Darkness at Chancellorsville

by Ralph Peters

  He walked his line, still doing the work of a regimental commander, calling out encouragement. It was evident from the jarring gaps that his casualties had been severe as well.

  Suddenly, Northern cheers rose, close at hand and powerful. New flags appeared behind the Union barricades.

  His men read the future. The first to quit splashed back into the moor.

  The Yankees were about to attack with those fresh troops, it was punishingly clear. And his men could not withstand it, not here, not now. With the marsh at their back, they were like to be captured, gobbled up entire.

  Runners from other regiments reported desperate conditions.

  More of his men drifted back from the firing line. The best fell where they stood.

  Hating every syllable he spoke, Funk ordered his soldiers back. After turning over the regiment to his lieutenant colonel, he hurried to extricate the bloodied brigade.

  He did not make it all the way to the flank. The brigade collapsed too quickly. Men fled, running as they had never done before. The Yankees didn’t bother to pursue them but stopped and cheered.

  The blue-bellies knew that bog was there, they’d learned the hard way.

  Why hadn’t he been warned?

  Off to the flank, on dry ground, a thicket had ignited, adding its own smoke to the fog of volleys.

  As he clambered back over the first Union entrenchments, crusted with mud to the crotch and among the last of his soldiers to return, he heard a delighted, infinitely spiteful South Carolina voice crow:

  “Looks like those high-toned Virginians come back for a visit. Somebody boil up tea.”

  * * *

  If there were better soldiers on the battlefield than his, Tom Ruger was going to need convincing. He’d never been prouder of any men he’d commanded. Earlier, the 27th Indiana alone had taken on the better part of a Reb brigade and sent the Johnnies flying. All of his regiments had been as savage as Visigoths. He wasn’t sure his minister father would approve of the epithets that had graced the morning, but no man could ever criticize the results.

  The men needed ammunition, though. He’d called for resupply again and again. And not a single cartridge had arrived. Even men who’d marched with eighty rounds were running out.

  And the diabolical Reb artillery: Who had allowed the Johnnies control of that hill? When they weren’t dueling gun against gun, they pounded every Union line they could range, and his brigade had become a popular target.

  Wasn’t anyone thinking? Who the devil was in charge? Anyone?

  Where were the cartridges?

  * * *

  Where was the artillery ammunition? Did they expect his men to walk back to Trenton and petition the governor to fill their caissons?

  Jud Clark was outraged, livid. His guns had done good service. All of the Third Corps batteries had done splendidly. But they had yet to discourage the ever-increasing number of Confederate guns gathered on that hill. And he’d just had to see off the New Jersey Lights under Bobby Sims: Their caissons and limbers were empty.

  The remaining batteries were low on every type of round but canister—grand, if they had to deter Confederate infantry, but useless in a long-range artillery duel.

  Why on earth had they given that hill to the Rebs?

  He’d ridden back as far as general headquarters, only to be dismissed as a minor figure amid the commotion. Inside the house, he’d found staff men at work amid discarded bandages, trails of blood, and the screams of soldiers under the surgeon’s knife. General Hooker had been surrounded by an impenetrable cordon of colonels and officious majors, and the only intelligible answer Clark had received was useless: “Go see Sickles, he’s your corps commander, ain’t he?”

  He’d already gone to Sickles. The general had cursed to shame a barkeep but had no help to offer.

  Clark missed Henry Hunt, as hard a taskmaster as the old fellow could be. General Hunt would never have let this happen, there would have been ammunition to spare and reserve batteries ready to serve as replacements. But Hooker had some peculiar grudge against the man, or at least against his concept of artillery support, and had left the old gunner behind. Some artillery officers had rejoiced at the prospect of being out from under Hunt’s thumb, but those fellows were learning their lesson now.

  Nobody was in charge, and no one felt responsible, except the men who were busy actually fighting. From what he had seen of the rear, chaos prevailed.

  “Sir, the lieutenant’s been wounded, he’s bad,” a red-striped sergeant reported. “And Captain … we need ammunition, we’re down to one shell per gun. Maybe two for the slower crews.”

  A Reb shell struck near a horse team, producing damage and panic in equal amounts.

  “Well, make those last shells count,” Clark told him.

  * * *

  He had thirty-six guns in action and three fresh batteries waiting to take their turn. Meanwhile, the Yankee fires had slowed, a sign that they were low on ammunition.

  “Keep pounding them,” he called as he walked his upper gun line. “Make them use up every round they’ve got. Keep at them, men.”

  When he reached the battery atop the highest ground, he told its commander, “Shift your fires to the Chancellor grounds. Don’t worry about identifying targets or sparing the house. Just stir things up back there, make them think twice about bringing ammunition or reinforcements through that gauntlet. Make it a challenge no mule skinner will accept.”

  If only, Alexander thought, the infantry would take that other hill.…

  * * *

  Hooker was sick to death of being pestered. Despite losses—not least, poor Berry—and errors, even outright cowardice, the morning had been a prodigious success, with the Rebs paying a blood price they’d never forget. And the vaunted Jackson had been humiliated, his gains of the night before revealed as worthless.

  Now everyone claimed an urgent need, filling the headquarters with complaints and clamor. Units wailed for ammunition, both small arms and artillery, but it wasn’t his responsibility, that was the affair of the corps and divisions. Even those commanders faring well whined for reinforcements. Which they were not going to get. He was not going to thin his lines and render them vulnerable elsewhere.

  Then there was Meade. In clear contravention of his orders, Meade had sent forward a brigade, insisting that he’d seen a crisis developing. But the “crisis” would have passed without his meddling. Meade was a malcontent, temperamental and disloyal. Conceited. Superior. Rebellious. The Philadelphian had to be made to see that he was not the commander of the Army of the Potomac.

  And Revere. Descendant of Paul Revere or not, the man would never again hold a command, he’d see to that. On Berry’s death, the swine had assumed command—an authority to which he had not been entitled—and marched half the division to the rear, damned near to United States Ford, leaving a gap in the line a more astute foe could have used to rupture the army’s defense. It was the most barefaced example of cowardice Hooker had ever seen from a general officer.

  And yet things had gone well. His generalship, his decisions, appeared wiser than many a jealous heart had wished. Jackson and Lee had run into a wall.

  Hooker stepped out onto the porch of the fetid house, hoping fresh air would ease his latest headache. He leaned against a pillar atop the steps. Reb artillery had begun to range the surrounding fields and patch fires burned. Fighting units waiting nearby kept their discipline, but disorder ruled among the supporting elements.

  Nature of war. Couldn’t expect perfection.

  After this campaign, though, he intended a further reorganization. His reforms had not gone far enough, particularly when it came to ordnance matters and supply. And heads were going to roll among the Signal boys.

  The army needed discipline, from its generals on down.

  He’d made a mistake about Henry Hunt, though. And he intended to do the manly thing and admit it—not publicly, of course, but privately—as soon as the campaign ended.

&n
bsp; He did wish Hunt were on hand. The old bugger had been right. The guns had to answer to a central authority.

  Live and learn. Spilt milk.

  What mattered was that the Rebel yells had ceased. Those boys had taken a licking. Repulsed on all fronts, repeatedly. He’d ridden over their dead and liked the sensation.

  The headlines would be glorious, canceling out the previous evening’s embarrassment: HOOKER DEFEATS LEE, REPULSES JACKSON.

  He’d be the hero the Union had been waiting for.

  If only Sedgwick would do his duty at last. Van Alen had just sent off a peremptory order: Sedgwick was to advance and attack at once. No more excuses, no tall tales of resistance. The fellow had to come up in Lee’s rear today. The Rebels had been weakened, they’d lost their drive. Bled out. It was time to crush them, and Sedgwick was the press.

  Hooker scratched a bug bite on his cheek.

  If Sedgwick dallied, any failures ascribed to this campaign would rest at his feet. Beloved Uncle John would pay a price.

  He heard an abrupt round of firing. Not from the right this time, from the center-left. Where the two divisions left under Lee had been behaving themselves.

  An act of desperation? A forlorn hope?

  If only Sedgwick would appear. The timing could not be better.

  Two Confederate shells dropped near the yard. One of them gutted an unattended mule.

  Might be time to shift the headquarters, move it out of range. Unable to do more, the Rebs were spewing artillery like bile.

  Darius Couch appeared around the corner of the house, returning from whatever fuss he’d been making or avoiding. His corps, too, had done handsomely when engaged, but now his face bore a look of consternation: Couch was the sort who was born to a bad digestion.

  Obedient, though. And that counted.

  Before his senior corps commander reached him, Hooker spotted Major Tremaine, Hooker’s factotum, coming back from the battle lines at a gallop.

  Hooker shifted his weight from the pillar back to his feet. His head throbbed and he felt a rush of dizziness. He leaned forward, gripping the porch rail.

  Tremaine didn’t look as though he bore good news.

  In the instant before it struck, Major General Joseph Hooker saw the solid shot sailing toward him. It was the queerest thing, to see it coming.

  Then there was darkness.

  TEN

  Midmorning, May 3

  The boys were cranky. All of them. Even Doc Cowin, who mostly had an easy way of letting the world go by.

  Nobody wanted to go back into that fight. Runaways from the other divisions had been as common as ticks on a hound in August, gone-eyed men skedaddling until apprehended or until tired legs and worn-out souls just quit and they sat down shaking. They came back wailing of disaster, as if they’d just witnessed the opening of the Book with Seven Seals and didn’t much care for the contents.

  Which meant, Sam Pickens did not doubt, that the 5th Alabama would be called on for more Yankee killing. Which led, inevitably, to killing the other way around.

  Alabama always seemed to follow the mule’s hind end.

  Nor was he feeling his best down-belly and lower. Many a man had feasted too freely the night before, gobbling with abandon, grab-handed in the dark, stuffing himself to a ruin with Yankee delicacies. More squatting than standing now, a passel of Greensboro boys rued their greed this morning.

  Mean, too, these wartime brethren of his. Uncharacteristically nasty. The teasing of Ed Hutchinson had been merciless, downright un-Christian, after Joe Grigg had stepped back into the brush to find a private spot not soiled to gagging and, of all things, discovered the corporal petting the pony, right there in broad daylight, poison ivy forgotten.

  Everybody did it, of course. But that a man would feel that base desire at such a time fell on the far side of strange. Just who would do a thing like that, just then?

  Even good Doc Cowin, normally as pleasant as well-made whiskey, had declared that from then on, Hutchinson must be addressed as “Corporal Onan.”

  Just sour, every man. This waiting to know for sure what you already knew for certain was a mean thing.

  Hadn’t had any more word on Bob Price, either. Pickens hoped it was true that his wound wasn’t bad. Then he wondered if Bob had been the lucky one, to be out of this.

  Don’t think like that. Don’t do it.

  Still, he’d made up his mind to stop his younger brothers from joining up, no matter how long the war lasted. They weren’t especially close, the Pickens boys—theirs was not a hugging, kissing family—but there was more than sufficient brotherly amity to want to deter them from the downright folly of thinking there was anything good at all about wearing a uniform.

  Fool fellows thought women liked it, but women just liked bawling over corpses.

  Plenty more corpses to cry over today.

  His feet burned like the fires of Hell in high summer.

  A man could even smell the fighting, the stink of degradation, sniff it raw right where the regiment waited, suspended in this stretch of high-nerved indolence before hearing the fateful verdict of men empowered. Like waiting on a doc to yank a tooth that, all of a sudden, didn’t seem such a bother compared to those pliers.

  Of a sudden, Doc Cowin recited: “‘Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the king that led them to it…’”

  And Bill Lenier, pleasant Bill, said hard: “You planning to die, Doc? I ain’t.”

  Lieutenant Borden put a quick stop to matters by saying:

  “Shut your mouth, Doc. And keep it shut.”

  Sam Pickens had never quite seen the like of it: friends just waiting to turn their fists on each other, ready at a feather’s touch to cast off the newly oppressive chains of civility and go at it like field hands lit by corn liquor.

  Strike a match, and the whole place might explode.

  Up front, artillery pounded. But Pickens didn’t hear volleys suggesting that others were doing their part.

  Captain Williams came over and tore into Lieutenant Borden because the men weren’t standing right, then Lieutenant Borden made everybody stand up and play pretend. Pickens would not have been astonished had someone shot the lieutenant for no reason. And Borden was as good as lieutenants got.

  “The poet erred abominably,” Doc Cowin announced, “when he deemed waiting ‘delectable.’”

  Everyone else ignored Doc, but Pickens figured he had it about right.

  * * *

  Where the devil was Tremaine? Sickles had sent him back to remonstrate with Joe forty minutes ago. His corps had to have its ammunition replenished—damn Joe and Butterfield for their strictures against “excessive” trains—but even a downpour of cartridges might not suffice. Just as the attacks on the right had lulled, bled to a weakness, the Rebs leashed up on the left had been let loose. Advancing up the Plank Road and the Turnpike from south and east, they were biting into Slocum’s positions and snarling at Win Hancock’s, the only protection left for Sickles’ rear.

  The threat of encirclement pressed. The corps had to withdraw beyond the crossroads, and swiftly. And his men would have to do it under the worst artillery fire of the war, thanks to Joe’s folly in handing that bare-back hill over to the Rebs.

  Now the Johnnies were gnawing at the last high ground he held, an ugly piece of nowhere mislabeled “Fairview,” where one of his batteries after another had been forced to pull out with emptied caissons.

  It was a reverse just waiting to be a catastrophe.

  Shells tore into his lines, butchering men who had done fine work that morning. For all the West Pointers’ malarkey about “cold steel,” his corps wasn’t going to stop the Reb onslaught with bayonets.

  Dan Sickles vowed that if he survived this day, he would never again let the enemy have the best ground for artillery: He’d grab it and keep it.

  He lit another cigar and waited for orders.

  * * *

  His eyes snapped open to a blindi
ng light and Hooker saw another shot hurtling toward him. He jerked—awkwardly, painfully—to avoid it.

  But there was no shot, no shell, descending now. Artillery thumped from the fields nearby, answering the Reb guns, but all Hooker saw as his vision cleared were concerned faces above him.

  He heard a voice, distinct, cry, “General Hooker’s been killed! The general’s been killed!”

  “I’m all right,” he muttered. At least, he thought he did. Then he spoke with more clarity:

  “Not dead. Not … what happened?”

  “You’re alive, sir. That’s what matters.”

  Hooker tried to sit up. He hurt. Head to toe.

  “What happened?” he demanded. He thought he knew: a black dot plunging toward him. But matters were confused. His brain had grown disobedient. And it hurt like ten headaches at once.

  “Solid shot hit the pillar right beside you.” That was Couch. “Half of it split off and struck you.”

  “Where?” He struggled to think, to feel with coherence, to inventory his body.

  “On the porch. You were up on the porch.”

  “No. Where … where did it get me?”

  Hesitation. “Your head, I think. Shoulder, chest. It was quick. You know how it is.”

  “Am I…”

  “You should be all right, you look fine.” Couch again. “You’re not even bleeding. Just a good knocking, you’re going to have quite a lump.”

  Rocks pounded his skull. He struggled to think clearly. Abruptly, he said:

  “Help me up.”

  “He should rest,” a voice said.

  “Not damned well here,” Couch said. “Rebs have us ranged.”

  “My horse,” Hooker said.

  “We’ll take care of you, sir.” That was Van Alen. “There’s no need—”

  “My horse, damn you.” He did grasp one thing clearly. “The men have to see me … know I’m alive. No panic…”

  “He’s right,” Couch told whoever was listening. “Bring up his horse.”