Lee held up his hands, warmed them toward the fire, shook his head. And of course, there was still Sedgwick along the river. . . . How long would he sit and stare at a near-empty hill? This is not an accident, he thought. We are led by Divine hands. He turned, saw Jackson standing now, saw the familiar look, knew Jackson was anxious, ready to leave, and Lee nodded, said, “Well, go on!”
IT WAS after daylight, dangerously late. The march would cover twelve miles, an easy distance for Jackson’s foot cavalry if there was no obstruction and no opposition.
They filled the road quickly and quietly—instructions had gone down, all the way to the lowest levels—this was a quiet affair. There would be no cheering, no shouts, and no stragglers.
The three divisions would march in a column of fours, led by Daniel Hill’s men, commanded now by Robert Rodes. Behind Rodes were Jackson’s own division, led now by Raleigh Colston, and in the rear, the division of A. P. Hill.
Lee sat on Traveller at the edge of the trees, watched them forming column lines, and now he saw Jackson, riding with a hard, fixed stare, moving alongside the troops. The men did not respond. The mood was clear, something was going on, the march would not end with tents and rations, but a hot and bloody fight. If they did not hear it in the orders, they saw it in Jackson’s face.
He rode up to Lee, tilted back his head, was still wearing the old cap, and Lee saw the eyes, nodded sharply, did not smile.
There were few words, small nods, and suddenly Jackson reached out an arm, pointed down across the intersection, to the route they would take. Then he spurred the small horse, Little Sorrell, moved out across the road. Lee watched him move away, lowered his head, a small prayer, God be with you, General, and in front of him the great column began to move.
47. HOWARD
May 2, 1863. Midday.
HE LET the empty sleeve hang loosely, did not roll it up and pin it as most of the others did. The arm was lost at Fair Oaks, on the peninsula, and the loose sleeve reminded him constantly. He did not want to forget. And it made a good show. The Eleventh Corps did not accept his appointment with enthusiasm, and with this bit of dramatics, the loud message that he was a veteran, had made the sacrifice, he thought they might respect him a bit more.
The Eleventh had been identified as Sigel’s corps, had consisted mainly of German immigrants, farmers and factory workers, mostly from New York and Pennsylvania. The men of the Eleventh were an untamed and rugged bunch and had pride in their heritage. When Sigel was relieved, the corps was given to Howard, a disciplinarian and a devout Christian. Neither trait opened any doors.
Oliver Howard had earned the promotion, served well under McClellan and since. He was the first division commander, under Couch, to enter Fredericksburg the winter before. He was a man with no outstanding talents, but he understood command, and it was a natural progression for him to eventually lead a corps. But even he understood that command of the Eleventh was a questionable reward. The Germans were not highly regarded as fighters, and were rarely put into the thick of the action. Now they were the far right flank of Hooker’s army, well out of harm’s way, the last line of defense, facing an empty section of the Wilderness.
They had finished breakfast, and the men were not looking for a fight. There were small groups, circles of blue, card-playing mostly, some stretched along the side of the turnpike, the opportunity for extra sleep. The trenches they had dug faced south, alongside the turnpike, and they were not deep. The fight was well to the east, far off to their left.
To the north, above the turnpike, the river was three miles away. There were no troops positioned above them. It was the far rear of the Federal position, the safest place on the field.
Howard rode slowly down the line of trenches, was met by small nods, the trained show of respect. It had only been a month, and he still did not know many of them, the regimental commanders, long and unpronounceable names. He had been patient with the accents, but often they would speak German around him, and he would say nothing, stare them down, and they would return to English, or say nothing at all.
He rode on the turnpike itself, toward the west, came to the end of the line, saw two brass guns pointing straight down the road, out toward nothing. It was the only place guns could be positioned; the road was the only clear line of sight. He turned toward the right, moved the horse off the road, saw the flags of two regiments, not quite a thousand men who lined up at a right angle from the road, refusing the line to the north. Here, they had not dug trenches at all. He rode alongside the distinct edge of the thickets, tried to see out through the dense tangle, and he saw a man, emerging with curses, carrying an armload of wood. The man tried to free himself from a thorny vine, dropped the wood, said, “Dammit, tore my sleeve.”
He saw Howard, did not salute, bent over to retrieve his firewood, said, “No fit place for a man, General. Damned near got lost.”
Howard nodded, did not smile, pushed the horse along.
There was a flurry of noise back on the turnpike, and he turned in the saddle, saw riders, flags. He spurred the horse, moved closer, saw now it was Hooker, his staff stretching out behind him like a small parade. Hooker raised his hand, stopping them. Howard rode up onto the road, saluted with his left hand.
Hooker said, “Good morning, General Howard.”
Hooker was smiling broadly, in high spirits, and Howard forced a smile, said, “General Hooker. I am honored by your presence.”
Hooker accepted the flattery, sat straight up in the saddle, looked out to the trenches, the official eye of the inspection. Men were standing now, lining the edge of the road, and Hooker said, “Yes, good. Good, indeed. Very strong, very strong.”
Abruptly, he turned the horse around, moved through his staff, followed closely by his color bearers, and shouted back, “Keep it up, Howard!” and the parade moved quickly away.
The men began to spread out again, the show was over, and Howard stayed up on the road, pushed the horse slowly, followed the direction of Hooker’s ride, moved back toward his own headquarters.
Howard did not move with any haste, expected few official tasks to fill the day. He let the horse walk slowly, gradually approached the building, the old tavern known as Dowdall’s. In front there were horses, those of his staff, and another, which he did not recognize. He was still up on his horse, and an officer emerged from the tavern.
“General Howard, I am Major Montcrief of General Hooker’s staff. The general has sent me to alert you, sir. There is a movement of rebel infantry and wagons on the roads south of this position.”
Howard stared at the man, an unfamiliar face. “General Hooker . . . was just here, not an hour ago. He said nothing—”
“No, sir. The news just came from General Sickles. There is a heavy line of rebel activity moving south and west of General Sickles’s position. General Hooker is most pleased to advise you, sir, to be alert for this activity.”
“Pleased?”
“Why, yes sir. The general has expressed his congratulations to his men for prompting the retreat of the rebel army.”
He thought, Of course, it has to be. They are moving away, probably toward Gordonsville. Stoneman’s cavalry raid likely did serious damage to their supply and communications lines.
“Thank you, Major. You may return to General Hooker and convey to him that we are prepared to pursue the enemy on his command.”
The man jumped down the steps, climbed his horse, and with a quick salute was gone.
Howard sat back in his saddle, thought, Yes, this army is finally moving in the right direction. He thought of going inside, maybe some coffee, but suddenly he felt stronger, awake, and he pulled the horse around, moved back down the turnpike, to once again ride along the strong lines of his men.
HE JOINED the men around the small fire, asked slowly, “Might I enjoy a cup of your coffee?”
They had stood quietly, watching him approach, dismounting from the horse. There were nods, looks between them, and a cup was offere
d.
“Thank you, it has been a while since I had a cup of real coffee.” He put the cup to his mouth, felt the rush of steam. “Ah, yes. Thank you.”
He looked to the faces that were looking at him, uncertain, curious, and now more men were moving closer, word was spreading, the aloof and hard commander was down with the men.
“Gentlemen, you may not know this yet, but this is a day to remember.” He paused, heard voices, men saying “Sir,” and he looked around, saw General Devens, the commander of the division, moving through the men.
“Ah, Devens, hope you don’t mind my taking the liberty . . . I smelled the coffee, had to stop.”
Devens saluted, glanced at the men, said, “No, General Howard, certainly not.”
“General Devens, do any of your men climb trees?”
There was a pause, and one man said, “I been a good climber since I was a boy. Never seen a tree I couldn’t top.”
There were laughs, small jibes, and Howard said, “Well, that’s mighty fine. I tell you what, soldier. You go over there, across the road, and pick out one of those tall ones, and when you get to the top, you tell me what you see.”
The men were talking and moving now, accepting the challenge, and Devens moved closer to Howard, more curious, but Howard would say nothing, was enjoying the moment. Yes, this was a fine day indeed.
The soldier pulled off his coat, wrapped hard hands around the trunk of a tall, thin tree, began to shin his way up the limbless trunk. Men circled around the tree, cheering him on, and the man reached the first of the small limbs, pulled himself up quicker now, and Howard stood in the middle of the road, looked up through the branches, said, “All right, soldier. Anything to report?”
The man looked around, parted the leaves with his free hand, and then looked down at Howard, shook his head, and Howard raised his hand, pointed to the south, said, “How about that way?”
The man slid around the trunk of the tree, parted more leaves, and suddenly he stood up higher, leaned out away from the tree, said, “Hoooeeee. It’s rebs! A whole army!”
Faces turned to Howard, and now other men began to move up the tree, and other trees, some without success.
Howard rocked on his heels, listened to the sounds of the men, and the excitement spread all along the lines.
Devens stood beside him, said, “May I assume, sir, that the rebel army is in retreat?”
Howard smiled at him, said, “Yes, you may, General.” He looked around, saw one of Devens’s staff, said, “Captain, please take a message to General Hooker.”
The man moved up, pulled a pad of paper from his pocket, and Howard said, “Tell the General . . . from General Devens’s headquarters, we can observe a column of infantry moving westward. . . .”
THE SOUNDS came rumbling up through the brush, from down to the southeast. Howard was back at his headquarters, at Dowdall’s, had returned from the woods to the south, from the direction of the fight. Sickles had been watching the enemy movement all morning, could stand still no longer, and so had sent a division down, toward Catherine’s Furnace, to drive hard into the moving column. Howard had received a request from Hooker to lend a hand, to move one of his units down in that direction, protecting Sickles’s right flank. The orders were carried out, and now Howard was back at his headquarters, stood outside the tavern, listened to the sounds of the fight, smiled. Yes, Bobby Lee, we will chase you after all.
He had wondered why Hooker did not begin to form the army, move out in pursuit, but Hooker had seemed content to stay put, let Lee move away. The victory, the great success of his plan, was to be savored.
Sickles had pressed down, into a portion of A. P. Hill’s division, and Hill had brought his long line together, pinching at Sickles from both sides. Within a short time the battle had faded, and Sickles had the token reward of a regiment full of prisoners and the satisfaction of a man who has pressed the action, who, unlike his commander,
was not content to watch the enemy flee. Since the bulk of the rebel column had already passed on the Furnace road, Sickles was content to settle his forces down in their new position, well below the rest of the Federal defenses. The brigade that Howard had sent for support had left a wide gap on the east side of his lines, but with Sickles down below, there would be no need for strength at that point. His men in the treetops could still see the rebel column moving far away to the west.
He thought again of coffee, maybe something stronger. It was mid-afternoon now, and he was not a drinker, but . . . it was such a glorious day, for an army that did not have many glorious days. He climbed up the steps, and now there was a rider coming from the west, and the man seemed anxious, was yelling.
“General . . . General . . . Please!”
Howard watched the man dismount in a tumble from his horse, and the man came forward in a rush, saluted wildly, said, “General, Major Rice reports that the rebel column has turned and is now to our west, sir. The major requests instructions, sir!”
Howard held up his hand, said, “Easy, young man. I am aware of the rebel movements. Tell your major to keep his eye on them. There is no cause for alarm. Have you reported this to General Devens?”
The soldier stared at him, said, “No, sir. The major thought this was . . . a high priority, sir.”
“You tell Major Rice that in the future he will report his observations to his division commander. I do not have the time to entertain every courier from every outpost.”
The man nodded, said, “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I will tell him.”
He backed away, climbed up on the horse, and Howard raised the hand again, trying to ease the man’s agitation. The man saluted, calmer now, and Howard returned it, nodded, and the man rode back to the west.
DEVENS WAS watching the man in the treetop, balanced precariously, and the man was struggling, trying to stay upright. Below him others were shouting, “Hang on!” and suddenly the man fell, down through the branches, dragging the thin limbs with him, and another man, below him, tried to slow the man’s fall, and he began to fall as well, and there was laughing, and in a slow jerky motion, limbs cracking one by one, they slid downward, the two men grasping each other, then dropped into the clear, fell the final few feet to the ground. The crowd of men cheered now, and the men were helped to their feet, limping and scraped. Devens smiled, saw no major damage, except of course to their pride. He looked through the crowd of men and the men beyond, thought, This is very good, this has been very good for morale. Now . . . we may finally see some change, some real success.
He walked back up to the turnpike, looked at the pair of brass guns, pointing away down the far road, and he heard the voice of his aide. “General Devens, sir, a messenger.”
He looked for the voice, saw his young lieutenant, and another man in a heavy sweat. The man saluted him, said, “General Devens, sir, Major Rice reports that a large body of the enemy is to his front. He suggests . . . he respectfully advises . . .” The man paused. “General, he ordered me to say . . . ‘for God’s sake make some disposition to receive them.’ ”
Devens stopped smiling, said, “Sergeant, have you seen this large body of Major Rice’s enemy?”
“Well, no sir. I’m the courier, sir. The major commands the lookout, sir. Don’t care much for heights myself.”
“Well, then, Sergeant, you go back and tell Major Rice that there is no need in trying to panic either you or this division. I will forward this report to General Howard. But I would suggest you return to Major Rice and tell him to calm down. If he cannot perform his duties with appropriate decorum, we may have to find someone else for the job. Is that clear?”
The man snapped to attention, said, “Perfectly clear, sir. Please allow me to return to the outpost, sir.”
Devens returned the man’s salute, said, “Dismissed, Sergeant.” He stared wearily at the lieutenant, rested his hands on his hips. “I suppose you should ride to General Howard’s headquarters. Tell him of the report. Tell him I have seen no evidence that t
he enemy is doing anything more than leaving.”
The man hurried away, mounted his horse, and galloped down the road, then slowed, rode the horse at a trot, knew that when he reached Howard’s headquarters he would hear the same reproach, would receive the wrath of the annoyed commander: that these observers, the men who watch the enemy, are always jumpy, always exaggerate, and that the commander certainly understood the situation—it was his job to know what was going on.
48. JACKSON
May 2, 1863. Late afternoon.
HE STEPPED quietly through a cluster of small bushes, thick and green, and the ground suddenly dropped away, down a long flat hill, and there, along a wide road, was the Federal line.
He had never been this close, felt like giggling, a wild adventure. His guide, the man who had brought him to this spot, was beside him: Lee’s nephew, Stuart’s brigade commander, Fitz Lee.
“There they be, General. The whole lot of ’em.”
They were sitting around small fires. Some were reading, playing cards, and back, behind them, a small herd of cattle was being lined up, the preparation for tonight’s dinner. Jackson rubbed his hands together, wiped them on his pants leg. This was an incredible sight.
Lee backed away, through the bushes. Jackson didn’t want to leave, but knew he had to get back, to move the column farther to the west. This was the point where they had thought the flank could be assaulted, but there were too many blue troops, and the line ran farther west, along the road. So the march would continue, until his men were far around the last of the Federal lines.
He followed the young Lee back to the horses, said nothing. Lee climbed up, smiling, waited for the compliment, the acknowledgment of a fine piece of scouting. He was well taught in the Stuart school of soldiering, appreciated the glamour of the cavalry; they all basked in the bright light of Stuart’s reputation. But Jackson had climbed up on the horse, was already far away, and Lee frowned, would have to find the pat on the back elsewhere.
The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure Page 48