Darkness at Chancellorsville

by Ralph Peters

  But the Rebs had not disappeared. When his lead elements stepped off in the dark, they had been fired upon almost immediately. And no one knew the size of the Rebel force now, whether or not he was marching into a trap. Meanwhile, Gibbon’s division, upriver, had orders to cross directly into Fredericksburg and seize the infamous heights, “cooperating with the Sixth Corps.” But Gibbon’s pontoon bridge had been removed and no one knew why—it would have to be retrieved and could not be laid again until morning. If the bridge sections had returned by then.

  Now there were rumors—only God knew where they came from—that Joe had faced a nasty scrap upriver and it had not gone at all well.

  Major General John Sedgwick, artilleryman, cavalryman, Indian fighter, and veteran of Mexico, would obey his orders as best he could. But not much would get done before first light.

  Damn Joe, though. When they’d been classmates at West Point, Hooker had been a bigger talker than he ever was a doer. It looked like the man hadn’t changed.

  * * *

  When Captain Wilbourn had gone, trailing shock at the sorrowful news he’d delivered, Lee’s adjutant returned to the general’s tent.

  “He’ll lose his left arm,” young Taylor said. “It sounds all but certain.”

  “And I … shall lose my right hand,” Lee told him. “Better it had been me, better for the army. To lose him now, at this juncture.”

  “If it’s only the arm, he’ll recover,” the aide went on.

  Still, that meant months, at least, with Jackson lost to the army.

  “To lose him for a day is hard to bear. And General Hill…”

  “His wounds are not severe, sir.”

  “But incapacitating.”

  “Only for a time, sir. His legs … it’s not…”

  Lee recognized that the major wished to console him. But it was not so easily done. Better that the attack had not gone forward, better that they had withdrawn without a fight.

  What was he to do?

  Hill had called up Stuart to take command. That was correct, the best thing that could be done. Rodes, who would have been next in line to lead the corps, was a splendid officer but new to division command. He could not be entrusted with a corps. No, Stuart was the only choice, with Longstreet still south of the James. Stuart had never commanded infantry in large numbers, but the men knew him and trusted him. And they would need to have faith in whoever led them.

  Early, too, would need to detain the Union Sixth Corps as long as possible. Each day, Lee had feared its descent from Fredericksburg upon his rear. He could not understand why Hooker had left Sedgwick so idle.

  Indeed, the day before had brought brief terrors, when garbled orders had led Early to withdraw from his entrenchments. The profane Virginian had needed to countermarch in haste, rushing back to the defenses beyond the town.

  There was always so much to be done, too much to master. In cynical moments—interludes he concealed from all around him—Lee suspected that wars were won not by the most competent army, but by the least incompetent.

  On his better days he believed he led the finest troops in the world.

  Denied sleep again, Lee yawned. As a cadet and junior officer, he dutifully had read about Napoléon’s clever campaigns and the genius of Frederick the Great, but none of those books, in which the confusion of war was greatly simplified, had told him that battles were fought by exhausted men, that the fateful decisions, wise or catastrophic, were made by leaders who had not slept for days.

  He thought, again, that he was too old for war. But he knew—he always knew—that he would not quit.

  Jackson. It was the oddest thing: He had never considered that Jackson might be a casualty. He had assumed that Jackson would always be there. The evening’s success had come at a terrible cost.

  Now they would have to attack again in the morning, to deny Hooker the initiative, should that man have the fortitude left to seize it. It was too late to withdraw, the army could not escape—the poor roads that had undone those people would be his undoing, too.

  They would be fighting for the army’s survival. It would be grim.

  “You might sleep for a few hours, Major,” Lee told the younger man. “I must sit for a while and ponder things.”

  * * *

  Carl Schurz was drained but could not sleep. For want of his captured tent, he reclined against a tree trunk. Around him, soldiers groaned in their slumbers or snored. Once in a while, a man called a woman’s name. Those, like him, who were unable to sleep licked their wounds alone or spoke in whispers.

  They had been humiliated. And they were bound to pay an unfair price. Schurz long had thought that the day Rastatt capitulated had been the worst of his life. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Krzyzanowski found him amid the disorder and darkness. “My men have been resupplied with ammunition,” the colonel reported. But Schurz understood the Pole just wanted to talk.

  “Join me in my salon, Kriz.”

  The light of a declining moon showed where he might sit.

  “What do you think?” he asked Schurz.

  “I think … that our trials aren’t over.”

  The Pole misunderstood him. “You think we’ll be sent back in? Have you heard something? We can still fight, we’d show them. If they let us.”

  “No. They’ve put us where they think there is no danger. We’ll be the last troops called upon.” He sighed. “We weren’t trusted before, and we’re trusted less now.”

  “But you saw my men.…”

  “It’s unjust, terribly so.” Schurz was about to commiserate when he felt pure anger grip him. No. He refused to be discouraged. He would not be made small by anyone. He had come too far. They all had.

  Krzyzanowski was about to speak again, but Schurz spoke first:

  “We’re hurt. We’ll feel it, for a time. Perhaps for a long time. But we must take an even longer view. This struggle, all of this … it’s part of something greater, Kriz. As vast as this war seems, it’s only one incident. This struggle … this sublime struggle for human freedom, for liberty, for lives of simple decency … we play our parts, you and I, and others will play their parts after us. It won’t end soon. It may never end. But the fight will continue.” He leaned toward his subordinate, as earnest as ever he’d been. “This is the greatest cause in all of history, from the Rhine to the Mississippi, from Poland … I don’t know … to China, perhaps. And history is on our side. Look at the Two Sicilies, the most backward bit of Europe, what Garibaldi achieved. Or the South Americans before that. The Greeks. And here we are, fighting not just to end slavery, but to finish off the old ways, the ancient belief that one man, by virtue of birth or wealth, is better than the other.”

  “Some will always be better born or richer,” the Pole said, still glum.

  “Yes, but they will be equal before the law. That is what these Americans mean—we Americans—by ‘All men are created equal.’ Equal before the law, Kriz. Equal in chances, if not in gifts. Unable to hold another man in bondage for any reason, whether the Negro in South Carolina or a serf in Russia, a peasant in Poland…” He waved a cramped hand. “I refuse to be defeated. Say what they will, we know what happened and why. The point is … the point is not to be damaged inside, even when we’re damaged on the outside … to believe not because, but despite.”

  “And if this war is lost?”

  “Then there will be another war. Somewhere. The struggle goes on. But this war won’t be lost. It can’t be. We’ll win because we must win.” He shook his head. “Show me another country, anywhere, that has fought a civil war to free its own slaves—and men of a different race, at that. There is no such country. Only here.” Despite his fervor, a hint of bitterness reclaimed his voice. “These Americans, these people we have joined. The ‘native-born.’ They have been given so much, and they’re ungrateful. They have no idea of their miraculous fortune.”

  A voice called from the darkness: “Would you two fellows be quiet?”

 
* * *

  “Sandie, I can’t wake him now. Not even for this,” Dr. McGuire said. “His life—his life, mind you—depends on him resting for as long as possible.” The surgeon shook his head. “He’s had a fearful ordeal.”

  Pendleton rubbed the back of his skull. Quite a lump. When he’d learned of Jackson’s wounding, he had fainted and dropped from his horse. No great harm done, though. Pendletons were a hardheaded bunch, so his mother always said.

  And Bossie Boswell was dead, killed in the same fusillade that had struck the general. Kate would be terribly done in by the news. But there was no time to mourn, not now.

  “Mac,” Pendleton tried again, “you’re the authority, I’m not contesting that. Your decision … I suppose your decision stands. But I’m telling you, I need to speak with him. We need to know his plan, what he meant to do next. Hill’s been wounded, too, he’s handed things over to Stuart. But Stuart’s at a loss. He needs the general’s advice. The fate of the army, our entire cause, depends on it.”

  McGuire dead-eyed him. “My first responsibility…” He didn’t finish the sentence, didn’t need to.

  “I know, Mac, I know. But thousands of lives, the country…” Bearing down again, he asked, “What do you think he’d say himself, if the choice were up to him?”

  The surgeon’s expression weakened from stubborn to merely exasperated. McGuire did look weary. They all were blown.

  “Wait outside the tent. Or stand in the entrance, if you like, but don’t follow me in. Wait until I call for you.” He added, “And I might not.”

  At the surgeon’s approach, a guard lifted the tent’s flap.

  Pendleton halted at the borderline drawn by McGuire, half in the night’s last grip but with his face caressed by lamplight. He watched as the doctor pulled up a stool and began his inspection. When McGuire shifted his shoulders, Pendleton glimpsed the general’s face for the first time: It was scratched and torn. Severely. Above the cuts, Jackson’s thinning hair had matted to strands. Not forty, he looked ancient.

  Pendleton was so shaken by Jackson’s appearance that it took him a moment to realize McGuire was beckoning to him.

  At the aide’s approach, Jackson’s eyes opened. In a surprisingly normal voice, he said, “Major, I’m glad to see you. Very glad. When you didn’t report back, I feared you’d been killed.”

  “Not me, sir. Yankees don’t figure I’m half worth the bother.”

  McGuire rose and gestured for Pendleton to take his place by the bedside.

  “Don’t tire him,” the surgeon said.

  Pendleton bent toward the ravaged face. Jackson’s eyes were very clear. Pure.

  “Sir … I regret to say that General Hill has been wounded, just after—”

  Jackson’s eyes tensed. “Is it serious? Will he be all right?”

  “The wound isn’t severe. It’s not, that is to say, he’s not in danger, sir. But he’s not capable of command, not at present. General Stuart has replaced him, but he needs your guidance. General Stuart’s asking what he should do.”

  Those deep, clear eyes took fire. Torn skin grew taut. Jackson’s head rose from the rolled blanket. His lips parted to speak.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Jackson quivered briefly and went slack. His eyes turned away from Pendleton’s.

  “I don’t know,” he said, in a voice much weakened. “I can’t tell. General Stuart must do what he thinks best.”

  * * *

  Bleary, Hooker sat on the porch of the Chancellor house, awaiting the dawn. He wore his overcoat unbuttoned. It was still too warm, but without it he was too cold.

  Few campfires burned: Those too close to the battle lines drew artillery fire, and those farther away had burned themselves out. Despite the occasional shots, the night had grown quiet. Even the screams called up by the surgeons’ saws had ceased for now.

  They’d start up again soon enough, he knew.

  He could not sleep. After sparing him almost all the evening and into the night, the headaches had returned with renewed savagery, a merciless enemy resupplied and rested.

  Nor had it helped when a fumbling courier delivered a telegraphic message received at United States Ford: Sedgwick would not be up by dawn. He wouldn’t even be truly on his way.

  Sedgwick had let him down. Unforgivably. Where was the man’s vigor? Why did he keep delaying?

  Now he’d have to face Lee without his Sixth Corps, at least through much of this day. In the small hours, his hopes had soared that he might crush Lee while fending off Jackson. Now … now he’d have both of those rabid dogs coming after him at first light.

  Well, hadn’t he wanted Lee to attack him, after all? His lines were better drawn now than they’d been before the last evening’s debacle and he intended to tighten them further. Wherever his opponents attacked, they’d find him ready this time.

  He still could defeat them, couldn’t he? He had the strength. Unless … what if the reports that Longstreet was still detained below the James proved inaccurate? What if Longstreet was nearby or already on hand?

  He rued his dispatch of Stoneman with most of the cavalry. He still had not had a proper report of his actions or location; meanwhile, the army was fighting blind. Was Stoneman astride the Richmond road and the rail line, as envisioned? Was that part of the plan working, at least? It was as if Virginia had swallowed the Cavalry Corps.

  And the mounted regiments he’d retained had proved of little worth. The 8th Pennsylvania had made an infernal mess of things, and someone would have to pretty up the report.

  Why didn’t he ever get any comforting news?

  He was tempted to simply disappear and find a crock of whiskey, to sit in a corner and drink it down to the bottom.

  NINE

  Morning, May 3

  The moon was down but the sky hinted at paleness.

  “He says you have to do what you think best,” Pendleton told him.

  Jeb Stuart had almost expected and dreaded such an answer, but he refused to show any sign of discouragement. The first rule he had learned about leadership was that the men had to have faith in the man commanding them. The second rule was that lying was fine as long as it got results.

  “Well,” the general said, “I do expect we’ll do handsomely. This army will never fail us, just have to point the boys in the right direction, turn them loose, and get out of the way. General Jackson left us in an excellent position—a strong position, indeed.”

  His first statement expressed hope; the second veered into the realm of untruth; and the third was doubtful: Jackson had whipped the Yankees, all right, but the resulting confusion in his corps was still a good ways from being straightened out. Stuart had arrived intending to continue the attack, only to be mortified by the chaos at every level. Nor did he know the ground in detail, and he couldn’t see worth a lick. Still, the men would have to go forward on the gray side of sunrise.

  Surrounding Stuart and Pendleton, couriers waited to be tasked and dismounted staff men busied themselves by demanding reports from units that could not be found. Brushing the ears of hard-used mounts, flags drooped, darker than the darkness. Caissons and ammunition wagons creaked along the road, their progress slow and rights-of-way contested. Sergeants called to their men to replenish their cartridges, while soldiers still astray bleated the names of missing friends and vanished regiments.

  Well, forward they’d go, ready or not. The single message Stuart had gotten from Lee made two things clear. First, he was to resume the attack with vigor. Second, he had to push toward the wing Lee commanded directly, to reunite the army.

  Stuart turned to an aide. “Sidney, lead the way to General Heth. We need to powwow. Nigh on time to let his hound dogs loose.”

  Yes, Heth. A scrapper. With Hill carried off, Harry had been thrust into command, and he’d have to make a success of it. His men were freshest, they’d been the least engaged. Colston’s division would follow right behind, with Rodes held in reserve to complete the work. That much fe
ll out naturally.

  And after that?

  He did wish he’d paid more attention to infantry tactics. Not his specialty. Raids and scouts and lightning saber fights were the skills he’d mastered. Never had been one to trudge along loaded down like a mule then line up and offer the enemy a target. Have to trust the division commanders to know their business, to solve the problems in front of them. Not much he could do but cheer them on.

  He prayed the Yankees were every bit as muddled.

  And he thought again of Rodes, who by report had done fine work the past eve. Bobby had a noble soul, a man had to give him that. By right of seniority within the corps, Rodes should have gotten command after Hill went down. But Rodes had not protested at Stuart’s assumption of command, despite his lack of infantry expertise. Bobby had accepted their roles as sensible, even remarking, “The men know you, General Stuart. Not all of them know me.”

  Given a few more men of such high character, they might just win this pig race.

  Somehow, Porter Alexander—as fine a cannon-stuffer as ever was blackened by powder—found him amid the turmoil and the gloom.

  “Well, Porter? Where do you intend to put our guns?”

  Breathless, the artilleryman drew closer. “General, there’s the Lord’s own heavenly beauty of an artillery position over on the right. Can’t say with absolute certainty, but I reckon guns atop it could sweep the field.”

  “Well, occupy it.”

  “Problem is the Federals are on it. Honestly, sir, if we could clear it and stack batteries up there…”

  “This Matterhorn have a name?”

  “Hazel Grove, I believe.”