“MY OWN MEN!”
The moon rose. Not a cloud hung in the sky, and the forest lanes glittered with light. But it was pitch dark in the trees, and banks of smoke drifted everywhere. There was a stench of powder, the dead, the lowland creeks. A crazy quilt of fire blazed in the brush, and from burning thickets the wounded called, threshing, whimpering for water. There was a growing lull in the battle, broken by sporadic volleys of musketry; less frequently, when something in the night aroused the guns, the mad landscape was scourged by artillery fire. Already the two armies had strewn the wilderness with almost six thousand dead and wounded.
Men fired at the slightest motion, and the night was full of shadows. No man knew where the front lines now lay, and the forces flailed in the forest, striking fire and explosions when they blundered against each other.
Jackson’s victorious troops, having run like pursuing hounds into the deep tangle, were being overcome—not by the enemy, but by darkness, thickets, the drifting apart of files, loss of officers, rupture of communications. Some companies succumbed to hunger, halting to loot overrun Federal camp sites and abandoned knapsacks, scattering, joining strange outfits. Like a dammed stream the advance broadened, slowed, and halted. The forward waves ceased movement a little after seven o’clock.
Within ten minutes Jackson was aware that his onslaught was no longer. His officers had never seen him so elated, though they had to read the signs in the tones of his voice as he snapped precise answers to messengers coming and going, and in the vigorous impatience with which he went toward the front. He did not hesitate but began to prepare for a night attack in order to restore the momentum of his corps. With an ear cocked toward the happy tumult of calling by his men, he paused in the twilight by Dowdall’s Tavern, beswarmed with couriers and officers.
Word from the front was that the first and second lines had halted. He must now order up the third, the division of A. P. Hill. Good news came from General Rodes, who had gone ahead to reconnoiter: No Federals lay between Jackson’s lines and the vital heights at Fairview.
Someone in the confusion of the roadway saw Jackson at about that moment, there in the thronging passage of a conquering army almost, but not quite, out of control. He had halted in a familiar attitude, his face turned skyward, his right hand raised in prayerful thanksgiving.
An excited colonel, Cobb of the Forty-fourth Virginia, came to report: Confederates, as ordered, had seized the strong breastworks near Chancellorsville, without the loss of a man.
It was not yet victory, not in Jackson’s mind. He gave his orders with an assurance that made him seem the only man to comprehend this bewildering field. He could not have been unaware that he had launched, and all but completed, one of the most audacious strokes of military history. But he could not rest.
The army, indeed, was in a moment of supreme peril. Its main forces were divided, and now further scattered. If, by some miracle, the Federals could recover to launch an attack, Lee’s army might be destroyed in the night. He must push troops ahead to Chancellorsville itself, and in some strength.
Not even he could know the exact state of confusion among the enemy, where continuing panic had staged indescribable scenes. Far beyond him, in the Yankee-held areas of the forest, the Dutchmen of the broken Eleventh Corps yet fled like wild things, and swept almost all before them. As stout new lines were formed against the disaster by sweating, cursing officers, the tide of Dutch terror burst over them, ripping them apart. From every direction, it seemed, came this stream of wide-eyed, panting men going to the Union rear, among them beef cattle gone mad, plunging guns and their frantic teams, caissons, ambulances, wagons. Hospital stations were overrun, tents trampled, the wounded overturned. A group of doctors, up to bloody elbows in their work, stampeded and ran away with the Germans. The fleeing thousands left behind an endless debris, and where they went, they spread terror. At the least disturbance, other, smaller flights were begun. At the extreme rear, on the river, sutlers and camp followers were busily crossing.
It was a miracle that Jackson, even at his distance, could not hear the chorus of fear croaked by the unfortunate Dutchmen, who beat at their officers and clambered over road blocks. The Dutchmen were already ripping from their caps and shoulders the telltale crescent insignia of their corps, by now a badge of infamy and disgrace.
In some aisles of the forest there was great courage by the Army of the Potomac in face of the Dutch melee, and in those places the steady troops beat back their frenetic comrades and established a bulwark against Jackson. Union officers placed their men in line on their bellies, bayonets upraised, and in these steel traps caught shoals of Germans. One colonel, lying thus with his troops, snared a Dutch general, who fled into a ditch, screaming, “Sarr, you do not know who I am! I am Prigadier General” The colonel captured him with a naked saber: “You’re nothing but a damned coward to me.”
In the mid-current of retreat, handsome Joe Hooker sat his white horse for a time, turning about, calling encouragement in a princely voice. “Receive them with the bayonet, men!” he cried, pointing to the oncoming Dutchmen. “Receive them with the bayonet!” He seemed a rock of courage, but in the sight of the stricken faces of the disintegrating corps, he must have found something to shake him.
The stunned Howard himself, desperate at the wreckage of his corps, pottered in vain among the jostling men. He was ordered by a lieutenant colonel from Hooker’s staff to turn his artillery upon the retreating mass. “I will never fire upon my own men!” he shouted. And from somewhere the brave, distraught general drew forth an American flag, and pressing it with the stump of his arm, he held it over his breast as the remainder of his men broke past him toward safety.
Though he could not witness these spectacles, Jackson could shrewdly divine what had befallen the victims of his flank attack and perceive what he must do now. He prepared orders extending his lines to Chancellorsville and then rode ahead, scouting out the dim scene, giving little attention to those who galloped with him as they threaded along the crowded tracks—men crawling in and out of the underbrush, horsemen passing, men calling to companions, companies seeking new positions, reinforcements moving up, litter-bearers, deserters, skulkers, Negro servants. At their feet along the roadsides lay the dead and wounded.
John Casler, the private in Jackson’s ranks, would not forget these hours:
“The woods, taking fire that night from the shells, burnt rapidly and roasted the wounded men alive. As we went to bury them we could see where they had tried to keep the fire from them by scratching the leaves away as far as they could reach. But it availed not; they were burnt to a crisp. The only way we could tell to which army they belonged was by turning them over and examining their clothing where they lay close to the ground, so we could see whether they wore the blue or the gray.
“We buried them all alike by covering them up with dirt where they lay. It was the most sickening sight I saw during the war and I wondered whether the American people were civilized or not, to butcher one another in that manner; and I came to the conclusion that we were barbarians, North and South alike.”
Jackson went impatiently through the traffic, shouting, “Men, get into line! Into line! Whose regiment are you? Colonel, can’t you keep a line? Get these men under control instantly.” Then on, with the disquieting knowledge that Hooker would not long delay in flooding his front with new troops, knowing that the enemy had a reservoir of men and could yet commit regiments which had scarcely heard the sound of guns during the day. If Jackson could join his own ranks with those of Lee, by pushing Lane’s brigade to the front, he might prepare a fresh assault upon Hooker’s rear, while Lee once more occupied the attention of the enemy. The stage might then be set for the final act, the breaking of the Union columns against the river. Jackson might have his opportunity by daylight.
Jackson halted at a busy road intersection, where the roads from Hazel Grove and Bullock’s joined the Plank Road. Here he untied from his saddle his India-rubber cloak, and drew the thick wrap about him against the increasing dampness of the chilly night. Over the passing of men there was a call: “General Hill? Anybody seen Hill?”
Jackson answered. It was General James Lane who had called.
“My orders,” Lane said. “You want us to draw the line about here? I can’t find Hill.”
Jackson flung his arm abruptly, all but shouting. “Push right ahead, Lane. Right ahead.”
A group of horsemen emerged from the shadows. It was A. P. Hill and his staff, and before the officers had opportunity to exchange their triumphant gossip, Jackson was passing his order. As if impatient that it had not been anticipated, he gave Hill the command that he had been holding in his mind since sunset.
“Press them. Cut them off from the United States Ford, Hill. Press them.”
“I don’t know, General. I don’t know. My staff is not familiar with the ground, I’m afraid.”
Jackson wheeled to the party behind him, calling to Captain Boswell, his engineer. “Report to General Hill, Boswell, as soon as you can. I want you to show him how the ground lies. I want the ford cut off. You understand?”
As Hill and Jackson rode together, they followed the lead of a single mounted man, a courier named David Kyle, a native of the place who had often passed through the Wilderness trails. Jackson sent him ahead to test the paths. The scout walked his horse through a North Carolina regiment, as Jackson and his staff waited, and moved into a road. He drew fire from the enemy and returned galloping in a hail of harmless musket balls.
Hill then left Jackson, and with no more than a handful of officers and a team of signal sergeants and couriers, Jackson moved into the shadowed Plank Road. With him now were Lieutenant Joe Morrison, his wife’s brother; Lieutenant Wynn; and his signal officer, Captain Wilbourn. Jackson took no particular note of them.
He led the party with caution, through a swampy depression, and onto the slope which led to high ground about Chancellorsville. He stopped to listen. Over the weakening cries of men in the darkness, Jackson heard the enemy. Axes were ringing in the front, as the Federals strengthened their works. A few orders could be heard. Jackson remained motionless for several minutes, rigidly attentive, turning in his mind the daring question: Attack?
He made his decision wordlessly and, turning, spurred off the road, heading back toward his own lines. The crackling underbrush seemed louder than the earlier thunder of hooves on the oak planks of the turnpike. Once an officer halted Jackson, with a hand on his bridle. “General, you shouldn’t expose yourself. Let me take you back.”
“There’s no danger, sir. The enemy’s routed. Go back and tell General Hill to press on.”
The men with Jackson did not recognize the officer.
They were at this moment riding in dappled moonlight, in a dying storm of sound. Absurdly loud, it seemed to men of the staff, the calls of whippoorwills floated through the hot woodland. The staff itself spread ominous sounds as it crossed the front of the Eighteenth North Carolina, of Lane’s Brigade.
There had been a report among the North Carolina front ranks that a Yankee cavalry attack was making up, and the men had been tense. Jackson’s returning party approached the outposts of this regiment, in a light pounding of hooves and clatter of sabers—sounds for all the world like those of a party of cavalry, forming for a charge. The North Carolinians were given quiet orders: Fire, and repeat fire.
Jackson and his officers were some fifty feet distant. In the uncertain light of the moon they became darkening shadows. They had a Union look about them.
A yellow stitching of musket fire ran along the brush. The group about Jackson was shattered. Two men fell from saddles, horses screamed and reared.
“Cease firing men!” It sounded like Hill’s voice.
Joe Morrison drove toward the ranks of the Carolinians, shouting, “Stop! You’re firing at your own men!”
A hurried drawl came back from the bushes: “That’s a lie! Pour it on ’em boys!”
Sorrel wheeled under Jackson and carried him off to his right, skittish and rearing. They crossed the front of a second company. There was another volley. Pain staggered Jackson. Men shouted. The General lost his reins, and Sorrel plunged into the brush, in the direction of the enemy. A branch clubbed Jackson across the forehead, stunning him, knocking off his cap, raking a bloody gash. Jackson turned the horse into the open with his wounded hand and slumped in the saddle.
He did not recognize Lieutenant Wynn of his staff as the young man caught him. For a moment in the resounding blackness they stood together, the boy bolstering the hard-breathing general; they were no more than one hundred yards from Federal lines, judging from the sounds. The two listened as if the night hung on what they might hear: digging, scraping of spades, and of something else, probably bayonets and tin plates. Harsh orders in Northern voices. A company of men on the move, singing “John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the graaaaaave!” Laughter. And the whippoorwills. A shadow approached. It was Captain Wilbourn. With Wynn he led Jackson to a spot beneath a tree.
Wynn gave the General some water and disappeared. “I’ll get an ambulance,” he called. Wilbourn’s voice rose in the road, arguing with some troops in an effort to get litter-bearers. Somehow, General A.P. Hill was there. It was strange that the most bitter of Jackson’s enemies within the army should be there to give help.
“Oh, I tried to stop their firing,” Hill said. “General, are you much in pain?”
“It’s very painful,” Jackson said. “I think my arm is broken. I think all my wounds came from my own men.” The long face was without color in the moonlight.
Wilbourn sent someone to find help, to see if Confederate lines were near by, and warned, “Don’t let them know it’s Jackson.”
Soon Wilbourn was back at Old Jack’s side. With a knife he slashed Jackson’s rain cape, then the uniform sleeve and the shirt, revealing slow dark blood on the flesh. Wilbourn took the General’s haversack and cape and field glasses. The haversack contained only a few papers, two of them religious tracts.
General Hill pulled off Jackson’s gloves, one of them filled with blood. He took Jackson’s belt and sword, as well.
Someone held out a whisky bottle. Jackson shook his head, but Wilbourn insisted that he drink, and the General drained the flask, little more than a mouthful. He then asked for more water. He seemed to revive slightly. Someone asked about the coming of a doctor.
“My own men,” Jackson said.
“Dr. Barr is here somewhere,” a voice said.
“Dr. McGuire,” Jackson said. “I want McGuire.”
“He’s to the rear, General. Dr. Barr is here.”
Hill now sat, having taken the wounded man’s head in his lap. Jackson whispered, “Is he a skilful surgeon, Hill?”
“He stands high in his brigade. We will have him see to you until McGuire can come.”
“Very good.” Jackson closed his eyes and seemed to relax.
The doctor, carefully probing, found three wounds, one in the left shoulder, bleeding freely, another in the left forearm, and one in the right palm. A musket ball was lumped under the skin of the hand.
Jackson still lay outside his own lines. Two men stepped into the road near the growing cluster of the party about Jackson, bearing rifles: Federal infantrymen. Hill spoke in a quick casual voice. “Take charge of those men.” Several forms went forward and, almost without a struggle, the bluecoats were led to the rear.
Men came and went. Others of the General’s party were dead or dying: Boswell and another captain, a sergeant and courier were dead, three others injured. A number of horses were down, and at intervals one of them pawed and screamed in the brush near by. Sorrel had run off into enemy lines where he was to be held, unrecognized, for several days, and then returned.
Jackson stirred with the return of a form to the party, recognizing the voice of Joe Morrison.
“We’ll have to move him now,” Morrison said. “There’s Yank gun crews moving up there on the road. They’d blow us to bits.”
Morrison and two others lifted the General into a litter. Jackson’s breathing was harsh and staccato. As they entered the road, a yellow explosion burst the night beyond them, and flying iron filled the air. Grapeshot shredded the trees. The party flattened on the roadway, with the young men attempting to cover Jackson. They lay for a moment, and more fire poured past them—a small storm of sparks flew from the gravel of the road as the cannon scoured the ground.
The General attempted to rise, but was pushed down. “You must lie still, General,” someone said. “It will cost you your life to get up.”
As the party struggled to its feet and moved the General, the litter fell once more. A bearer dropped his pole and fled into the woods in a new burst of firing. The General groaned, complaining of pain in his side. Wilbourn begged passing men to give a hand, but none would come. He finally shouted that General Jackson was hurt; two men came quickly, and the litter moved forward once more.
In the roadway more men began to gather, curious at the sight of so many forms milling about. A few pressed through the officers. “Who you got there? Who’s hurt?” They did not fall back when told that it was only a wounded officer. One of the unidentified men came close enough to recognize his commander. “Great God, it’s Old Jack.” There was true dismay in his voice.
Excited talk spluttered through the group near Jackson: “General Hill’s been shot. Who’s in command?” Riders went for General Rodes and General Stuart. The litter passed out of that confusion toward the rear. It met General Dorsey Pender who, though wounded himself, went to the center of the party and dismounted, speaking to Jackson, expressing his regrets—and his fears that he must retreat. For the first time since his wounding, Jackson moved swiftly. He sat up. “You must hold your ground, Pender! Hold your ground, sir!” Pender said no more of the possibilities of pulling back his lines. The litter went out of sight, off the road, through the brush.
Captain Smith, who had now joined the party, spoke during a halt in a moonlit clearing. He was alarmed by the pallor of Jackson’s face and the pained expression. “General, are you much hurt?”
“Never mind me, Captain. Never mind me.” After a pause Jackson said, “Let’s win the battle first, and then worry about the wounded.”
The party still was under fire, still with great difficulty carrying the General and at the same time caring for the horses; but in crossing a roadway, the men came upon an ambulance. The officers sighed with relief, but found that the canvas-covered wagon already bore Colonel Stapleton Crutchfield, chief of Jackson’s artillery, as well as a strange captain. Crutchfield was moaning endlessly, and the driver said his leg was hopelessly shattered; he could not be moved. After a moment of discussion, the captain called from within, demanding that he be moved to make room for General Jackson. He began to struggle out, and the men went forward to help him; the General was placed inside, calling weakly for whisky. Several men went to find stimulants, Joe Morrison climbed into the wagon to hold Jackson’s arm, and the ambulance moved slowly rearward, over the path of the afternoon’s battle. An officer went ahead with a small party to locate the rougher spots in the road, leaving men to mark them for the driver. The two injured officers jolted along, Crutchfield still moaning, and evidently out of his mind. The wagon paused finally, in the yard of a house, that of the Reverend Melzi Chancellor. Here Dr. McGuire found Jackson.
McGuire leaned over him. “I hope you’re not badly hurt, General.”
The words of the reply were clear. “I am badly injured, Doctor. I’m afraid I’m dying. I’m glad you’ve come. I think the place in my shoulder is still bleeding.”
McGuire found the wound in the darkness and halted the blood by pressing a finger over the great artery in the shoulder. He called for a light, and in the glow of a lantern saw that the handkerchief tourniquet had slipped. He tightened it. Jackson thanked him gravely, as if he were a stranger. McGuire looked at the General more closely than he had during all the months of riding and fighting with him.
Jackson had control of himself and was remarkably calm, almost as if he were in his own home, preparing to retire for the evening. His mind was clear despite the pain and loss of blood.
His suffering was intense, McGuire saw. Cold hands, a clammy skin, deep pallor of the face. The lips were bloodless, a thin band of ridged flesh drawn tightly over the teeth. The expression was fixed in a rigid mold, the brow furrowed. Breathing was slow.
McGuire halted the bleeding with ease and gave Jackson a bit of whisky and some morphia, which had been brought by a near-by regimental doctor. The ambulance began to move once more, this time with McGuire riding at Jackson’s side. On the road, Crutchfield still groaned. Once the General pulled McGuire’s ear to his lips.
“Is Crutchfield dangerously wounded?”
“No. Only painfully.”
“I am glad it is no worse.”
Crutchfield’s groans diminished, and during a time when Jackson seemed to sleep, the colonel asked McGuire of the General’s condition. The doctor’s reply brought a cry from the artilleryman: “Oh, my God.” Jackson stirred and, thinking his companion in greater pain, ordered the wagon halted and directed McGuire to give help to Crutchfield.
Near eleven o’clock the wagon mercifully paused, turned past the Wilderness Tavern, into a field where men and ambulances thronged, and halted at the field hospital of the Second Corps. Jackson was carried into a tent which had been warmed for his arrival; he could smell the charred wood of the camp stove. They lay him on a cot beneath clean, heavy blankets, and gave him a dram of whisky. He was greeted by Dr. Harvey Black, the chief surgeon, and two or three other doctors whom he did not know. The General drowsed.
McGuire found Jackson’s pulse quickening and his body warmth returning. The others went away, and McGuire sat with Captain Smith, watching. The General lay quietly on his back, his breathing regular, with good color in his cheeks. McGuire leaned over him at intervals, but for two hours he postponed his examination. He went out of the quiet tent and left Smith alone with Jackson, but was back within an hour, bringing the other doctors—Dr. R. T. Coleman, the chief surgeon of the General’s old division, Surgeon Walls, and Dr. Black. Their low talk aroused Jackson, who stared at them and then gave his abrupt smile, nodding. McGuire leaned over the cot.
“We must examine you, General.”
Jackson nodded several times. McGuire absently studied his watch, noting that it was two o’clock. Sunday morning.
“We will give you chloroform so that you will have no pain. These gentlemen will help me. We might find bones badly broken, General. So that the only course might be amputation.”
The General watched McGuire’s face closely.
“If that is our conclusion, do you want us to go on with the operation?”
The weak voice was firm and a bit impatient. “Certainly, McGuire. Do for me whatever you think best.”
The doctors stirred. One of them spread a salve over the General’s face to protect the skin, and Dr. Coleman folded a cloth cone. Soon there was the heavy, unpleasant odor of the anesthetic in the place. The General breathed deeply under the cloth, several times, so that it could be heard throughout the crowded tent.
“Breathe more deeply. Deeply.”
“What an infinite blessing,” Jackson said. His voice strayed on, lost. “Blessing. Blessing … Bless …” His words became garbled, and the listening men could not understand them. He appeared, at last, to have lost consciousness.
McGuire took up the battered right hand. Smith held the light as the doctors probed. On the back of the hand, under the dark flesh, was a round ball which had entered the palm. Two small bones were broken. McGuire lanced the skin and removed the bullet. He rolled it in his palm. “A smooth-bore Springfield,” he said. “Our troops.” He glanced around at the others. It was becoming clear that his own men had indeed wounded him. The Federals had long since abandoned the old muskets.
The doctors turned now to the injured shoulder, where, about three inches below the shoulder, a bullet had torn the muscle, fractured the bone and passed through the arm. It was an ugly, irregular wound. Lower, in the forearm, a second wound; the entry near the elbow, passing through the arm, emerging on the inside above the wrist. McGuire saw the decision on the faces of the others: This arm could not be saved. Gangrene was certain if they attempted to save it by treating the wounds and setting the bones. The shaken heads made a conference unnecessary. It was not a difficult decision and the operation was simple. Each of them had performed hundreds such in his time.
McGuire cut around the damaged arm and sawed through the bone; Dr. Walls tied off the arteries, working swiftly behind him, so that there was little loss of blood. Dr. Black bore on the chest with his stethoscope meanwhile, hearing the firm pounding of the heart. McGuire dressed the wound and turned his attention to Jackson’s scratched face, where the cuts were superficial, requiring no more than clear plaster.
Jackson did not stir for half an hour, beyond a spasmodic turn of the head. He passed through the operation in excellent condition. McGuire ordered him to be given coffee, which he took with ease, and he fell into light slumber. An hour passed.
At about three thirty, an argument arose outside. Sandie Pendleton had come with a message for the General. The doctors told him it was impossible; Jackson was not to be disturbed until morning. Pendleton insisted. The army was in danger, he said. The troops were in disorder; General Hill was unable to take the field, and General Stuart had sent him to take orders from Jackson. The interview was imperative if the army was to be made safe in the coming hours. The doctors relented.
McGuire entered the tent with Pendleton but was not needed as spokesman. Jackson instantly recognized the visitor. “Well, Major. I’m glad to see you. I thought you were killed.”
Pendleton spoke of Hill’s wounding, and of Stuart’s coming to the front to take command. Stuart, he said, was in ignorance of the situation on the front and had sent to Jackson for instructions.
The General was immediately interested. He asked a few pointed questions, about the terrain and location of the brigades, and the news of the enemy. When Pendleton answered, a look of quick vigorous intelligence passed over Jackson’s face, but the effort was too much. He exhaled slowly and with blank features said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know. I can’t tell. Say to General Stuart he must do what he thinks best.”
This seemed somehow to have waked the General, who turned, grinning, to Smith. “Did I have anything to say under the chloroform? Anything wicked?”
Smith shook his head and before he could reply, Jackson spoke with a rush. “I have always thought it was wrong to give chloroform when there is a possibility of death at hand. But it was the most delightful sensation, Smith. I was conscious enough to know what was going on. I thought I once heard music—I suppose it was the saw.”
Jackson soon fell asleep, and with Smith at his side, rested undisturbed through the night.
At the front, during these hours, blind slaughter went on without reason or direction. A Union cavalryman looked from heights above the Rapidan at a sight he could never forget, of which he would write:
“A scene like a picture of hell lies below us. As far as the horizon are innumerable fires from burning woods … cannon belching in monotonous roar; and the harsh quick rattling of infantry firing.… It is the Army Of The Potomac … engaged at night in a burning forest. At our feet artillery and cavalry are mixed, jammed, officers swearing, men straggling, horses expiring.”
What the cavalryman saw was the terrible, bloody and inconclusive attack of the fifteen thousand of Sickles’s corps trying to get back within Union lines. The files were threshing, now against Rebels, now against Union lines. When the corps clashed with its own companions in arms, the casualties were as great as when it met the Rebels, and no one seemed able to halt the senseless affair until at last, God knew how, the men of Sickles’s rushed back into their own lines and settled down, leaving uncounted casualties in the tangle behind. The rifle fire died out in the Wilderness, and soon the quiet reached even the clearing at Chancellorsville, where for so long there had been a scene of tearing men and horses, couriers driving in to Hooker’s headquarters, officers attempting to rally survivors, hospital parties passing with litters, brass bands blowing madly in an effort to revive morale. The drifting smoke all but blotted out the moon.
Things had quieted when the moon sank from sight and the armies lay down for a brief sleep before the next bath of blood.
Lee had known little of Jackson’s movements since his dispatch of three o’clock in the afternoon, though fully aware of the damage the assault had done to the Union flank. The commander had spent some anxious hours in the final phase of Jackson’s approach to the exposed Eleventh Corps of the enemy—for shortly before, Lee had word of a disaster from his rear. There had been a misunderstanding of verbal orders, and General Early had pulled out from Fredericksburg, leaving that town to the enemy and opening the rear of the army to attack. Lee had then flung his thin lines against Hooker, even as Jackson hit the flank, and all had pressed the enemy hard. It had been a brisk, costly dusk battle, and in some quarters it flamed long after dark, particularly about the Fairview Cemetery, where the ranked Federal guns, loaded with everything from canister to trace chains, had cut great gaps in the gray columns. The battle in the dark blazed on, with neither side able to halt it, until about twelve o’clock, when it fizzled out to the southward.
Lee went to sleep in a pine copse beneath an oilcloth cover and a blanket. He had been asleep for little more than two hours when the voice of his aide, Walter Taylor, aroused him.
“Who is there?”
“It’s Captain Wilbourn,” Taylor said.
Lee invited Wilbourn to sit beside him. “Tell me about the fight last night, Captain.”
Wilbourn, bone-weary and heavy-lidded, tried to tell Lee of the entire assault, from the moment they found the Federal flank naked, its troops unsuspecting, until the advance had halted, more than a mile beyond Wilderness Church, the enemy crushed.
He then told the story of Jackson’s wounding as he scouted the enemy. Lee groaned, shaking his head, and though Wilbourn described Jackson’s hurts as flesh wounds, Lee seemed deeply moved. “Ah, Captain, any victory is dearly bought that takes General Jackson from us, even for a short time.”
Wilbourn spoke of the instant when Jackson was shot and his pain. Lee rose suddenly. “Ah,” he said. “Don’t talk about it. Thank God it is no worse.” He stood without speaking, and Wilbourn, assuming that he had been dismissed, moved to go. “I want to talk more with you,” Lee said.
Under his questions, Wilbourn told him that General Stuart was now in command, Hill having been wounded, and General Rodes having bowed to Stuart’s seniority. “They want you to come there yourself, General,” Wilbourn said.
Lee smiled and asked where Stuart and Jackson were, so that he could write dispatches to them. Wilbourn gave the positions, and as an afterthought, “General Jackson planned to take the United States Ford road, I think, and cut them off from the river.”
Lee’s reaction was instantaneous. “We must press those people today,” he said. He went about the business of directing his army, writing dispatches, calling in his couriers, in the midst of it pulling on his boots, and ordering breakfast for Wilbourn. The army made ready to fight once more.
On the flank where Jackson’s loss had brought things to a standstill, the fate of the lean columns in the coming day was uncertain indeed. The enemy had not yet come to realize it, but they lay with the golden opportunity of the war in their hands, astride the separate wings of the Confederate army.
For his part, Stuart may not have realized the full extent of the danger. In any event, without quailing in the face of the unknown, he planned attack. A man who had never commanded infantrymen in action, assisted by general officers who themselves had never led so much as a division into battle, was to challenge the overwhelming weight of the Federals. His very hope of stinging the enemy and probing for advantage seemed dim when he discovered that Crutchfield, the artilleryman, was among Jackson’s wounded officers. But for one man, Jackson’s staff was missing. The cavalry chief answered the situation himself by riding up and down the front lines in the blackness, calling for silence among his men, in preparation to go forward with the dawn.