May 4
Fredericksburg to Chancellorsville
Chewing remained a trial for John Brown Gordon, with the left side of his face reluctant to heal, more than seven months after Antietam. He could not commend getting shot in the jaw, with the ball exiting the opposite cheek in the company of four teeth. His jaw was no longer wired shut, but the natural act of mastication remained an infernal ordeal, an argument for soups and meat ground fine.
But John Brown Gordon could talk. He could speak with volume and clarity, his enunciation perfect, in a cadenced voice aped from his reverend father, a man whose accounts with the Lord were not untroubled and whose accounts with his fellow man were in chronic arrears. And Gordon loved to speak to multitudes; the very act of opening his mouth evoked Ulysses, his ideal, and Achilles, bronze-helmed on the plains of Troy, his idols both, worshipped in classrooms until his father’s self-wrought tribulations cut short the son’s university career, necessitating a hasty retreat to northwestern Georgia, where Alabama impinged and Tennessee loomed—all of that prelude to this Virginia morning, with his men already sweated from a quick march meant to outrace the division’s other brigades.
Richmond had been recalcitrant in awarding him a brigadier generalship, leaving Gordon a colonel, although commanding a brigade, so he had chosen to interpret his orders from Early to advantage, stepping out ahead of his peers to accomplish the morning’s mission on his own. Gordon reckoned success would be worth a star. And he did not contemplate failure.
Now, with his men approaching the ridge that demanded retaking—the pivotal heights behind Fredericksburg—he halted his brigade in a fallow field, drawing the regiments into a compact mass.
Well aware of the splendid figure he cut, with eyes set deep beneath an aggressive brow, his forehead high, and the family nose sculpted by Scotland’s gales—Fanny was fond of that nose—he rose in his stirrups in the brilliant light and stiffened his never-less-than-immaculate posture.
“Men of Georgia!” he began. “Heroes of Georgia! The hour is dire, the need is terrible. Will you … the glorious sons of our peerless state … take back the crucial ground Mississippi lost? Will you go forward, no matter the cost, and plant your banners where now invaders transgress? Will you show them stalwart hearts and bayonets? Will you save your country?”
He waited for the soldiers to realize they should cheer. And cheer him they did.
“Noble sons of Georgia,” he resumed, “inheritors of freedoms dearly purchased … Myrmidons of the Confederacy … I ask you to go no step beyond the ground my own boots tread. The fight may be grim, the price of victory dear, but what man among us doubts that Georgia’s sons will pay it gladly?”
He waited for, and received, another cheer.
“I want to see every man who’s with me raise his hat. Come on, men!”
Thousands of hats in a hundred styles rose skyward.
“Forward, then, let us go forward, but go in silence, as guardians of this new domain of freedom. Let not a cry escape your lips as you cross the deadly fields and scale the heights. But when you near the crest, when the Yankees already dread annihilation … it’s then that I want you to howl to be heard in Augusta, in Macon, Savannah, Atlanta … are you with me, men?”
The cheering seemed fuel enough to propel the brigade to wondrous deeds.
Gordon drew his saber, letting the early sun gild polished steel. Before calling out the orders to deploy into line and advance, he bellowed:
“Georgia does not follow. Georgia leads!”
Alone against what was surely a deadly foe, the brigade went forward, with sergeants brusque and muscled correcting the lines. Red banners, torn by battle, lofted in rhythm with their bearers’ steps. Fortunate soldiers tramped along the road, while others labored through fields and over fences, their formations parting to flow around houses and barns, faces growing more earnest with every yard, all the world suffused with the brushing of trouser legs through infant crops, with the slosh of canteens still full and the useless admonitions of nervous officers.
He had deployed the brigade into line too early and the men had to exert themselves marching cross-lots, but that speech to a command he had not yet led in battle had been essential.
Georgia was going to hear from him. As was his Fanny, the most delicious woman ever produced by a sprawling continent, sugar candy that left a taste of pepper.
John Brown Gordon was ambitious. And he had realized at a blink that the men who made reputations in the war would lead the people afterward, brushing aside the politicians, the parlor champions, who chose to stay at home and pass resolutions. The future would belong to the war’s survivors.
He did wish Fanny could see him this fine morning. Sweep that woman right up across his saddle and ride off to someplace private.
He saw the rump of the hill and the sprawling ridge now, elevations high enough to invite a proper slaughter. He didn’t really care to be shot again, given his druthers, but life was about taking chances when others faltered.
Now and again, a soldier tried to raise a Rebel yell, conditioned to it, but he was soon hushed.
Every man had his eyes set on those heights.
The Yankees had made good use of their day of possession, digging in, hiding their guns with exasperating skill. Even their flags were concealed. They knew full well how essential that terrain was to both sides, key to control of Fredericksburg and its crossings. He had still been abed back in December, but he’d heard that the carnage on the ridge’s far side had been gruesome.
He waited for the Union guns to speak.
But the Yankees waited, allowing him to come on. Daring him. Luring him. He felt their eyes upon him, their numbers legion. Sharpshooters were surely taking aim.
He corrected his perfect posture again and pointed the way with his sword. Well-bred, his dapple gray pranced.
He hoped they wouldn’t shoot the goddamned horse. The beast had cost him plenty.
The ground began to rise. Ever so slightly. Hinting at the steeper slope to come.
Gordon felt every man in his lines go tense. Waiting for the eruption of death and butchery, each man selfish now, hoping that those to either side would fall and not him—yet selfless, too, willing to die for those same men, for a country hardly formed.
What were the Yankees waiting for?
Lying low. The bastards. Waiting. Merciless.
They reached the foot of the hill near the run of the ridge.
No sense in waiting: The dammed-up spunk would burst free on its own.
“Now! Now, boys! Charge!”
The brigade sent up a howl to shiver Lucifer. Men dashed up the leg-searing slope, determined to kill Yankees.
Gordon spurred his horse.
Still, the Yankees held their fire, waiting for Gordon’s men to reach point-blank range.
“Charge!” Gordon cried again. Beyond that, he was at a loss for words. Panting.
As his mount neared the crest, he raised his saber, ready to slash it down on threatening Yankees. He spurred the horse again, viciously now. The animal leapt to the top.
The Georgia Brigade faced a dozen astonished women who had come out to search for yesterday’s overlooked wounded.
The Yankees were gone.
Farther along, a pair of gray-clad cavalry scouts took their leisure.
“Why, good morning, ladies!” Gordon exclaimed, removing his hat and smiling.
Hooker felt almost entirely recovered. Best he’d felt in a week, in fact. A surgeon’s reexamination had found one pupil dilated, and he did have a ghost in one eye, but the frightful headaches he’d endured for days had disappeared, leaving only fleeting spells of uncertainty.
If taking a blow to the noggin was the price of ridding himself of those monstrous headaches, it was worth it.
He didn’t even feel a craving for drink.
The fresh air pleased as he rode along his lines on his morning inspection. The field fortifications his men had erected were masterful, complete with firing apertures and head-logs. Nor were the engineers and soldiers finished: Successive lines were being developed in depth, with interlocking fields of fire and carefully calculated artillery fans. If Lee succumbed to his pride and attacked him today, the result would be a massacre of all the wailing tribes of the Confederacy.
As he passed into the Fifth Corps lines, the density of soldiers and their evident readiness continued to lift his spirits. Had to admit that Meade kept his corps in good order. There was no malingering, and even the stench of men packed tight seemed milder.
The lines teemed with soldiers ready to fight, even as thousands more labored. When they recognized Hooker’s party, they gave him a cheer.
The men still believed in him. As they always had.
Mounted and alert, Meade saluted as Hooker rode up to his headquarters. Hooker seemed to remember a tiff with Meade the previous day, but the memory was unclear. Anyway, Meade appeared cordial. If hard words had passed between them, Meade was contrite.
“My kind of morning,” Hooker said by way of greeting. “Couldn’t ask for better Reb-killing weather, the sonsofbitches.”
“I’m all in favor of killing Rebs,” Meade told him, adding, “How are you feeling, Joe?”
“Ready to eat raw meat and chaw the bones. Just needed a little sleep.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“You always claimed I was hardheaded, George. It’s not without its advantages, it seems.”
“Virtues of our vices,” Meade observed.
Hooker wasn’t certain how to take that. He nodded and forged on. “Just let Lee attack. Let the old devil try it.”
Before they could turn to inspect Meade’s lines together, Otis Howard appeared along an artillery trail, followed by two riders and no flags.
“Oh, Christ,” Hooker said to Meade. “I’ve already had my fill of Howard this morning.”
Meade said nothing.
Howard reined in his mount, his pinned sleeve flapping. “Morning, George,” he said, getting the greeting out of the way before swinging to Hooker.
“Joe … I’ve been thinking…”
Hooker looked at Meade. “Here’s trouble: Otis is thinking again.” He did find it hard to forgive Howard’s negligence, his outright neglect of orders. And he did not intend to pamper the man: Let him eat his shame cold. But he could not afford a political enemy, either.
He did his best to contain a surge of temper.
“I’d like your permission to push out one brigade. Toward Sedgwick. Test Lee’s intentions. Barlow’s brigade hasn’t even—”
“No,” Hooker said, “I’ve already told you.”
“But if the Sixth Corps were cut off, Lee might—”
“All Sedgwick has to do is hold his fords. Since he seems reluctant to play any other role.” Hooker’s lips narrowed. “I want every man in position when Lee attacks.”
A regiment of flies attacked the generals and their horses.
“You know, Joe,” Meade interfered, waving at the swarm, “Otis and I have had our disagreements, but a limited advance to feel out Lee…” He hesitated. “Doesn’t it make sense for Lee to strike Sedgwick first? While keeping the rest of us waiting at the altar?”
Hooker’s head began to throb again. “No. For God’s sake, Lee’s after more than just one corps. He’s a slave to ambition, that man. His blood’s up, he’s going to come at us. Today. And then he’ll see what I’m—what this army’s made of.”
Howard seemed bent on impertinence. “Joe, my men need a chance to redeem themselves. In the eyes of the rest of the army. If it should become necessary to support Uncle John, my corps is well-positioned to lead the way. We could—”
“If you’re looking for redemption, find a chaplain,” Hooker snapped.
“The Germans—”
“Your Germans need their beer barrels shoved up their asses.” Hooker snorted. “Just try to keep them from running away again.”
“Joe, that’s uncalled for,” Meade said.
“‘Uncalled for’? That’s rich. I’ll damned well tell you what’s uncalled for. Disobeying orders. Endangering this army. Jeopardizing this entire campaign. Giving Lee a chance to humiliate—”
He stopped himself and shut his eyes for a moment. When he eased the eyelids again—with his left eye not quite focused—he changed his demeanor by an act of will.
“Listen to us,” Hooker said, forcing a smile. “Just listen to us. At each other’s throats. It’s wrong, all wrong. We need to fight the Johnnies, not each other.”
“Well, I agree with that,” Meade said.
Howard nodded. “Of course, Joe. I was only trying—”
“No harm done,” Hooker allowed. “Decisive day ahead. Plenty of work.” He refreshed his smile and threw back his manly shoulders. “I’d best be off, make sure Reynolds hasn’t got up to some mischief. No need to join me, George—your corps looks fine.”
As he rode away, the lack of confidence just encountered nagged him. Why wouldn’t Lee attack him? When didn’t Lee attack? Well, let him try it today and Lincoln himself wouldn’t quibble about the result.
Lincoln. A dullard given charge of a torn country. Democracy was a doubtful enterprise. McClellan had been right that the country needed a stronger hand, a leader empowered.
But Lincoln remained in authority, occupying the President’s House. His uninformed caprices decided careers.
What would Lincoln do, if …
Joseph Hooker wanted to keep his command. That was the shrunken extent of his ambition: to retain command until he could show success. There had been times, before the army moved, in the days of dress parades and soaring morale, when he’d imagined himself elected president in the subsequent year’s election, the hero who’d won the war.
Now, though …
With his escort strung out behind him, Hooker followed another cut trail, all white stumps and reeking of sap, and he forced himself to think on brighter prospects. Dan Butterfield was coming out from Falmouth to take charge of the staff and set things straight. First Dickinson, then Van Alen, had failed him. Just as his fellow generals had failed him. No one had supported his plan with a will, no one had given him the support he needed.
Dan would put things right. Whether Lee attacked or not. Dan would save things. And Dan would be his witness that the avalanche of errors had not been his fault.
They all believed he was finished. He could tell. Vultures, all of them. Their jealousy was palpable, thick as mud.
In a clearing just ahead, he spotted John Reynolds. The First Corps commander stood waiting in front of a tent and a pair of flags. A handsome man and capable, but a sneak, Reynolds was another one not to be trusted, another slave to ambition, another man who wished to seize the crown.
Joe Hooker felt the world conspiring against him.
When Hooker had gone, Meade said to Howard, “Joe would be a great general, if the enemy followed his orders.”
Clement Evans couldn’t deny his men a pair of minutes to loot the wagons. Wouldn’t let his regiment run wild, but the 31st Georgia had earned the right to stuff its haversacks with Yankeedom’s endless bounty.
Tempted, but unwilling to appear grasping, Evans watched a soldier attempt to stuff a sack of coffee beans into a knapsack many sizes too small.
Like the loaves and the fishes in reverse, Evans decided. He did look forward to the war’s conclusion—let it come soon—when he could return to his cherished dream of becoming a Methodist minister, preaching the Lord God’s majesty and mercy. And when he could rejoin Allie and the little ones—but, above all, Allie. Men were not meant to worship living creatures, but he did approach idolatry with his darling, a Christian woman whose faith allowed for smiles.
A good woman was not least among the miracles wrought by the Lord.
Far away, though, Allie was far away. Sometimes, at night, he didn’t know how to endure it, the thought of her pushed him to the verge of folly, to deeds unthinkable. He could smell her in the darkness, feel her hair beneath his cheek.…
In their excitement, some of his men cast unwanted goods on the ground. It was time to put a stop to things. Waste was un-Christian. Others had needs, too.
He turned to his acting adjutant. “All right, Creighton. Get the boys back in line, time to push on. Detail a dozen men to watch over the wagons and guard the prisoners.”
A mile back and barely visible, the rest of Gordon’s Brigade trailed Evans’ men, who had been advanced as skirmishers and pursued the mission with vigor. It was dangerous work, but not without rewards: There had been cries of exaltation when his men crossed a ridge and spotted the Yankee wagons stopped by a creek, protected by no more than a handful of soldiers—blue-bellies who hadn’t felt much inclined to challenge a screeching host of ravenous Georgians.
Gordon would be pleased, of course, at the capture. But Evans felt inspired to do more. The Yankees were out there somewhere and needed finding.
John Brown Gordon. If there was a man, short of Robert E. Lee, worth serving in the Army of Northern Virginia, it was Gordon. The man was—what was the word?—“irrepressible.” You couldn’t keep that hound dog under the porch. The men adored him, hanging on his words, even when they had not the faintest notion what Gordon was going on about. The man was … an enchanter.
Clem Evans reckoned his future ministry could profit from Gordon’s uncanny knack for rhetoric.
And Gordon had dash. After his morning speech on rivers of blood and impending sacrifice, the regiment had stormed that ridge, only to delight a passel of belles. Any other man would have been embarrassed to the core, but Gordon had passed it off by declaring, in that stirring voice, “Now look at that, boys! The Yankees ran off at the first hint you were coming! Isn’t that fine?”
The women had flocked to Gordon in a manner almost unseemly.
Gordon was not that sort of man, of course. A flirt, perhaps, but surely no betrayer. Gordon professed a devotion to his wife that echoed Evans’ adoration of Allie.
It was only Gordon’s commitment to Jesus Christ that wanted praying over. He said the right words, always, but there were glint-eyed moments when Evans feared that his superior merely found the Lord useful.
With his regiment spread out in a doubled skirmish line again, Evans waved the men forward and joined them on foot. Horses had grown scarce for mere regimental commanders—his last mount had died of nothing much in the winter and he was not a wealthy man, possessed of neither land nor slaves to work it. If he couldn’t catch a Yankee horse on the battlefield, colonel or not he was going to wear down some shoe leather.
In the distance, off to the west, shots pierced the morning, but all seemed sweetly peaceable where the Georgians trod, with the petals and leaves of May adorning Creation.
Couldn’t figure out those Yankee wagons. Unprotected, off by themselves, and not even paying attention. As if they were safe as children under a quilt. Had they just gotten lost?
Well, he wasn’t about to lodge a complaint with Lincoln. And his men surely wouldn’t protest.
“Stay alert,” he called to his nearest officers. He’d said it as much for himself as for his soldiers: Enveloped by the glory of God’s bounty, a fellow’s mind tended to wander. Even his shadow seemed beauteous and a wonder, stretching before him as he strode through new barley.
He’d come to relish fighting, a sin he often prayed over. Surely the Lord would be merciful to those who went to war to uphold the Bible—why couldn’t He make Northerners understand the wisdom of His injunctions? Colored folk could no more look after themselves than could a milk cow. Slavery was ordained, it was necessary, and had only to be regulated with justice. The Negro wasn’t merely the white man’s servant, but his responsibility, a burden to be borne with Christian rectitude. The Yankees would simply turn the Negro out of his home, leaving him helpless, bereft, and prey to sin.
Insects rose from trampled grass. The sun climbed and shadows shortened. Evans began to sweat properly. Trailing the scent of coffee beans, his soldiers brushed along, any remarks they made pointed and brief.
Might have been a hunt back home, a hunt with no game flushed.
Then there they were: Yankee skirmishers, waiting idly down a reverse slope, off on their own, with no other Federals anywhere to be seen.
Evans felt an urge to run right at them and scoop them up. The Yankees hadn’t the numbers and he doubted they had the grit to stand their ground. But he didn’t want to exhaust his men or slip into disorder. Gordon’s charm masked a fierce belief in discipline, and Clement Evans would not be found lacking.
So his soldiers just continued to advance, crossing through one budding crop after another, eyeing the waiting Yankees as the details of faces and uniforms grew sharper.
Evans reckoned those Federals would exchange two shots before running. Yankees had their deficiencies, but they could count.
Instead, the blue-bellies let off one round each and then turned high-tail, not just falling back but running as if chased by Satan with his fiery pitchfork.
Before Evans could voice an order, his Georgians hallooed, as if at home driving their hounds. The entire regiment gave chase, having themselves a fine time.
To the rear, cheers—what he took for cheers—rose from the rest of Gordon’s Brigade, far back on higher ground. It looked as though another of Early’s brigades was moving up to fill in the left as well.
Big fight coming, all right. Once they uncovered the Yankees.
Missing his late horse at least as much as he would have mourned a cousin, Evans sprinted ahead of his colors, determined to hold his regiment short of anarchy. The Yanks just plain skedaddled, fleeing over another of the crests that scalloped the landscape.
When Evans’ men topped the low ridge themselves, every man stopped on his own. A mighty line of men in blue stood before them, well within range, and unleashed a volley to deafen the high heavens. Evans threw himself to the ground, with his color-bearers going flat behind him.
The mathematics were running the wrong way.
The Yankees cheered and reloaded. Evans rose and ran along his line, crouching and ordering his soldiers back behind the crest.
They’d come upon at least a brigade, if not a full division.
Evans liked an honest scrap, but he didn’t enjoy finding himself on the wrong end of a target shoot.
His men scrambled back to a parlous safety, encouraged in their flight by Yankee bullets and chased by jeers.
Shielded by a swell of ground no higher than a wave, Evans drew his regiment into a tighter formation, one that might allow for a brief defense if the Yankees advanced. And then there was nothing to do but wait, either for Gordon’s Brigade and its new neighbor to join the soiree or for an order to withdraw. Meanwhile, he sent his steadiest lieutenant rearward to inform Gordon about what awaited him.
To Evans’ surprise and not a little dismay, a lone regiment hurried up on the 31st Georgia’s left. Not enough of a reinforcement to do more than excite the Yankees to take a more active interest in affairs.
Virginians. From Extra Billy Smith’s bunch. Haughty as ever. Cocky and quick, they swept forward, calling to the Georgians to get up and join the attack then mocking them, in hard words, when they declined the invitation.
The Virginians swarmed over the crest, met a hurricane volley, and returned with impressive speed.
It was the Georgians’ turn to hurl insults.
An order arrived from Gordon to pull back and rejoin the brigade. The Virginians saw the wisdom of following suit, order or no order. But even as the humbled withdrew, another lone Virginian regiment leapt into the cauldron.
The confusion grew worse.
When Evans located Gordon to report, the brigade commander was conferring with General Early, an excitable man. Early flapped his arms and blasphemed to shame Lucifer, his high-pitched voice turning sulfur into sound.
Gordon shot Evans a look that said, Let him blow off for a minute, and Evans waited, though not without blushing as Early’s tirade turned to accusing the Yankees and then his own men of unlikely, if not impossible, contortions and combinations of human bodies.
Finally, Early ran out of himself. He noticed Evans and, before Gordon could speak, the general demanded, “Well, Reverend, what the hell’s out there that you saw and I can’t?”
“Didn’t have time to count heads, sir,” Evans told him, “but it looked like the better part of a Yankee division. And they seem inclined to stay.”
Jubal Early pulled back his soldiers but kept them ready to advance again. This time there would be proper coordination, with no brigade commanders making fool decisions on their own—Extra Billy was farting-out-the-mouth proof that a former governor was not necessarily meant to command a brigade. Or a shithouse detail. Sooner or later, Smith was going to make a mistake that cost them all dearly, but nothing could be done about the man.
There were times when Jubal Early missed the old Army.
Ready enough to fight, though. All he needed was word from Lee that his attack would have support from the west, where McLaws was supposed to do his part and hadn’t. Early wasn’t about to take on a Yankee corps with a single division. There was a mountain-mile’s difference between bravery and stupidity, and he’d already used up the day’s stupidity rations.
He spit out his used-up chaw, slopping his beard and drying it with his cuff.
The last orders he’d received from Lee had specified a coordinated attack to crush John Sedgwick. But nothing had happened on the Chancellorsville side of the battlefield. Laff McLaws probably had one paw on his pecker and the other up his ass, as usual.
He did wonder what was taking Lee so long. Tardiness wasn’t one of the old man’s qualities.
Fight like the devil, that he would. He just needed Robert E. Lee to get things moving.
Uncle John Sedgwick would have traded a full brigade for a single clear and unequivocal order. Hooker wanted him to hold the fords and a bridgehead. But another order granted him the authority to evacuate to the north bank, if pressed. And some damned fool had abandoned the heights behind Fredericksburg—had Gibbon been sleeping? Now those fords were denied him, leaving Banks’ Ford more vital than ever.
Amid the orders arriving out of sequence, he’d also been instructed to renew his advance westward toward Chancellorsville—but only given evidence that Hooker was attacking eastward himself.
There had been no sign of that.
Attack? Defend? Remain in place? Recross the river? Eat beans and play checkers?
Awaiting definite orders, he’d done the sensible thing in the wake of Howe’s morning scuffle: He’d arrayed the Sixth Corps on good defensive ground that shielded the last fords and the loop in the river.
Flags high, his wearied retinue located Albion Howe again. The first thing Sedgwick asked the division commander was:
“Any word about Longstreet? Any sign? Those prisoners have anything to say?”
Howe shook his head. “All of them were Early’s men. Mostly Virginians. Took themselves a good licking. As for Longstreet … nothing, sir. Seems more phantom than fact.”
That, at least, gave cause for hope. But Sedgwick remained on guard. For all the folderol about honor and rectitude, Robert E. Lee was a wily sonofabitch.
“All right, Albie. Talk.”
The division commander understood. “It’s fine terrain to fight on, no complaints. Channels the Rebs away from any point of concentration, run of the ground will break up large formations. It may be a division front on the map, but it’s going to be a brigade fight on the ground.” He gestured toward invisible Rebs. “Come at me from over there—which seems the likely approach—they’ll hit a heavy skirmish line. Push that back, they’ll encounter Neill’s brigade. If Neill can’t hold them, they’ll meet Lew Grant’s Vermonters. Who have a knack for creating Confederate widows.”
“All right. Good.” Sedgwick looked around. Listening. “Rebs have been awfully quiet. Not sure whether I like that.”
“Maybe they’re having second thoughts. About attacking.”
Sedgwick’s face hardened. “Lee never has second thoughts about attacking.”
Walter Taylor did not believe he had ever seen Robert E. Lee in such a fury, but a man had to know the general to recognize it, to catch the faintest pinking of the face that signaled an inferno raging within. Lee rarely raised his voice and never shouted, but the air around him turned arctic enough to freeze Lord Franklin twice. As he followed the general from one disordered headquarters to another, Taylor tried to stay hidden behind Lee’s shoulder, available if needed, but not an immediate target for his wrath.
Lee had awakened that day in excellent spirits, certain that his subordinates knew their roles and Sedgwick’s corps would be destroyed before the day’s meridian. Instead, nothing had happened, other than a half-hearted, broken-off effort by Early’s Division. McLaws had not moved, and when Lee arrived to find him seated under a tree devouring a chicken, Lee’s quiet remarks had cut like a saber.
McLaws had protested that his division alone was insufficient, that his scouts had found the Federals well posted and in strength. So Lee had ordered up the remainder of Anderson’s Division, only to find Dick Anderson’s slowness an outrage atop McLaws’ lethargy. Anderson’s men could not just pull off the Chancellorsville line without being replaced by troops from another division. And that took time, it stood to reason. But Lee had passed beyond reason. He wanted an attack. And the hours passed.
Behind those silver manners, Lee was a killer. More than once, Taylor had seen the old man’s savage will at work. It was not the sort of thing that one discussed, but there it was.
Still, Lee retained the self-control—that icy self-control—to recognize that any attack required coordination if it was to destroy the Federal Sixth Corps, especially after the Yankees had time to prepare. But even with Anderson up and in place at last, there had been more delays, with Early waiting for McLaws to advance, and McLaws waiting on Early, in a comic performance worthy of a minstrel show.
Taylor longed to say to Lee, “The men are tired, sir, they’ve been fighting for four days, that’s why they’re lagging.” But he knew that Lee, if he replied at all, would say, in a tone of impatient disdain, “Those people, too, are weary. But they can afford to be weary and we cannot.”
The afternoon waned.
Lee would have relieved all three, McLaws, Anderson, and Early, if he’d had men to replace them. But he had none with sufficient experience, none who were ready.
Jackson was right: The South could not win through mercy. Hearts had to be hardened, excuses punished, failure forbidden upon pain of death.
Jackson was right.…
Now the divisions were in place at last, the final orders issued, and his much-delayed attack would commence at the signal of three cannon shots in succession.
Blessedly, Hooker, a fool’s fool, had not lifted a finger to interfere, mesmerized by feints and occasional shelling that masked the depletion of Lee’s lines at Chancellorsville.
The equation was simple: Hooker was afraid, while he was not.
Lee drew out his watch. It was five twenty-six. He nudged Traveller toward Alexander’s gun line. He would give the order to fire at five thirty.
He longed to ride over a field paved blue with corpses.
“It’s hot,” Jackson muttered, as the wagon jolted along.
“Yes, sir,” Dr. McGuire said from his perch above him. “Gets hot under the canvas. But it’s worse without it.”
“Our wounded must suffer greatly.”
“We do our best, General.”
Voice much weakened, Jackson said, “I did not mean to chide.”
“No offense taken, sir.”
“War is a terrible matter, Doctor. It takes us in thrall, a seductress. I do believe the Lord meant to instruct me, with this wound.” Then he added, “I do feel warm.”
“You need rest. And you’ll get it soon, sir.”
“I would like … perhaps, at the next house…”
“Water? There’s water right here.” McGuire’s face spoke of thought and the surgeon added, “Cold well water might be dangerous, General. Given your condition, the shock to the internal system.”
“Not to drink. Compresses. Cold compresses. For my head. I would be grateful.”
After an awkward delay, McGuire said, “I don’t know if that would be wise.”
“I have always … I have always found water treatments to be healthful. I always gained from visiting the springs, the hydrology cure.” Jackson tried to smile, unsure if he managed it. The journey was hard, and long, and he did not feel as strong as he had the past evening. “Water, Doctor, is the font of life. It cures much. And cannot hurt us.”
Jackson’s ears quickened. He believed he heard artillery fire in the distance, serious gunnery this time, not mere teasing. He’d been waiting to hear it all day.
McGuire laid the back of a hand on Jackson’s forehead. The wagon creaked and jolted.
“You’re a bit warm. But it’s likely just the heat.”
“Wet compresses would ease me.”
Surrendering, the doctor ordered the driver to pause at the next respectable dwelling.
“I suppose the water wouldn’t do any harm,” he said.