The Battle of the Crater: A Novel (14 page)

And the order from Burnside, with all its lack of imagination, had simply been “Go forward.”

No coordination, no maneuver, just go forward across the wide-open bottom land and then up the long slope, crossing 1,400 yards of open ground while before them waited near to 70,000 Rebs and 150 artillery pieces.

It was slaughter and yet he had obeyed. He had no choice: he was merely a division commander and that tall, fat fool in the conical hat was the commander of the Army of the Potomac.

And it was his division, his division alone, which had actually accomplished the foolish task. He recalled traversing the open ground, keeping formation and control as he rode back and forth along their length, urging them forward into the maelstrom.

They had pierced the Rebel line. Alone. As all the other divisions were charging not as one mass unit but like uncoordinated amateurs with no communication between the various divisions and corps. He alone had pierced the Rebel line, driving them back out of their position. It was then that he had sent back a triumphal note, informing headquarters of the breakthrough achieved, calling for reinforcements.

As the precious minutes ticked away he saw no columns coming up behind him out of the battle smoke and mist. Just emptiness. Another courier, and another, went galloping back, each appeal more desperate, that by God, we have a breakthrough, bring up the reserves.

But there were no reserves. None, not a single damn one. No artillery to anchor the flanks of the breakthrough, no fresh infantry to push on through and begin rolling up the Rebel line. While off to his right he could hear the continued roar of battle, of other divisions which, rather than pivoting to help him, instead continuing their own futile charges without any rhyme or reason other than because that damn fool had ordered a frontal attack.

He held the breakthrough for nearly an hour until the far more adroit Rebels, bringing up the reserves that any army should have in place for such a moment, swarmed over his men, and drove them back.

Drove him back, leaving more than half his command dead, wounded, or captured on that bloody slope.

And even as he fell back he half expected that at last someone, even just a fresh brigade, would be coming up in support, enough to rally his men around and open the hole back up.

Nothing, not a single man. It was the worst moment of this nightmare he had ever known. So many a good comrade was dead, lost for nothing, while the fat fool in that damn stupid-looking hat sat upon the far side of the river, like a statue frozen in place, never acknowledging even one of his appeals, nor ever once offering a word of apology or solace after that nightmarish day was over.

And now he wants me to give him a third of the army I now command and throw it into another frontal attack?

He shook his head wearily. Beside him his staff was coming out of the woods, one of them having to be held up by a comrade on either side, features sweaty and pale, grinning weakly and thanking his general for waiting and apologizing for the inconvenience.

More men die from that than from bullets,
Meade thought, looking over impassively and judging that the lad had better be sent back to the hospital because there already was that pallor about him.
At least he’ll die in a bed rather than facedown on a frozen field,
he thought grimly.
In fact they would all be home by now if only that bastard had supported me that day in front of Fredericksburg. If only …

“James, Foch, would you please guide Captain Wayne to the hospital.”

Wayne offered no protest, which showed indeed how sick he was.

“The rest of you, staff meeting in an hour to go over this scheme of our good friend General Burnside,” he announced coldly.

CHAPTER FIVE

PETERSBURG, VIRGINIA
JULY 1, 1864
THE TUNNEL

“O
fficers coming.”

“So what the hell are we supposed to do? Stand up?” Michael O’Shay said with a laugh.

He turned from the face of the tunnel and looked back at Sergeant Johann Kochanski, who had just passed the word up in a stage whisper.

“Keep your voice down,” Kochanski hissed.

“Damn it, Sergeant, we’re still eighty yards short of the Rebel line; they can’t hear anything we say.”

“Get used to keeping your mouth shut now,” Corporal Lubbeck retorted. “We don’t want the mistake of a drunken Irishman to kill us all.”

“Then get someone else to dig if you don’t like my chatter, and I can sit outside and have a pipe.”

He knew he could always win on that point. He was the best digger in the Pottsville mines back home, bringing out nearly twice the tonnage of others, and he was the best here as well.

Lubbeck was the number-two man for this shift. The number one worked the face of the tunnel, digging with a short-handled spade. Prying the dirt loose while squatting or kneeling, the number-two man would scrape the dirt back and pile it into a box, usually an empty ammunition or hardtack box. It was already decided that once they got a bit closer to the Rebel lines they’d haul the dirt out in sandbags. There would be less chance of scraping, or worse, someone dropping a box and it clattering. The number two would then slide the bag or box back to a “crawler,” who then, scuttling in a low squat, would carry or drag the dirt out, leave it by the tunnel entrance, get an empty box or bag, and crawl back up. Behind him came the shoring team, who carefully erected vertical supports, then put in ceiling and floor, rough cut timber for the shoring and overhead cross beams, and finally sidings from ammunition boxes between the beams and for the floor and ceiling.

The tunnel was about three feet to a side, high enough and wide enough so that when finished, the barrels of powder could be quietly maneuvered into place. As they got closer to the Rebel lines, it had already been decided, the men digging would shift to bayonets to probe with, and a shovel not much bigger than a hand trowel. The shoring team, which occasionally needed to hammer or shove a beam into place, would only work during the day, while guns from the Union side would keep up a slow but steady tattoo of fire to mask the noise. Fortunately the soil they encountered consisted of layers of either sandy loam, which required a lot more shoring, or the ubiquitous red Virginia clay, which cut away easily and remained stable. So far they had not hit any springs and only a shallow trickle of water ran beneath the flooring.

If they encountered rock or shale it would be harder. That was highly unlikely here in central Virginia, but anyone who worked beneath the surface had learned long ago not to be surprised by anything. Rock or shale would dramatically reduce their progress of nearly twenty feet a day and would also cause noise. In short, it would be impossible in the short time span requested by Burnside, and furthermore, they would have to go three or four times as deep to try to conceal the noise.

“So who are these officers?” Michael asked, as he helped shove dirt back to Lubbeck, who was rounding off a box to be hauled off.

“Come on out and see. It’s time for a shift change and taking an angle and measurement anyhow,” the sergeant announced.

Michael pulled a couple of candles out of his pocket and stuck them into the facing wall for the next crew. He put his hand against the opening of the ventilation pipe and warm air was definitely wafting out. They had to be careful that dirt falling away from the facing didn’t jam it. The flames on the candles to either side of him looked bright; there had been many a day in the coal mines where the hooded candles were barely a blue flicker. Satisfied that all was in order, he stuck his spade into the facing, turned, and helped Lubbeck drag the ammunition box loaded with clay out of the tunnel.

They had made close to eighty feet so far, and by nightfall, with the change of shifts, it would be close on to ninety. As he crawled back, Michael cast a wary eye to the overhead shorings. Sandy loam was easy to dig through, but frankly he preferred hard anthracite; you could almost skip the shorings all together, the rock was so hard. Sand and loam constantly threatened to give way and cave in. More than a few overhead boards were bowed under the weight they now supported.

It took less than a minute to crawl back. He saw Colonel Pleasants in the shadowy light and then, to his surprise, a great bulk of a man came into sight. Damn, it was the general.

Dealing with Pleasants was one thing; their bond had been close across the war. Certainly he would get drunk on a regular basis, and Pleasants would admonish but then cut him loose. For in a battle he knew he could count on Michael O’Shay to do his duty and make sure others did theirs as well. And now Michael had arrogated unto himself the role of crew boss, for this was partially his idea and his tunnel.

But a general?

He had seen him often enough on parade and sometimes in a fight on the front line but not up this close. He hoped the scent of whiskey on his breath was not too evident.

“Don’t repeat this outside of here,” Pleasants announced, “but I’d say, sir, this is just about my best digging team.”

General Burnside, sitting on the floor of the tunnel, smiled and nodded, then actually extended his hand, shaking Kochanski’s, Lubbeck’s, and O’Shay’s.

“It was Sergeant Kochanski’s brother, Stanislav, who thought this up,” and Pleasants gingerly patted the woodstove that was cooking away, just inside the entry to the tunnel.

“Most ingenious, most ingenious indeed,” Burnside chortled.

Michael saw that young Stan was squatting behind the two officers.

“Explain it,” Pleasants announced.

It is typical of him,
Michael thought,
ensuring that credit went where it was due and not taking it for himself, as too many officers did.

“Well, sir, all that talk about it being impossible to ventilate a tunnel of this length without air holes, seems like nobody thought about convection and air flow with a fireplace or stove.

“I figured that at the face of the tunnel, we put an airtight door,” and he motioned behind him to the wooden barrier. “We put this woodstove inside the tunnel right here at the entry and started a fire in it. That fire needs air and will suck it in, to fuel the fire, and, of course, the smoke and hot air will go up the chimney.” He pointed to the tin chimney, soldered tight, that rose vertically and poked through the ceiling of the tunnel and out into the open.

“Then, it was simple enough,” Stan continued. “We make an airtight pipe—we’re making it out of cracker boxes—joined side to side with the facing to each side knocked out at the joints of each box; then we seal it tight with pitch. The start of the air pipe is on the far side of that airtight door.”

He pointed back to the sealed door and where the cracker box pipe came through it, running along one side of the tunnel along the floor.

“That pipe goes all the way up to the face of the tunnel and the last box is left open. So, sir,” and he cleared his voice a bit nervously, as if realizing he was talking to a high-ranking officer and not wanting to appear too boastful, “we all know the fire needs air, it sucks it in through the stove vents, that lowers air pressure here, and then draws air all the way down from the face of the mine, where fresh air from the outside comes rushing in, piped in from the outside.”

He coughed nervously.

“That’s about it.”

“Works like a charm, it does,” Michael announced. “You got regular miners here, General, not a bunch of sod-busting farmers.”

Burnside chuckled, and taking out a handkerchief, he wiped his brow. Someone had suggested to him that coming this close to the front line, it was advisable for him to shuck his regular uniform and tall conical hat. He was now hatless and wearing a private’s four-button jacket. If he inadvertently stood up outside the tunnel, he’d be an easy target with his great height and frame. Even if he survived that, if he was recognized it might start raising questions as to why a corps commander was up on the front line poking around. He found himself crouching and crawling the entire time he was close to the front. It was a new experience for a senior commander.

“While you’re here, sir,” Pleasants said, “let’s take a measurement and check bearing and angle.”

Moving to the far side of the narrow tunnel and several feet back to get away from the massive iron and tin bulk of the stove, Pleasants drew out a well-made compass with a sighting ring set into it. He put it atop a small flat board set into the side of the tunnel. Stan first checked that the board was perfectly level. Tying a string to a stake that was driven into the side of the tunnel just below the sighting board, Stan crawled up the length of the tunnel, looping the string around marking sticks that were set in place earlier, and then finally reached the facing.

“Bet two bits we made eight feet,” Michael announced.

“I’ll take six,” Lubbeck replied.

“Eight and a half,” Sergeant Kochanski whispered, and Michael looked over at him angrily, about to protest that there should be a foot between each bet.

“Hold the candle right in front of the string so I can sight on it,” Pleasants announced.

All were silent watching him as he lay down and carefully adjusted the sighting ring, looking at the compass face to ensure it was properly aligned. Then back to the ring again.

“Drift from the wall?” he asked.

“About six inches sir,” Stan replied.

“Rise?”

“Not sure, sir. I’m holding it level, and it is on the ground. Give me a few seconds.”

By the flicker of the candlelight all could see him pushing a stake into the ground, wrapping the measuring string around it, laying down, and lightly putting a level on top of it.

“I’d say three- to five-degree climb, sir, but can’t be certain.”

Pleasants pulled out a small notebook and flipped it open.

“Length?”

“Eighty-eight feet, four inches.”

Pleasants jotted it down.

The diggers waited expectantly while Pleasants ran a few calculations.

“I’d put the face at a real distance from here of eighty-seven feet, six inches.”