Horrified, Lee said nothing, watching as his valiant army disintegrated under the hammer blow rolling toward them. Above the smoke he saw the Maltese cross of the Fifth Corps. This was not Grant; this was a ghost resurrected- this was the Army of the Potomac, and in that instant he understood the rage, the elan that drove them forward. On this field they were bent on restoring their honor and inflicting their revenge.
He turned Traveler and rode back to the west, joining in with his retreating men.
Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna
3:45 P.M.
'Elihu Washburne?' Grant exclaimed in surprise as the secretary of war came riding up, escorted by several dozen cavalry troopers.
'General, how are you?' Elihu exclaimed, leaning over from his horse to shake Grant's hand.
Grant could not reply at first. He had felt deathly ill all day, barely able to remain in the saddle.
The march had been tedious and frustratingly slow. His own men, to be sure, were exhausted, but then again, so were the rebels they were pursuing. The rebel cavalry, though, was still doing a masterful job of contesting every ford, every place where defendable ground could buy the retreating columns ten or fifteen minutes' respite.
Sheridan was at the fore, driving relentlessly, but for the men in column behind the advance, it was the most exhausting kind of march. Advance a few hundred yards, wait in place maybe for a minute, maybe for a half hour, then sprint forward a quarter mile, then slow down, stop, then lurch forward again.
The sides of the road for miles was littered with the castoffs of an army in retreat. Broken-down limber wagons, overturned and destroyed supply wagons, and prisoners by the hundreds, men who had given up and collapsed.
But it was littered as well with the debris of an exhausted army in pursuit, yet more cast-off equipment, gray-faced soldiers lying by the side of the road, unable to advance another step after so many hard days of marching and three days of pitched fighting.
He could so easily sense the inertia that built at such times, understand why so many generals would, at this moment, call a halt to allow their men to 'rest, reorganize, and refit.' Regiments were jumbled together, not just men from one regiment slowing and bleeding back into the unit behind them, but entire brigades and divisions were mixed together. All that kept them moving forward now was their own will, the will of each man who, sensing victory, would not give out, and his will as well, driving them forward even if but one man was left standing at the end.
'I have a dispatch from the president. I think it is important that you read it, sir,' Elihu said.
Elihu handed the envelope over.
'Yes, sir. Is it urgent?'
'Well, sir, I think you should read it soon, but for the moment it can wait.'
'I want to keep pushing,' Grant said. 'Ride along with me. I'll tell you what is happening and we can discuss the president's wishes when we stop for a few hours.'
'Fine with me,' Elihu said, and he fell in by Grant's side.
4:00 P.M.
Men were swarming about Longstreet. Some planking had already been laid across the tops of the canal barges to form a rough walkway, not yet se-. cure enough to move wagons on, but in another hour that should be accomplished. Hundreds more were on the narrow ground between the canal and the river, dropping logs down to form a corduroy road. Down at the river's edge men with axes were dropping trees to clear an access way. A dozen men had volunteered to swim out to the island in the middle of the river and even now were hacking a path across it.
Where are the damn bridges?
And, as if in answer to a prayer, he saw the first of them coming down the road, Cruickshank in the lead.
'My God,' Longstreet sighed, 'we just might pull this off after all.'
Jim Bartlett paced back and forth along the line, his men digging furiously. Down by the canal more boats were coming up, off-loading infantry, and more of his own men. Along the towpath an artillery battery was coming up fast, an officer directing them to swing off the path and up the slope to where positions were being dug.
Ahead there was a constant rattle of musketry, drawing closer. Walking up the slope Jim saw Hancock atop the rise, astride a horse, field glasses raised. Jim went to his side.
'You can presently see them down there,' Hancock said, and pointed.
Jim looked in the direction Hancock was pointing and just under a mile, perhaps three quarters of a mile away he could see a swarm of men at work, tearing the siding off a mill. Closer, far closer, a line of infantry was advancing in open order, some mounted troopers joined in. A harassing fire buzzed across the field, cutting down stalks of grass around them.
The rough entrenchment, after barely an hour's work, was not much more than knee to thigh deep, but it offered protection enough with the sod and dirt piled up in front, fence railing and logs atop that.
Hancock turned and rode back, shouting for his men to drop their tools, pick up rifles, and get to work.
All up and down the line men fell into place, and within a few minutes fire rippled along the line. Jim stood and watched.
Several men around Jim dropped, some screaming, some just collapsing silently.
'Get down, you damn fool!' someone shouted.
He knelt down inside the trench but continued to watch. He was strangely fascinated by what was happening. His vague memories of 1814, the years in the White House, the memory of watching Lincoln reading the latest casualty reports and walking the corridors alone in the middle of the night. So this is what it is like, he thought. This is battle in all its horror.
He could see the men who were supposed to be his enemy not a hundred fifty yards away, lined up, all of them moving as if in some nightmare, men aiming rifles, apparently straight at him, disappearing from view behind a flash of fire and then smoke, others reloading, others falling. The Union soldiers around him, secure behind the low entrenchment, stood firm. Men tore open cartridges, pouring powder down barrels, one was shot even as he poured, the cartridge flying into the air as he tumbled over a man turning to grab his fallen comrade. The battle continued to rage on, while overhead the skies darkened.
Fioe Miles West of Seneca Crossing 4:05 P.M.
The thunder of battle was close, damn close to his right as he led the column down a farm lane, the wagons behind him barely squeezing through between the trees, and then he saw it, the Potomac.
'I'll be damned.' He spurred forward, heading across an open field, riding past a small mill which troops were struggling to tear apart, some with their bare hands. Down at the canal he saw Pete and rode up, saluting. 'General Longstreet.'
'Cruickshank, it's about time you showed up.'
Pete glared at him for a second, and Cruickshank began to bristle. After all that he had been through, if this was the reception, then the hell with him.
Pete smiled and leaned over to shake his hand.
'Get the damn bridges down there and start laying them.'
'What?'
'You heard me.'
'Sir, I thought my job was just to get them here. Where are the engineering troops? That's their job.' 'Scattered to hell and gone.'
'Oh, God damn,' Cruickshank sighed, and knew there was no sense in arguing.
'Venable will stay with you. Tell him what you need and he'll see that you get it.'
'Yes, sir,' Cruickshank said as he turned about. The first of the wagons was coming out of the woods, cutting across the open field, driver hunched low since shot was dropping into the field from the fighting going on to the west.
