Lee suddenly recalled that Stuart, his cavalry chief, was with Hampton’s Division, far away and probing the Federal right. I must supply Jackson with cavalry from elsewhere, he thought.
“There is no reason for delay” Lee said matter of factly. “Major Taylor, send a courier to Major General Lee,” referring to his nephew, Fitzhugh Lee, who commanded the nearest cavalry division. “Give him my compliments, and instruct him to select a brigade for detached duty. Send its commanding officer here for orders.”
“Yessir!” Taylor saluted and left.
“General Ewell,” Lee continued. “At first light, your corps must be ready to move directly upon the enemy, in the direction of Cattlet Station. Wherever you find the Federal army, there you shall attack it with the utmost vigor. Force those people to turn and fight you. When Meade stops or turns, General Jackson will strike their right.”
Ewell hesitated. “It’s risky, sir. A very risky plan. It divides our army in the face of the enemy, and places our two corps at least 10 miles apart until after mid-day. We won’t be able to support each other, General Lee, for at least the entire morning. Meade could easily hold off General Jackson or myself with only one or two of his corps, and crush the other with the rest. Or he could turn in the morning and attack my corps with the bulk of his army. He could come between us, and defeat us in detail.”
Lee looked at Ewell, studied him, shielding his disappointment behind dignified impassivity. Ewell had shown great promise under Jackson, yet at Gettysburg, the man had been indecisive, dithering. Lee could see Ewell remained focused on what the enemy could do, not what the enemy would do or what Ewell himself could do to the enemy.
Old Baldy was right, of course, if in a pedantic way. The absence of Longstreet’s Corps, off in Tennessee where it had helped win victory at Chickamauga, was keenly felt.
Yet there was nothing to do about that, Lee knew, except make do with what they had. Long odds demand great risks. The Seven Days, Second Manassas, Chancellorsville, these past battles proved that. And when has the Army of the Potomac ever shown as much aggression as that? To turn around and concentrate on us! Why, they have my army outnumbered by at least two to one, and here they are, backing away from a fight.
“Those people, General Ewell, are retreating” Lee said in a polite, but flat tone, his cue that the discussion was over. “And they will continue to retreat. General Meade may come to stand his ground, but he will do it closer to Washington, and he will not suddenly turn to strike us.” Lee said.
“Yessir.” Ewell replied.
I must stay with him, Lee thought, slowly rubbing his hands together, as was his habit when thinking things through. I’m feeling a little better, strong enough to ride a horse and not in that ambulance, like a feeble old man. I can stay with Ewell, make sure he pushes hard tomorrow. He needs very little, only nudging.
“That will be all, gentlemen. General Jackson, if you and Mr. Hotchkiss there will wait here with me, I wish to discuss your proposed route with you in greater detail. Very well. General Ewell, you can expect your written orders shortly.” Lee turned and left the room.
Ewell shook hands with Jackson again, and hobbled out. Lee watched, thinking they were quite a pair, these two corps commanders of mine. Eccentric and always worried about ailments that Lee thought were real and imaginary in equal measure. Jackson without his left arm, Ewell without his left leg.
Lee was broken from his reverie when Jackson barked to one of his aides “Captain Smith, ride back to headquarters. Tell Sandie to have Early’s men up and ready within the hour. Johnson and Hill ready to follow at 5 p.m. Then you collect those picked guides, and have them ready for dispatch upon my return. Understood?”
11:30 pm
Jackson’s Corps, Army of Northern Virginia, CSA
Behind the Bull Run Mountains
Jackson watched in the dark as the teamsters whispered a countdown, and men and mules strained together to free an ambulance from the mud. He sat in his saddle with his right arm bent at the elbow, thumb sticking up, as had been his practice ever since First Manassas. He had been shot through the hand then, ruining the circulation and causing his thumb to swell up painfully sometimes. It was more important than ever for his circulation, holding that thumb up, what with his left arm gone.
The main column of Early’s Division trudged through the mud beyond him, and the urge to intervene, to make things happen, gnawed at him. The march had begun later than Jackson had intended, and when darkness fell, it was into an inky black, moonless, drizzly night. Even with well-placed cavalry guides showing the way, the march had slowed to a crawl once the head of his column turned off the main road and behind the Bull Run Mountains.
A man couldn’t see ten feet in front of him now, and the damp ground was sodden again. The route behind the Bull Run Mountains was a patchwork of roads, tracks and open fields. Only a few of those fields had dried-up cornstalks still standing, leftover from the harvest and holding the soil in place. The rest had swiftly become a bog, churned up by the passage of men, horses, guns and wagons. The roads and tracks were only marginally better. Each passing regiment or battery made the route worse for all who followed.
Giving up on trying to see beyond more than a handful of men at a time, Jackson crooked his ear and listened. The men were silent, as commanded by their night marching orders, but there was still plenty of noise. Creaking wagons and gun carriages, the muffled, sucking sound of a horse pulling its hoof from the mud, and the endless toots and groans of flatulent men as they walked by in their thousands.
Jackson shook his head and muttered “Cabbage.”
It was a fine mess, and the slowness made Jackson restless, but there was nothing to be done about it. These were his boys. They knew what to do, even if he seldom admitted it, because he had trained them to do it. Many had been with him since the Shenandoah Valley, and slogging in the dark through miles of muddy fields was old hat. No sense in chastising a man who was already doing his duty, so Jackson sat, watched, and fumed.
I must not be so impatient, he thought. The rain was, like all else in nature, the doing of Providence. Providence blessed the cause, and Jackson knew that if he was slowed by the weather, it must be to His willful purpose. All great events in this world were the work of Providence. Perhaps the enemy was slowed more. That thought warmed him.
Then Jackson heard a “hee-yah!” shouted from farther back. He snatched up the reins and pounced, spurring his horse and galloping back down the column, leaving his staff in his wake. The yell was followed by a few more.
“Who broke silence?” Jackson hissed, arriving at where the sound had come from, a mired battery. The men stopped what they were doing and stood to rigid attention. Even if they couldn’t really see him, every man knew that was an angry Old Jack.
Jackson’s staff slogged up behind him. Not taking his eyes off the offending battery and the passing infantry that had paused to help them, he quietly, flatly said “Sandie?”
Major Sandie Pendleton, his chief of staff, paused for a moment and studied the faces and the cannon in front of him. “Milledge’s Battery, I think, sir. Georgia boys.”
A man stepped in front of Jackson’s horse and saluted. Jackson couldn’t see his face, but the man whispered “Captain Milledge, sir. This is my battery.”
Jackson leaned forward over his horse’s neck. He could see him now. Milledge had been pushing a cannon himself, and was caked in mud. “Captain, the general orders for a night march command silence. Absolute silence. If you cannot keep these men quiet and move this battery, I will find someone who can.”
Milledge stood at rigid attention. “Yessir. Even my horses shall not whinny, sir,” he said in hushed tones.
“Good, good.” Jackson turned in the saddle and said “Major Pendleton, send for Colonel Nelson. I would remind him of the necessity of silence on a night march.”
Sandie was barely a month into his 23rd year, a thin boy endowed with a cherub-like face that suggested per
petual innocence, completely at odds with his role as chief bureaucrat and aide in Jackson’s Corps. It was an honest mistake, he thought, but Old Jack had not a whit of tolerance for disobedience to his orders, honest, mistaken or otherwise.
Sandie replied quietly “Yessir.”
October 14
6:30 a.m.
Lee’s Headquarters in the Field, Army of Northern Virginia, CSA
Southeast of Warrenton
Lee sat in his saddle, enjoying the crisp morning air and musing on how nothing in war ever went as planned, not ever. Just a little apart from General Ewell and their assembled staffs, he watched Ewell’s troops march by, waving hats but otherwise staying quiet, and reflected on the overly complicated plans he had once attempted, how everything about them went awry. He knew better now. Simplest was always best.
One of their European observers, the engineer Captain Scheibert from the Court of Hohenzollern, explained it best. One night at the campfire, Lee overheard Scheibert speak of a Prussian book on the philosophy of war, which described even the simplest things as being ground to a halt by “friction,” like gears grinding away in sand, and the most obvious things as being confused by a “fog.” No Jomini that Clausewitz, Lee thought, but he clearly knew this business first hand.
His plan started predictably enough. Fitzhugh Lee sent Wickham’s Brigade for service with Jackson, along with a thoughtful note explaining that many of that brigade’s 4th Virginia troopers were from hereabouts, and would prove most useful. Then Lee’s chief aide, Major Taylor, and the mapmaker Hotchkiss explained to Colonel Owen, in temporary command of that brigade, what Lee wanted done and how, and the brigade was on the road by dusk. The first of Jackson’s divisions, Early’s, followed shortly thereafter.
After seeing them off, Lee and Taylor returned to the Warren Green and worked until midnight, at which time Lee went to bed. No sooner was he under the covers then friction set in. After 1 o’clock, a message arrived from Stuart. It was politely phrased, with all Stuart’s usual cavalier pleasantries, but the contents were alarming for all that: Stuart, accompanying Hampton’s Division of cavalry, was cut-off behind enemy lines. He was well-hidden, he wrote, and could stay that way until after daybreak, but was nonetheless trapped between the Federal II and III Corps. Could Lee send him some assistance? Stuart asked.
Sending that assistance meant rewriting Ewell’s orders, diverting Wilcox’s Division to move farther east than originally planned, marching overland to Stuart’s relief. It was still the broad net Lee had hoped to cast, and he remained confident that some part of Ewell’s Corps would make solid contact with the Federal II Corps. That done, Ewell would pitch in with everything he had. Simple.
Lee observed Old Baldy chatting, and noted how confident and animated he was, quite a change from his hesitant demeanor the previous afternoon. When Lee had ridden to join him, he had delighted in reminding Lee that he was raised on a farm not far from here, knew the ground well, and would have no trouble finding the Union lines.
It was good to see Ewell so relaxed, Lee thought, but he still bore watching. I can trust Jackson to conquer whatever obstacles might lie in his path, to find a way to attack. No cause to worry about that. That leaves me free to focus my attention on supervising Ewell, who had started his corps forward at 5 o’clock, before first light. There had been some shooting, Lee thought, some scattered musketry, but nothing of substance. And no information.
6:30 am
II Corps, Army of the Potomac, USA
Auburn
General Gourvener Warren took the tin cup of coffee that was proffered to him, and thanked the orderly who brought it. With his II Corps on the road since 4 o’clock, well before dawn, and he himself attentive to his business, he hadn’t had time yet for breakfast.
Warren was handsome, a man of visible intelligence and prospects. He started the war a lowly lieutenant in his early 30s, but rose quickly to the post of chief topographical engineer in the Army of the Potomac. It was in that post that Warren saw the importance of a hill at Gettysburg called Little Round Top, critical to anchoring the Federal line, and on his own authority diverted the troops to defend it.
As a reward, he had been promoted again and given temporary command of the II Corps in place of General Hancock, severely wounded in that battle. Warren knew if he played his cards right, he might be in line for permanent corps command.
Of course, his men had missed breakfast too, and many of them were now making up for that, clustering around little fires and boiling coffee of their own. Warren grinned and sipped from the cup, and instantly became more wakeful. If there was one thing you could count on from a foot soldier in the United States Army, it was that given any opportunity, any at all, that man would collect some sticks, start a fire, and make some coffee. Other branches of the service mocked them for it, labeling them “coffee boilers.”
Warren sipped from his cup, and studied the surrounding village. Auburn was a little place, only a few homes, a post office and a blacksmithy near as he could tell. The air was still misty, especially around Cedar Run, which passed by just to the south. Auburn itself was quiet, with the few civilians present staying indoors and away from the hated bluecoats. The only real noise came from his own staff and field kitchen.
Caldwell’s Division and some of the artillery were perched on a neighboring hill, just behind the village. Webb’s Division was even nearer, and Hays’ Division had already crossed Cedar Run and was marching southwards. The corps wagon train led the way. To the north was the III Corps, under plodding old French, and together French and Warren faced the Rebels as the Union right wing. Behind them were Sykes and the V Corps.
Thus far that morning, there had only been a little musketry off to the west, Gregg’s cavalry and his own pickets skirmishing with the Rebels just a bit. The light contact was reassuring.
So it was that the sudden boom of artillery jarred Warren from his pleasant morning reverie, and he almost spilled his coffee in the process. “What the devil?” he exclaimed. “That’s coming from the east, the east and almost behind us by God!” Warren looked around, confused, and shouted “My horse! Where’s my horse!”
His horse brought up, Warren mounted and rode out of Auburn and up the low hill, his staff hurrying to follow him. When Warren reached the top, he could see Caldwell was already moving his boys over the top of the rise, away from the fire on the east slope and to the sheltered west slope. The three batteries of artillery that had been parked with Caldwell, some 18 guns in all, were unlimbering to return the Rebel fire.
Warren studied the scene below, peering through his field glasses. It looked like sometime during the night, Rebel cavalry had slipped between his right and the left of French’s III Corps. Jeb Stuart’s bastards had gotten into his rear, cut him off from his nearest source of support, and were now shooting him up with what looked like several horse guns down there.
A courier galloped up. Saluting Warren, he said “General Hays begs to report that he has put out skirmishers, and is advancing on the Rebel position with both his brigades.”
Outstanding, Warren thought. He had suspected Hays was a man of initiative. On the last day at Gettysburg, Hays had come out from behind the stone wall and counter-attacked the assault on Cemetery Ridge, scattering the Confederate left. Suspicion confirmed.
The courier inquired if he had any further orders for Hays. Warren said “No, but tell him to keep me informed.” He then went back to studying the country to the west, as oblivious to the bursting shells as to the departure of the courier.
Hays was doing the proper thing, Warren thought, but best make sure no one else goes tearing off on their own. I’m new to this corps. I don’t know these men very well, and they don’t know me.
Turning to an aide, Warren said “Send to Webb. Tell him to continue breakfasting his men, with my compliments, but once he has finished he is to unstack his arms and be ready to move. Then find Colonel Baxter—Webb ought to know where he is—and tell him to k
eep that wagon train rolling, as ordered. No change there.”
7:00 am
III Corps, Army of the Potomac, USA
Greenwich
William French felt much more than his 48 years in his back and thighs. Meade had put French’s III Corps to marching and counter-marching for days, and now they were retreating back to Centerville. The retreat suited him just fine. Getting up well before dawn and spending an entire day in the saddle, day after damned, live long day, did not.
He sat on the other side of Broad Run, puffy-eyed and sore, adjusting his paunch, watching as his last division marched past. Kilpatrick’s cavalry screened them from the other side of the river, and there had been no reports of Rebels yet. If Lee and Jackson had stirred, they weren’t coming his way.
French said absently to his new aide, a fresh-faced teenaged boy he had taken on staff as a favor, “Well, lieutenant, you won’t meet the elephant today.” Feeling chatty, French continued “Did you know I used to command Stonewall Jackson?”
“No, sir,” the aide croaked. Of course, he had heard all about it. The boy had caught up on all the staff gossip during his first week at headquarters. Still, army life was all very new to him, and French had never spoken to him in such familiar terms before. “That’s very interesting, if I may say so, General.”
French continued, almost as if the boy wasn’t there. “Yes. An intemperate man, obstinate, insubordinate. He was my post quartermaster, and he made a fine mess of it. Crackbrained. I wanted the man court-martialed, but it was all swept under the rug.”
“I ran him out of the army, though” French said, brightening. “Yes, I did. Jackson tucked tail, resigned, ran off to become a professor. A proper soldier would have persevered, stuck it out and stayed in the army.”
Stonewall Goes West: A Novel of The Civil War and What Might Have Been (Stonewall Goes West Trilogy) Page 2