by Jeff Shaara
41. JACKSON
April 1863
HE STARED down at the paper, held the pencil tightly, frowned. There were no words. Abruptly, he stood up and walked around the small table, a quick search for inspiration, then sat back down, stared again at the blank page. He tried to recall the battle, could see it all, the smoke and the men, could hear the violent sounds. But . . . he could not write it down, the simple explanation of what happened.
He had gone too long without tackling this job, the painful and annoying paperwork of command. Lee had insisted. There was a lull in the fighting, the army was still in winter quarters, and there would be no better time. But Jackson was not a writer.
He stood again, thought, Pendleton will help, of course. He wondered why he had not thought of that before—his staff. They had been on all the fields, they saw most of what he saw. They would know whose regiment and whose brigade led which advance. To Jackson, once the sounds of the battles had rolled across the field, it was all automatic. The troop movements and the positioning of the lines were instinctive. He did not ever recall thinking that he would have to write it all down afterward.
Yes, he thought, I will tell them: Pendleton . . . Smith. They can do this. I will read what they recall, and if it seems accurate, I will sign it. He nodded, pleased with himself, his aggravation resolved. He thought of lemonade then, realized he had a great thirst, knew the women in the house would always accommodate him. He looked around the tent, spotted the wide black felt hat that Anna had sent him, reached for it, and heard a small sound outside. He stopped, silent, peered toward the flaps, saw a small movement along the bottom and smiled, then moved quietly closer to the sound with slow, light steps. He could hear the sound again, the small giggle, and through the flaps came a small pink hand, then more, the tiny face, a beaming smile. Jackson knelt down, surprised the little girl with a quick grab, pulled her up and into the tent, and she burst into loud and happy laughter. He held the child up above him, toward the top of the tent, and the surprise passed. She was smiling now, reached for the hat on his head, and he set her down.
“No, child, you cannot have my hat. It might be a bit large. . . .” He removed it, saw the strip of gold braid that wound around the hat, pulled, and it came loose in his hand. He tossed the hat aside, wrapped the gold braid around the girl’s head and tied it up around the fine golden hair.
“Well, now,” he said, “I believe that suits a young girl better than an old soldier.”
She laughed again, touching the braid.
“Now, I was just about to go for some lemonade. I would very much like the company of one beautiful five-year-old girl.”
She nodded, smiling brightly, and he led her out of the tent. He picked her up and set her gently down on his shoulders, her oversized dress bunching up, covering his face, and he stumbled about. “Oh no, I cannot see,” he said. “How shall we find the house?” She began the high sweet giggles again, and he staggered unevenly across the yard, went up to the porch and into the house.
In the yard, near the other tents, Jackson’s aides had watched the scene, and Pendleton said, “No soldier, on either side, who has ever shared the field with Stonewall would ever believe what we have just seen.”
The others laughed, heads were shaking, and the group began to disperse, attending to their own duties. Pendleton went toward Jackson’s tent, held a handful of new reports, ducked inside, looked for a place to set them down and then saw the blank paper on the table. He understood Jackson’s difficulty with battle reports. There were small dots—a dozen pencil marks where Jackson had tried to begin writing. Pendleton sat down in Jackson’s chair, thought of what he’d just seen out in the yard. Around the fires, at dinner, Jackson would sit quietly while the staff joked and kidded, and when he would laugh, it was sudden and awkward, and Pendleton thought, He laughs like a man who doesn’t know how. Yet, out there, with the little girl, he had been as open and free as a child himself, nothing reserved, no shy withdrawal. Pendleton picked up the pencil, began to write:
The Official Report from the Second Corps, Lieutenant General Thomas J. Jackson Commanding: The Battle of Fredericksburg . . .
THEY WERE camped on the vast grounds of Moss Neck, a plantation spread out a few miles below the plains of Fredericksburg. It was the home of Richard Corbin, his wife and child, and his larger family, some of them refugees from other places, places now consumed by the war. Corbin himself was away, assigned to duty with the army, and so the women commanded the household, and the little girl, five-year-old Jane, commanded General Jackson.
Jackson had been invited to stay in the house itself and declined. He’d had the staff tents pitched across the wide yard. On occasion, however, he would allow himself and the staff to enjoy the luxury of a supper on the white linen of the Corbin dining room. Mrs. Corbin was a most courteous hostess, but it was her daughter who brightened the long days of winter quarters.
They stood in the hallway, at the kitchen door, waiting. The request had been made, and Jackson stood at attention, the little girl reaching her hand high to hold his, and together they filled the doorway. The girl’s aunt, Kate Corbin, was busy stirring a pitcher.
“My, General, we do appreciate the gift. Where do you get all these lemons?”
Jackson stared ahead, said, “It is a kind Providence that provides kindness. . . .” He paused, tried to rephrase that.
“Why, General, you are quite the poet!”
He was suddenly embarrassed, said, “No, it is God who provides. . . .”
“Yes, General, I know what you meant. Here, for goodness sakes, enjoy your lemonade.”
She handed a tall glass to him, and a small cup to the little girl, and he stepped away from the door and bent over, a formal bow to bright blue eyes. Jane bowed toward him, then they both drank from their glasses. Afterward, wiping at wet chins, they repeated what had become their ritual, closed their eyes and together said, “Mmmmmmmmmmmm!”
Kate wiped her hands with a small towel, said, “I swear, General, if you spoil your own child like that . . . you will have your hands full.”
He looked at her, and Jane suddenly leapt forward, grabbed his leg and wrapped one arm tight around his knee. “Miss Corbin,” he said, “it will give me great pleasure to spoil my daughter. I intend to give her many opportunities to spoil me as well.” He looked at the small bundle now clinging to his leg, and he drank from the glass again. “How easy it is to forget . . . all that we must do . . . all the horrors that we have seen . . . simply by staring into the face of a small child. There is Providence here . . . in that. The children are blessed.”
He reached down, pulled the little girl up, lifted her onto his shoulder. She still held the small cup, splashed lemonade on his uniform.
Kate said, “Oh goodness, here, General, let me put a damp cloth on that.”
Jackson glanced at her, a gleam of blue mischief in his eyes, said, “Oh, that won’t be necessary, Miss Corbin, because Jane and I . . .” He paused, grinned devilishly at the little girl, and giggles rolled over him. Suddenly, he was running down the hall, out the front of the house, carrying her at all angles. He gently set her down in the green grass and rolled on the ground beside her, and there were gales of laughter from both of them.
A few feet away, Captain Smith was staring in utter amazement, then turned toward the sound of an approaching rider.
THE FEDERAL Army had begun to stir. While there was no clear evidence of a plan, Lee knew that the new commander, Hooker, under the stern eye of Washington, could produce a quick threat, and so he ordered Jackson to move his camp up from Moss Neck, to be closer to the hills behind Fredericksburg. Stuart’s vigilance along the river above the town had given Lee some hint that the Federal Army would again plan a move in that direction, and he took a chance, pulling Jackson’s corps away from Port Royal. He anticipated that Hooker would do what Burnside should have done from the start, cross the river to the northwest, behind the hills, using the convenience of severa
l shallow fords. Below the crossings, the roads ran together, intersecting with the main roads leading westward out of Fredericksburg. The intersection was named for the family that lived there, was called Chancellorsville.
The tents had been struck, the troops moved well up the road, and Jackson rode his horse back along the line of moving men, went toward the house for the last time. Kate Corbin was on the porch, had watched the troops leave. The last of the staff was cleaning up the yard when she saw Jackson and waved sadly. He rode up close to the porch, dismounted and said, “Miss Corbin, if you please, I would like to say good-bye to your niece. I shall miss her.”
“Certainly, General. She is not feeling well today. There seems to be some illness in this house. All the children have come down with a fever. Please, come in.”
He followed her into the house, he felt the heavy layer of quiet, and lightened his steps, self-conscious of his boots on the hard floor. She led him into a small parlor, and he saw Mrs. Corbin, Jane’s mother, bending over a small blanket. She turned, looked at him, smiled weakly, and he went to the little girl, saw the blond hair spread over a small white pillow.
“Well, now, what is this? How can I play with my friend if she insists on staying in bed?”
He waited for the laugh, the small giggle, but she only smiled up at him, held up a hand and tried to reach his short beard. He saw the look in her eyes, suddenly straightened, said to Mrs. Corbin, “I will have my doctor, Dr. McGuire, attend to her. I will send him immediately.” She nodded, grateful, and he backed away, saying, “I must return to my men. I will send Dr. McGuire.”
Then he turned and marched from the house.
THEY WERE camped now in a large field, in sight of the broad plain where Jackson had held his lines against Meade. The staff filed from the small mess tent, had enjoyed the unusual and rare gift of a smoked ham sent to the headquarters from a local farmer, who clearly had a talent for hiding his bounty. Jackson was last out of the tent. He rubbed his stomach, listened to the casual talk from the others, how long they would be in this spot, the warmth of the spring weather. He thought of writing a letter, had received a new note from Anna detailing the joys of his tiny daughter, and he began to form his words, maybe a prayer, but heard the sound of horses. There were two riders out on the road. It was Pendleton . . . and Hunter McGuire.
McGuire was not much older than the young staff officer, had come to Jackson’s staff from Winchester, a choice made mainly because he was well known among the others. He was a well-educated man, even by medical standards, had received formal training at the University of Pennsylvania. By now he had built a solid reputation for medicine, advised many of the older surgeons, and no one doubted he was the best man Jackson could have chosen for the job. Jackson had an instinctive respect for the neat and efficient young man, and as Pendleton and McGuire walked toward him, there was something in the doctor’s face that turned Jackson cold. He did not move, waited. Pendleton saluted, and Jackson did not look at him, kept his eyes on McGuire.
The doctor glanced down at the ground, said in a low voice, “It was scarlet fever. The children are all right. I gave them some . . . they will be fine. Except . . . I am terribly sorry, General. The little girl . . . Jane . . . did not survive. She has died, sir.”
Jackson stared at him, did not speak, fixed his eyes on McGuire’s face, and McGuire turned away, could not look back at the sharp glare of Jackson’s eyes. Abruptly, Jackson stepped away, marched out between the tents, out into the field. Pendleton began to follow him, the others as well, but they slowed, stayed back, watched as he moved away through the thick green grass. Then suddenly he sat, on a short stump, put his head in his hands and began to sob.
Pendleton stayed a short distance away, felt McGuire’s hand on his arm. “What is it?” Pendleton said. “He’s never cried before . . . not for all the blood and all the death. There was something about that little girl. . . .”
McGuire nodded quietly, said, “A general cannot cry for his men. They cannot even cry for each other now. This army has cried all its tears.”
“But he has not.”
They stood, and around them troops gathered, curious. They saw Jackson now, and no one spoke. They watched in silence as Jackson poured out his grief, and they did not move, stayed quietly around him as the dark night filled the field.
42. CHAMBERLAIN
April 1863
THERE WAS no other explanation: the serum was simply bad. He did not understand medicine, knew that his unit had done well compared to others, that they made it through the winter without losing many. Now, Hooker had made it a priority: the army would improve its health. Hygiene would be practiced, the camps would be cleaner. And . . . there would be vaccinations, protection against the always present danger of smallpox. Except . . . the serum had been bad.
Around the camp, officers were working quickly, men in white masks directing the troops, digging the small signposts into the soft ground. Chamberlain moved closer, saw the troops back away, keeping their distance, and he walked around, saw the sign: DO NOT ENTER—QUARANTINE AREA.
He waved at the men. “Hello, how are you today?” and smiled, thought of the absurd bad luck. The serum could possibly have infected the entire regiment with the disease, and so, of course, they would have to stay put, together, no contact with the rest of the army until the danger was past. He stared at one man, a doctor who was waving the troops away, their work done.
Chamberlain walked over to another signpost, where a man was nailing up fence wire. “Enjoy your work, do you?” he asked.
The man looked at him, covered his mouth, said, “For the love of God, man, stay away! I got a family!”
Chamberlain turned, walked toward the tents, shook his head. If the enemy cannot kill us, he thought, the army can.
The rest of the army had begun to move, along the same roads that had swallowed them up in January. Hooker had done much for morale, for the sense that maybe—this time—it would be different. Chamberlain did not know the mission, knew the army was moving away to the northwest and that the Twentieth Maine was not going anywhere.
He had not seen Ames, who was not in camp, and he wondered if quarantines applied to the commanders. It brightened him for a moment. Maybe he could somehow just order the disease away, the privilege of rank.
He saw men on horseback approaching the edge of the camp, then dismounting, and he moved toward them. They were officers, among them a major, who stepped back. It was a reflex Chamberlain was beginning to find extremely annoying.
“Sir . . . you are Colonel Chamberlain?”
“Certainly am, Major.”
“Sir, I have a message for you . . . from Colonel Ames. Under the circumstances, Colonel . . . would you mind if I read it? I am not to cross the quarantine line, sir.”
Chamberlain nodded. “Fine, Major, read the message.”
“Thank you, sir.”
To Lieutenant Colonel J. L. Chamberlain . . . I am pleased to inform you that I have received appointment to General Meade’s command, as a staff officer. I deeply appreciate your fine work as second in command and wish to advise you unless I return, you are in command of the Twentieth Maine Regiment of Volunteers. I regret that the regiment, which has performed with consistent valor, should have been victimized by such an unfortunate turn of events. However, I have been assured that in a few short weeks the quarantine will be lifted and the regiment may return to active duty. Please assure the men that they are in my thoughts. Signed, Colonel Adelbert Ames.
“That is all, sir.”
Chamberlain nodded. “Thank you, Major. You may return to the land of the unafflicted.”
He walked toward his tent, thought, So Ames did escape. And he made certain I did not. Men were watching him, some had heard the order, and they began to gather. He stopped, stood with his hands on his hips.
One man said, “Colonel, sir, how long are we to be kept here? They’re treatin’ us like prisoners.”
Others began t
o speak, angry questions, and he held up his hands, said, “Please, quiet.” More men moved up, they were in a circle around him, and he saw Tom and the other officers. “The army is on the march, and we cannot go with them, not for a while. It’s as simple as that. You already know the danger, why we are behind a fence. There is simply nothing we can do about it.”
“Colonel . . . ” Ellis Spear moved forward, through the men. “I’ve been talking to . . . well, sir, the Eighty-third Pennsylvania is under the impression that they are moving up to meet the rebs pretty quick, they’re expecting a good fight. My men . . . they feel like we’re gonna miss out on something big. Surely the army can find something for us to do.”
The men responded, the voices rising, and Chamberlain held up his hands again, said, “If we’re going to have a fight soon, then we are going to miss it. I have no say in this. General Hooker himself knows of our predicament. I did volunteer us . . . that we be allowed to lead the attack. If we were to infect the enemy, it might be an effective way to end the war.” There was laughing and men nodded.
“But the high command did not think it a practical and humane strategy. Wars should be fought by noise and violence, not by subtle diseases. So . . . we will stay behind.”
He began to move through them, and their protests faded, the officers breaking them up, moving away. He reached his tent, heard a sound, music, listened. It was a band, far out on the road, leading another column of men away. The sounds faded, and he thought, So, we will miss this one, and maybe . . . there will not be any more, maybe it will end here, one more great fight. And we can go back home and say . . . nothing. We weren’t there. He leaned into the tent, realizing what a terrible thing it was to hope for . . . that the war go on just so they could be a part of it. But he could not help it, sat on his cot now, stared at the side of the tent, remembered the stone wall, the smoke, the screams. His heart began to pound, and he thought, Please, someday, let us have one more chance. . . .