Through the gap the enemy now could pour thousands of men, but precisely what the Federals were doing, amid the smoke and confusion, Hill’s subordinates could not ascertain. Of divisional staff work there was none. Except as the brigade commanders informed one another, they were in the dark. In Gregg’s brigade, in rear of the gap, arms had been stacked and the men told to lie down to protect themselves from the Federal artillery. Of a sudden, without so much as a shout of warning, Orr’s Rifles, Gregg’s right regiment, found the Federals upon them. Before the Confederates could load their rifles, or even grab them, common sense demanded flight. Away ran as many of Orr’s men as could escape. Gregg, directly between his retreating soldiers and the pursuing Federals, was shot from his horse.
Gallantly the Unionists had thrust, but now they could not push farther the spearhead of their attack. The 1st South Carolina stopped the infiltration; from either side of the gap the Confederates began to close in. Field’s brigade sent aid to Archer. Thomas hurried forward to relieve Lane. Farther to the rear, Old Jube was resolving a doubt. A courier told him of Archer’s plight; a staff man arrived from Jackson with orders to hold himself in readiness to move to the right, where the enemy was making a demonstration. Early chewed and spat and inwardly debated. Then word came of an “awful gap” between Archer and Lane, and that the batteries on the right would be lost. That decided the question for Early, and he ordered forward his own, Lawton’s, and Trimble’s brigades.
As Early’s veterans overtook those of Hill’s regiments driven from the front, there were jests: “Here comes old Jubal; let old Jubal straighten that fence!” Early launched his counterattack furiously. He pushed down the ridge and drove every Federal regiment out of the gap. Officers would remember seeing a man pull himself painfully up by the side of a little tree, and wave them onward. It was Maxcy Gregg.29
The battle on the Confederate right did not end with Early’s counterattack. Southern artillery had put a heavy price on the advance of the Federals and now it exacted a toll on the retreating bluecoats. John Pelham had nothing but compliments for Poague’s 20-pounder Parrotts in an extended duel with the Federal artillery. “Well,” said Pelham, “you men stand killing better than any I ever saw.” As an old gunner, Jackson observed the bombardment with keen eye. His spirits were high. During a lull, he rode out to the extreme right and, dismounting, went forward with no companion except his aide, James Power Smith. As Jackson and Smith were walking forward to reconnoiter, a bullet whizzed past between their heads. Said Jackson in calm delight: “Mr. Smith, had you not better go to the rear? They may shoot you!”
Other leaders had escapes as narrow. Jeb Stuart galloped up and down the right wing and reconnoitered several times beyond it. Once he rode within 200 yards of some Federal sharpshooters hidden behind a hedge. That square, stout figure of his on a tall horse was an ideal mark. The Federal marksmen strained over their sights and sent two bullets through his clothes, but did not injure him.30
On Jackson’s left, whither the fight seemed to be drifting, action was not close. Spitefully the Federal artillery explored the position before which the infantry hesitated. In support of a battery Dorsey Pender, as usual, was wounded—this time by a bullet that passed between the bones of his left arm. He had to go to the rear to have his wound attended, but he soon was back on the field. He found little to do defensively on the lines of the Second Corps.31 Burnside had shifted his battle to Longstreet’s front in one of the most ghastly and dramatic assaults of American war.
4
LONGSTREET WINS AN EASY VICTORY
On the edge of the town nearest the heights, the Federals visibly were massing in great numbers for an assault. Nothing could have been more acceptable to Longstreet. He had abundant infantry on strong ground; ample reserves were nearby; the Confederate batteries had been located admirably. Old Pete had simply to wait for the oncoming wave to break itself in daunting loss against the heights. He did feel some concern for the somewhat exposed position of Dick Anderson’s left brigade. Were it driven back, Cobb’s brigade in the sunken road would be enfiladed. When Cobb read Longstreet’s warning to this effect, he could not repress one proud assurance: “Well, if they wait for me to fall back, they will wait a long time!”32
The Federals at that moment made the first move toward an attack. They manifestly proposed to drive straight to the sunken road and to attempt to storm the heights. It seemed inconceivable that an effort would be made, but there before Southern eyes was the evidence of their preparation and, about noon, the reality of their advance. As the blue line pushed forward, it crumpled a board fence across its path as if it had been paper. This élan availed nothing. Once the fire of the batteries on the heights blasted the line, it faltered, it halted, it fell back in bloody confusion. Cobb’s brigade in the sunken road and Cooke’s on the crest had opportunity of firing one volley and no more.
From the Confederate side, when the smoke lifted, only three stands of Union colors planted at the point of deployment, and the dead or writhing victims on the ground, showed where the attack had been delivered. The repulse was as well directed as it was easy. Longstreet’s First Corps was vindicating the record the separate divisions had achieved. McLaws was at his best. Ransom was measuring up to every requirement. Cooke on the hilltop was as gallant a figure as at Sharpsburg.33
Down in the sunken road, Tom Cobb was cool and self-possessed and was holding perfectly in hand his confident troops. He was moving among the men, preparing them for a second test, when with a gasp he dropped to the ground. A bullet from the rifle of a sharpshooter had shattered his thigh. Blood poured from severed arteries. The first surgeon who reached Cobb did what he could to staunch the flow, but he looked grim. They brought him whiskey and poured it down his throat, but he was past stimulation. Suddenly he became insensible. Soon his heart ceased to beat.
Almost at the moment of Cobb’s fall, John R. Cooke had been hit in the forehead while he was atop Willis’s Hill, as that part of the heights was styled. An ugly wound Cooke had, and one that manifestly had fractured the skull. Whether it would be fatal, none could say. Odds were that his end had come, like that of Tom Cobb, in the first battle he had fought as a general officer. The two brigades that apparently were to be hammered hardest that day on the anvil of attack were now to be commanded by their senior colonels present.34
Before Longstreet could reflect whether this would make any difference in the defense, the Federal attack was renewed. Did McLaws have enough men in the sunken road to beat back the bluecoats? He was not sure. Kershaw had better send two of his regiments to help Cobb. The reserve regiment of Cobb’s should move down to the sunken road. Thither, also, Ransom hurried two regiments of Cooke’s brigade. These North Carolinians, being the nearest, got to the sunken road in time to share in beating off with small effort the second Federal attack. Not long did the Confederates have to wait for another. Before rifles began to cool in the December air the enemy was coming up again. Along the sunken road the volleys flashed; down the hillside roared the echo of the guns. The repulse was swift, easy, ghastly.
McLaws reasoned that reinforcements and the firm voice of a leader who had nerves of steel would steady the Georgians if they were shaken by the loss of Cobb. The man to replace him was Kershaw. Two of that excellent soldier’s regiments were on their way to the sunken road. Let Kershaw go there in person; let his remaining troops follow him. Joe Kershaw now became the central figure on the smoke-swept stage. His men must march fast behind him, he said, and he rode into the fire with no more hesitation than he would have shown on his way to a political barbecue in his native South Carolina. When he emerged on the crest of Willis’s Hill, a conspicuous and defiant target, men said afterward that the Federals withheld their fire as if in admiration, and that he took off his cap in acknowledgment ere he disappeared on his way to the sunken road. An army myth this may have been, but a tribute it was to bravery that thousands had seen and admired.
When the volleys of K
ershaw’s regiments were added to those of the men in the sunken road, the enemy faced an impenetrable front of fire. Never had Lee presented so many muskets on so narrow a front. Said Kershaw afterward: “I found, on my arrival, that Cobb’s brigade … occupied our entire front, and my troops could only get into position by doubling on them. This was accordingly done, and the formation along most of the line during the engagement was consequently four deep.” Firepower, then as always, bred confidence. The Federals could continue their assaults. They would get more than they could stand!35
So thought the men, so their corps commander. Old Pete observed everything, kept his eye on everything. The sole difference that anyone could have noted in him, as he sat and smoked and watched the enemy through his field-glasses, was an increased heartiness, an added forthrightness of manner. When Lee expressed some concern lest repeated Federal assaults break the front of the First Corps, Longstreet answered proudly, almost bluntly: “General, if you put every man now on the other side of the Potomac on that field to approach me over the same line, and give me plenty of ammunition, I will kill them all before they reach my line. Look to your right; you are in some danger there, but not on my line.”36
By 2:45 P.M. it was evident that the front-line units had to settle down to an afternoon of slaughter. Attacks seemed to come at intervals of scarcely more than a quarter of an hour. Behind each assault was the might of all the guns the Federals could bring to bear. Stafford Heights blazed ceaselessly. Many guns were firing from the town. The Confederate batteries answered defiantly when the infantry advanced but at other times husbanded their fast-dwindling ammunition.
The Washington Artillery on the heights bore the heaviest burden of defense. Finally, its caissons empty, it had to leave the post of honor. In its place came a part of the battalion that had been Stephen Lee’s and now was Porter Alexander’s. Into the zone of furious bombardment dashed Alexander’s column, up the hill, then raced at a gallop along the face of the ridge—a sight so stirring that watchers caught their breath. Still at the gallop, the guns were brought to the earthworks where they were unlimbered and put into action as smartly as if they had been at practice for a dress review.
The welcome opening of these guns was to the infantry under the hill music as sweet as the sound of the swelling rebel yell to the ears of Old Jack, but so far as the Confederates could ascertain, the appearance of fresh artillery on the hill did not deter or even discourage the Federals. Union batteries boldly took position within little more than 300 yards of the sunken road and attempted to cover the advance of the infantry. Alexander divided his fire scrupulously between the infantry and the batteries.37
Repulsed, slaughtered, the Federals appeared indomitable. Again they came, again, again, till Confederates lost count of the advances. The sun set not so late, nor seemed to sink so slowly as at Sharpsburg, but the bravely mad assaults continued till twilight. Gallant they had been, their repulse the most costly the war had brought. Much truth appeared in the dispatch of a Northern newspaper correspondent: “It can hardly be in human nature for men to show more valor, or generals to manifest less judgment….”38
Nothing touching that indictment of the Federals could be said of Longstreet. Every phase of the fighting he had watched. After his brief exchange with Lee concerning the security of his position, Old Pete did not receive a single suggestion from the commanding general. Confidently he left the defense of the heights to McLaws, to Ransom, and to their men. Easy his bearing had been, easy his handling of his corps. A great day for Longstreet that thirteenth of December was, a day that confirmed his faith in the tactical defensive.
5
THE NIGHT OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS
At twilight and from a position so much exposed to the Federal artillery, a counterstroke by Longstreet was not to be considered. On his front, Jackson had waited to repulse a renewed attack, but all the while he burned with a desire to throw his veterans against the troops in the plain. For once he spoke openly of his plans. “I want to move forward,” he said, “to attack them—to drive them into the river yonder!” and he threw out his arm as he spoke.39
Jackson’s military judgment challenged his impulse. On the one hand, the foe was weakened and discouraged by the vain assault. At the enemy’s back was a wide, deep river. As inviting a situation this was as any apostle of the offensive could ask. On the other hand, the Federal artillery was undiminished in strength and admirably placed to mow down infantry that descended from the ridge. If the Second Corps could reach the Northerners, it could drive them; but how was it to get at them? Jackson thought of a solution: A counterstroke delayed until nearly sundown, then launched after a heavy, close-range bombardment. If this demoralized the enemy for a few minutes, the Confederates might reach the masses of blue soldiery. If their thrust were repelled, Jackson’s men would have darkness to cover their return to their own lines.40
Jackson decided that this plan was not unreasonably hazardous. Batteries were called up that had not been engaged. Quickly they prepared for the advance, which was to be followed in a few minutes by that of the infantry. Four divisions of infantry, no less, Jackson intended to use on the sound principle that if the attack was worth anything, it was worth maximum effort. To this point everything went smoothly, but abruptly, like a wagon that lost a wheel, Jackson’s staff work broke down. Sandie Pendleton, his A.A.G., was hit and stunned. Without Sandie, the transmission of Jackson’s orders was slow, confused, and wholly incompetent.
D. H. Hill received word promptly, but no instructions reached A. P. Hill until about dusk. Then he was directed, in few words, to advance his whole line and drive the enemy. Hood’s orders, received as the sun was setting, bade him join in the movement on his right as soon as Powell Hill advanced. No intimation did Early receive during the afternoon of any plan to attack. The instructions that finally reached him only left him puzzled and confused.41
In due course Jackson recovered grip on the movement he had ordered. He knew where his units were and he could control the field. Through fast-gathering twilight he gave the word for the artillery to emerge and deliver what he hoped would be a surprise bombardment. Speed the advance, speed it! Whatever was done at all must be done quickly. December twilight would not linger.
Intently Jackson listened; anxiously he waited. The leading battery was out of the woods. It advanced 100 yards. Soon it would be within range…. Then the Federals opened. At first a few shots, then a dozen, a score, a hundred guns joined in. On a wide arc they flashed and roared. Over the field that Jackson’s line would have to cross swept a scythe of fire. The Southern gunners answered, but Jackson stopped them. They were wasting ammunition. The advance could not succeed. Halt all forward movement. When Jackson returned to his quarters he did not seem especially disappointed that he had lost the twilight gamble on the plain. Although the glare of battle faded from his eyes, he did not abandon hope that God on the morrow would deliver the enemy into his hands.42
Darkness fell, but not for the undisputed reign of the long December night. Soon from beyond the Confederate left, far up the Rappahannock, there rose a glow. The sky flushed and grew dark again. Now shining white, it reddened and dimmed and blazed once more till it lighted the faces of the marveling soldiers—“northern lights” it must be, the fantastic sky-painting of the aurora borealis. The spectacle awed but it flattered. Wrote one Confederate: “Of course, we enthusiastic young fellows felt that the heavens were hanging out banners and streamers and setting off fireworks in honor of our victory.”43
Of all the wounded that night the man most on the minds of Lee’s lieutenants was Maxcy Gregg. He had been carried to the Yerby house and there, fully conscious, he dictated a proud dispatch to the governor of his state. “I am severely wounded,” he wrote, “but the troops under my command have acted as they always have done, and I hope we have gained a glorious victory. If I am to die now, I give my life cheerfully for the independence of South Carolina, and I trust you will live to see our cause
triumph completely.” This was in the spirit characteristic of Gregg. Politeness and courtesy were his second nature. Did not men say that not long before Gregg was shot down, Sandie Pendleton had shouted to him that the enemy was firing at him; and Gregg had answered, “Yes, sir, thank you, they have been doing so all day.” Now that the surgeons examined more carefully his injured spine, they had to conclude that his hurt was mortal. He received the death sentence without a tremor.44
Ere dawn, into the Yerby house, stalked Jackson—a Jackson very different from the stern-jawed, sharp-lipped general who once had put all of Gregg’s colonels under arrest by a single order. The voice that greeted Gregg was low and husky and scarcely to be identified as that of the man who on the fourth of September harshly had told Gregg to take the road. Gently the Southern Cromwell slipped his hand into that of the dying officer. “The doctors tell me that you have not long to live,” he said with deep emotion. “Let me ask you to dismiss this matter from your mind and turn your thoughts to God and to the world to which you go.” Tears were in Gregg’s eyes. Deep patrician courtesy triumphed over pain. “I thank you,” he murmured, “I thank you very much.” Jackson said farewell and went out. “Silently we rode away,” his companion reported, “and as the sun rose, General Jackson was again on the hill near Hamilton’s Crossing.”45
Long before that, the northern lights had died away.
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