Killing Lincoln: The Shocking Assassination that Changed America Forever Part 4

I t is also a gamble that could end the war by sundown.

Washburn leads his cavalry toward High Bridge. He has a reputation for recklessness and impatient courage and shares the commonly held Union belief that the rebels are too demoralized to fight back. He will burn the bridge at any cost.

Washburn's cavalry ride for an hour, taking in the countryside as they prepare for battle. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, they are ambushed by rebel cavalry. I t is a scene out of Lexington and Concord, as Confederate sharpshooters take aim. Again and again, and without warning, rebel cavalry charge. Washburn, fearing nothing, gives chase. But it's a clever trap, the rebels drawing the bluecoats in as they link up with the other Confederate force defending the bridge. Suddenly, Confederate artillery rains down on Washburn and his men, putting an instant halt to the Union pursuit. These cannonb.a.l.l.s are the slap in the face that Washburn needs, making him realize that the rebels are hardly too demoralized to fight back. He also knows this: Colonel Francis Washburn of the Fourth Ma.s.sachusetts is right now the one man in America who can end the Civil War this very day. He will go down in history. All he has to do is burn High Bridge.

Washburn is within a quarter mile of the bridge, his force largely intact. But then comes the crackle of gunfire from behind him. Three years of combat experience tells Washburn that he is in deep trouble; Confederate cavalrymen have found his infantry. High Bridge must wait.

The Fourth Ma.s.sachusetts has been in the saddle since four A.M. I t is now almost noon. The men are exhausted, as are their horses. The soldiers gallop their weary animals back across the floodplain, over the Sandy River and on up to the Chatham plateau. Men and horses are breathless from the race and the midday heat, the riders' blue uniforms and gloved hands bathed in sweat. Their stomachs rumble from lack of food, and their lips are chapped from thirst. They expect only a minor battle, because the main Confederate force is still miles away. But that expectation turns out to be brutally wrong.

Some 1,200 Confederate hors.e.m.e.n wait to attack Washburn's cavalry and infantry, which together number just slightly more than 800. Rebel horses and riders hold in a long line, awaiting the inevitable order to charge forth and crush the tiny Union force.

Colonel Washburn remains cool, surveying what could be a hopeless situation. Infantry is no match against the speed and agility of cavalry. His infantry lie on their bellies and peer across at Confederate cavalry. They have had no time to dig trenches or build fortifications, so hugging the ground is their only defense. Washburn is cut off from the rest of Grant's army, with no hope of rescue. How can 79 Union riders possibly hold off 1,200 Confederate hors.e.m.e.n?

Washburn decides that his only hope is to be bold-a quality this Harvard man possesses in abundance.

After conferring with General Read, Washburn orders his cavalry to a.s.semble. They are now on the brow of the hill, just out of rifle range, in columns of four. Washburn addresses the ranks. He barks out his plan, then reminds the infantry to get their b.u.t.ts up off the ground and follow right behind the Union riders to punch a hole through the rebel lines.

On Washburn's command, the Fourth Ma.s.sachusetts trot their mounts forward. While the Confederates purchased their own horses or brought them from home, the Union horses are government-issue. Each trooper has ridden mile upon mile with the same horse, in the same saddle. As they arrive at this fateful moment, animal and rider alike know each other's moods and movements-the nudge of a knee, the gathering of the haunch muscles, the forward lean to intimate danger or the need for speed-so that they work as one.

Pa.s.sing the infantry's far right flank, Washburn's cavalry wheels left. The colonel's accent is Brahmin and his tone is fearless. The precision of his cavalry is something that Washburn takes for granted, for they have practiced time and again on the parade ground. And the show of force stuns the enemy. The Confederates see what is coming, even if they don't believe it.

Counting Read and Washburn, there are now 80 Union hors.e.m.e.n. Outnumbered by more than fifteen to one, they shut out all thoughts of thisbeing the last battle of their young lives. They ride hard. Their fate comes down to one simple word: "Charge!"

Washburn screams the command. Spurs dig into horses. Sabers clank as they are withdrawn from their sheaths. Some men fire their Spencer carbines as they gallop within rifle range, clutching the gun in their right hand and the reins in their left. Others wield pistols. Still others prefer the killing blade of a cavalry sword. The audacity of their charge and succeed-at-all-costs desperation ignites panic in the rebel army. The battlefield splits in two as Washburn's men punch through the first wave of the rebel line. The Union charge at Chatham, for a brief instant, is a triumph.

But, stunningly, after the cavalry charges, Washburn's infantry does not move. Not a muscle. Even as the Confederate defenses crumble, and as Washburn organizes his men for the secondary attack that will smash an escape route through the rebel lines, the foot soldiers are still on their bellies, sealing their own doom.

General Rosser senses exactly what's happening. He doesn't waste a second. The T exan yells for his Confederate cavalry to prepare for a counterattack.

The Confederate general James Dearing, just twenty-four years old, leads the way. Both sides race toward each other at top speed before pulling back on the reins in the center of the plain. The fight becomes a brutal test of courage and horsemans.h.i.+p. Men and horses wheel about the battlefield, fighting hand to hand, saddle to saddle. Each man wages his own individual battle with a ferocity only a lifeand-death situation can bring.

Bullets pierce eyes. Screams and curses fill the air. The gra.s.sy plain runs blood-red.

A rifle is too unwieldy in such tight quarters, so men use the b.u.t.t end rather than the barrel. Pistols and sabers are even more lethal. "I have been many a day in hot fights," the unflappable Rosser will marvel later, "but I never saw anything approaching that at High Bridge."

Rosser's gaze drifts over to the amazing sight of his enemy. Washburn, in the thick of the action, is a frenzied dervish, slaying everything in his path. Men fall and die all around as Washburn rides tall in the saddle, his saber slas.h.i.+ng at any man who steps forward to challenge him.

Suddenly, the young Confederate general Dearing shoots the Union general Theodore Read, at point-blank pistol range. Read falls from his saddle to the ground. Seeing this, Colonel Washburn takes his revenge. He engages Dearing in an intense saber duel, brought to a sudden end when a Union soldier fires two bullets into Dearing's chest. His sword falls to the ground, as does he.

Washburn is still sitting tall in the saddle-but not for long. As he turns his head, he is shot through the mouth at point-blank range. The bullet lodges in his lungs. His jaw hangs slack as blood pours from the hole in his face, down onto his sweaty, dusty blue uniform.

The force of the gunshot does not kill Washburn, nor even render him unconscious. I t is, however, strong enough to knock him out of the saddle for the first time all day. As the colonel falls, a Confederate flails at his toppling body with a thirty-four-inch saber, burying the blade deep in Washburn's skull. Incredibly, one day later, as a burial detail cleans the battlefield, Washburn will be found alive.

There are many, many casualties.

The Confederates lose 100 men.

The Union loses everyone.

Every single one of the 847 Union soldiers sent to burn High Bridge is either captured or killed. Those who try to fight their way out are slaughtered, one by one. The failure of the Union infantry to obey Washburn's orders to attack sealed their fate.

Rosser leads his weary men back toward Rice's Station, content in the knowledge that he has single-handedly saved the Confederacy.

Lee will now have his escape. Or at least it appears that way.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

THURSDAY, APRIL 6, 1865 ON THE ROAD TO FARMVILLE, VIRGINIA.

AFTERNOON.

As the battle for High Bridge commences, Union general George Meade's infantry finally finds the tail end of the Confederate column about ten miles away from the High Bridge fight. A hard rain falls. In the first of what will be many firefights on this day, small bands of Union soldiers begin shooting at the Confederate rear guard. The movement is like a ballet, with skirmishers pus.h.i.+ng forward through the trees and craggy ground to engage the rebels. The instant they run out of ammunition, these skirmishers pull back and another group races forward to take their place. And all the while, other infantrymen capture artillery pieces, burn wagons, and force the rebels to turn and fight-and sometimes even dig in, separating them further from Lee's main force.

Confederate general John Gordon's force falls behind first. The ferocious Georgian understands that he is being cut off. In fact, Lee's entire Confederate army is being separated. No longer is it a single force; it has been broken into four separate corps. Under normal conditions, the cavalry would plug these gaps or, at the very least, chase away the Union skirmishers, but the cavalry have their hands full at High Bridge.

Meanwhile, in Rice's Station, Lee rises from his nap and a.s.sesses the situation. Hearing the ferocity of the firing from High Bridge, he a.s.sumes that the Union force is much bigger than the 800 men who galloped past him a few hours ago. I f Lee had any cavalry at his disposal, they would act as his eyes and ears, scouting ahead and returning with the truth. But he doesn't. Lee can only guess at what's happening-and he guesses wrong.

Fearing that the Union general Sheridan has already leapfrogged out in front, Lee holds his entire corps in Rice's Station. At a time when it is crucial to be on the move, Lee chooses to remain in place.

As Lee waits, Sheridan's three divisions of cavalry are searching high and low for the Army of Northern Virginia. His three commanders are Generals George Armstrong Custer, Thomas Devin, and George Crook. Custer is the youngest and most aggressive, the blond-haired dynamo who roomed with Thomas Rosser at West Point. Custer has a flair for the dramatic. He is the sort of man who rides into battle wearing a flamboyant red kerchief around his neck and accompanied by a bra.s.s band.

That kind of display will make George Custer famous. Eleven years later, it will also kill him. As Sheridan holds back to plot strategy, it is Custer who leads the Union cavalry on their search-and-destroy mission against the Confederate column. At midmorning he discovers the heart of the column, perhaps six miles from High Bridge. Custer does not hesitate. His division attacks. But upon meeting resistance, the young general stalls, allowing another cavalry division to attack. In this way, Custer slowly works his way up the Confederate line, riding closer and closer to the very front, toward Sam Grant's objective of getting out in front of Lee.

The pace is cruel. By noon Custer's horses are thirsty and in need of rest. They stop at a small stream. Custer's aide approaches, bringing news that scouts have found a gap in the Confederate line. Now Custer sets aside all thoughts of getting out in front of Lee. He excitedly gives the command to mount up. Without waiting for the other two divisions (a habit that will seal his doom at the Little Bighorn), his cavalry race toward the gap, hoping to drive a permanent wedge between the Confederate divisions.

Custer succeeds. By two P.M. Custer's division pours into the small town of Marshall's Crossroads, where they are met by a lone artillery battalion. The Confederate cannons are no match for Custer's hors.e.m.e.n. He captures the small force and sets the rebel guns ablaze. But then another Confederate force counterattacks, pus.h.i.+ng Custer out of the town. The Confederates dig in immediately, knowing that more fighting is imminent. The rebels hope to hold on long enough for Lee's main army to reinforce them.George Custer, however, is not to be denied. He dismounts his men and orders them to a.s.sume an infantry posture. Then he scribbles a message to Crook and Devin, requesting help. Within an hour, their divisions are on the scene.

All afternoon, the three Union divisions initiate mounted and dismounted cavalry charges against the dug-in rebels. In the absence of artillery, the bluecoats boldly ride their horses up and over the Confederate breastworks. The Confederates cower in their trenches to avoid being trampled to death. The alternative is to run. Those who do are chased and cut down with sabers.

Even so, the rebels hold fast, repelling each and every charge. The general in charge, "Fighting d.i.c.k" Anderson, is a brilliant tactician, placing his limited resources in just the right place to repel the cavalry.

Finally, as daylight turns to evening, Custer a.s.sembles his men for one final charge. He orders the regimental band to play, hoping to strike fear in the enemy. Seeing the a.s.sembled cavalry, Confederate officers call an immediate retreat. Their goal is to reach Lee at Rice's Station.

Custer and the Union cavalry ride fast and hard into Anderson's lines before they can retreat. By now Sheridan has sent word, saying, "Go right through them. They're demoralized as h.e.l.l"-an order that the Union cavalry take to heart. Anderson's Confederate corps breaks, the men dropping their weapons and running for their lives.

Of about 3,000 rebels, only 600 escape Custer. But the general is still not satisfied. He orders three Union cavalry divisions to give chase, cutting men down as they run. In a rare act of lenience, those who make it into the woods are allowed to live. Later they will be rounded up as prisoners of war. For now their confinement is the woods itself; those who try to fight their way out are promptly driven back inside.

More than 2,600 Confederates are captured, among them the one-legged General Richard Ewell. As he surrenders to Custer, he knows that a portion of his men are trapped on a gra.s.sy hillside a few miles up the road, above a swollen stream known as Sayler's Creek. These men are spoiling for another fight, a battle that will go down as the most barbaric and ferocious of the entire war.

General George Custer has seen much ferocious fighting in his young life, but he has never seen anything like Sayler's Creek.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THURSDAY, APRIL 6, 1865.

SAYLER'S CREEK.

LATE AFTERNOON.

In 1865, the Sayler's Creek area of central Virginia is a place of outstanding beauty. Verdant rolling hills compete with virgin forest to present a countryside that is uniquely American, a place where families can grow amid the splendors of nature. But the beauty of the area will soon be defiled by the ugliness of war. Grant's Union army has finally arrived to confront Lee's forces. Lee's men are tired and hungry. Many have fought the north from the beginning, seeing action at Mana.s.sas, at Fredericksburg, and at Gettysburg. One group, in particular, the Stonewall Brigade, marched into battle under Stonewall Jackson, who, next to Lee, was the greatest of all southern generals. These same hardened fighters wept tears of grief when Jackson fell from his horse, the victim of friendly fire. Y ears of battle have reduced the numbers of the Stonewall Brigade from 6,000 soldiers to just a few hundred battle-tested veterans.

These men know the meaning of war. They also know the meaning, if not the precise military definition, of terms like "enfilade" and "field of fire"

and "reverse-slope defense," for they can execute them in their sleep. The Stonewall Brigade and the rest of Lee's men, depleted as they are, are practiced experts at warfare.

Lee knows that his fighting force is splintered. Near a bucolic estate called Lockett's Farm, the Jamestown Road crosses over Big Sayler's Creek and Little Sayler's Creek at a place called Double Bridges. There are, as the name implies, two narrow bridges. The wagons must all funnel into a narrow line and cross one at a time. Lee is miles away from his supply train and cannot protect it. His only hope is that the Union army will be too slow in catching up to the wagons.

Grant's army is now in sight. The soldiers' blue uniforms and the glint of their steel bayonets strike fear into the hearts of the teamsters, causing the wagons to attempt to cross Double Bridges two and three at a time. Wheels become tangled. Horses and mules balk in their traces, confused by the noise and smelling the panic. Their pace grows slower and slower, until one of the bridges actually collapses from the weight, and the Confederate advance comes to an abrupt halt.

Within minutes, the Union attacks. Sweeping down from the high ground, General Meade's infantry pounces on the terrified Confederates, who abandon their wagons and race into the woods on foot.

The Confederate infantry waits a few hundred yards ahead of the chaos, watching. They stand shoulder to shoulder, their line of battle almost two miles wide. Thus are 4,000 of Lee's troops poised to meet the Union attack.

Behind them, rebel wagons are burning on the double bridges above Sayler's Creek. T o the left of the Confederate force is the Appomattox River. Straight in front of them are thousands of advancing blue-clad Yankees. At first, the Confederate infantry line holds. But under withering artillery fire the men begin to fall back.

I t is a mile-long retreat over open ground that offers almost no cover. The rebel infantry topple the wagons that have made it across the double bridges, using them as an impromptu breastworks, hiding behind a spoked wheel or a tilted axle. The sun cannot set quickly enough for these men.

With 10,000 Union troops almost on top of them, darkness is the rebels' only hope.

Night does not come soon enough, and the fight begins. Almost immediately, the Confederates take incredible losses. Artillery and bullets level any man who dares to stand still. Many soldiers quit the war right then and there, convinced that this endless wave of blue is unbeatable. They see the wagons afire, and hear the explosions of the ammunition inside, and know in an instant that of the three things a soldier needs to survive in wartime -bullets, sleep, and food-they have none.

Others, however, are more game. They abandon the cover of the wagons and begin to splash across Sayler's Creek. They are rewarded.

Just as the North surges forward, hope arrives. I t comes in the form of Robert E. Lee, who has spent the afternoon on horseback, trying to find his own army. He sits astride Traveller, looking down from a nearby ridgeline. "The disaster which had overtaken the army was in full view," one of his officers will later write. "T eamsters with their teams and dangling traces, retreating infantry without guns, many without hats, a harmless mob, with ma.s.sive columns of the enemy moving orderly on."

This "harmless mob," Lee realizes, is his own Army of Northern Virginia.

"My G.o.d," says a horrified Lee, staring down at the columns of smoke and tongues of flames and stacks of bodies-so many that the ground along both branches of Sayler's Creek is a carpet of gray and blue. "Has the army been dissolved?"

Two miles south of Lee's viewpoint, and a half mile north of where General Custer still has a Confederate force pinned down, perhaps the most ferocious battle ever seen on American soil is unfolding.

"At three o'clock in the afternoon," one Confederate soldier will remember, "we reached Sayler's Creek, a small creek that at the time had overflowed its banks from the continuous rains of the past few days, giving the appearance of a small river. We halted a few minutes then waded across this stream and took our positions on the rising ground one hundred yards beyond."

The hill is gra.s.sy, but the site of the Confederate stand is toward the back of the rise, under the cover of broom sedge and pine shrubs. Now the rebels hold the high ground. Any force attacking Lee's army of almost 4,000 will have to expose themselves to fire while wading the four-foot-deep mora.s.s of Sayler's Creek. I f they get across safely, they will then have to fight their way uphill to the rebel positions.

"We threw ourselves p.r.o.ne upon the ground. Our battle line was long drawn out, exceedingly thin. Here we rested awaiting the attack, as the enemy had been following closely behind us," a Confederate major will later chronicle.

At five-thirty, the Union artillery opens fire on the gra.s.sy hill, lobbing sh.e.l.ls at the Confederate positions from just four hundred yards away. The rebels have no artillery of their own and cannot fire back. The screams of the wounded are soon drowned out by the whistle and explosion of sh.e.l.ls.

All the Confederates can do is hug the ground and pray as the Union gunners take "their artillery practice without let or hindrance."

The sh.e.l.ling lasts twenty minutes. Under cover of that heavy fire, long blue lines of Union infantry wade the creek, separated into two battle lines, and slowly march up the hill. The Confederates are devastated by the precision artillery, but do not retreat. Instead, they lie flat on the ground, muskets pointed at the stream of blue uniforms picking their way up the gra.s.sy slope. A Confederate major steps boldly in front of the line and walks the entire length, exposing himself to fire as he reminds the rebels that no one is allowed to shoot until ordered to do so. He later recalls the instruction: "That when I said 'ready' they must all rise, kneeling on the right knee; that when I said 'aim' they must all aim about the knees of theadvancing line; and that when I said 'fire' they must all fire together."

Everything, as one officer notes, is as "still as the grave." The advancing line of blue moves forward in a giant scrum, slowly ascending the hill.

Some of the men wave white handkerchiefs, mocking the Confederates, jeering that they should surrender. But the rebels say nothing, letting the Union soldiers believe that the South is already beaten. The bluecoats refrain from charging, preferring to plod, letting the notion of surrender sink in, for the rebels surely know there is no way they can get off this hill alive.

"Ready!" comes the cry from the Confederate lines. They are low on ammunition and may get only a shot or two. Even then, reloading a musket takes time. Better to make each shot count.

"The men rose, all together, like a piece of mechanism, kneeling on their right knees and their faces set with an expression that meant- everything," a Confederate officer will write.

On the cry of "Aim!" a line of horizontal musket barrels points directly at the blue wall. Then: "Fire!"