by Jeff Shaara
Hancock waited for more, said, “You mean, my division?”
Couch looked at him, grim and hard, said, “No, General. Both divisions. The army. General Hooker is recalling all units back to Chancellorsville. We are to form a defensive line, back where we began this morning.”
Sykes stared at Couch, his mouth open slightly, and he turned to the east, pointed. “Sir, we have pushed the enemy back! The field is ours, we must advance . . . General Meade . . . I must find out if General Meade knows—”
“No, General. The order clearly names your division as well. There is no mention of General Meade. I would assume he has received an order just like this one.”
Hancock looked to the south, toward the far clearing where Slocum’s troops could be seen. “They’re leaving. Slocum is withdrawing already.”
Couch followed Hancock’s gaze, said, “Of course, he follows orders. We all follow orders.”
Sykes was shaking his head, waved an arm wildly, said, “No! If Slocum pulls back we are exposed! Our flank is open!”
Hancock was still looking toward the south and the small sounds of distant muskets. He looked to the clearing beside the road, to Sykes’s cannon, the men unhooking and turning the guns, pointing toward the east. He looked back at Couch, who was listening to Sykes still protesting, his voice getting louder.
Men were beginning to gather, men who knew their commander to be a solid leader, a soldier who led a tough division, mostly regulars, veterans of many bad and costly fights. Now the men were beginning to understand, heard Sykes say, “We cannot withdraw! General, we simply cannot!”
The soldiers began to close in around the men on the horses, and Hooker’s courier was glancing sharply around, nervous. A man yelled out, “We ain’t turnin’ back! We got the rebs on the run!”
There were more calls now, and men began to shout at Couch, at Hancock, knew their own commander would not back away, not from a fight they were winning.
Couch looked out at the faces, said nothing, then looked at Hancock, and Hancock now understood. The order was clear and direct, and they would obey. Couch turned to Sykes, who was silent now, in wide-eyed disbelief.
Couch said, “General Sykes, you will form your division and march in column toward Chancellorsville. General Hancock’s division will protect your flanks and rear and then will follow your column.”
Sykes looked at Hancock, then back to Couch, and around them men were yelling, angry and defiant. Sykes started to say something, waved his arm again, and Couch raised his voice, said with a dark anger, “There will be no further discussion! You will carry out your orders, General!”
Sykes nodded, looked at Hancock, and Hancock could not stay still, pulled his horse away and moved back down the hill, toward his own troops. Behind him officers were giving the commands to Sykes’s men, and suddenly there were horses moving quickly by him—Couch and his staff riding hard, back to the west, toward the headquarters of their commanding general.
HE MOVED by reflex, his mind in a fog as he directed his men through the small clearings east of the Chancellor mansion. They still faced toward the enemy, had now joined alongside Sykes. He gave the new orders, and the company commanders supervised the labor—trenches and earthworks were dug, trees cut.
His division was now fully deployed, and Hancock rode back along the road, toward the Chancellor mansion. He still did not believe it had happened; there had to be something else, some major piece of the puzzle missing, some great disaster. Of course, it could have been Sedgwick. Perhaps Sedgwick had been beaten back across the river. Longstreet could have returned; his divisions could have surprised Sedgwick from the south. And there was Meade, up along the river. There could have been a major obstacle there, something unexpected. But—and there were many buts—there had been no sounds of battle, no distant rumble of guns from Fredericksburg. Meade had not been engaged, the sounds would have been clearer still. He caught himself, realized this had happened before. McClellan had often done it, magnified Lee’s strength into huge numbers, great numbers of the enemy everywhere at once, had talked himself into seeing the ghosts of an army that wasn’t there. But today they were there, Hancock thought. We were right in front of them, and there weren’t that many . . . it was our field. And we gave it back to them. Now Lee will move his guns up to that high ridge, will look down on us while we sit tight in our trenches, wondering what to do next.
Hancock reached the grand house, saw officers standing in small groups, men leaving on horses, others arriving. He climbed down, moved slowly, heavily, up to the porch. A guard opened the door, and Hancock saw blank and pale faces, then heard voices, loud and angry. His mind cleared and he moved in noisy steps on the hard floor, went into the large living room, the room with the chandelier. Couch was waving his arms in the air, red-faced; and sitting behind a large table, Joe Hooker.
Hancock did not hear what Couch had said. He stared at Hooker, surprised, did not see anger. The clean-shaven face was staring up at Couch with a small, weak smile. Suddenly Hooker stood up, looked around the room, looked at Hancock without seeing him, looked past several other men, said, “It is all right, General Couch. Gentlemen, it is all right. I have got old Bobby Lee right where I want him. Now he will have to come to us, on our own ground!”
Couch stood still for a moment, then abruptly turned and moved quickly toward the door. He passed Hancock, saw him, a quick glance of recognition, and Hancock followed him outside.
Couch went to his horse, and his aides began to gather. He looked at Hancock, said, “He ran out of nerve. When he learned that we had run into opposition, he stopped believing in his own plan. He just ran out of nerve. Meade . . . Meade had nearly reached Bank’s Ford . . . unopposed, when he was called back. Howard’s corps never even had time to leave their camp. Sedgwick still doesn’t know what happened. Now we’re digging in . . . as though Almighty God Himself is leading an army against us!”
Hancock wanted to say something, knew Couch was as angry as he had ever seen him, and Couch put a hand up on his horse, grabbed at the leather straps, turned again to Hancock, calmer now. With a long, slow breath, he said, “He is a whipped man.”
Couch climbed up on his horse, and his staff moved in behind. Without speaking, he turned and rode away.
It was nearly dark, and Hancock climbed on his own horse, moved slowly across the yard, nodded at familiar faces. He moved out onto the road, felt completely drained now, like waking up from a long and deep sleep, rising slowly out of a horrible nightmare, but now there was no relief, no feeling that it was over, only the same heavy dread that they had done this before, the utterly foolish mistakes, and if the leaders had not learned, certainly the soldiers had—that these mistakes would always turn into bloody disasters.
46. JACKSON
Friday, May 1, 1863
HE REACHED the intersection, looked down both roads. Troops were everywhere, small fires and stacks of arms. He did not yet see Lee. He pushed the horse along, and the men saw him now, hats went up, and the subdued cheers. They were, after all, a tired army, a stiff march and a good sharp fight, and Jackson tried to see the faces, the men who had done their duty. He glanced upward, raised a hand, said a silent prayer, We do all we can to please You, and he felt a calm satisfaction, knew God would be pleased by such a day as this.
He had thought it too easy, the heavy columns of Federal troops pulling away, giving him the field, abandoning the fine, long ridge from where the guns could find the long range. Now his own three divisions were in place, alongside Anderson and McLaws, and he knew that with this army, no one could stand in their way, that Hooker must know that as well and would pull away, completely, back across the river. He nodded silently, pulled a lemon from his pocket. Yes, you had best be gone tomorrow or we will give you the bayonet.
He stopped the horse, looked around through a small grove of pines, saw more troops, watching him, and now he saw Lee, riding slowly through the grove, heard the new cheers from his men. Lee dismo
unted, raised a hand, a warm greeting, and Jackson pulled the horse off the road, into the grove.
Lee’s staff was arranging something to sit on, old wooden boxes marked U.S. ARMY, and three boxes were placed together, two chairs and a table. They were near a fire, and a dim glow spread over the flat wood. Lee moved toward one of the boxes and sat down.
Behind him, Jackson’s aides had moved up, closer, and someone took the reins from his hand. He walked on soft ground toward the fire, tossed the flattened lemon aside, sat down on the other “chair,” watched Lee from under the short bill of the old cadet cap.
Lee removed his hat, ran a stiff hand through gray hair, glanced toward the fire, and Jackson saw the old face in the firelight, heavy, tired eyes. Lee said, “Fine work, today, General. We were in a difficult situation. It could have been very different.”
Jackson did not respond, absorbed the words, was not sure what Lee meant. He leaned forward, put his hands out on the box between them, as though holding it down in place, said, “We pushed them hard, and they ran away. There was nothing difficult about it.”
Lee looked at him, hid a smile. “General, from what we have observed . . . there are nearly seventy thousand Federal troops beyond those trees, digging in around Chancellorsville. Sedgwick has nearly forty thousand spread out along this side of the river in front of General Early. There are possibly thirty thousand more back along the river, north of here, that we have not yet located. I give you credit for a fine day’s work, General. But we are not in a position of strength here. We owe a great deal to the unexplainable, to the mystery of General Hooker. He has allowed us to maneuver freely between two parts of an army that is more than twice our strength. I am concerned, General, that we do not yet understand his plan.”
Jackson leaned back, looked at Lee again from under the cap. “He has no plan. He is waiting for us to take the fight to him. He is, right now, digging trenches, building a defensive line. He is already beaten.”
Lee nodded. “Perhaps. He may yet be planning a move toward Gordonsville, move around below us, cut us off from Richmond. We must not forget about General Sedgwick, on the river. He shows no signs of moving, but that could change.”
Lee turned, motioned to Taylor, who stood beside the fire, and the young man came close, handed Lee a rolled-up paper, which Lee spread on the box. It was a map, faint pencil lines on wrinkled paper, and Jackson leaned closer, tried to focus in the dim light.
Lee pointed to the Rappahannock, to a point above them, said, “They are anchored against the river, up here. Their line is continuous, down below Chancellorsville, then curves along . . . here.”
Jackson nodded. “Yes, we observed that . . . their lines curve around these open clearings . . . then toward the west.”
“Then what, General? Do you know where their right flank is, where they are anchored to the west?”
Jackson stared at the map, said quietly, a small defeat, “No. Not yet.”
“We must know that, General. If he begins to march in that direction, he could threaten our flank, or be gone toward Gordonsville before we can react.”
Jackson shook his head. “If he moves, it will be north, across the river. . . .”
Horses came at a fast gallop on the road, and both men turned, saw a small squad of cavalry and the tall dark plume on Stuart’s hat.
Stuart jumped from his horse, moved quickly toward where the men sat, removed the hat with the usual flair, said, “General, may I be allowed to join your meeting?”
Lee smiled slightly, nodded, and Stuart looked around for his own box to sit on, saw nothing, then moved around, away from the fire, so as not to block the light, and leaned over the map.
“General, I have some interesting news.”
Jackson leaned his head back, tried to see Stuart from under the cap, said, “They are digging in.”
Stuart looked at him, nodded, “Oh, yes, sir, they are digging in. But that’s not the interesting part.” He looked at Lee, put his finger on the map. “Out here, to the west . . . along the turnpike here . . . their right flank is completely exposed. It’s the one place where they are not digging in. Clearly, they do not expect any pressure there. Their flank is completely in the air.”
Lee glanced at Jackson, leaned closer to the map, said, “Who is on their flank?”
“The Eleventh Corps, Oliver Howard.”
Lee continued to look at the map, reached a hand out. “Are there any roads, down this way, below the turnpike?”
Stuart began to move now, shifting from one foot to the other. “Yes, sir, indeed there are. Good roads.” He pointed. “That’s Catherine’s Furnace, and there’s a road . . . wait . . .” He pulled a stub of a pencil from his pocket, drew a ragged line. “Here, there’s a road, over this way.”
Jackson said, “Then we will hit them there. We can move around their flank.” He looked up at Lee. “And they will have nowhere to go but back across the river . . . or we will destroy them.”
Lee nodded, said, “Those roads . . . they are too close to their lines, they will observe any movement. We must find another road, farther down. Do we have someone here, someone we can trust, who knows the area?”
Jackson abruptly stood, stepped toward the fire, to a small group of men who straightened as he approached. “Mr. Pendleton, find Chaplain Lacy.”
There was a voice, a small sound, and a man moved closer to the fire, said, “Begging your pardon, General, but I am here, sir.”
Jackson turned, moved back toward the map and Lacy followed, shyly. Jackson said, “General, this is my chaplain, the Reverend Tucker Lacy. He has family in this area, sir.”
Lee stood, offered a hand, and Lacy hesitated, then reached out, took it with a gentle grasp. Lee sat down again, looked at the map, said, “Reverend, it would be very helpful if you could find us a safe route around the enemy.”
Lacy leaned over slightly, said, “Well, sir, I’m sorry . . . I’m not that familiar with the back roads . . . but . . . there.” He pointed to the spot marked Catherine’s Furnace. “I know a family, the Wellfords. I would suggest a visit there. We may find ourselves a guide.”
Jackson said, “Please go there at once, Mr. Lacy. Find us someone who can tell me how I might proceed.”
Lee smiled, said, “Then we have decided, General, that this mission will be yours.” He nodded, smiled to himself. “I would not have it any other way.”
IT WAS surprisingly cool—a damp mist blew through the trees. The meeting was over, the men who had a job to do were out on the road. Pendleton was adding wood to the fire, stirring it with a small stick, and Jackson was searching the ground, began to kick at some pine straw, pushing it together, forming a bed. He coughed, a loud, raspy sound.
Pendleton turned, said, “General, you sound like you might have an affliction. Are you feeling all right?”
Jackson nodded, cleared his throat, realized he felt very weak, tired, and it was very late. “We will rise early, Major. The men must be up and moving quickly. General Lee will be expecting to see me well before dawn.” He coughed again, rubbed his chest, took a deep breath, felt a slight pain, and sat down on the pine straw.
Pendleton was watching him. “General, please . . . take this . . . here,” he said, and he removed the black rubber overcoat, moved over toward Jackson, held the coat out.
Jackson looked up, shook his head. “No, Major. Do not discomfort yourself on my account. This night will pass quickly.”
Pendleton began to pull at the coat, separating the long lower flap from the topcoat, a series of small metal snaps.
“At least, sir, take the bottom part. I will not need more than this.”
Jackson saw the young face, genuine concern, and he nodded. “All right. Thank you . . . bless you, Major. Now, let us get some sleep.”
He lay flat on the straw, felt something hard, realized he had not removed his sword. He sat up, unbuckled it, then turned and reached out toward a tall pine, leaned the sword upright against the trunk
of the tree. He saw Pendleton, lying still now near the fire, and he said a prayer, a quick thought for the boy. Above, the wind blew the thick mist down through the trees, a sharp, cold breeze. Jackson fought against a cough, stood, walked quietly to where Pendleton lay, heard the faint, steady breathing of the tired young man. He draped Pendleton’s coat over the young man’s legs and moved back toward his own bed. Jackson stretched out on the damp straw, another small cough, and he rolled over, lay on his side, the side that did not hurt. Now a new breeze came through the tops of the pines, a hard whisper, swirling toward the sleeping soldiers. The sword, held by the glow of the faint firelight, was lifted by the voice of the wind, suddenly slid away, dropped down hard on the straw-covered ground.
Saturday, May 2, 1863
HE WAS a boy, but he had spent his young life in these woods, had seen the brush thicken into a vast tangle, covering the old trails, and so he had made new ones, had explored the creeks and climbed the hills. Now he would guide the army, the army he was too young to join. He would lead them away from the eyes of the Yankees.
Jackson had been up for a while, had barely slept at all, and now he was on his horse, moving slowly among his troops, the troops that would soon be on the march.
Lee was still asleep as Jackson eased toward the pine grove and dismounted. In the faint light he could see one of the staff, working on the fire. He walked through the grove, and the young man watched him, nodded, said nothing. Jackson eased closer to the dark form on the ground, paused, watched the slow breathing, then said, “General Lee?”
There was motion, and Lee’s bare head peeked from under a blanket.
“What? Time? Oh . . . thank you, General. Be right with you.”
Jackson backed away, moved toward the boxes. The map was there now, spread out by the young aide, and the man went quietly back to the fire.