The Battle of the Crater: A Novel (10 page)

A few more bullets whizzed past; it was obvious they were indeed aiming for him.

Fear for his personal safety had never bothered Burnside all that much. Far more frightening to him was the responsibility of his command. He loved the men of this army, especially those of his loyal Ninth Corps. His mistakes, and he was frank enough with himself to know when he was taxed beyond his ability, had cost many a life, such as at the infamous bridge at Antietam across which he had ordered suicidal frontal attacks, and especially when he briefly commanded this entire army a year and a half ago at Fredericksburg. Twelve thousand dead and wounded that day, and a day did not go by when he did not feel a deep and dreadful sense of inner torment over that tragedy.

He had not wanted the command when Lincoln offered it to him, in fact he had turned it down twice, only relenting when told that if he did not take it, it would go instead to Joe Hooker, a man whom he secretly detested as lacking in moral fiber.

Relegated back to command of his old Ninth Corps after Fredericksburg, he and his men had become the most “wandering” corps of the army. While the Ninth Corps served at Vicksburg without Burnside, he rejoined them for the Knoxville Campaign and served with the Army of the Potomac. Under his own independent command they had absolutely trounced Longstreet at Knoxville. Then Grant recalled him east for what was now known as the Wilderness Campaign. He and his men had gone through the toughest fighting of the war these last seven weeks, his command sustaining over 50 percent casualties in the ghastly bloodlettings.

Stalled in front of Petersburg, the army had tried one more flanking attempt and come within a hairsbreadth of success. Richmond’s present survival was dependent on the Confederate supply line being kept open at Petersburg, where four railroads and several plank roads converged. Take Petersburg, and Richmond had to surrender. General Grant had seized on the idea at last, but then moved too slowly, allowing Lee to shift to meet this new threat. If only he had been ordered to attack a day earlier. The heights guarding the Jerusalem Plank Road had been all but naked, but a furious night of digging by the Rebs had thrown up a defensive line, and he had lost more than a thousand men trying to storm it. In the days since, every night one could hear them digging over there, strengthening the line which protected their one vital artery, an artery that connected the Rebel army together along a siege line more than a dozen miles in length.

Another bullet hummed by, close enough that he felt the concussive slap of the bullet.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, General,” Vincent sighed.

He simply nodded, scanning the enemy position one more time. On the Confederate left flank of Fort Pegram, a third of a mile or so north, was high ground, crowned with a church, called Blandford. It predated the Revolution by nearly a hundred years. It was within range of his heavier guns, but he had issued the strictest orders that it was not to be molested. But … if only they could take that church-and cemetery-crowned hill, just beyond that rise, the city of Petersburg would be at their feet. Put a division up there, backed with a battalion of artillery, and Lee would either have to counterattack head-on and bleed himself out doing so, or abandon the city. Abandon Petersburg, and Richmond would have to be abandoned as well.

It would be the end of the war here in Virginia, perhaps triggering an entire collapse of the Rebel cause … and his men were the ones in the perfect position to do it. If not for that seething anthill, that fort atop the heights, which would turn any charge into a slaughter ground as bad, perhaps worse, than Cold Harbor … He paused in his thoughts … or, yes, as bad or worse than what he had tried and failed to do at Fredericksburg.

“All right, Vincent, let’s go back in,” and his adjutant sighed with relief, the poor lad flinching when, seconds after they stepped away from the low parapet he had been standing on, a couple of more bullets slapped the air.

He forced a smile to cheer Vincent.

“Not yet our time,” he said good-naturedly, slapping the shaken adjutant on the shoulder.

They stepped down into the bunker, a log-sided structure cut into the earth along the main reserve line for the sector. The fourteen-gun battery, a quarter mile to his left, opened up, each piece firing in measured sequence, beginning the nighttime of harassing fire to be dropped onto the Jerusalem Road. The Rebel mortar battery inside the fort opened a reply, lobbing shells toward the heavy battery. The nightly fireworks had begun.

His telegrapher, sitting in the corner of the bunker, looked up and just shook his head, indicating no new messages from Meade or Grant. In the gloom, illuminated only by a smoky coal oil lamp, he took off his jacket, preparing to bed down for the night on a cot in the corner. But then he noticed someone had entered the bunker while he was out for his evening stroll and examination of the line.

“Colonel Pleasants?”

“Sir,” and the man stiffened to attention.

He prided himself on knowing the name of every regimental commander and often many of the subordinates of the nearly forty regiments of his corps.

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

“Sir, something has come up, an idea from some of my men, and I wanted to talk to you about it directly.”

He hesitated. He wanted his men to feel he was approachable but some of the sticklers for regulations would, of course, object if Pleasants had not gone through the proper chain of command by first going to brigade and then division before coming here.

“General, I’m taking the liberty of coming straight to you with this. Sir, you were an engineer before the war, and I think, sir, you’ll grasp what I’m talking about. Going through channels…” he hesitated. “Well, sir, if I had gone to General Ledlie first, it might have taken days. I think this is too important to wait. Also, sir, you know how staff officers can talk when they’re not supposed to. By the time my suggestion got up to you, dozens would be chattering and well, sir, this idea depends on complete surprise so thus I’ve taken this liberty, which I hope you will forgive.”

Burnside nodded. Few had much love, or respect, for Pleasants’s division commander. Good-natured and forgiving at heart, one prone to not like confrontations, Burnside was beginning to have to face the fact that the entire corps was filled with rumors that Ledlie’s nerves were shot, that he had become a “bunker and bottle” general.

He hesitated.

“Let’s just call this a friendly visit then,” Burnside replied, and motioned him over to a small rough-hewn table, which served as his desk. Pleasants sat down across from him on a wobbly stool with a sheaf of oversized papers rolled up in his hand.

“Well, let’s see what you came here about,” Burnside offered, motioning to the papers. Obviously a bit nervous, Pleasants rolled them out, weighting down the corners with a couple of empty bottles, and Burnside leaned forward to look at the drawings.

“This came from talking with some of my men earlier today, sir. Remember, sir, nearly every man in my regiment worked in the Pennsylvania coal mines before the war. I thought about it, had some plans drawn up, and by God, sir, I think it just might work…”

*   *   *

It was past midnight when Pleasants finally stepped out of the bunker, Burnside following him, offering a cigar, which Pleasants refused. Burnside lit his up and puffed it to life.

“I want you to start on this at once. Only your regiment is to be involved. I’ll have Captain Vincent draw up a provost detail to block off any approach to your front line position from even a single man outside of your regimental area. You are right, sir; this does depend on absolute secrecy. I’ll compress your flanks in a bit to free up men for your project, but it must be kept secret.”

“As I said, I have impressed that upon the men already, sir.”

“I leave the details to you and your men. As you said, nearly all in your command were miners before the war. If anyone can figure out how to do it and carry the job through, it’ll be them.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Tomorrow, survey the site.”

“I’ll need a theodolite for starters, sir.”

“The engineers at army headquarters must have one; I’ll get it for you. But you don’t need that to start; you can just do a compass bearing to begin with. Find a secure spot where you are absolutely certain the Rebs cannot see what is going on. As you said, a lot of things to be figured out, but I want it started now.”

“Sir, a question.”

“And that is?”

“If we do it and make it work, I don’t want to see it just as an exercise in murder.”

“What?”

“Just that, sir. I mean just blowing up the fort and that is the end of it. To me that is little better than murder. I think this could be far more, a way of breaking the siege and ending this damn war. That means, sir, a lot more than our just digging.”

Burnside smiled.

“I already had something developing even as you set it out before me. A lot more, Colonel, a lot more.”

“Taking the road and Blandford Church?” Pleasants asked hopefully.

“You worry about your project, which you are to start now. Let me worry about the rest.

“I’ll go up to see Meade tomorrow.” He hesitated. “I’m certain he’ll approve. Colonel, you just might have come up with an idea to end this war.”

Pleasants smiled encouragingly.

“I’ll get back to you once I meet with Meade.”

“Sir. Tools, picks, shovels—both long and short handled—shoring material, extra rations for the men doing the hard labor.”

“I’ll take care of it, Colonel,” and his words, filled with confidence, also carried a tone of dismissal. Saluting, Colonel Pleasants withdrew.

In part he was buoyant; the former engineer turned general had grasped the plan within minutes and already expanded on how he saw a broader plan to exploit its potential. But this was the Army of the Potomac, and across three bitter years there had been dozens of plans put forth, all of them with the statement, “Boys, we can end the war with this one.”

He sighed as he watched Pleasants disappear into the darkness. He then returned to his bunker to expand out on the plan, such a rich beautiful plan, which he would take to Meade come morning. Surely Meade, though there was no love lost between them, would see the elegance and simplicity of the idea—its rich potential—and then throw in his endorsement.

CHAPTER FOUR

CITY POINT, VIRGINIA
JUNE 28, 1864

“R
oute step, boys, keep it at route step,” the sergeant major commanded and then paused. “And look smart!”

Sergeant Major Garland White moved to the side of the column, looking back down the length of the 28th to see that orders were being followed. He then glanced over the side of the “roadway,” filled with awe and, admittedly, nervousness as well.

They were crossing the James River over the great pontoon bridge, which spanned nearly a mile in length. After the disaster at Cold Harbor, the Army of the Potomac had been stalled in front of Richmond for another week. Their movement, which had started in early May, was halted. Nearly all thought it would now be a repeat of McClellan’s disastrous Peninsula Campaign of 1862, with General Grant also conceding defeat and withdrawing back toward Fredericksburg.

But the western general, a veteran of maneuvering up and down the Tennessee, Cumberland, and Mississippi Rivers, had an ace up his sleeve after all. The massive bridge was constructed in secret, towed up the river in sections during the night, and, in less than a day, anchored in place. It had steam tugs placed at intervals to help keep it secure and a drawbridge in the middle to allow river traffic supplying the army to move through. Before the bridge was even completed, Grant had secretly abandoned his works in front of Richmond. Force-marching the entire army south, he had flung the Army of the Potomac across the river, and now in front of him was Petersburg.

It should have been obvious to everyone, all along, that Petersburg was the true key to Richmond, the back door into the Rebel capital. Four rail lines from the Deep South converged there, along with several major roads. From that bustling river town at the confluence of the James and Appomattox rivers came forth the supplies and replacement troops, funneled north into the beleaguered Rebel capital. It was now all so obvious: take the back door at Petersburg and Richmond will fall within days, like a decaying apple dropping from a tree whose roots have been torn out.

Now, it was obvious. Grant, for that brief moment, had shown, yet again, the strategic flair that had won him so many victories in the west, from Forts Henry and Donelson to Vicksburg and Chattanooga. But once across the river, although Petersburg was all but undefended, the Army of the Potomac froze, just as it froze after stealing a march on Bobbie Lee, not quite believing they had done so, giving the Rebels time to respond.

Grant had hesitated for three crucial days—compounded by the endemic disease of the Army of the Potomac: faulty staff work and communications. He launched only half-hearted probing attacks, which had easily stormed over the massive defensive works of the city, which were then manned by only a few thousand troops, but he stopped less than a mile from his goal: the center of the city. By that time Lee had rushed men south to meet the threat, and it had settled into yet another bloody siege.

Perverse as it seemed to have uttered a prayer for such continued violence, Garland White and the men of the 28th had openly prayed that the war would wait, just a few weeks longer, for them to arrive. Since ordered out of Washington, they had languished for nearly two weeks at a reserve depot behind the Richmond lines. With every dispatch from the front—the vast move to the south, crossing the James, the fighting in front of Petersburg—they had met the reports with frustration. They were so close, with victory obviously pending, but they were prevented from engaging in the siege.

Young Lieutenant Grant, and even Colonel Russell, both veterans of the hard fighting of the previous two years, had smiled wearily, shaken their heads, and offered reassurance, if it could be called such, that the fight was a long way from being finished, and they would still get their chance.