by Ralph Peters
“I’d like your permission to push out one brigade. Toward Sedgwick. Test Lee’s intentions. Barlow’s brigade hasn’t even—”
“No,” Hooker said, “I’ve already told you.”
“But if the Sixth Corps were cut off, Lee might—”
“All Sedgwick has to do is hold his fords. Since he seems reluctant to play any other role.” Hooker’s lips narrowed. “I want every man in position when Lee attacks.”
A regiment of flies attacked the generals and their horses.
“You know, Joe,” Meade interfered, waving at the swarm, “Otis and I have had our disagreements, but a limited advance to feel out Lee…” He hesitated. “Doesn’t it make sense for Lee to strike Sedgwick first? While keeping the rest of us waiting at the altar?”
Hooker’s head began to throb again. “No. For God’s sake, Lee’s after more than just one corps. He’s a slave to ambition, that man. His blood’s up, he’s going to come at us. Today. And then he’ll see what I’m—what this army’s made of.”
Howard seemed bent on impertinence. “Joe, my men need a chance to redeem themselves. In the eyes of the rest of the army. If it should become necessary to support Uncle John, my corps is well-positioned to lead the way. We could—”
“If you’re looking for redemption, find a chaplain,” Hooker snapped.
“The Germans—”
“Your Germans need their beer barrels shoved up their asses.” Hooker snorted. “Just try to keep them from running away again.”
“Joe, that’s uncalled for,” Meade said.
“‘Uncalled for’? That’s rich. I’ll damned well tell you what’s uncalled for. Disobeying orders. Endangering this army. Jeopardizing this entire campaign. Giving Lee a chance to humiliate—”
He stopped himself and shut his eyes for a moment. When he eased the eyelids again—with his left eye not quite focused—he changed his demeanor by an act of will.
“Listen to us,” Hooker said, forcing a smile. “Just listen to us. At each other’s throats. It’s wrong, all wrong. We need to fight the Johnnies, not each other.”
“Well, I agree with that,” Meade said.
Howard nodded. “Of course, Joe. I was only trying—”
“No harm done,” Hooker allowed. “Decisive day ahead. Plenty of work.” He refreshed his smile and threw back his manly shoulders. “I’d best be off, make sure Reynolds hasn’t got up to some mischief. No need to join me, George—your corps looks fine.”
As he rode away, the lack of confidence just encountered nagged him. Why wouldn’t Lee attack him? When didn’t Lee attack? Well, let him try it today and Lincoln himself wouldn’t quibble about the result.
Lincoln. A dullard given charge of a torn country. Democracy was a doubtful enterprise. McClellan had been right that the country needed a stronger hand, a leader empowered.
But Lincoln remained in authority, occupying the President’s House. His uninformed caprices decided careers.
What would Lincoln do, if …
Joseph Hooker wanted to keep his command. That was the shrunken extent of his ambition: to retain command until he could show success. There had been times, before the army moved, in the days of dress parades and soaring morale, when he’d imagined himself elected president in the subsequent year’s election, the hero who’d won the war.
Now, though …
With his escort strung out behind him, Hooker followed another cut trail, all white stumps and reeking of sap, and he forced himself to think on brighter prospects. Dan Butterfield was coming out from Falmouth to take charge of the staff and set things straight. First Dickinson, then Van Alen, had failed him. Just as his fellow generals had failed him. No one had supported his plan with a will, no one had given him the support he needed.
Dan would put things right. Whether Lee attacked or not. Dan would save things. And Dan would be his witness that the avalanche of errors had not been his fault.
They all believed he was finished. He could tell. Vultures, all of them. Their jealousy was palpable, thick as mud.
In a clearing just ahead, he spotted John Reynolds. The First Corps commander stood waiting in front of a tent and a pair of flags. A handsome man and capable, but a sneak, Reynolds was another one not to be trusted, another slave to ambition, another man who wished to seize the crown.
Joe Hooker felt the world conspiring against him.
* * *
When Hooker had gone, Meade said to Howard, “Joe would be a great general, if the enemy followed his orders.”
* * *
Clement Evans couldn’t deny his men a pair of minutes to loot the wagons. Wouldn’t let his regiment run wild, but the 31st Georgia had earned the right to stuff its haversacks with Yankeedom’s endless bounty.
Tempted, but unwilling to appear grasping, Evans watched a soldier attempt to stuff a sack of coffee beans into a knapsack many sizes too small.
Like the loaves and the fishes in reverse, Evans decided. He did look forward to the war’s conclusion—let it come soon—when he could return to his cherished dream of becoming a Methodist minister, preaching the Lord God’s majesty and mercy. And when he could rejoin Allie and the little ones—but, above all, Allie. Men were not meant to worship living creatures, but he did approach idolatry with his darling, a Christian woman whose faith allowed for smiles.
A good woman was not least among the miracles wrought by the Lord.
Far away, though, Allie was far away. Sometimes, at night, he didn’t know how to endure it, the thought of her pushed him to the verge of folly, to deeds unthinkable. He could smell her in the darkness, feel her hair beneath his cheek.…
In their excitement, some of his men cast unwanted goods on the ground. It was time to put a stop to things. Waste was un-Christian. Others had needs, too.
He turned to his acting adjutant. “All right, Creighton. Get the boys back in line, time to push on. Detail a dozen men to watch over the wagons and guard the prisoners.”
A mile back and barely visible, the rest of Gordon’s Brigade trailed Evans’ men, who had been advanced as skirmishers and pursued the mission with vigor. It was dangerous work, but not without rewards: There had been cries of exaltation when his men crossed a ridge and spotted the Yankee wagons stopped by a creek, protected by no more than a handful of soldiers—blue-bellies who hadn’t felt much inclined to challenge a screeching host of ravenous Georgians.
Gordon would be pleased, of course, at the capture. But Evans felt inspired to do more. The Yankees were out there somewhere and needed finding.
John Brown Gordon. If there was a man, short of Robert E. Lee, worth serving in the Army of Northern Virginia, it was Gordon. The man was—what was the word?—“irrepressible.” You couldn’t keep that hound dog under the porch. The men adored him, hanging on his words, even when they had not the faintest notion what Gordon was going on about. The man was … an enchanter.
Clem Evans reckoned his future ministry could profit from Gordon’s uncanny knack for rhetoric.
And Gordon had dash. After his morning speech on rivers of blood and impending sacrifice, the regiment had stormed that ridge, only to delight a passel of belles. Any other man would have been embarrassed to the core, but Gordon had passed it off by declaring, in that stirring voice, “Now look at that, boys! The Yankees ran off at the first hint you were coming! Isn’t that fine?”
The women had flocked to Gordon in a manner almost unseemly.
Gordon was not that sort of man, of course. A flirt, perhaps, but surely no betrayer. Gordon professed a devotion to his wife that echoed Evans’ adoration of Allie.
It was only Gordon’s commitment to Jesus Christ that wanted praying over. He said the right words, always, but there were glint-eyed moments when Evans feared that his superior merely found the Lord useful.
With his regiment spread out in a doubled skirmish line again, Evans waved the men forward and joined them on foot. Horses had grown scarce for mere regimental commanders—his last mount ha
d died of nothing much in the winter and he was not a wealthy man, possessed of neither land nor slaves to work it. If he couldn’t catch a Yankee horse on the battlefield, colonel or not he was going to wear down some shoe leather.
In the distance, off to the west, shots pierced the morning, but all seemed sweetly peaceable where the Georgians trod, with the petals and leaves of May adorning Creation.
Couldn’t figure out those Yankee wagons. Unprotected, off by themselves, and not even paying attention. As if they were safe as children under a quilt. Had they just gotten lost?
Well, he wasn’t about to lodge a complaint with Lincoln. And his men surely wouldn’t protest.
“Stay alert,” he called to his nearest officers. He’d said it as much for himself as for his soldiers: Enveloped by the glory of God’s bounty, a fellow’s mind tended to wander. Even his shadow seemed beauteous and a wonder, stretching before him as he strode through new barley.
He’d come to relish fighting, a sin he often prayed over. Surely the Lord would be merciful to those who went to war to uphold the Bible—why couldn’t He make Northerners understand the wisdom of His injunctions? Colored folk could no more look after themselves than could a milk cow. Slavery was ordained, it was necessary, and had only to be regulated with justice. The Negro wasn’t merely the white man’s servant, but his responsibility, a burden to be borne with Christian rectitude. The Yankees would simply turn the Negro out of his home, leaving him helpless, bereft, and prey to sin.
Insects rose from trampled grass. The sun climbed and shadows shortened. Evans began to sweat properly. Trailing the scent of coffee beans, his soldiers brushed along, any remarks they made pointed and brief.
Might have been a hunt back home, a hunt with no game flushed.
Then there they were: Yankee skirmishers, waiting idly down a reverse slope, off on their own, with no other Federals anywhere to be seen.
Evans felt an urge to run right at them and scoop them up. The Yankees hadn’t the numbers and he doubted they had the grit to stand their ground. But he didn’t want to exhaust his men or slip into disorder. Gordon’s charm masked a fierce belief in discipline, and Clement Evans would not be found lacking.
So his soldiers just continued to advance, crossing through one budding crop after another, eyeing the waiting Yankees as the details of faces and uniforms grew sharper.
Evans reckoned those Federals would exchange two shots before running. Yankees had their deficiencies, but they could count.
Instead, the blue-bellies let off one round each and then turned high-tail, not just falling back but running as if chased by Satan with his fiery pitchfork.
Before Evans could voice an order, his Georgians hallooed, as if at home driving their hounds. The entire regiment gave chase, having themselves a fine time.
To the rear, cheers—what he took for cheers—rose from the rest of Gordon’s Brigade, far back on higher ground. It looked as though another of Early’s brigades was moving up to fill in the left as well.
Big fight coming, all right. Once they uncovered the Yankees.
Missing his late horse at least as much as he would have mourned a cousin, Evans sprinted ahead of his colors, determined to hold his regiment short of anarchy. The Yanks just plain skedaddled, fleeing over another of the crests that scalloped the landscape.
When Evans’ men topped the low ridge themselves, every man stopped on his own. A mighty line of men in blue stood before them, well within range, and unleashed a volley to deafen the high heavens. Evans threw himself to the ground, with his color-bearers going flat behind him.
The mathematics were running the wrong way.
The Yankees cheered and reloaded. Evans rose and ran along his line, crouching and ordering his soldiers back behind the crest.
They’d come upon at least a brigade, if not a full division.
Evans liked an honest scrap, but he didn’t enjoy finding himself on the wrong end of a target shoot.
His men scrambled back to a parlous safety, encouraged in their flight by Yankee bullets and chased by jeers.
Shielded by a swell of ground no higher than a wave, Evans drew his regiment into a tighter formation, one that might allow for a brief defense if the Yankees advanced. And then there was nothing to do but wait, either for Gordon’s Brigade and its new neighbor to join the soiree or for an order to withdraw. Meanwhile, he sent his steadiest lieutenant rearward to inform Gordon about what awaited him.
To Evans’ surprise and not a little dismay, a lone regiment hurried up on the 31st Georgia’s left. Not enough of a reinforcement to do more than excite the Yankees to take a more active interest in affairs.
Virginians. From Extra Billy Smith’s bunch. Haughty as ever. Cocky and quick, they swept forward, calling to the Georgians to get up and join the attack then mocking them, in hard words, when they declined the invitation.
The Virginians swarmed over the crest, met a hurricane volley, and returned with impressive speed.
It was the Georgians’ turn to hurl insults.
An order arrived from Gordon to pull back and rejoin the brigade. The Virginians saw the wisdom of following suit, order or no order. But even as the humbled withdrew, another lone Virginian regiment leapt into the cauldron.
The confusion grew worse.
When Evans located Gordon to report, the brigade commander was conferring with General Early, an excitable man. Early flapped his arms and blasphemed to shame Lucifer, his high-pitched voice turning sulfur into sound.
Gordon shot Evans a look that said, Let him blow off for a minute, and Evans waited, though not without blushing as Early’s tirade turned to accusing the Yankees and then his own men of unlikely, if not impossible, contortions and combinations of human bodies.
Finally, Early ran out of himself. He noticed Evans and, before Gordon could speak, the general demanded, “Well, Reverend, what the hell’s out there that you saw and I can’t?”
“Didn’t have time to count heads, sir,” Evans told him, “but it looked like the better part of a Yankee division. And they seem inclined to stay.”
* * *
Jubal Early pulled back his soldiers but kept them ready to advance again. This time there would be proper coordination, with no brigade commanders making fool decisions on their own—Extra Billy was farting-out-the-mouth proof that a former governor was not necessarily meant to command a brigade. Or a shithouse detail. Sooner or later, Smith was going to make a mistake that cost them all dearly, but nothing could be done about the man.
There were times when Jubal Early missed the old Army.
Ready enough to fight, though. All he needed was word from Lee that his attack would have support from the west, where McLaws was supposed to do his part and hadn’t. Early wasn’t about to take on a Yankee corps with a single division. There was a mountain-mile’s difference between bravery and stupidity, and he’d already used up the day’s stupidity rations.
He spit out his used-up chaw, slopping his beard and drying it with his cuff.
The last orders he’d received from Lee had specified a coordinated attack to crush John Sedgwick. But nothing had happened on the Chancellorsville side of the battlefield. Laff McLaws probably had one paw on his pecker and the other up his ass, as usual.
He did wonder what was taking Lee so long. Tardiness wasn’t one of the old man’s qualities.
Fight like the devil, that he would. He just needed Robert E. Lee to get things moving.
* * *
Uncle John Sedgwick would have traded a full brigade for a single clear and unequivocal order. Hooker wanted him to hold the fords and a bridgehead. But another order granted him the authority to evacuate to the north bank, if pressed. And some damned fool had abandoned the heights behind Fredericksburg—had Gibbon been sleeping? Now those fords were denied him, leaving Banks’ Ford more vital than ever.
Amid the orders arriving out of sequence, he’d also been instructed to renew his advance westward toward Chancellorsville—but
only given evidence that Hooker was attacking eastward himself.
There had been no sign of that.
Attack? Defend? Remain in place? Recross the river? Eat beans and play checkers?
Awaiting definite orders, he’d done the sensible thing in the wake of Howe’s morning scuffle: He’d arrayed the Sixth Corps on good defensive ground that shielded the last fords and the loop in the river.
Flags high, his wearied retinue located Albion Howe again. The first thing Sedgwick asked the division commander was:
“Any word about Longstreet? Any sign? Those prisoners have anything to say?”
Howe shook his head. “All of them were Early’s men. Mostly Virginians. Took themselves a good licking. As for Longstreet … nothing, sir. Seems more phantom than fact.”
That, at least, gave cause for hope. But Sedgwick remained on guard. For all the folderol about honor and rectitude, Robert E. Lee was a wily sonofabitch.
“All right, Albie. Talk.”
The division commander understood. “It’s fine terrain to fight on, no complaints. Channels the Rebs away from any point of concentration, run of the ground will break up large formations. It may be a division front on the map, but it’s going to be a brigade fight on the ground.” He gestured toward invisible Rebs. “Come at me from over there—which seems the likely approach—they’ll hit a heavy skirmish line. Push that back, they’ll encounter Neill’s brigade. If Neill can’t hold them, they’ll meet Lew Grant’s Vermonters. Who have a knack for creating Confederate widows.”
“All right. Good.” Sedgwick looked around. Listening. “Rebs have been awfully quiet. Not sure whether I like that.”
“Maybe they’re having second thoughts. About attacking.”
Sedgwick’s face hardened. “Lee never has second thoughts about attacking.”
* * *
Walter Taylor did not believe he had ever seen Robert E. Lee in such a fury, but a man had to know the general to recognize it, to catch the faintest pinking of the face that signaled an inferno raging within. Lee rarely raised his voice and never shouted, but the air around him turned arctic enough to freeze Lord Franklin twice. As he followed the general from one disordered headquarters to another, Taylor tried to stay hidden behind Lee’s shoulder, available if needed, but not an immediate target for his wrath.