits Lee's attack, for a period left to the army commander's discretion, and with allowance for local attacks to rectify our lines. Does anyone disagree?”

No nays sounded, no heads shook.

Relieved, Meade sighed. They had given him what he wanted, what he needed. Even before the council of war commenced, he had sent a message to General Halleck in Washington, stating that the army would stay where it was to fight it out. But he was not about to mention that telegram now. He needed these men to believe the decision was theirs.

“I'm glad to find you all in agreement, gentlemen,” Meade told them. “You have confirmed me in my conviction that remaining on this field is the proper course.” He looked around at the begrimed faces lit by the guttering candle. Hancock blew a smoke ring. “General Lee
will
attack again tomorrow. I am convinced of it. And he will be defeated. Thank you. This assembly is dismissed.”

As the generals filtered out, Hancock paused beside Meade with a grin. Stinking like a bear with sweat and reeking with tobacco, Win whispered, “You're a sneaky bastard, George, one clever sonofabitch.” He chuckled. “I'd say I admired what you just pulled off, if I didn't feel my pocket has been picked.” With that, Win thrust himself through the door, shouting for his horse.

Meade caught Gibbon by the sleeve before he could follow Hancock into the night. With Win still sorting out the army's left wing, Gibbon commanded the heart of the army's position.

“John,” Meade said, “if Lee attacks tomorrow, his attack will be in your front. I'm certain of it.”

“Does Sharpe know something? From a prisoner?”

“No. But I'm sure I'm right. Lee's made attacks on both our flanks and failed. His next attack will come against our center. He'll convince himself that I've drawn away so many men to the flanks that the center of the line will be our weak spot.” Meade tried to smile, but lacked the needed energy. “I mean to check him soundly. With the help of God and a good line of guns, we're going to make your section of the line our strongest point.”

“I hope he'll come at me. The Second Corps will give a good account of itself.”

Meade felt the tug of midnight, but forced a spark of confidence into his voice: “If Lee comes again, we'll defeat him.”

He damned well hoped he was right.

With Gibbon gone and staff men in place of the generals in the cabin, Butterfield asked, “Anything else, General Meade?”

There were a thousand other things. Ten thousand. But it was enough. Let the chief of staff do his work. Meade had lines to inspect and orders to give. Would there be time to snatch a bit of sleep?

He stepped outside, exchanging the rancid air of the little room for the stink of death and blown powder in the darkness. His son approached him.

“General Meade, sir? Father?”

“What is it, George?”

“Are we staying?”

“Yes. We're staying. How's Old Baldy?”

“Hurt. But not hurt bad. He'll be all right. He just needs rest.”

We all do, Meade thought. Man and beast. But he moved on: “I was proud of you today, George. You behaved well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But a good officer doesn't take unnecessary chances. Accomplishment, George, not bravado, never bravado. Think of your mother.”

With that, Meade sent the boy off again with messages to deliver. Young George had indeed done handsomely, riding about at a gallop to pass on orders and hurry troops along, careless of the death piercing the air. Had Margaret seen the half of what he had demanded of the boy, she would never forgive him. But the day had engulfed them all in its awesome magnitude, and it was a blessing to bob up alive at the end of it.

Whatever beauty men might find in war, it wasn't the sleek, clean beauty of a good lighthouse.

SEVENTEEN

July 2, Night

Betrayed by his bowels, Lee kept to the house his staff had commandeered. He did not want to see his generals now, after they had let him down so badly. It was essential to appear unruffled, to remain at all times a proper Virginia gentleman. But keeping his temper required isolation: It was a struggle to speak civilly, even to his aides. Walter Taylor, of all people, had presumed to suggest a need for firmer control of the army tomorrow. No one seemed to understand these soldiers, his invincible, tireless men.…

Appearing at last, Stuart had been chastised and dismissed back to his troopers. Longstreet was another matter, though. A meeting with that man risked a barrage of recriminations: Why had he moved so slowly? Why had he not been able to seize those hills? Why had he halted his men on the verge of success? Lee had to struggle not to impugn his key subordinate's motives, not to think him obstinate unto spite. Nor did he wish to hear more of Longstreet's pleas to maneuver the army around the Union position. The battle was joined, and the battle had to be won. It was unthinkable to let George Meade repulse him after such bloodletting. Leaving this near-won field would be a disgrace.

The army would have to attack again tomorrow, with great force gathered around Pickett's fresh division. Virginia-born and -bred, Pickett would not flag in his sense of duty. For all his frills and fripperies, the man was sound. And his brigade commanders were all Virginians, exemplary men. Courageous. Properly supported, Pickett would need only to be unleashed. Fearing for his battered flanks, Meade would have weakened his center.
That
was where Pickett and his supports would strike him. Meade would not expect a frontal attack across those fields, and this day's blood would have nourished tomorrow's victory.

Lee
knew
the Army of the Potomac. He had fought these generals and their soldiers enough times to know that they could always be beaten. Here, on their own soil, they resisted more stoutly, but Lee felt in his bones that their breaking point neared. Those people lacked the wherewithal to withstand the men he commanded. One great effort would shatter them. He
knew
it.

If only Jackson …

Jackson would never have dawdled so inexcusably. Where Longstreet lagged, Jackson would have used every instant to advantage. The day's attacks had collapsed into piecemeal efforts, allowing Meade time to shift his men about, permitting him to
think
. Tomorrow would be different: The attack would strike the weakened heart of the Union line with a blow that would overwhelm George Meade's defenses.