Evening, May 4
Micky Deary hammered the hillside with the remains of his brogans, head ducked down to his shoulders and Yankee bullets thrilling the air about him. The slope was an insult that robbed a man of his breath, and the Irish lads of the 6th Louisiana managed but a half-hearted howl as they climbed. The only sweetness of it was that Yankees atop a hill always fired too high, though they fired enough.
Shooting from half a world away, long-range Union guns north of the river hunted their whereabouts.
“Jaysus, it’s set to flurry a man,” an Antrim banty complained.
Consumed by the calf-burning, knee-rending going-up-ness—after a day of shuttling here and there—Deary had no air to waste on words.
So on they went, as bitter as piss in the porridge, hating for hatred’s deliciousness—hate, the poor man’s treat.
Above the Yankees, thick clouds gathered to smother the pretty day, called by the guns. By twilight, there’d be rain, any man born of Ireland could tell, and their work had best be finished before that, or the whole commotion would bog down in the clabber.
Hidden Yankees, scoundrels all, fired into the regiment’s flank, sudden and savage, but Colonel Forno paid them no attention, for the top of the hill and the ground beyond was precious.
Deary missed his messmate Danny Riordan, for Danny was ever a joy amid a fight. But Riordan was in a hospital bed, claimed by the bloody shits, and Deary felt alone and on his guard. For all the packing and pushing, a field of battle was a lonely place.
The Yankees were stubborn and made them pause a turd-fling from the top. Only a heavy skirmish line they had, by now a man could tell, but the buggers were set up grand as a baronet’s footman. They wanted uprooting by force, and they’d get it sure.
The Yankee voices, defiant, offered no music, only an ugly growl of dull obscenities. ’Twas clear there were few Irishmen among them.
Deary delighted to see a blue-belly’s head burst and spit brains, for men took their bullets in many a way and pleasing it was to know the dead were dead.
“Forr-udd, Loooz-annah,” the colonel called in his taskmaster’s baritone.
Up they went in another rush, devouring the last distance, and the Yankees retired, though not in their usual haste.
Gasping, Deary surveyed the scene on the rolling ground they’d gained but not yet conquered. A fresh Yankee battery nudged them and the officers led them along. One or two of the older boyos faltered, either used up or pretending, but the regiment and their half of the brigade showed doughty enough.
Beyond a swale, the main Yankee line was aboil with boys in blue, dark as rotted praties in their multitude.
Deary kept to his swarm and pounded the earth, but he did think on black praties, the mush of death, the memory indelible although he’d been but five, if the counting was sure. And then his father died during the passage, done by the ailment he chose of the murderous many, and they dropped him into the waves, tah-rah, leaving his mother bewildered and lost, with not two coins to jingle. He, a boy, had only seen her rage and he learned the back-knuckled smack of a hand on his face, if ever he dared to whisper about hunger. He’d hated her then, even as he clung, as he’d hated the men who passed her along to New Orleans, where she’d left him at last with the Sisters, who no more wanted Micky Deary, runt-grown, than they longed for a whore’s salvation. Bitter, bitter women they were, their mercies short and crabbed.
Yet how the years instructed a man, how misery taught him true! He saw now that his mother had been no more than a child herself, younger by years than he was on this bounty-of-blood day, and he thought of her not without kindness, wherever she might be, if still alive.
’Twas a wonder and sweet, what next transpired, as lovely as free whiskey: They struck the Yankees on the flank while others occupied them, and the blue-bellies ran like rats from dogs and torches.
Full-lunged and riled to a fury, the men about him shrieked like the great Banshee multiplied by a thousand. Of battle lines there were none left, just a mighty mob determined to do harm for the joy of destruction. Had church windows been in their way, they would have smashed them and barely repented on doomsday.
’Twas a killing hour.
But a single Yankee regiment broke in the beginning and Louisiana’s transplants from Kerry and Cork slammed into the next bunch, just as the Federals struggled to realign.
Soon the dread came upon them, and the weak peeled fast away.
Leaping a low mound of dirt thrown up, Deary found himself eye to eye with a Yankee born for a brawl. The blue-belly swung his rifle back to club out Deary’s brains, but Deary fixed his snout with a fist, for courage might be a noble thing, but quickness was better still.
As the Yankee reeled, Deary tripped the man and shoved him and he fell. But Deary had not survived on Christian virtue: He brought down the butt of his rifle smack on the Yankee’s snout, just where the bones shook hands, putting all his cock-of-the-walk weight behind it and catching a glimpse of terrified eyes before he pulped them proper.
The regiment moved on again, in triumph, with the Federal defense ruined. Oh, sweet it was, the glory of the evening!
Weary as he was from head to foot, Deary joined the mass exhilaration, embracing the thrill of conquest that elated the kings of old, the irresistible liquor of revenge and the raw delight of doing harm to others. War didn’t bring out the worst in men, Deary didn’t think that at all. War let men be themselves without fear of the law.
The officers struggled to reestablish order, but that was folly. The excitement overpowered even captains, and what man didn’t want the first peep of the Yankee bounty waiting to be plundered? They dashed ahead, beyond weariness, souls flocking to salvation.
Tonight they would eat their fill, like the warriors whose ancient songs still whispered in the winds of Connemara. Each man his master as in the buried age of Ireland’s glory, they swept over another weakling ridge only to find they’d been cheated by the devil.
A Yankee line, the strongest yet, waited behind sharpened abatis, artillery positioned on the flanks to cross their fires and take lives in a muchness.
The grim guns spoke.
The regiment raised a cry of rage and staggered toward the Yankees, with men tumbling. A few boyos reached the edge of the Yankee obstacle, only to be cut down by converging fires. Others took shelter wherever it was to be had. Deary chose his ground and chose his targets.
The 6th Louisiana showed as stubborn as poverty in the Limerick warrens, but worn the lads were and bleeding more each moment. The Yankees hollered, “Vermont! Vermont!” and Deary never had heard of the place until war came upon him, nor did he think he was inclined to visit. The North sounded colder of heart than an absentee landlord.
Without orders, Deary and his wronged fellows stepped backward once then twice, men done dirty by fate and through no fault of their own. They did not run but gave ground as a Scotsman gives a penny, ruing the loss.
With a cheer, the Yankees charged.
It was too much. Men with legs of stone found strength to run. And Deary was not the last.
No sooner had the survivors left the fateful crest behind than rifles blazed out from the Confederate rear, confounding all.
Men didn’t know which way to flee.
Officers, doing their duty for once, rushed straight into the volleys, waving their gentleman’s paws and crying, “Don’t shoot! We’re Southrons, cease fire!” Their wiser peers pushed forward flags and had the bearers wave them.
It took a grave lot of minutes to coax the firing to a stop. By then the regiment and the entire brigade was a fear-eyed shambles.
The long-range Federal guns came calling again.
Deary blundered into a grove, called by the treacherous safety of the forest, the old come-hither of trees, only to find himself in a lunatic scramble, where regiments joining the fight had somehow collided, their anger aimed at each other now and the Yankees all but forgotten.
Edging and shoving and threatening his way through the back end of the hooley, Deary made his way across a ravine—recognized from the eternity of half an hour before—and gained a field occupied by Confederate batteries waiting for something to do, forgotten and useless.
He stopped and stood in the open, alone, and shook his head.
It began to rain.
Watching the Louisiana Brigade—“brigands” more like—go up that hill, Jubal Early had grinned like a Methodist witnessing the sufferings of a sinner: A handsome victory was in his grasp.
And then it had all gone unaccountably wrong. Hoke got himself shot out of the saddle, just when he needed to pivot his command. Orders went astray and brigades either split into weakened parts or mingled. In the early dark of the woodlands, his men fired on each other. Then the Louisianans, the demi-brigade that had surged over the hill, came running back.
Goddamned mess.
And there was a drenching rain on the way, his lumbago was never wrong.
The only hope remaining was Gordon’s Brigade.
John Brown Gordon felt unstoppable. Aware of the pandemonium on his left, and stung by the heavy guns across the river, the Georgian simply refused to be discouraged, riding before his banners, upright and flaunting his saber, defying fate: A man placed his bets and took the consequences. Bloodthirsty and hollering, his brigade brushed off thin lines of Yankees and hastened toward the fords, the keys to bagging an entire Union corps.
He would not have objected to being the hero of the hour.
Nor would it be such a terrible thing if he alone succeeded while others failed. He never wished harm on his rivals—that was unworthy—but neither did he mind it if they faltered.
And they were faltering now. But they also were keeping the Yankees occupied and stretched to breaking. Bella fortuna, where Gordon’s Brigade had encountered the first skirmishers, both sides had been unsure of the other’s whereabouts. His Georgians had been spoiling for a fight, though—especially Clem Evans and his marauders—and they’d sent the Yankees flying once then twice, barely pausing to spoon up a helping of prisoners. Gordon had sent his captives rearward immediately, with an order to the lieutenant in charge to parade them past Jubal Early, even if he had to countermarch them.
The Yankees did have more artillery on the north bank than was decent. He reckoned that at least a full battery was composed of siege guns, with plenty of rifled batteries to assist.
Didn’t slow his men, though. The big shells only made them step out briskly.
Again, he wished his Fanny were magically near. A celebration of private joys would have capped the day most finely, nor would she have had the patience to let him bathe first. Gordon only shook his head whenever a man claimed women found loving unpleasant. Just took the right woman matched with the right man. Or, sometimes, the wrong woman with the utterly wrong man, though that was another tale.
Even in a battle’s moments of respite, Gordon could smile about the foibles and follies of the male and the inexhaustible wonder of the female. Life was a banquet, and only damned fools were afraid to eat.
Gordon favored red meat over chicken.
Ignoring the clouds running overhead and the graying of the light, his soldiers cheered over nothing but sheer delight, like those Greeks raising a ruckus by pounding their shields.
“Drive on, boys, drive on!”
Gordon was not a drinking man, but he’d indulged more times than one. And this was better by far, a higher exaltation than stay-at-homes ever would know. There were times when fighting seemed fully half of the purpose of existence.
He didn’t hate the Federals, didn’t believe he hated any man. Hatred was wasteful, it ate men up. Gordon just found killing Yankees useful, for the time being, and he didn’t rule out befriending them again: After the war they’d still be next-door neighbors, and lives took many a turn. The man who reveled in making lifelong enemies was ultimately an enemy to himself.
There was no reason why you couldn’t kill a man and do business with his brother. That sort of thing happened all the time in the Bible.
It made him smile to think of teasing Clem Evans on that point.
Gordon heard cheers from his left rear, unmistakable Yankee hurrahs. That jarred him. He didn’t want his fellow brigade commanders to lose outright, just wished them lesser successes. He wanted his people to win, after all.
And he, at least, was winning. He’d struck the end of the Federal lines, there was nothing left in front of him. The Yankees must have misjudged the full extent of their perimeter, or they’d been forced to shift men to other points, leaving a gap. Otherwise these open fields, all but undefended, made no sense.
He’d had the luck of the day, that was the truth. After that not-unembarrassing charge up the heights early in the morning. Those chattering, untidy women, those homespun Fredericksburg belles—add ’em together, the sum wouldn’t rise as high as Fanny’s ankles.
He was about to dispatch a courier to announce his success when a blue wave rose from the river bend ahead, a surge not of water but of men, flowing forward at the double-quick, Yankees in the thousands.
Gordon halted his brigade. It took a good minute for officers to return order to their lines and prepare for a fight. Given a static target, the Federal artillery across the river found the range and rejoiced.
Soldiers who had been merry moments before disintegrated into pulp and splinters.
Still posted ahead of his lines and unwilling to distance himself from the brigade’s colors, Gordon drew out his field glasses. The light had grown frail as the clouds swelled and sank, and he could not identify the approaching flags, but the troops were well-drilled, whoever they belonged to.
A nearby impact prickled his face with dirt and troubled his horse.
He began to worry that those successful Yankees to his rear might close in behind him, upending his plans entirely, the hunted becoming the hunters.
Never show alarm, though: That was his battlefield rule. He refused to display the least hint of concern. Instead, he rode his lines, in front of waiting rifles, smiling, with his good cheek shown to the ranks.
“What a fine day for Georgia! What a grand day! Look there, you’ve flushed out the last reserves they’d got. Give them a pleasant Georgia welcome, hear?”
The position was impossible to maintain. Not with the pounding from those untouchable batteries. Suddenly, his brigade was exposed in more ways than he could tally.
Steering his horse behind his lines, he rode from colonel to colonel, instructing them to be prepared to withdraw and ordering Colonel Evans to cover the movement.
“We’ll give them a brigade volley, but you hold your fire, Clem. Let them have it just when the others pull back.” They both eyed the oncoming Federals and Gordon added, “Those boys aren’t out to drive us back to Richmond. They’re out to restore their line, they’ll let you get off.”
Evans’ eyes shone, delighted by the dangerous work entrusted. One more of life’s inexplicable men, Gordon thought. Wanted to be a preacher to poor country folk, but killed them in the meantime. For a laced-up Christian, Clem was amiable. And heathen-good at his work.
Raindrops skirmished, the heavens were set to attack.
Before riding off, Gordon told Evans, “No fool heroics now. Don’t want your Allie chasing me with an axe handle.”
Clem smiled big as a peach. “That woman wouldn’t settle for using the handle.”
The day hadn’t ended quite the way Clement Evans would have preferred, but he wouldn’t write that to his wife. There’d been success enough to allow him to fib and make the success entire. He did long for that woman to think well of him.
The queer thing was that his men had arrived back in their lines in a fine mood. If they hadn’t been able to stand up to those Yankees and give them a proper whipping, the 31st Georgia had spanked them nevertheless. In the course of a running fight under a downpour, they’d gotten drenched and muddied up like hogs—and still his men made jokes and laughed, their casualties low and spirits near as high as those trailing clouds.
In fact, the entire brigade was far from dispirited. Unlike the Louisianans and North Carolinians, who hadn’t had their best day of the war, the Georgians just shrugged off the evening’s setback. Gordon had that effect. He could bust a man’s nose with a brick and the fellow would pay him a dollar for the honor.
And Clement Evans was grateful for a gift the Lord had sent His faithful servant: In the final confusion of the day, in near dark and rain that sloshed like a tipped washtub, his soldiers had brought him a handsome horse, courtesy of a very unhappy Yankee.
The rain stopped after warning of what might follow. Wet as a stray dog and hunched of spine, Jubal Early banged through the farmhouse door. Immediately, he sensed the gloom, smelled punishment, and stopped. In the lamplight, Lee sat stiffly, face locked tight. McLaws and Anderson stood before him, waiting for the hangman.
Taking a risk, Early put spunk in his voice:
“Came near breaking them, General Lee. Almost whipped them, we did.”
Turning slowly toward him, Lee’s face went the Gorgon one better. In a quiet voice that could bring a man to his knees, Lee said:
“General Early, I’m glad to see you. At last.”
Lee had to muster all his willpower not to shout his rage. Early, who at least had made a fight of it, had nearly broken Lee’s grip on himself when he burst in full of self-congratulation, barking that he had “almost whipped them.” Lee had barely refrained from snapping that “almost” is a word no officer should ever use. “Almost” was a word for moral cowards.
Keeping the three division commanders on their feet before him, Lee suppressed another pulse of fury. If Early had fought and failed, Anderson had barely fought, and McLaws had hardly moved. What was wrong with these men? Couldn’t they grasp the necessity of sacrifice? The need for relentlessness? The fundamental requirement to impose your will on the enemy and never stop? They’d held a triumph in their fists and let it run through their fingers.
With his voice under strict discipline—he had disciplined his life since his first day at West Point—Lee said:
“Gentlemen, you failed your country today.”
McLaws opened his mouth to protest, but Lee stopped him with a raised finger.
“I will not hear excuses,” Lee continued. “Excuses are a worthless currency. What I expect, gentlemen, is an advance at dawn by each of your divisions and all of your men. Nor do I wish you to drive those people and General Sedgwick across the river. I expect you to destroy them. Here.” Merciless and unwavering, his eyes searched downcast faces.
Judging their expressions of fear and regret, of wounded pride and inevitable self-interest, he turned his inner anger toward Jackson. He had learned further details of Jackson’s wounding, appalled. How could Jackson have behaved so foolishly, taken so little care? This day … this day and the day before … would have had different outcomes had Jackson been present. But the man had played the fool in a junior officer’s witless prank, devil-may-care in the dark. And who would pay the price? If Jackson had lost an arm, the army had lost an unrivaled opportunity, perhaps even a chance to end the war.
For the South, incomplete victories would never be sufficient. His army had to strike the Union’s heart. Those people had to be shocked into submission, they had to understand they could not win.
Well, tomorrow would be different, if the Lord allowed. How might Jackson put it? Sedgwick and his corps would “suffer the fate of the Amalekites.” Then, if Hooker did not flee, the following day would see the destruction of that man’s entire army, an end befitting Pharaoh’s chariots.
After letting his silence punish the generals standing penitent, Lee told them:
“Alexander has ranged Banks’ Ford, the essential point. He will shell the crossing all night, to discourage any thought those people may have of escape. At dawn, your skirmishers will advance and press the attack. No matter the circumstance, not a single regiment will withdraw as long as one man remains to hold its flag.” Again, he scanned the faces, though with impatience this time. “I believe you understand me.”
Truant from their duty on this day, the division commanders traded looks, waiting for one of the others to break the silence. Finally, Early said:
“Yes, sir. I reckon we understand, all right.”
With a doorward cant of his head, Lee concluded:
“Good. Now you may go.”
Dan Butterfield was mortified. Upon his arrival to oversee the staff, Hooker had tugged him aside without allowing him time to take a piss.
Joe had concocted a new plan. And it was madness.
The bluster was still intact, but Joe seemed deprived of his senses. When he spoke, his hands grew agitated.
With wet canvas sagging and an oil lamp flickering, Joe rambled on, his great shock of hair greased and dirty, the side of his face puffed up and badly bruised.
“It’s brilliant,” Hooker repeated. “Can’t you see it? If Lee fails to attack me here tomorrow, I’ll withdraw the army under cover of darkness and recross where Sedgwick’s holding open the fords. Surprise Lee and overwhelm him.” Excited and unsteady, he looked at Butterfield expectantly.
Dan Butterfield did not know where—or how—to begin. If the grand plan they’d designed had not led to Lee’s defeat, a madcap, impossible scheme of sneaking the army over the river and back again—while Lee, alert now, watched—just made no sense. It was a Chinese opium dream, an invitation to complete disaster.
“Joe … Sedgwick was hard-pressed today. And Lee’s apt to hit him much harder tomorrow, he wants to gobble the plum at the end of the branch.”
Hooker shook his head. “No. Lee failed today. Tomorrow, he’ll come at us, right here. He’s got to come at us.”
Butterfield almost felt that Joe would be better off if he had a couple of whiskeys. His excitement was peculiar and unnerving. And those hands …
“Well, Joe, let’s look into it … tally the numbers, see what can be done.” It was the sort of answer Butterfield had learned in the world of business, an answer that was no answer at all. “Meanwhile, I’ve finally gotten news of the cavalry.”
“What does he say?”
“Actually, it’s all from the Richmond papers. Smuggled across the lines. Apparently, the Cavalry Corps has been everywhere doing everything, Richmond’s been in a panic.” Butterfield’s features narrowed. “Everything except fulfilling the mission. Stoneman doesn’t seem to have annoyed Lee in the least.”
“Worthless,” Hooker said. “They’re worthless. I’ve relieved Averell, you know. The man couldn’t follow orders.”
“I know, I know. Joe, we have to talk about that. I have to admit the orders were unclear, it wasn’t—”
“The man didn’t follow orders. Done is done.”
Butterfield would have preferred to wait to raise the next, more sensitive matter, but there was no time. Joe had to see the reality before him, to protect himself.
“Listen, Joe … I need you to trust my advice on something.”
Hooker’s eyes focused as they had not done. “What?”
“Summon a council of war. Tonight. All the corps commanders. Except Sedgwick, of course.”
Hooker folded his arms. “I don’t believe in councils of war. I’m in sole command.” Unsteady fingers troubled an elbow. “Councils of war don’t ever make good decisions, they always give in to their fears.”
“Joe, that’s the point. Look, the campaign hasn’t gone exactly as we’d hoped. Frankly, there will be recriminations.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice, as if political spies surrounded the tent. “Have them vote. On whether you should withdraw the army or stay and fight. Get them on the record, in front of each other.”
“No. No, I’ve made up my mind. If Lee doesn’t attack us here tomorrow, I’ll withdraw and then recross the Rappahannock behind Sedgwick, strike Lee there, make a new start.”
“Well, we could see what happens.” He took Hooker by the forearm and told him, “Joe, you need to have them vote. Trust me.”
“And if they vote against me? If they vote to just sit here? Or attack Lee from here, where he’s prepared to receive us? And Longstreet could—”
“Longstreet’s not here. Sharpe finds no evidence of it.”
“But he will be. Any day.”
Instead of releasing Hooker’s arm, Butterfield tightened his grip. “Joe, hear me out. If they vote to stay here and sit, or even to attack … the blame will fall on their shoulders, if we fail. We’ll make damned sure of that. You’ll be the honest chief who welcomed advice, ever willing to hear out his subordinates, wanting only the best for army and country. And if they vote to withdraw, they’re the ones whose courage failed.” Butterfield sighed and dropped his hand away. “Between us, I’ve done well backing fire insurance. And I’m telling you that you need insurance now. And this kind’s free.” He reached for Hooker’s wrist again but stopped himself. “Joe, the aftermath of all of this is going to be one self-serving accusation after another. And Lincoln can’t be trusted, look at how he treated George McClellan.”
“Lincoln…” Hooker’s voice might have belonged to a sleepwalker.
“We’ve got to spread the blame, Joe.”
“A council of war…”
“Don’t even call it that, if you don’t want to. Don’t call it anything. But get them to vote. In front of each other.”
“I’m still the army’s commander, I’m still responsible. No matter what they—”
“Yes and no. The question is what the newspapers will say, where the factions in Congress will see their advantage. You have powerful friends, but you have to help them help you. Listen to me now, Joe. I’m your friend. And I’m going to be honest. The goal at this point isn’t a victor’s laurels. It’s to avoid a comprehensive defeat, the loss of this army you’ve built—an army still loyal to you, even if its generals aren’t. Don’t be a damned fool, get those vipers to vote. Make them squirm.”
Dan Butterfield had bet heavily on Joe Hooker, who had seemed capable of rising to any command, to any office. And Butterfield intended to remain loyal, that was beyond question. But he was a man of business, a realist, and he had to consider that a time might one day come when Hooker would need to be dropped. Not yet, of course.
“Council of war…,” Hooker repeated.
Sedgwick veered between confidence and fear. His men had repulsed the Johnnies handsomely, his line had not failed at a single point. Still, he had pulled back after the fighting, to a snug defensive position above Banks’ Ford. He was confident he could hold.
Unless Longstreet truly had arrived or would arrive. Unless Lee piled on still greater force. It would be impossible for the corps to cross the river under fire in broad daylight. And the blasted Confederate artillery was already shelling the only reliable crossing.
The Rappahannock had risen alarmingly, too. That cloudburst had threatened his pontoons, the sudden increase in the current had all but ripped them loose. What if more rain came and he was trapped?
Mightn’t it be the wiser course to withdraw tonight? If Hooker could be persuaded to approve it? “Fighting Joe” Hooker … Sedgwick had always been skeptical of the man, if privately, and now he distrusted him thoroughly: He could count on Lee attacking the Sixth Corps, all right, but he couldn’t count on Hooker to come to his aid. The man had more mouth than brains, that was the problem.
The campaign had been a travesty since the first of the bridges was laid, a classroom study concocted by Hooker and Butterfield, perfect in design and completely impractical. And he was the one about to pay the price.
He turned to McMahon, his chief of staff, again.
“I want another report from the engineers. Water levels, current, bank saturation, pontoon stability … you know. Wouldn’t do to be caught out and trapped.”
“No, sir.”
It struck Uncle John Sedgwick that if conditions at the ford demanded a prompt withdrawal, more than a single problem would be solved.
Marty McMahon, chief of staff of the Sixth Corps, had lost another illusion. With a brother gone to an inglorious death of common illness while in uniform and another brother serving at great risk, many a scale had fallen from his eyes. But he had idolized Sedgwick—a splendid man on a battlefield—until now. Given what was essentially an independent command, Sedgwick had failed, paralyzed by the responsibility. Again and again, the corps commander’s decisions had been laggard and overly cautious, in McMahon’s view, and one chance after another had been lost. Sedgwick had only come into his own this very day, when finally forced to fight. Now he was equivocating again.
Lieutenant Colonel Martin McMahon believed two things. First, that the corps’ new position could be defended against Lee’s entire army. And second, that Sedgwick was going to find an excuse to retreat across the river that night.
The lesson McMahon took to heart was that responsibility could break a man as readily as any enemy.
He wondered if that had happened to General Hooker.
“We’re counting on you, Dan,” Butterfield told Sickles.
Mud-slopped, George Meade dismounted in front of the headquarters tent. Given the clots of aides waiting idly in the darkness, he suspected that he was among the last of the corps commanders to arrive.
He drew off his riding gloves and thrust them into his belt. Trees dripped, a small rain after the great. A sergeant lifted the flap of the headquarters tent to let him enter.
The instant Meade stepped inside, the stench of wet wool and unwashed bodies struck him. The gathered generals stood around a table that bore a lantern and a map.
Hooker looked up, face swollen. “Ah. The favored son of Philadelphia has joined us, after all.” He turned to Butterfield, whom Meade regarded as little more than a pimp. “Slocum? Can we expect Slocum to grace us with his presence?”
Butterfield answered softly, close to Hooker’s ear.
Meade surveyed the attendees: Hooker looked as stiff as a dressmaker’s mannequin, while Butterfield had the air of a boxer waiting in his corner; Reynolds looked drained; Howard had on his preacher’s face; difficult to read, Sickles lurked on the other side of Butterfield from Hooker; Couch’s eyes roamed, judging; and Gouverneur Warren stood quietly at the rear of the crowded tent. Warren didn’t belong in the assembly, but Meade never minded having a fellow engineer on hand.
“All right,” Hooker said, “let’s get started. Since no one can find Slocum—which may say something about the state of this army.” He smirked, inviting laughter, but none came. Only Butterfield even smiled. The mood was of waiting to have a tooth drawn and wishing to get the bloody business done.
Meade suspected that Butterfield, newly arrived, was behind the meeting, but he couldn’t yet figure out why it had been called. Surely not a council of war—Hooker wasn’t that sort.
“The situation, as I see it,” Hooker continued, “is challenging. Were we to attack Lee from this position toward Fredericksburg—an attack to the east—our initial moves would be confined to forest roads easily blocked.” His eyes settled on Meade. “George has seen those narrow lanes firsthand. To force our way through would be to invite excessive casualties—possibly for naught.”
Meade said nothing, didn’t nod and didn’t change his expression. He wanted to know what Joe Hooker was up to.
“As I see it,” Hooker said, forcing his posture to the haughty rectitude no man liked, “a frontal attack to the south could involve even greater risks. Lee has been erecting field fortifications.”
“As have we,” Reynolds put in, his voice verging on crankiness. He looked about to drop right where he stood.
Hooker ignored the comment. “Alternatively, should Lee be reinforced and choose to attack us here, he would, no doubt, pay a heavy price … but that downpour earlier … I believe it reminded us all that we have our backs to a river and rely on bridges that flooding would put at risk. May can be a rainy month in Virginia, after all.” He glanced from face to face, registering doubts, and added, “I merely note that, of course.”
Everyone waited.
Fumbling, Hooker drew a paper scrap from his pocket. “I have here the latest dispatch from Sedgwick’s headquarters. He fears he may be compelled to withdraw across the Rappahannock tonight. I shall know more within the hour, but, at present, he finds his position untenable. Given the river’s rise, the possibility of more rain at any time…”
“Then Sedgwick could reinforce us here,” Howard said. “Were we to advance on Lee.”
Hooker’s grimace made clear that the suggestion was less than welcome. Meade caught Butterfield turning to Hooker then turning back again without intervening.
Their eyes met and Butterfield smiled at Meade, as if in hoary friendship. The chief of staff took charge of the silence and asked, “Anyone for a cigar? If I brought nothing else to this army, I did bring along good smokes.”
Only Sickles took one. When he realized he had been the sole willing recipient, he didn’t light it.
Meade noticed a drip through the canvas. It reignited his frequent anger about the shoddy goods supplied to the army.
“Gentlemen,” Hooker resumed, “let me share my standing orders with you. At the cost of all else, this army is directed to defend Washington. And, frankly, I worry about the steadiness of some of our regiments, those near the end of their enlistments. I must bear that in mind. In view of our duty to protect the capital.”
“Joe, that’s an old bugbear,” Meade spoke up. “This business of covering Washington at every turn has paralyzed this army time and again.” He swallowed fetid air and plunged ahead. “If we hit Lee—hard, with all we’ve got—he’s not about to scamper off to capture Stanton and Chase.”
Hooker looked venomous, but he managed to smile. “Now we have the opinion of Rittenhouse Square.…”
Meade felt as though, short of that last remark, Hooker had seemed to be reading from a script someone else had written. It sounded like Joe, but it didn’t. Butterfield again, Meade was certain.
He reminded himself that they all were worn and short-tempered. Margaret would have taken him up for his lack of consideration, his impatience. At such a moment, clear thought, without prejudice, was essential. The hour demanded fairness, even to men he detested.
In the distance, some ass began to sing, as if he’d found a bottle.
“All right,” Butterfield said, speaking up for the first time, “the commanding general puts the following proposition to the corps commanders present. Shall we attack Lee tomorrow and risk a decisive battle? Or should we withdraw the army to the north bank of the river? This isn’t about formulating specific plans. It’s a straightforward proposition.” The New Yorker looked around, a man forever weighing the value of everything before him.
“The commanding general and I will withdraw,” Butterfield continued, “so all may express their opinions, unembarrassed by our presence. Warren will remain—with your permission—as an informed resource, should you have inquiries about the state of the field. He knows Uncle John’s situation firsthand, as well as our own dispositions in detail.” He gathered up papers he had not used, as if they were props in a theater, their purpose served. “Summon us when you’re ready with your advice.”
The two men left.
The remaining generals regarded each other warily. Meade was the first to speak:
“He’s already made up his mind to retreat, that’s clear. Well, I vote to fight. To bring every corps in this army to bear against Lee. Without delay. Strike him tomorrow morning.”
“Hear, hear!” Howard all but shouted. “My corps … I won’t minimize the difficulties we created for this army, but my men want to fight, to erase the stain. They’d be eager to lead the attack.”
Disappointing Meade—not for the first time—Couch said, “I don’t know. I can see both sides.”
Reynolds woke from his stupor. “I say fight. I’m with George and Otis. We didn’t come down here just to take a stroll.” He tottered, slipping a half step back, finding it difficult to remain on his feet. “My corps hasn’t made much of a contribution—hasn’t been allowed to—so we haven’t bled as others have. Thus I can’t urge my view to an excess. But I favor an attack on Lee tomorrow.” His eyes met Meade’s, but Reynolds could not hold the focus. “Sorry, I have to sit down. I’m sorry.” He looked about for a camp chair with the ungainly wildness of exhaustion. “If I fall asleep, George has my proxy. I vote as he votes.”
Silent until then, Sickles declared, “I don’t believe Joe expects a formal vote. Just an informal poll.” He shrugged, mustaches fallen and face begrimed. “I believe my corps has fought as well and as long as any here. And I say without shame that I favor a retreat.”
That shocked Meade. Sickles had been all blood and thunder since the campaign’s first day.
“Dan…,” he said. But the needed words didn’t come quickly enough and Sickles continued:
“Yes, a retreat would signal a reverse. But while I’m not a professional soldier like the rest of you, I think I can claim experience of the political profession—and speaking as a former politician, the country could bear a reverse of the sort we’ve suffered, a disappointment but not a disaster.” He surveyed the room as if facing a greater crowd and his tone assumed a rhetorician’s flourish. “A catastrophic defeat, though? A mass surrender, with our men pressed against the river? Pressed into the river? Ball’s Bluff magnified a hundred times? Why, the entire Union would lose heart.”
He held out his hand, as if to reassure them. “If we withdraw, we will suffer vituperation … and Joe, poor Joe will be vilified. But he’s man enough to bear the burden, I think. We all can bear the burden.” Again, he made a show of searching their faces. “But would any of us welcome the blame for the final dissolution of the Union? If this army is destroyed, that will be our fate.”
“That’s an exaggeration, Dan, and you know it,” Meade snapped. Restraining his anger, he continued, “If Sharpe’s right, we still outnumber Lee two to one. He’s not about to destroy this army.” He snorted. “We might do the job ourselves, but Bobby Lee won’t.”
Couch leaned into the lamplight, features earnest. “No, George, I see Dan’s point. Oh, we’re all fighters here, every one of us. But the potential consequences…”
Startled and betrayed, Meade turned to Warren. “Guvvie, what do you think? You’ve seen every position, every line.”
“George, I don’t command a corps. I’m … only here to offer expertise. Such as it may be.”
“But you’ve got a damned mind, an informed opinion. Just tell us what you think.”
Warren weighed the request. The lantern sputtered. Outside, men laughed.
Beginning with a sigh, Warren said, “I’ve begged Joe to attack. Earlier this evening, I begged him.” He looked down, already defeated. “I’d hoped something would come of this … this meeting. A decision to fight, a plan of battle…”
“Well, something has come of it,” Meade told him. “Five corps commanders present, three in favor of a morning attack.”
“Remember, this wasn’t a formal vote,” Sickles insisted. “Nobody can claim that. It was just an informal poll. Nothing binding.”
“Let’s see what else Joe has to say,” Couch offered. “Tell him what we think and see where it goes.” Musing, he added, “I’m not against an attack … I simply don’t favor one.”
Meade wanted to vomit. Darius Couch seemed more the politician than Dan Sickles. And Dan … what had gotten into him?
Butterfield? They were cronies, of course, Butterfield, Hooker, and Sickles. What was Butterfield up to? Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to have gone as had been expected. Dan was fidgety, a serving maid suspected of stealing spoons.
He wished he were not so weary, wished he could think with greater subtlety.
Hooker and his chief of staff returned. Hooker listened to each man’s views with great solemnity, a dignity pompous and false. After the others had had their say, Meade spoke for Reynolds while the First Corps commander continued to snore in his chair.
Hooker’s façade, already weakened, crumbled as Meade spoke. But he pasted up two-thirds of his bordello grin and concluded by saying, “Thank you, gentlemen. I have decided to withdraw the army. If Lee does not attack us tomorrow, our movement will commence as darkness falls. Orders of march will be provided by the staff in the morning.” He gave Meade a killing look. “You are dismissed.”
Awakened and accompanied to his horse, Reynolds asked Meade:
“If he’d already made up his mind to retreat, why gather us up at midnight?”
“That goddamned Meade,” Joe Hooker said. “That bastard son of a syphilitic whore…”
“Best to keep your voice down,” Butterfield told him.
“Now this.” Hooker held Sedgwick’s latest message in a trembling hand. “He wants me to authorize him to run away, to recross his corps immediately.”
“Let him,” Butterfield said.
“But my plan…”
“Let him. But don’t lose that message, get it in the logs. That’s his contribution, another cause of failure. Not your fault, Joe.”
Hooker’s features took on the innocence of an earnest child. “I could have beaten Lee. I could have done it. They let me down, all of them.”
“I know.”
“That piss-cutter Meade … I’d like to go at that snot with my bare fists.”
“I have a better idea,” Butterfield told him. “Designate the Fifth Corps as the rear guard for the crossing. Were Lee to strike while the crossing was under way … well, Meade would be responsible for any losses. Wouldn’t he? And if, say, there were trouble at the bridges and the rear guard was cut off … George wants to fight, so let him.”
“I … don’t want to be vengeful, you understand.”
“Of course not.”