Day Nine

by Clayton Spann

Friday, June 26

  For the fifth day in a row Mauer stood watch in the Chambersburg square. Yesterday the division of Johnson had marched through to join that of Rodes north of town. Today the divisions of A. P. Hill’s corps were arriving. The townspeople must wonder if there was no end to these Southern troops.

  What would they think when Longstreet’s corps streamed in tomorrow? At the close of the day a mighty host of the enemy would camp in three directions around their looted town. People were muttering about how the Federal government had abandoned them without firing a shot.

  To match the mood of the people, dark clouds had passed over town all day. At the moment drizzle fell. Rain had fallen off and on since yesterday afternoon and the air was dank and oppressive.

  On the pole at the center of the square the Union flag had been removed. From the cupola of the courthouse flew one of the Confederacy. The war seemed good as lost.

  Across the square, under the rounded portico of the National Bank, General Hill stood talking with some townspeople. The general with the rusty beard appeared animated.

  Ambrose Powell Hill, like Ewell, was a character. At West Point Hill had been a party boy, where he also contracted gonorrhea. The disease did not deter him from continuing as a ladies’ man until married. The affliction however likely spawned the many illnesses he suffered till the end of his life.

  Before battle Hill often got nervous to the point of nausea. When battle commenced he would lead his troops wearing a red hunting shirt. The clap ridden, high strung man—who like Ewell surely would not have lasted in the modern military—gained a reputation for arriving on the scene in the nick of time. Both Lee and Jackson called out orders to Hill on their deathbeds.

  Hill continued to happily chat. He should be pleased, everything was going fine. His twenty thousand men had marched a hundred miles from the Rappahannock without a scratch. And Thomas Jackson was no longer in his hair.

  Mauer wondered if Hill missed Jackson much; theirs had been a contentious relationship when Hill served under him. Hill at times thought Jackson crazy; Jackson returned the favor by once arresting Hill for perceived disobedience. That they were West Point classmates mattered not at all.

  A couple steps back from a window Jackson might now have eyes on Hill. If so, the genius general must be chomping at the bit. How Jackson must yearn he could stand openly in full uniform like Hill.

  Jackson however would not be engaging in friendly banter with the enemy populace. His wrathful eyes would scourge them as he readied battle orders for lesser beings like Hill to carry out.

  The time for Jackson to reveal himself was drawing near. Less than a week remained before the first day at Gettysburg. The revelation could happen today; Lee would arrive in Chambersburg within the hour. If Jackson did not meet Lee at the Franklin Hotel, the encounter would probably take place later—perhaps under cover of darkness—where Lee would camp just east of town.

  After thirty minutes there was a stirring near the Reformed Church. Necks craned, then the name Lee swept down Front Street. Several minutes later the commander of the Army of Northern Virginia rode into the square on his gray mount Traveller.

  Mauer’s skin tingled. He tried, but he could not suppress awe. Awe very similar to that experienced when he met Lincoln. Yards away was a legend of American history. And, despite the wretched cause for which he fought, one of the great captains of war.

  Silver bearded Lee sat ramrod straight on Traveller. His arms were bent at perfect right angles as he held the reins. His large head calmly scanned the scene in the square. The still handsome face then brightened as he spotted his Third Corps commander.

  A. P. Hill had remounted at the approach of Lee. Lee said something to his staff, who remained stationary as Lee and Hill met alone in the middle of the square. A hush came over the observing crowd.

  Everyone strained ears. What crushing strategy were the master and his minion plotting? The observers, Mauer included, felt mortal fear for the Union descend from their heads to their stomachs.

  Mauer was well armed. He carried two six shooters. He could rush into the square with both revolvers blazing, and bring down Lee and Hill. The loss of Lee might cause the Confederates to abort the campaign.

  Mauer could not forget he was here to get Jackson. If Lee died, Jackson would take over the army. Mauer suspected—dammit, he knew—that Jackson would prove a more formidable opponent than Lee. Lee was a reluctant killer, Jackson a rabid one. Jackson was also the wiser tactician. The Union would face combination enraged grizzly and calculating wolf.

  The generals finished their conversation. A. P. Hill returned to the steps of the National Bank. Lee and his staff headed east on Market Street. Neither man gave a moment’s attention to the Franklin Hotel.

  Mauer chewed his lip. He would keep watch in the square a while longer. Jackson might emerge after the commotion in the square died, then work his way to Shatter’s Woods where Lee would set up camp. To truly finalize the crushing blow.

  The drizzle began to thicken to rain.

  In the dampness and darkness Mauer was able to creep close to Lee’s tent. He hid in a clump of bushes not more than forty yards away. Lee had kept one flap of the wall tent open, so Mauer had clear line of sight. An oil lamp illuminated the interior.

  The General sat at a field desk. Several staff officers surrounded him. A map was spread on the desk and Lee pointed to various spots on it. Some of the staff nodded, others appeared to ask questions.

  It was past ten and Jackson had still not shown. Maybe he was waiting until still later, when Lee might be alone. Or maybe Jackson would not come until tomorrow evening, or the next one. Or even late as Monday evening. Lee was scheduled to remain here until June 30.

  Besides Lee’s staff, perhaps fifty other men were quartered in this grove. Most were infantry providing security. Those not on guard duty sat around campfires. The rain had stopped, but drops still dripped from the trees. They caused the fires to hiss and smoke.

  At some fires men cooked beef. The meat undoubtedly came from the confiscated cattle Mauer had seen trailing the wagon trains. He knew that fresh beef was a rare treat for these men who usually survived on cornbread, peas and bacon. The bacon was often rancid. Mauer tried to ignore the mouth-watering aroma that floated in the damp air.

  Some soldiers played cards, some read, and others played guitars or harmonicas. There was much chatter and laughter. The chatter slackened when a fine tenor voice rose.

  Mauer could not see the soldier who sang, the man was not in light. The voice carried the haunting words of “Lorena” across the grove. Even the officers in Lee’s tent paused to listen.

  When the tenor finished, men cheered and called for more. The soldier however stayed quiet. Perhaps the song reminded him too much of his own sweetheart, and the many miles between him and her—not to mention the very real chance he had seen her for the last time. The soldiers returned to prior activity.

  As midnight approached, Mauer battled frustration. Still no sign of Jackson. This night was perfect for Stonewall to rendezvous with Lee. The thick cloud cover blotted the nearly full moon. The off and on rain masked noise, obscured vision and gave excuse for pulled down hat and a cloaking cape.

  Jackson could steal in, steal out, and be on his way. The Confederates now controlled the Cumberland Valley all the way to Carlisle. After finalizing strategy tonight, Jackson would have plenty of time to get to Carlisle to retake his old command. He would carry orders signed by Lee to assure that Ewell stepped aside. On the morning of July 1st Jackson would then hurry south with his three divisions to deliver the deathblow that Old Baldy let slip away.

  Mauer had an easy shot if Jackson appeared. With his Spencer rifle he could put the bullet in the center of Stonewall’s head. Mauer would also have a decent chance of getting away in this near pitch black.

  The rain started again. Soldiers cursed. Yes, this was m
iserable weather in which to be outside. He wondered how Chloe was holding up in it.

  Rain, of course, would be the least of her problems now. Mauer was terribly aware he could be dooming her if he took the shot before dawn. If Mauer were killed trying to get away, Chloe could die in her sleep. Rapid shrinking might or might not awaken her.

  But if he had the shot, he had to take it. That was an absolute.