by Ralph Peters
He was about to dispatch a courier to announce his success when a blue wave rose from the river bend ahead, a surge not of water but of men, flowing forward at the double-quick, Yankees in the thousands.
Gordon halted his brigade. It took a good minute for officers to return order to their lines and prepare for a fight. Given a static target, the Federal artillery across the river found the range and rejoiced.
Soldiers who had been merry moments before disintegrated into pulp and splinters.
Still posted ahead of his lines and unwilling to distance himself from the brigade’s colors, Gordon drew out his field glasses. The light had grown frail as the clouds swelled and sank, and he could not identify the approaching flags, but the troops were well-drilled, whoever they belonged to.
A nearby impact prickled his face with dirt and troubled his horse.
He began to worry that those successful Yankees to his rear might close in behind him, upending his plans entirely, the hunted becoming the hunters.
Never show alarm, though: That was his battlefield rule. He refused to display the least hint of concern. Instead, he rode his lines, in front of waiting rifles, smiling, with his good cheek shown to the ranks.
“What a fine day for Georgia! What a grand day! Look there, you’ve flushed out the last reserves they’d got. Give them a pleasant Georgia welcome, hear?”
The position was impossible to maintain. Not with the pounding from those untouchable batteries. Suddenly, his brigade was exposed in more ways than he could tally.
Steering his horse behind his lines, he rode from colonel to colonel, instructing them to be prepared to withdraw and ordering Colonel Evans to cover the movement.
“We’ll give them a brigade volley, but you hold your fire, Clem. Let them have it just when the others pull back.” They both eyed the oncoming Federals and Gordon added, “Those boys aren’t out to drive us back to Richmond. They’re out to restore their line, they’ll let you get off.”
Evans’ eyes shone, delighted by the dangerous work entrusted. One more of life’s inexplicable men, Gordon thought. Wanted to be a preacher to poor country folk, but killed them in the meantime. For a laced-up Christian, Clem was amiable. And heathen-good at his work.
Raindrops skirmished, the heavens were set to attack.
Before riding off, Gordon told Evans, “No fool heroics now. Don’t want your Allie chasing me with an axe handle.”
Clem smiled big as a peach. “That woman wouldn’t settle for using the handle.”
* * *
The day hadn’t ended quite the way Clement Evans would have preferred, but he wouldn’t write that to his wife. There’d been success enough to allow him to fib and make the success entire. He did long for that woman to think well of him.
The queer thing was that his men had arrived back in their lines in a fine mood. If they hadn’t been able to stand up to those Yankees and give them a proper whipping, the 31st Georgia had spanked them nevertheless. In the course of a running fight under a downpour, they’d gotten drenched and muddied up like hogs—and still his men made jokes and laughed, their casualties low and spirits near as high as those trailing clouds.
In fact, the entire brigade was far from dispirited. Unlike the Louisianans and North Carolinians, who hadn’t had their best day of the war, the Georgians just shrugged off the evening’s setback. Gordon had that effect. He could bust a man’s nose with a brick and the fellow would pay him a dollar for the honor.
And Clement Evans was grateful for a gift the Lord had sent His faithful servant: In the final confusion of the day, in near dark and rain that sloshed like a tipped washtub, his soldiers had brought him a handsome horse, courtesy of a very unhappy Yankee.
* * *
The rain stopped after warning of what might follow. Wet as a stray dog and hunched of spine, Jubal Early banged through the farmhouse door. Immediately, he sensed the gloom, smelled punishment, and stopped. In the lamplight, Lee sat stiffly, face locked tight. McLaws and Anderson stood before him, waiting for the hangman.
Taking a risk, Early put spunk in his voice:
“Came near breaking them, General Lee. Almost whipped them, we did.”
Turning slowly toward him, Lee’s face went the Gorgon one better. In a quiet voice that could bring a man to his knees, Lee said:
“General Early, I’m glad to see you. At last.”
* * *
Lee had to muster all his willpower not to shout his rage. Early, who at least had made a fight of it, had nearly broken Lee’s grip on himself when he burst in full of self-congratulation, barking that he had “almost whipped them.” Lee had barely refrained from snapping that “almost” is a word no officer should ever use. “Almost” was a word for moral cowards.
Keeping the three division commanders on their feet before him, Lee suppressed another pulse of fury. If Early had fought and failed, Anderson had barely fought, and McLaws had hardly moved. What was wrong with these men? Couldn’t they grasp the necessity of sacrifice? The need for relentlessness? The fundamental requirement to impose your will on the enemy and never stop? They’d held a triumph in their fists and let it run through their fingers.
With his voice under strict discipline—he had disciplined his life since his first day at West Point—Lee said:
“Gentlemen, you failed your country today.”
McLaws opened his mouth to protest, but Lee stopped him with a raised finger.
“I will not hear excuses,” Lee continued. “Excuses are a worthless currency. What I expect, gentlemen, is an advance at dawn by each of your divisions and all of your men. Nor do I wish you to drive those people and General Sedgwick across the river. I expect you to destroy them. Here.” Merciless and unwavering, his eyes searched downcast faces.
Judging their expressions of fear and regret, of wounded pride and inevitable self-interest, he turned his inner anger toward Jackson. He had learned further details of Jackson’s wounding, appalled. How could Jackson have behaved so foolishly, taken so little care? This day … this day and the day before … would have had different outcomes had Jackson been present. But the man had played the fool in a junior officer’s witless prank, devil-may-care in the dark. And who would pay the price? If Jackson had lost an arm, the army had lost an unrivaled opportunity, perhaps even a chance to end the war.
For the South, incomplete victories would never be sufficient. His army had to strike the Union’s heart. Those people had to be shocked into submission, they had to understand they could not win.
Well, tomorrow would be different, if the Lord allowed. How might Jackson put it? Sedgwick and his corps would “suffer the fate of the Amalekites.” Then, if Hooker did not flee, the following day would see the destruction of that man’s entire army, an end befitting Pharaoh’s chariots.
After letting his silence punish the generals standing penitent, Lee told them:
“Alexander has ranged Banks’ Ford, the essential point. He will shell the crossing all night, to discourage any thought those people may have of escape. At dawn, your skirmishers will advance and press the attack. No matter the circumstance, not a single regiment will withdraw as long as one man remains to hold its flag.” Again, he scanned the faces, though with impatience this time. “I believe you understand me.”
Truant from their duty on this day, the division commanders traded looks, waiting for one of the others to break the silence. Finally, Early said:
“Yes, sir. I reckon we understand, all right.”
With a doorward cant of his head, Lee concluded:
“Good. Now you may go.”
* * *
Dan Butterfield was mortified. Upon his arrival to oversee the staff, Hooker had tugged him aside without allowing him time to take a piss.
Joe had concocted a new plan. And it was madness.
The bluster was still intact, but Joe seemed deprived of his senses. When he spoke, his hands grew agitated.
With wet canvas sagging and an oil lamp flic
kering, Joe rambled on, his great shock of hair greased and dirty, the side of his face puffed up and badly bruised.
“It’s brilliant,” Hooker repeated. “Can’t you see it? If Lee fails to attack me here tomorrow, I’ll withdraw the army under cover of darkness and recross where Sedgwick’s holding open the fords. Surprise Lee and overwhelm him.” Excited and unsteady, he looked at Butterfield expectantly.
Dan Butterfield did not know where—or how—to begin. If the grand plan they’d designed had not led to Lee’s defeat, a madcap, impossible scheme of sneaking the army over the river and back again—while Lee, alert now, watched—just made no sense. It was a Chinese opium dream, an invitation to complete disaster.
“Joe … Sedgwick was hard-pressed today. And Lee’s apt to hit him much harder tomorrow, he wants to gobble the plum at the end of the branch.”
Hooker shook his head. “No. Lee failed today. Tomorrow, he’ll come at us, right here. He’s got to come at us.”
Butterfield almost felt that Joe would be better off if he had a couple of whiskeys. His excitement was peculiar and unnerving. And those hands …
“Well, Joe, let’s look into it … tally the numbers, see what can be done.” It was the sort of answer Butterfield had learned in the world of business, an answer that was no answer at all. “Meanwhile, I’ve finally gotten news of the cavalry.”
“What does he say?”
“Actually, it’s all from the Richmond papers. Smuggled across the lines. Apparently, the Cavalry Corps has been everywhere doing everything, Richmond’s been in a panic.” Butterfield’s features narrowed. “Everything except fulfilling the mission. Stoneman doesn’t seem to have annoyed Lee in the least.”
“Worthless,” Hooker said. “They’re worthless. I’ve relieved Averell, you know. The man couldn’t follow orders.”
“I know, I know. Joe, we have to talk about that. I have to admit the orders were unclear, it wasn’t—”
“The man didn’t follow orders. Done is done.”
Butterfield would have preferred to wait to raise the next, more sensitive matter, but there was no time. Joe had to see the reality before him, to protect himself.
“Listen, Joe … I need you to trust my advice on something.”
Hooker’s eyes focused as they had not done. “What?”
“Summon a council of war. Tonight. All the corps commanders. Except Sedgwick, of course.”
Hooker folded his arms. “I don’t believe in councils of war. I’m in sole command.” Unsteady fingers troubled an elbow. “Councils of war don’t ever make good decisions, they always give in to their fears.”
“Joe, that’s the point. Look, the campaign hasn’t gone exactly as we’d hoped. Frankly, there will be recriminations.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice, as if political spies surrounded the tent. “Have them vote. On whether you should withdraw the army or stay and fight. Get them on the record, in front of each other.”
“No. No, I’ve made up my mind. If Lee doesn’t attack us here tomorrow, I’ll withdraw and then recross the Rappahannock behind Sedgwick, strike Lee there, make a new start.”
“Well, we could see what happens.” He took Hooker by the forearm and told him, “Joe, you need to have them vote. Trust me.”
“And if they vote against me? If they vote to just sit here? Or attack Lee from here, where he’s prepared to receive us? And Longstreet could—”
“Longstreet’s not here. Sharpe finds no evidence of it.”
“But he will be. Any day.”
Instead of releasing Hooker’s arm, Butterfield tightened his grip. “Joe, hear me out. If they vote to stay here and sit, or even to attack … the blame will fall on their shoulders, if we fail. We’ll make damned sure of that. You’ll be the honest chief who welcomed advice, ever willing to hear out his subordinates, wanting only the best for army and country. And if they vote to withdraw, they’re the ones whose courage failed.” Butterfield sighed and dropped his hand away. “Between us, I’ve done well backing fire insurance. And I’m telling you that you need insurance now. And this kind’s free.” He reached for Hooker’s wrist again but stopped himself. “Joe, the aftermath of all of this is going to be one self-serving accusation after another. And Lincoln can’t be trusted, look at how he treated George McClellan.”
“Lincoln…” Hooker’s voice might have belonged to a sleepwalker.
“We’ve got to spread the blame, Joe.”
“A council of war…”
“Don’t even call it that, if you don’t want to. Don’t call it anything. But get them to vote. In front of each other.”
“I’m still the army’s commander, I’m still responsible. No matter what they—”
“Yes and no. The question is what the newspapers will say, where the factions in Congress will see their advantage. You have powerful friends, but you have to help them help you. Listen to me now, Joe. I’m your friend. And I’m going to be honest. The goal at this point isn’t a victor’s laurels. It’s to avoid a comprehensive defeat, the loss of this army you’ve built—an army still loyal to you, even if its generals aren’t. Don’t be a damned fool, get those vipers to vote. Make them squirm.”
Dan Butterfield had bet heavily on Joe Hooker, who had seemed capable of rising to any command, to any office. And Butterfield intended to remain loyal, that was beyond question. But he was a man of business, a realist, and he had to consider that a time might one day come when Hooker would need to be dropped. Not yet, of course.
“Council of war…,” Hooker repeated.
* * *
Sedgwick veered between confidence and fear. His men had repulsed the Johnnies handsomely, his line had not failed at a single point. Still, he had pulled back after the fighting, to a snug defensive position above Banks’ Ford. He was confident he could hold.
Unless Longstreet truly had arrived or would arrive. Unless Lee piled on still greater force. It would be impossible for the corps to cross the river under fire in broad daylight. And the blasted Confederate artillery was already shelling the only reliable crossing.
The Rappahannock had risen alarmingly, too. That cloudburst had threatened his pontoons, the sudden increase in the current had all but ripped them loose. What if more rain came and he was trapped?
Mightn’t it be the wiser course to withdraw tonight? If Hooker could be persuaded to approve it? “Fighting Joe” Hooker … Sedgwick had always been skeptical of the man, if privately, and now he distrusted him thoroughly: He could count on Lee attacking the Sixth Corps, all right, but he couldn’t count on Hooker to come to his aid. The man had more mouth than brains, that was the problem.
The campaign had been a travesty since the first of the bridges was laid, a classroom study concocted by Hooker and Butterfield, perfect in design and completely impractical. And he was the one about to pay the price.
He turned to McMahon, his chief of staff, again.
“I want another report from the engineers. Water levels, current, bank saturation, pontoon stability … you know. Wouldn’t do to be caught out and trapped.”
“No, sir.”
It struck Uncle John Sedgwick that if conditions at the ford demanded a prompt withdrawal, more than a single problem would be solved.
* * *
Marty McMahon, chief of staff of the Sixth Corps, had lost another illusion. With a brother gone to an inglorious death of common illness while in uniform and another brother serving at great risk, many a scale had fallen from his eyes. But he had idolized Sedgwick—a splendid man on a battlefield—until now. Given what was essentially an independent command, Sedgwick had failed, paralyzed by the responsibility. Again and again, the corps commander’s decisions had been laggard and overly cautious, in McMahon’s view, and one chance after another had been lost. Sedgwick had only come into his own this very day, when finally forced to fight. Now he was equivocating again.
Lieutenant Colonel Martin McMahon believed two things. First, that the corps’ new position could be de
fended against Lee’s entire army. And second, that Sedgwick was going to find an excuse to retreat across the river that night.
The lesson McMahon took to heart was that responsibility could break a man as readily as any enemy.
He wondered if that had happened to General Hooker.
* * *
“We’re counting on you, Dan,” Butterfield told Sickles.
* * *
Mud-slopped, George Meade dismounted in front of the headquarters tent. Given the clots of aides waiting idly in the darkness, he suspected that he was among the last of the corps commanders to arrive.
He drew off his riding gloves and thrust them into his belt. Trees dripped, a small rain after the great. A sergeant lifted the flap of the headquarters tent to let him enter.
The instant Meade stepped inside, the stench of wet wool and unwashed bodies struck him. The gathered generals stood around a table that bore a lantern and a map.
Hooker looked up, face swollen. “Ah. The favored son of Philadelphia has joined us, after all.” He turned to Butterfield, whom Meade regarded as little more than a pimp. “Slocum? Can we expect Slocum to grace us with his presence?”
Butterfield answered softly, close to Hooker’s ear.
Meade surveyed the attendees: Hooker looked as stiff as a dressmaker’s mannequin, while Butterfield had the air of a boxer waiting in his corner; Reynolds looked drained; Howard had on his preacher’s face; difficult to read, Sickles lurked on the other side of Butterfield from Hooker; Couch’s eyes roamed, judging; and Gouverneur Warren stood quietly at the rear of the crowded tent. Warren didn’t belong in the assembly, but Meade never minded having a fellow engineer on hand.
“All right,” Hooker said, “let’s get started. Since no one can find Slocum—which may say something about the state of this army.” He smirked, inviting laughter, but none came. Only Butterfield even smiled. The mood was of waiting to have a tooth drawn and wishing to get the bloody business done.