The Battle of the Crater: A Novel (23 page)

James smiled, and, as he explained he was an artist for
Harper’s Weekly,
drew out his sketchpad and handed it over. Russell thumbed through and, after looking at a dozen or so pages, relaxed slightly.

“Well done, and most respectful of my men,” Russell finally offered.

“So you heard the briefing?” Russell asked.

“He had a separate one for several of us correspondents just before you came, but not as detailed. So, yes, I know the plan.”

“Trustful of him,” Russell said.

“I’m on the same side for this, sir,” Reilly said forcefully, “and will not release anything until after the battle.”

He forced a smile.

“Besides, I guess you haven’t heard. General Grant, starting this morning, forbade transport for any correspondent on the packets and any man who tries to send a dispatch by some other source will be drummed from the camp.”

“Sir, I’d like to ask a favor of you, if you will indulge me.”

“And that is?”

“Do you mind if I camp with your regiment until after the battle? I’d like to do some more sketches of them, before and after this fight.”

Russell looked back down at the sketchpad, thumbing back through it and then turning at last to an earlier one. James looked over his shoulder. It was the one of the men of the 1st Maine. Russell was silent, just staring at it, and then closed the pad.

“Merciful God,” he whispered, then looked back at James, closing the pad before Garland could see it.

“Yes, you can stay until after it is over.”

THE TUNNEL

The digging crew sat expectantly at the T junction of the tunnel. Two days ago they had reached the point that Colonel Pleasants declared was directly under the Rebel fort. There had been no need for them to be told that. Every time one of the artillery pieces inside the fort fired, a shower of dust sprinkled down on them. They could clearly hear men moving above them, some even whispering that they could catch snatches of voices, singing, and laughing.

It was nerve-racking because they had started to hear something else as well … digging.

At first they had tried to dismiss it as work being done on the fort above them, but the sound was coming closer off to the north side of the tunnel.

Even now as they waited for Pleasants, who was measuring the length of the gallery dug at a right angle to the main tunnel, Michael and the others would look at each other wide-eyed, nodding when it sounded like a shovel or pick had struck something nearby.

Long minutes passed and at last Pleasants could be seen, crawling on hands and knees, returning from the west end gallery. He stopped before the waiting diggers and extended his hand.

“Congratulations,” he whispered. “It’s finished.”

Of course there was no cheering, or even backslapping, just a quiet shaking of hands.

“The powder, fuses, and detonators are supposed to arrive back at our encampment this evening. We start packing the tunnel tonight. Moving ten tons of powder, which we’re supposed to receive in twenty-five and forty-pound barrels, is going to be delicate, tricky work. I’ve managed to get a couple of mining lanterns made that are spark-free but that will be our only illumination. I only want you men who worked digging this tunnel to load it up. Others crawling around in here and not familiar with it might trigger an accident. You figure out the best way to move the powder into place. And remember, for God’s sake, absolutely no metal on you. If you have hobnails in your shoes either trade them off or go barefoot. Brass isn’t as dangerous but still could pose a problem, so all uniform jackets and belt plates must be removed as well. You’re all experienced miners; you know how easy it is to trigger an explosion in a confined space.”

“We were thinking about some sort of relay,” Sergeant Kochanski said. “A barrel is passed in, first man rolls it up to the next man about twenty feet ahead, passes it off, goes back and gets the next one, and so on up the line.”

Pleasants nodded.

“Good enough. Just remember you’ll be working in near total darkness, especially once you start packing them into the galleries.

“I’ve done some calculating. Once the powder is set and the detonating wires and backup fuses laid, the rest of the galleries are to be sandbagged shut. Then back down at least twenty feet of the length of the tunnel as well, otherwise the blast will just blow back out. The tamping has to be at least one and a half times or more the distance to the surface.”

“That’s a lot of dirt, sir,” Kochanski offered.

“I’m figuring about forty-five cubic yards or so; something like two thousand or so sandbags will have to be filled, brought up to the mine, then pushed in to block it all off.”

The men were silent; moving that much powder and dirt without someone banging into a shoring or some other fool mistake was going to be rough. And as they sat in silence they suddenly heard it again. Someone was definitely digging; it wasn’t them, and it was nearby, perhaps only feet away.

“We should start tonight,” Pleasants whispered. “The sooner we get it done, the better. Now let’s get going.”

TRAINING CAMP

“Care for a drink, Sergeant Major?”

“No thank you, sir, I’m not the drinking kind, but I sure would like to stand up and stretch for a moment.”

James nodded an assent, putting down his stick of charcoal.

Garland smiled, stood, and stretched.

“I’ve done a lot of things in my life,” Garland announced, “but never figured sitting to have my picture made would be one of them.”

“Some find it relaxing,” James replied, while uncorking his flask to take a sip, “most are a little bit tense, and some find it downright tedious having to remain still for so long without moving.”

Garland put his hands against the small of his back and stretched backward until James could hear the bones pop. Garland groaned softly with delight.

“Ahh, that’s better. If you’ll just excuse me a few minutes, I’d like to walk around and kinda check on things a bit.”

“Take your time,” James replied. Garland walked off into the shadows to do his unofficial rounds. The camp was nothing less than jubilant tonight. Just before sundown Colonel Russell had paraded the regiment, had them break ranks to gather around, and then explained exactly what he and Garland had seen.

That announcement had set off a true celebration. Morale had been high throughout the day. Before, the men had detected a sense of uneasiness in the way many of their officers acted, despite the officers’ best efforts to convey confidence. But now the men had begun to celebrate. They had heard the description of the size of the explosion, shared the belief that the trenches without doubt would be empty and the Rebs would be fleeing in panic, and were excited about the prospect of leading the charge into Petersburg,

Impromptu celebrations reigned in this camp and in all the camps of the division. Where, only the night before, if one listened closely they could hear muttered threats against Malady and his crew, now there was nothing but words of praise, many promising if they saw him after the fight they’d give him a drink from the whiskey they were sure to seize in the Rebel town. And regarding whiskey, more than a few, as soldiers had throughout history, found a way to obtain a bottle, most likely purchased from provost guards at a premium price.

Reilly smiled, watching in the flickering firelight, as Garland was admonishing one such soldier, holding his hand out firmly, the soldier, head down, handing the bottle over. Garland tossed it into the fire, there was a flaring flash of light as the brew nearly exploded, laughter rippling around the camp as others quickly scrambled to hide their own bottles.

Garland, smiling, at last returned. James picked up a few more split logs and placed them on the fire, bringing up the light so he could finish his drawing.

Garland settled down on a low camp stool, leaning forward slightly, hands clasped between his knees, staring into the fire as James had asked.

James picked up his stick of charcoal, sharpened it with his razor pocketknife, and resumed his work.

“Garland, I know so little about you,” James said. “Just that before the 28th formed up you worked as a recruiter for the 54th and 55th Massachusetts and turned down noncommissioned rank with both. Mind telling me a bit more about yourself?”

“Sir?”

“I’m not an officer, James will do.”

Garland looked up at him for a moment and there was a flicker of a smile.

“Not many white men make that offer.”

“You might be surprised once all this is over. Besides, I’m Irish, been through some hard knocks myself.”

“I’ve found that some of the Irish hate us even more than white folks born here.”

James did not reply to that.

“Just James. Remember, I asked that before, all right?”

Garland nodded.

“Where are you from originally?”

“Georgia.”

“Strange, you don’t have much Georgia in your voice.”

Garland laughed.

“Most white folks say it’s hard to tell us colored apart and we all sound alike.”

“Well, the same is true for us. Cork and Galway are as different as night and day to someone born there.”

Garland nodded.

“So you were born in Georgia. When?”

“Not sure really. I guess around 1830 or so.”

“Family?”

He shook his head.

“Never seemed to have time or be what the Lord wanted of me. Last I heard my mother was still alive though.”

“And how long ago was that?”

Garland looked off.

“More than ten years since I last saw her.”

James felt a kinship with that. His own mother was dead, buried at sea. His father, last he had heard, had died a drunk, killed while working on the Illinois Central, and he had felt precious little emotion over that loss. His brother … well, Garland knew that story.

“In 1853 my master was selected for the Senate by the state legislators and he took me with him to Washington to be one of his house servants.”

“Your master was a United States senator?” James asked with surprise.

“Yes, sir,” he paused, forcing a bit of a nervous smile. “Yes, James, Senator Robert Toombs.”

James could detect just a trace of pride in his voice, the way a man might speak of a regimental commander whom he respected as a leader.

“The same Toombs who was secretary of state for the Confederate government and then a general?”

“One and the same.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Well, there were times I damned him,” Garland said, and now he did smile. “He presented a strange argument. Said he was for keeping the Union together at all cost and against secession, but at the same time said slavery should be allowed to spread clear to California.”

Garland chuckled.

“Funny how masters at times never quite figure out that servants and slaves have mighty big ears while standing there silent in a corner of the room, all dressed up in finery, and ready to step forward and quietly refill a glass of brandy for a gentleman or punch for the ladies gathered in the next room.

“For over five years I can’t say I sat in, but I most certainly stood in, on nearly every debate held in that house of his, only three blocks from the Capitol. On many a day, I accompanied him to the Capitol itself carrying his umbrella, taking his coat, and then waiting, but while waiting always listening to the debates from the other side of the door. I can’t say I met, but I most certainly served a drink, opened the door for, and at times spoke to nearly every famous man of that time in the Senate, Congress, and even from the White House. Jefferson Davis himself was there more than once, and even northern men like Sumner, before he got caned so wickedly, and the man who is now secretary of state.”

“You mean Seward?” James asked, now truly taken aback.

Garland smiled.

“Even carried on a correspondence with him after the war started, urging him to mobilize black troops.”

“You knew Seward, so you could write to him?”

Garland grinned.

“You act like you never met someone famous or high up before. And you the famous artist for
Harper’s
?”

James just smiled in return and figured it was best to let that line of the discussion drop.

“When the Senate wasn’t in session, and the Senator went back home to Georgia, I stayed on to oversee the house and maintain it. That’s when I learned to read and write though I already had the basics of it from Bible lessons while still in Georgia. Some fine Quaker ladies in Washington had set up a school for colored folks to learn, and I spent many an evening there studying, God bless them.”

“So how did you get free?”

“Easy enough,” and Garland pointed to his feet. “One morning I just packed a bag. I am a tad ashamed to admit it, but I felt after all those years of service I was owed at least a few dollars, so I withdrew from the petty cash box, that was kept to pay delivery boys and such, just over thirteen dollars. Actually all that was in there. That purchased me a train ticket as far as Buffalo.

“So it was easy enough. I went to a colored printer’s assistant down on K Street, he made up a fancy-looking document saying I was a free man with papers of manumission, and signed it for me with a real fancy signature. I packed my bag, walked out the door and down to the Baltimore and Ohio station.