None of this was apparent to Hooker, whose focus was the suicidal charge of the cadets. They had bought him minutes, seemingly for nothing-his reserves were exhausted. But the Guards' commander did not know that and was loath to leave the orchard open on his flank. Preston peeled off two companies from his support line to clean out the orchard. They would be in the trees in five minutes, seven or eight if Hooker was lucky. He turned to an aide, "Warn the hospital and get those prisoners on the road south. Then-"
He turned to look back. He heard the unmistakable sign of infantry on the double - the pounding feet, the rattle of equipment. Up through the trees rode a field officer. Behind trotted the infantry. Colonel Gates rode up, saluted. "General, the 20th New York State Militia has arrived. General Sharpe sends his compliments along with our new toys." He pointed to the coffee mill guns jolting by. "Where do you want us, General?"
Hooker slapped his hat against his leg. "By God, sir, I want you to stop them." He pointed to the mass of the Grenadier Guards wheeling to attack the Pennsylvanian brigade and its two companies coming directly at them. Gates's veterans uncoiled their column with the fluid grace of long practice. The companies left room for the coffee mill gun crews to wheel their weapons between the companies in three four-gun batteries. Hooker watched, fascinated by the strange guns. Sharpe had alerted him that they were something special, but he had expected little more than toys.
It was not toys that opened up when Gates gave the command. The tree line shot flame at the two Grenadier companies-250 riflemen and 12 coffee mill guns - the firepower of a brigade and more. Click-bang turned into a staccato scream. The scarlet ranks melted away. It was a massacre. Hooker gaped at the destruction.
The look on Paulet's face from the other side of the field was even more stunned. He did not have time to recover. His mounted party was too prominent a target and drew the fire of a coffee mill battery. The steady, level stream of bullets scythed through men and horses until only wounded animals thrashed on the ground amid the dead and wounded. Paulet and Lindsay were both dead. The Albany Field Force had been decapitated in thirty seconds.
But the Dandies marched on, oblivious to the slaughter of the generals. Preston rode directly behind the colors as the battalion wheeled past the orchard. The guns struck them in the flank and rear. The big Guardsmen crumpled or pitched forward, struck from behind. Preston and his horse went down as the guns converged on the scarlet colors. The color bearers and guard fell to the ground with no one left living near to pick up the fallen staffs. Fifty yards to the rear, the support line watched the destruction but continued marching. A subaltern and a pair of Grenadiers ran forward to retrieve the colors only to be shot to pieces themselves. Still, the support line marched forward into the fire of the guns, which had few targets left in what had been the main attack line. At last the line stopped on the command of the battalion major and attempted to turn front to return fire on the orchard. The major and the other officers fell as the line disintegrated in the fire of the guns.
Hooker was at Gates's side during all this. "Stubborn to the end, Gates. The Queen will mourn this day for sure, but by God, the woman will have nothing to be ashamed of." Not more than a hundred Grenadiers were left standing, but standing they were, returning fire until the guns swept the last of them to the ground. The dark, turned earth of the field was strewn with bright scarlet and the darker color of blood .21
A deadly stillness hung over the field. Both the nearby 1st Montreal Brigade and the Pennsylvanians had been witnesses to the destruction of the Grenadier Guards. The stillness was broken by a spontaneous cheer from the Americans, whose hats were sailing through the air. The cheer was taken up all along the line until it thundered louder than the guns. A shiver ran through the Imperial and Canadian battalions.
They would have done more than shiver had they also known that Meagher's XI Corps and the cavalry division were closing on their rear. For Wolseley, it was a race to get his battered command out of the way of that onrushing mass in dark blue without being slowed down by Geary's regiments close on his rear. He was puzzled for a moment, then hurried his men on faster when the guns to the north went silent and the noise of wild cheering took its place. He kept Geary's men off with sudden bayonet charges as he displaced his companies back. He was impressed with the sureness of the Fusiliers, who executed the difficult maneuver with quickness and skill even as the bullets and shells winnowed their ranks. As much as the moment filled his attention, he had thought to get the remnants of the Borderers and Canadians and the artillery into the protection of the village, which could he turned into a strong point behind which the army could retreat.
Meagher had anticipated him and sent Custer into the town first. His dismounted cavalrymen were waiting with their repeaters, more than eager to get even after their bloody repulse. They waited until the first battery was within a hundred yards. It was a target few had ever thought they would have - six guns, caissons, limbers, and over a hundred men in the dark blue of the Royal Artillery and as many horses crowding the road. The men riding the lead horses of the gun teams lashed their beasts forward. They rushed into a wall of lead. Horses crashed to the ground, dragging down the others in their traces, overturning vehicles and guns, spilling the riders until the column was a tangled, writhing mass of ruin. The infantry behind them stopped dead in its tracks, the men too tired and beaten up to push on. They went to earth where they could.
But Wolseley was guided by the ability to see at one glance what is vital, that greatest of military talents, the coup d'oeil. As the Fusiliers and batteries formed a rear guard, Wolseley kicked and prodded the Borderers and Canadians back to their feet and ordered another battery to fire on the town. He led the bayonet attack that drove Custer's men through the village streets and hedges.
He barely had time to lean on a fence and gasp for breath when an officer found him to report the destruction of the Grenadiers and the deaths of Paulet and Lindsay. The man could find no other senior officer after riding along the battle line across the creek. Just then he heard the crash of firing outside the town as Meagher's regiments closed on the Fusiliers. Over the creek, the firing also took up again as Williams's division went over into the attack. It seemed to Wolseley that death's head was grinning at him, savoring its joke-that he had acceded to his life's wish of command of an army in a desperate struggle only to surrender it. He looked at the death's head straight on with that single ice-blue eye and said, "Not today."30
FORT ALBANY, VIRGINIA, 12:33 PM, OCTOBER 28, 1863
From the fort's observation tower, Lee had no doubts that his long shot had failed. The carnage on Long Bridge had put paid to his daring coup de main against Washington. He buried that hope without another thought and turned to what he must do to save the army. He would have to move quickly to extricate Ewell's corps. Every courier from J. E. B. Stuart had been more and more insistent. Meade's army was getting closer and closer. He took barely a moment to once more gaze at Arlington House on its hill. He realized then that he and Mary would never see it again.
PLATTSBURGH, NEW YORK, 8:27 AM, NOVEMBER 9, 1863
Hooker warmed his hands at the fireplace and then turned to let the fire's heat warm his backside, one of the great pleasures of a wintry day. He looked through the windows of his comfortable headquarters at the blizzard raging outside, the storm that had rung its white curtain down so unseasonably on the war. The Army of the Hudson was snugly quartered from Plattsburgh to Albany. He knew how to take care of his men, and they deserved it. It was their hard fighting that made him the hero of the nation and the darling of New York. He swirled a brandy in its glass, took a sip, and savored it. Mixed with fame, it was heady beyond measure. The sight of a petticoat thrown over a chair the previous night added just the right ingredient to the bouquet. Another reward of fame?
His victory would later be immortalized in a famous painting -the meeting of Hooker and Meagher on the victorious field of Claverack where the two leaned over in their saddles
to embrace as the Ulster Guard wildly waved the colors of the Grenadier Guards. Hooker would dine out on this victory for the rest of his life, and if it had been such a "close-run thing" as Waterloo, why, he would be careful to mention that to add to that fame. And, of course, that fame shone all the brighter when he praised his hard-bitten and gallant foe. His favorite story was about his visit to the field hospitals after nightfall when he encountered a number of wounded Grenadiers. He asked them why they had not immediately retreated when taken under such fire. One had replied promptly, "Why, sir, we are the Grenadier Guards."2
And that was only the truth. Their steadfast valor had ennobled his victory. It did chafe him that the survivors had escaped annihilation and fought their way clear in good order, despite the fact that their senior officers were dead or wounded. He took some wry satisfaction from remembering the observation from one of his history courses taught on the ancient Greeks at West Point by old Professor Mahan, "What the gods give with one hand, they take away with the other." Captain McEntee's interrogation of prisoners revealed that it had been a one-eyed colonel who had led the enemy off the field, warding off every attempt to snare the survivors. Night had closed off pursuit and saved the enemy. Hooker had known the Army of the Hudson was too savaged by the day's fighting to pursue even a kindergarten class. He was lucky to have half the men at hand that he had taken into battle that morning, and they were drained. Most had fallen asleep on their arms already. The clang of doom would not have stirred them.3
Hooker put his bloodied army on the road two days later. Fighting Joe's pursuit was quickened by the drumbeat of the newspapers cry for vengeance. He was their hero of the hour, Chancellorsville now conveniently forgotten. Wolseley had not cooperated and had made his speedy retreat between Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks, pulling the remaining Imperial troops out of Albany and picking up the Canadian militia companies that had been garrisoning each railroad station as he went. It was a masterful and heroic retreat, one that the British specialized in on occasion and wrung so much glory from. It would take its place with Sir John Moore's retreat to Corunna. Wolseley kept his force together, dodging and parrying Custer's cavalry and more than once fighting right through their blocking positions. Still, Custer delayed him enough at Plattsburgh for Hooker to come within a hair of bringing him to bay, but the Anglo-Irishman wiggled out of a decisive engagement and crossed the border into Lower Canada the next day and manned the fortifications there.
Hooker was too good a politician to let that stop him. He had to be the first American general to take the war to the enemy, yet his infantry was too weak to assault the British in their defenses. Instead, he sent Custer through the woods on logging trails to raise hell along the railway that ran between Richelieu and St. John. Wolseley was not spooked. He could smell the snow in the air. It was Custer who barely got his men out through the snowstorms.4
His back still to the delicious warmth of the fire, Hooker was doing some serious thinking about that one-eyed colonel who had snatched complete victory from him. He ordered McEntee to find out everything he could about him and was gratified to find out that Sharpe's interest in him was, if anything, greater. He had just finished reading Sharpe's report that had come in over the wire. That one-eyed lieutenant colonel was Garnet Wolseley, who had been jumped up to brigadier; the British have the great knack of finding heroes in the midst of their disasters. His name was on everyone's lips in London, a balm for defeat. There was also a list of those mentioned in dispatches. He would have to find out about the man who topped the list after Wolseley. Who was this fellow Brown?
HEADQUARTERS, HER MAJESTY'S FORCES IN NORTH AMERICA, MONTREAL, 9:10 AM, NOVEMBER 9, 1863
The St. Lawrence River flowed dull gray below them. From the height of the stone fortress built by Louis XIV to protect New France, Hope Grant and Wolseley looked down on the snow-blanketed slate roofs of Montreal, over the river, and to the south. In their minds' eyes, they were seeing Hooker's army in winter quarters. When the snow melted, Hooker would lead it north to Montreal. The American dream of conquering Canada now seemed all too real.
They would have to get past Grant and his violoncello first. Claverack had stunned Canada, and only Grant's triumph at Kennehunk had given them hope that the Stars and Stripes would not be flying from Halifax to Lake Superior by spring. Grant had been all energy from the moment of his arrival, not least in bracing up the Canadians for the terrible campaigns of 1864.
But then something of a miracle happened. The Canadian legislature voted vast sums for defense, called up the Sedentary Militia, and begged for more volunteers. Canada was born in the womb of such danger. A wave of intense feeling ran from one end of British North America to the other. Enough volunteers to fill every vacancy, and a hundred more battalions flooded in. War loans were oversubscribed twenty times. A soldier could not buy a drink. Even the French had come forward, realizing that the Crown's mild rule was infinitely preferable to that of Yankee conquerors.'
Wolseley commented on the last point, "We know how long that will last."
Grant drew his bow across his violoncello to test the instrument. He was worried how the cold might affect its tone, but clear, sweet notes scented the air, and he smiled. "Ah, you see, Joe, how well she plays. The army will play just as well in the spring. The battalions that are arriving will not be the last."
"But, sir-"
Grant waved his bow. "I am not worried. There is opportunity here. The key lies in your analysis of Hooker. I devoured your reports on the voyage over, Joe. First rate and the best preparation I've ever had before a campaign. The Crimea would have gone a damn sight better with such preparation."
"The key, sir?"
"Yes, Hooker is vainglorious and ambitious beyond a fault. From the American papers, he is riding as high as a balloon now, and I have no doubt it will go right to his head faster than sweet champagne on an empty stomach. I want him to come over the border on the first good day. A truly dangerous enemy would wait until he was ready.
"Now we shall make good use of the winter, mind you. The enthusiasm of the Canadians will he critical."
Wolseley said, "All fine and good, sir. The Canadians are in this to the knife. But Socrates put his finger on the problem. A collection of men is no more an army than a pile of building materials is a house. There's a limit to the training we can conduct in the winter, and Hooker will not give us a day of good weather before he's over the border and at our throats. The Americans will be pouring in from Detroit and Buffalo as well, and they will march up to relieve Portland again. Thank God fifty thousand Enfields arrived here earlier this year.
"Oh, I think the Canadians will be up to it. Now, gentlemen," he turned to the other three officers sitting with him, "Are we ready?" They bent to their instruments, and soon the delights of Eine kleine Nachtmusik wafted through the great stone hall.
PORT HUDSON, 8:45 AM, NOVEMBER 9, 1863
Franklin would have changed places without hesitation with Chamberlain, who was now shut up again in Fortress Portland. From the battery parapet, he could see the endless dark blue and red columns of French troops marching in from the east on Ponchatoula Road to join Taylor's Confederates already manning the old Union siege works. He was outnumbered at least four to one. His only trump was the Navy's Mississippi Squadron. In the weeks since he had brought his battered XIX Corps through the bayous and swamps from the Vermillionville disaster, he had done everything possible to put Port Hudson in a state to stand siege. The news filtered down from the north had been had everywhere. No reinforcements. His orders were to hold with what he had. Crowding along the parapet was what gave him his greatest worry - one-third of his garrison, the black men of the Corps d'Afrique.
God knew he did not know what to make of them. He had to admit they maintained a sharp military bearing, and he found nothing to complain of in their guard duty or drill. What did take him aback was the intensity of their religious experience when their own preachers called them to God's work. It
was a Sunday, and the power of their hymns thundered over the parapets and down across the fields.'
Bazaine was also thinking about black troops, his Sudanese battalion, as he rode with his escort surveying the defenses. The shame of their slaughter of prisoners at Vermillionville had stained the perfection of his victory. They must atone.
He raised his arm to halt the group and leaned over in the saddle to listen to the exotic rhythms pulsating from the fort. He asked what it was and was told by his Confederate escort that it was the black Union troops at church.
It occurred to him that there was a tidy solution to that little problem. It would he a very Gallic solution. Then he would take this place as he had stormed the Malakoff Heights in the Crimea. The emperor would deny him nothing.'
LOOKOUT CREEK, TENNESSEE, 7:45 PM, NOVEMBER 8, 1863
Longstreet sat his big sorrel on the banks of the creek as his veterans of Hood's and McClaw's divisions filed past in the early evening gloom. Bragg's "dramatic" removal from command left Jefferson Davis no choice. He recalled Longstreet from his expedition against Lexington and placed him in command of the Army of Tennessee. His arrival in camp was greeted with cheers that were heard down in besieged Chattanooga.
A Rainbow of Blood: The Union in Peril an Alternate History Page 30