The Battle of the Crater: A Novel (30 page)

No one moved for five minutes, then ten; officers whispered for the men to stand at ease while they waited for a guide who was supposed to come from corps headquarters to lead them to their newly assigned position. But no one came.

Ten minutes turned to a half hour and, regardless of hissed commands, the angry murmuring in the ranks began to rise.

“James?”

He saw Garland coming out of the shadows. James extended his hand, which Garland took.

“Why?”

“Why ask me?” James whispered.

“Because the colonel would not say a word to me. He just said those were the orders and that was it. So I am asking you. Why?”

“I know as much as you do, Sergeant,” James finally replied, realizing he was lying. Of course he knew. It was politics, and rivalries, and jealousies—the continuing bane of the Army of the Potomac. Something had happened further up the chain of command. But he could not say that now. Not to this man, who, though in reserve, would be committed to the battle at some point.

“I will try and find out, though,” James whispered.

Garland merely nodded.

“I promised to go in with you men,” James finally said, and he felt shamed by what he would say next.

“But?”

“I think I should stay behind for this one, and I pray you understand.”

“Why?” and he caught a note of cynicism in Garland’s query that was so sharp that James reached out and put his hand on Garland’s shoulder.

“Please listen to me. I want to go forward with you and if all had stuck to the plan I would have. Something has gone dreadfully wrong here. I think my duty now is to stay near headquarters, and perhaps by the end of the day I can tell you why.”

And he did not add that he could tell his President what happened as well.

“28th?” a shadowy figure queried.

“Here.”

“Follow me,” and the shadow that addressed Russell, without waiting for a reply, set off.

“What about the footbridges, the axes?” Russell asked. “They were supposed to be transferred to Ledlie’s division.”

The shadow before him hesitated.

“I know nothing about that. Leave them here; I’ll see that someone comes back to pick them up.”

“Maybe we should take them with us,” Russell offered.

“I have no orders for that. Once in position you are not to move. Ledlie’s men will most likely look for them where you were last camped. It’d be absolute chaos trying to hand them over once in line for the attack. There will be over twelve thousand men packed side by side. Moving that equipment around will be chaos. Just leave the damn things here.”

Russell sighed, turned, and looked back at his command.

“Drop the footbridges and axes by my tent. Now move out.”

Garland stayed behind for a moment, whispering instructions as to where the men were to leave the equipment. The last company in column finally passed and started up the short distance to the top of the slope, which led down into the valley where they would form up for the charge.

As men dropped the equipment, James could hear their muttered protests, their anger, and indeed, their rage.

“I better get along now,” Garland finally whispered.

“Garland.”

The sergeant looked back at him.

“I promise, for the sake of your men, I’ll try my best,” James whispered. “God be with you.”

Garland stepped back and took his hand.

“And may the good Lord guide you to the truth this day,” Garland said solemnly, and then, releasing his grip, he disappeared into the night.

He had not cried when he watched his brother’s body lowered into the watery grave at Arlington—but now? James Reilly lowered his head and wept.

JULY 30, 1864
FORT PEGRAM
1:00
A.M.

“I think it will be tonight, at the latest, around dawn,” Captain Sanders whispered, looking over at Colonel Ransom. Ransom sighed.

“I’ve passed the warning up repeatedly. Orders are we must stay in place.”

“For God’s sake sir, let’s get the men out of the fort, move them back just a bit. God save them, they can draw lots for who stands picket for an hour at a time. If there is just a surprise attack we can be back in the fort in a minute at most.”

“Do you know how that would play?” Ransom retorted. “This brigade, your regiment, the men of the battery in there would be the laughingstock of the army. I cannot order that.”

“I’d rather have them alive as laughingstocks than dead.”

“I cannot order that.”

Sanders sighed, shaking his head.

“You are to come back to brigade headquarters with me. At least some reserves are to move back here at dawn. General Lee has surmised that Grant’s attack north of the James River is nothing more than a demonstration. A feint.”

“A feint to draw Lee’s attention from what will happen here,” Sanders snapped.

“General Hill said he would come up tomorrow to inspect and if your suspicions are confirmed by him, he’ll order construction of a reserve line at once.”

“That is a great comfort,” Sanders replied.

“That is the best I can offer. Now let’s go back to my headquarters.”

“I’m staying here.”

“Captain, you heard my orders.”

“And leave my men? No, sir. I am staying here.”

“I am giving you an order.”

“You can give it to me in hell, sir.”

Ransom said nothing, until finally he reached over and patted the young captain on the shoulder.

“I will see you in the morning,” he whispered. “I have to report back. I’m ordered directly by General Mahone to do so.”

Sanders did not reply. He knew his commander was not a coward and besides, what good would it do them if he were blown to hell? He would be needed to rally what was left.

After but a few yards he disappeared from view.

“Cap’n sir, you are one fool of an ass.”

Sanders could barely distinguish the head sticking up out of the hole in the ground. It was Sergeant Allison.

“I thought I would stick around, Sergeant. Just once, just once, I’d like to see you actually frightened by something and see you wet your britches.”

“Then come down in this hole with me and listen to how quiet it is,” Allison replied. “I’ve wet myself three times tonight already.”

Sanders laughed softly, reached into his haversack and handed over the quart bottle of whiskey that Ransom had so thoughtfully brought up to what he must know was a captain with a doomed command.

“Perhaps it is time to just get drunk,” Sanders whispered, as Allison sighed with delight, took the bottle, uncorked it, and gulped down half a dozen ounces before handing it back.

“I don’t think Saint Pete will hold it against us,” Sanders whispered, taking a long drink as well, in fact the first one he had ever taken in his entire life.

WAITING ACROSS FROM THE FORT
3:00
A.M.

“It’s three o’clock sir,” one of his men whispered.

Colonel Pleasants did not need to be told. By the dim starlight he was just barely able to make out the face of his pocket watch.

How the troops, which had been forming up in the valley behind him ever since midnight, had not been heard by the Rebels was beyond him. Batteries were firing at their usual intervals to mask the noise, but several rifles, loaded against orders, accidentally discharged. Someone—either drunk or hysterical—had started to scream that he didn’t want to die, and been beaten into silence, but from the Rebel side there had been no response, other than the occasional call of sentries, and the regular taunts between pickets.

That had been a tricky detail tonight. Men specially briefed by him had gone out after dark, as they did every night, to shallow dugouts between the lines, often not more than a rock’s throw away from their Rebel counterparts. Usually the forward pickets agreed to truces and at times would even meet and trade Southern tobacco for Northern newspapers, cherished both for the news but also for other more fundamental uses, or a tin of canned milk sought for a sick comrade. The disappearance of these pickets might elicit alarm, so they were to play their normal roles, if need be to chat with the Rebs and trade as usual.

Three hoots of an owl, now expertly given by one of Pleasants’s men, was the signal for them to disengage, and as quietly as possible creep back into the main line. If questioned by the other side, they were to simply say they were being relieved or were feeling too sick to stay on the line.

Pleasants waited nervously as, one by one, the men came slipping over the lip of the trench and dropping down. No alarm was being sounded.

It was just after three. The slow fuse, he had calculated, would take twenty-eight minutes to reach the magazines. Puffing his cigar to a hot glow, he looked at those gathered around him.

“Good luck to us all,” someone whispered.

Without any ceremony or flourish, Colonel Pleasants touched the glowing tip to the end of the fuse. It sputtered to life and began to race forward. He watched as it reached the first splice just inside the now open door to the tunnel, passing easily through the well-made junction, and continued on into the tunnel.

He stood up and stepped back.

“Perhaps we should move away from the entrance,” he whispered.

Some chuckled softly, others were silent, a few of the men patting the entryway as if saying good-bye to a friend.

“This better be worth all that digging,” was all that Private O’Shay could say.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

JULY 30, 1864
HEADQUARTERS, NINTH CORPS
3:50
A.M.

“I
t should have blown by now,”
B
urnside whispered anxiously, unable to contain his concern, standing atop the parapet in front of his bunker. In the silence of anticipation, all could hear the clattering of a telegraph from within his command bunker.

A moment later a telegrapher came running out, holding a sheet of paper. Burnside stepped down from the parapet, as a staff officer held a hooded lantern so he could read it.

He turned away, features taut.

“Meade wants to know why it has not blown yet,” he snapped.

He crumpled the paper up and threw it on the ground, then turned to the telegrapher.

“Tell him that if he would come to this command post rather than remain eight hundred yards away…” As he spoke he gestured with an angry wave of his hand to his right, “he could see for himself. Communicating this way by telegraph, when a battle is about to start, is absurd. Damn it! It is absurd!”

The telegrapher just stood there, knowing better than to send such a message.

Burnside sighed.

“Tell him I am inquiring,” he finally replied.

James Reilly stood but a few feet away, overhearing the exchange. He turned his gaze back to the valley below, where over twelve thousand men were waiting. Looking back to the east, he saw that the shoulder of Orion was beginning to fade with the first faint indication of approaching dawn. Just below the crest of the ridge, at the rear of the column, the men of Fourth Division were becoming visible in the pale light of the rising moon.

IN FRONT OF FORT PEGRAM
3:55
A.M.

Unable to contain himself, Garland stood up and went to his colonel’s side. Company officers were gathered around Russell, whispering softly, falling silent as Garland approached. He suddenly felt nervous. Orders were for all men to remain lying on the ground; only officers were to stand.

He formally saluted.

“Sir, I think I should tell the men something,” he ventured.

Russell sighed and nodded.

“I know no more than you do.” He had his pocket watch out, gazing at it intently, its face now nearly visible in the early twilight.

“Just tell them to remain calm. It’s still dark enough that the Rebs can’t see us.

“Tell them to stay calm. It should go up any second now.”

4:10
A.M.

“Sir, a message from General Burnside.”

The runner was out of breath, having just emerged from the covered way leading back to the rear.

The officers surrounding Pleasants noisily hissed for the messenger to be quiet.

“I know,” Pleasants replied, “he wants to know what the hell has gone wrong.”

“Something like that,” the messenger whispered, looking nervously past Pleasants, in the direction of the entryway to the mine.

Sandbag barriers had been erected across the trench, fifty yards back from either side of the entry, to protect them from the potential of any blowout emerging from the tunnel. A single lantern rested on the floor of the trench, directly in front of the entryway.

“It’s the damn fuses,” one of his diggers whispered. “It must be one of the damn fuses.”

Pleasants, stomach knotted, said nothing. He had personally inspected each splice, running his fingers along every foot of fuse as it was uncoiled from the T intersection back to the entryway.

When confronted with the problem of the fuse yesterday morning, he had entertained the idea of a volunteer. He intended that it would be himself, just lighting the last thirty feet before the intersection, giving him a couple of minutes to scramble out. But after inspecting the splices and the condition of the fuse, he had decided to play it safe for all concerned and light it from the entryway, timing it to go off at 3:45 as planned.

“I have to take something back,” the runner gasped. “They’re hopping mad back there.”

Pleasants looked at his men, who had labored so long and hard on this. No one spoke. He dared a glance up over the lip of the trench, looking back to the east.

Merciful God, the eastern horizon was brightening, the first faint traces of the approaching sunrise. The stars of Orion were fading, the thin crescent moon beginning to fade as well.

The ground behind the trench, clear back to the main line eight hundred yards away, was carpeted with an entire army corps. The men lay down, as ordered, but too many damn fool officers were up, pacing back and forth. The sounds of nervous whispering were rising by the minute.

The swale was deep enough that the western slope, the side closest to the Rebel line, was almost entirely concealed by the low ridge upon which the Union’s forward position was dug in. But farther back, on the eastern slope, looking closely he could now discern something different about the land, a darker darkness of thousands of men lying prone.