by Jeff Shaara
He turned Traveller around, began to ease him along the top of the ridge, moving slowly down to the south. The hills fell away slightly, down into thick trees, and he could see downriver now. The space between his troops and the river was even wider there, another large flat plain, completely open. This cannot be, he thought. No, this must be a feint, a ruse. They will start moving, downstream, a few miles, maybe Skinker’s Neck, possibly down to Port Royal. But that would be the last chance. Below Port Royal the river widened to over a half mile, and was deep enough for larger boats. And, as the river snaked far down below the plains of Fredericksburg, there were thick woods lining both sides and any crossing would be difficult, easily defended with smaller numbers of troops. He stopped the horse, looked back across to the heights. And so there they sit, he thought. And it will be . . . here.
Above Stafford Heights he saw something, the sun reflecting off an object high in the air. He had heard of the balloons, the new observation platforms held aloft by the big bags of hydrogen. And now he saw more of them, downriver, and he knew they were watching him, knew by now he was digging in. He shook his head. They were waiting for . . . what? Does Burnside think I will attack him? he wondered. No, he is coming. And we will be patient.
Behind his hill more men were moving up, wagons were unloaded, more guns were pulling in. He saw horses climbing up toward him, saw Taylor, and another man, a red hat: artillery. It was Colonel Porter Alexander. They reached him, saluted, and Alexander said, “General Lee, a fine day, sir.”
“Appears so, Colonel. What do you think of this position?”
Alexander smiled, and Lee saw the youth, a man not much older than Taylor, saw a bright and efficient student of war. Alexander said, “General, we have batteries all along the hill, we have a solid anchor on the north, covering the river, and by tomorrow the batteries will be positioned in those trees down to the south. We will be able to cover the entire open ground, all of it.” He paused, looked down toward the town, then closer, the bottom of the steep hill, the stone wall.
“General Lee, do you think they will come at us here?”
Lee looked again to the river, said, “Colonel, the Federal Army is massed together across that river watching us prepare for them. If I were General Burnside . . . no, I would not attack here, I would move back upstream, come across above us. But General Burnside is not a man with the luxury of flexibility. He is being pushed from behind, by loud voices in Washington, by newspapers who demand quick action. We are here, and so he will attack us here.”
“General, we have positioned guns to cover every inch of the open ground. If they try to cross that canal, it will slow them down, and we will hit them from every angle. Sir, a chicken could not live on that field.”
Lee looked at the young man, saw the intensity, the enthusiasm for the deadly job. He suddenly felt excited, a quick rush, looked back down toward the town, thought, Yes, let them come.
To the south, along the ridge, a lone horseman worked his way along, through the lines of laboring soldiers. Taylor motioned, and Lee turned his horse, watched the man move closer, then saw Captain James Power Smith of Jackson’s staff.
Smith saluted, knocking a thin crust of mud off his hat, said, “General Lee, sir. General Jackson sends his respects, and advises that his corps will begin deploying to the south of this position by tomorrow, per your instructions, sir.”
Lee nodded, looked back across the river, raised his eyes and looked into the dull gray sky. He gave a prayer then: Thank You for this place, for this ground. He lowered his gaze, stared at the blue mass across the river, covering the distant hillside, the patchwork of white tents and black guns, thought, You had your chance, General. Now we are ready.
28. JACKSON
December 1862
IT HAD been a good day, the men had kept the columns tight, moving with good speed. There was no dust, the roads crusted each morning with a thin frost, a light cover of snow. He had sat on his horse, watching them pass, had seen the bare feet, the bloody impressions, and he felt a deep pain, a sadness. He did not talk about it, did not show what he was thinking, and his staff had learned to keep their distance; that when he moved away from the column, sat alone like this, watching the men, there would be no orders, no messages; that he would stay in one spot for a long while, just watching. The troops would often cheer him, recognized him now, knew the worn and ragged coat he wore, the same major’s jacket he had worn at VMI, the small crumpled cadet hat he pulled tightly down on his head, shading his eyes.
Today he sat off to the side of the road in the shadows of a tall pine tree, and they did not know he had cried, talking quietly to God. He sat upright in the saddle, stiff, feeling the sharp burning in his side, knowing it was sent there by God, a lesson in the pain of his men. He had pleaded, Please, make it stop, yes I understand, I see them. They are all good men, and I have so little to give them. But the pain had not stopped, had been with him all day, and now, after the march, the cold night covered them all. Finally, as he sat alone in his tent, the pain had gone away.
As they rested in the comfort of the Shenandoah, his army had grown. If there was one success from the Maryland invasion, it had been to rid northern Virginia of Federal troops, and the farms had prospered, the harvest had been a good one, and so the army had been fed, had grown much healthier, and new recruits and veterans with healing wounds had added to the numbers.
He did not want to go to Fredericksburg. From his position in the valley he was still a threat to Washington, and he had tried to convince Lee that this was the greater value. But Lee had finally been firm, had ordered him to march, and so he moved his men with the same energy they had come to expect. He did not understand the importance of Fredericksburg. There was no way to pursue a beaten enemy back across the Rappahannock. He had favored a line farther south, along the South Anna River, and Lee had agreed, but now Burnside had taken that option away. The fight was to be at Fredericksburg, and so he did not question, began to see it now in his mind, his guns and his troops flowing forward to strike the enemy again with all the fire and deadly energy God would provide.
Outside the tent, his staff gathered around a sack of mail, dropped by a weary courier. There was a light snowfall, and the air was quiet and cold. They would not disturb him when he was in his tent, had learned that he would often pray for long periods, but now there were nods, and it was his chief of staff, Sandie Pendleton, who moved toward the tent.
He stopped, stood at attention by the canvas wall, said, “Sir? Forgive me, General. . . .”
Jackson sat inside on a small wooden stool, had been staring at the back of the tent, staring at the glow from a small oil lamp. He turned toward the voice from outside, did not speak, and Pendleton waited. After a moment Jackson focused and his mind returned to the tent, absorbed the young man’s words. He said, “You may enter, Captain.”
Pendleton lifted the flaps, leaned into the warmth of the dull light, said, “There is a letter for you, General. It’s a bit late, but the courier was slow today. I thought you would want to see it, sir.”
Jackson reached out, took the letter from Pendleton’s outstretched hand and glanced at the envelope. It was a woman’s writing, but not Anna’s.
Pendleton said, “Good night, sir,” and was gone, the flaps dropping back down to seal out the cold.
He stared now at the letter, felt a cold lump in his stomach. Anna had been pregnant again, and he had not seen her since he heard the news. They had been together briefly the previous spring, in Winchester, prior to the great battles, his great triumphs over the Federal armies in the valley. He had not mentioned the pregnancy to anyone, not even his staff, had feared if word got out, God would not be pleased, would punish him somehow. His fear for Anna was so great that he would not think of her at all, would coach himself to think instead of God. If he revealed too much, if God knew that he was afraid for her, if he did not trust completely in God’s care, He would take her from him, as He had taken Ellie, as H
e had taken his daughter.
Jackson did not recognize the writing on the envelope, saw that it was from North Carolina, where Anna had gone to spend the long months with her family. He took a deep breath, tore open the envelope. His hand shook slightly as he held the paper out, catching the lamplight.
My Own Dear Father,
As my mother’s letter has been cut short by my arrival, I think it but justice that I should continue it. I know that you are rejoiced to hear of my coming, and I hope that God has sent me to radiate your pathway through life. I am a very tiny little thing. I weigh only eight and a half pounds, and Aunt Harriet says I am the express image of my darling papa ...
Tears filled his eyes, and he wiped with his sleeve, then began to search down the page, came to the line he had sought:
My mother is very comfortable this morning . . .
He put the letter down, smiled, wiped more tears away, then looked up, through the walls of his tent, said in a low voice, “You did not take her from me. Thank You, thank You.”
He sat staring for a minute, then read the letter again, saw the final words, signed: “Your dear little wee Daughter.” He smiled again, stared into the walls of the tent, closed his eyes, staring far away into the dark, and saw the face of his mother, her face with a smile like he had not seen before, a glow from her that filled him with a sudden energy, a bright light deep inside him. He knew it was a gift, that his new and precious daughter would fill that place, the lonely dark hole that his mother had left, and he thought, Yes, she will be named for you, she will be called Julia. Then the image began to fade, but deep inside he felt her smiling still.
HIS MOOD was different. He did not ride out to watch the troops. He rode at the head of the long column, stared out to the front. The staff noticed, but no one asked about the letter. They had learned early what he expected of you and what you did not do. His division commanders had served with him long enough to witness his irritability and intolerance for inefficiency. Now, he too was involved in a conflict with A. P. Hill; the fiery temper and fragile ego that had plagued Longstreet were now tormenting him as well.
Hill had shown a tendency to march his division with too much haste, stringing out his men into a sloppy line, leaving behind many stragglers. On the march into Maryland, Jackson had ordered one of Hill’s brigadiers to halt, to allow the unit to close up and regroup. Hill had furiously protested, and Jackson responded by having him arrested, had ordered him to march at the rear of his division. In the weeks that followed, Hill had been granted a brief reprieve, the opportunity to lead his division at Antietam, but even his timely heroics there had not changed Jackson’s mind about his need for discipline, and a long series of letters and accusations from both men had poured across Lee’s desk.
Lee tried to soothe feelings on both sides, with little success. Jackson was unbending, and Hill demanded a full court of inquiry, a disruption even in the best of circumstances, and Lee knew the army could not afford to be tied up with such administrative energy. And, despite Jackson’s anger, and Hill’s talent for annoying his superiors, Lee knew that Hill was an essential division commander. Faced with the inevitable assault by Burnside’s superior numbers, Lee needed all the capable commanders he had at hand. Thus, the conflict had to simmer until Lee chose to pursue it further. He had no plans to do so.
A month earlier Lee made the corps system in his army official. With the approval of President Davis, Longstreet and Jackson were promoted to the rank of Lieutenant General. Longstreet was still the senior, which Davis had heartily approved, since he had never been comfortable with Jackson’s independent spirit. Lee understood that Davis had to be convinced that Jackson was not a threat to Davis’s sensitive illusion that he held tight control over the army. Lee had insisted that Jackson was as important to the army as Longstreet, and he had finally defused Davis’s uneasiness.
Jackson received the news of the promotion without comment, saw no reason to change his routine. His staff had wanted to offer some celebration, but he would not have it.
He still carried the letter in his pocket, had ridden all day without telling anyone, did not want the congratulations, did not want God to see too much happiness. Now, as this day ended, they were approaching the hills of Fredericksburg. He ordered them into camp, resting the army within a short day’s march from Longstreet’s defensive lines.
After the evening supper, he returned to his tent, read the letter again, had waited all day for the quiet moment. He thought, I must answer, there will be time tonight. Tomorrow they would begin the deployment of the troops, spreading the divisions to the south of Longstreet’s strong solid line.
He rose from his small hard seat, stepped out into the camp, saw the campfire, and his staff noticed him, began to gather. He walked stiffly to the fire, raised his hand high over his head, stretching his back, feeling for the pain in his side. He looked at the faces, saw Pendleton, tilted his head, asking a silent question, and Pendleton nodded, bowed slightly, was quickly gone. The others watched, did not understand. Jackson held his hands up to the fire, absorbing the heat.
Captain Smith moved closer, said, “General, I have seen the deployment of General Longstreet’s troops. We are in a very strong position, sir.”
Jackson looked at him, said nothing, then looked past, saw Pendleton hurrying back toward the fire, carrying a small wooden box. Jackson waited, and Pendleton lifted the lid, revealing small yellow balls nesting in a soft bed of straw: lemons. Jackson reached for one, held it up in the firelight, pulled out his pocketknife and sliced it in half. Smith glanced at Pendleton, who replaced the lid on the box, slid away toward Jackson’s tent, placed the box inside the flaps, then returned to the fire. Smith watched Jackson stuff the half lemon into his mouth, looked again at Pendleton.
Pendleton said under his breath, “A gift . . . from Florida. They come all the time . . . from the same place. . . .”
Smith whispered, “Who . . . ?”
“Don’t know. I don’t ask.”
Jackson paid no attention, stared deep into the fire, bathing his throat with the tart juice.
Pendleton turned toward a noise, and now there were voices, and they saw the rider, the huge German, Von Borcke, from Stuart’s camp. He rode clumsily, his wide girth spilling over both sides of his straining horse, seemed ready to tumble to the ground with every step of his much pitied animal.
“Greetings, vat ho!”
Hands were extended, and Von Borcke looked past the men toward Jackson, who still stared into the fire.
“General, goot evening. I come . . . bringing you a present!”
Jackson’s head jerked up, suddenly aware, and he stared at the huge man with wonder. Heros Von Borcke was unlike any man in the army. He was still an officer in the Prussian Dragoons, had slipped through the Federal blockade at Charleston, had crossed the Atlantic with a strange obsession to fight with the rebel army, finally arriving in Richmond with much fanfare and a public plea to be allowed to fight.
It was Stuart who had caught Von Borcke’s attention. He had read of colorful and daring and often exaggerated exploits in the Richmond papers, and Stuart recognized a fine opportunity, as well. Von Borcke’s adventures would be fine entertainment for the European newspapers, and so, despite Von Borcke’s limited use of English, Stuart insisted that the Prussian serve with him as a staff officer. Impeccably dressed, with all the trappings of military ceremony, he had become Stuart’s favorite messenger, and his arrival always resulted in a gathering crowd. Stuart had been so impressed by his enthusiasm for service that he recommended Von Borcke receive an official commission in the army, and now it was Major Von Borcke.
Jackson began to smile, and his staff caught the mood. Von Borcke laughed along with the others, who were laughing at him, and he waved to the growing number of men who had moved closer to this odd spectacle.
“General Chackson . . . I am grreatly pleased to bring you this present from General Shtuart. The general has gone to grrreat len
gths to secure for you . . . this!”
Von Borcke held out a package wrapped in brown paper, and Jackson stared at it, did not move. Pendleton reached out, took the package, said, “Would you like me to open it, sir?”
Jackson looked up at Von Borcke, then at Pendleton, nodded silently, and Pendleton tore at the paper and held up the neatly folded gray of a new uniform.
“Wowee, General, this is some fine material. Look here, there’s gold braid. . . .”
Jackson stared at the gift, began to reach out a hand, to touch the new cloth, then stopped, withdrew. “Major, you may tell General Stuart that I deeply appreciate his present. Please assure him that I will regard it with the greatest of care, and will see that no harm comes to it. Captain Pendleton, will you kindly place the uniform in my tent, and keep it neatly folded.”