FIVE

Nine a.m.
The march

A tribulation it was. Lordy. Hardly one hour of marching and his feet burned like he was setting them down on skillets, step after step. He had been an unruly youth and had not been mindful when brimstone preachers inveighed against the corruption of the body, warning of its loathsomeness, but now he understood. His feet were surely corrupted.

A pause. In the slant-shade cool of morning. A sharing of last crackers. No rations had caught up with them, no manna had fallen from Heaven, and deepest damnation to the man who had started the cruel, infernal, and demonic lie that commissary wagons would serve them before they set out.

Great deeds were in the air, though, stirring a man’s pulse. When Old Jack rode by close, it gave Sam Pickens his first true, near-up sight of that man, a fellow finely assembled, though showing a bald spot when he lifted his hat. His comrades had cheered wildly for the black-bearded man on the runt horse. Then, not fifteen minutes later, word had come back down the column that there must be no more cheering, that silence was vital from that moment on.

There had been some confusion to start. Used to marching early, the men, all of them, had been astonished to find the daylight already upon them when they were awakened not by grunting sergeants but by an artillery duel, a petty scrap between redlegs. Then there had been uncustomary dawdling, Pickens had even had time for a wash in a creek. The cold water soothed his feet, but only for as long as he stood in it. After that, commands cracked out and, where there had been lassitude, there was haste: They must march, although no one knew where.

Certain to be a fight at the end of it, though.

Pickens prayed the march would be short and the fight near, an inversion of his usual sentiment.

As the going resumed—a misery unto him—he tried to bully his mind onto goodly things: the promise of a handsome day, and the faint, remaining softness of the forest roads, a last hint of damp that refused to give way to dust. A man could breathe, at least.

Didn’t help.

They marched, four abreast, no gabbing, not yet, morning stiff. He tried to think on his home, on the goodness of Umbria, but, again, he only conjured Auntie Delsie, this time her declaration after Romulus got his leg taken off and he rigged himself up a hobble-on, fit for light work by harvest: Cinnamon-fleshed and upright, fragrant and oracular, she had declared, “Rom ain’t minded to be the less, he got pride.”

And he would not be the less, he would bear this trial.

A misery, though, a misery.

Delsie. Why did she command his memories? It was disloyal to his mother and kin, to whom his thoughts should cling.

Avoiding a hot pile of horse droppings left by the cavalry gone ahead, he sidestepped into Bob Price, who shoved him off with a minor imprecation: It was all business now, all war again. Which made him recall the perfectly reasonable explanation of the war’s necessity that Lieutenant Borden offered to all who were of half a mind to listen. They had not taken up arms to preserve slavery, Borden insisted. They were fighting to protect the right to hold slaves, same as the right of a man to own his own house or hold title to land. The niggers themselves hardly figured. It was all about a man’s rights, about Southern manhood’s virile resistance to sanctimonious tyranny. Let one right be stripped away, and the others would soon be taken.

Where would that leave even the poorest man?

With tormented feet, Sam Pickens reckoned.

Nine thirty a.m.
Chancellor house

Holding out a dispatch he’d drafted personally, Joe Hooker said, “Get this off to General Howard immediately.”

Brigadier General Van Alen had arrived to provide relief to crumbling Dickinson, who’d been worked beyond his capacity. He took the message and stepped off sharply.

Hooker stretched, feeling his good muscles. Still give a younger man a time of it. Or, preferably, a young woman. He rubbed his eyes, wary of a return of his headaches, and allowed himself a moment’s sit-down before plowing through the latest reports and dispatches.

The morning had been mixed, but largely positive. His ride along the army’s lines had drawn extravagant cheers: The men remained in good spirits. And with the telegraph functioning again, Butterfield had sent confirmation that Longstreet was still at Suffolk in southern Virginia, depriving Lee of two of his finest divisions. Best of all, treetop observers reported glimpsing movement in Lee’s lines, infantry and artillery—and they seemed to be marching westward and then southward. If the movement continued, it meant that Lee was, indeed, retreating on Gordonsville. Ingloriously flying.

There had been some delay in field reports reaching him, since he’d been off on his tour for almost two hours, but Dan Sickles now had approval to push artillery forward and shell the Rebs. To help them along.

If only he truly had Lee on the run, it would count as the victory that changed the course of the war. Let Grant succeed or fail on the Mississippi, this would be the turning point men remembered.

Even those Rebel witches had volunteered to nurse the wounded soldiers, in blue or gray, in the rooms turned into wards. Perhaps there was hope for the world.

After the war, should he stay in New York and grow wealthy? Or return triumphantly to California? The choice was delicious.

Concerns remained, though, and he intended to see to them. It wasn’t a time to let down one’s guard, no time for foolish errors. John Reynolds had not received the first set of orders sent to get his First Corps on the march to Chancellorsville. Then Confederate shelling had delayed him. Reynolds was marching hard now, on the north side of the river, but he was unlikely to arrive before evening or even night, leaving the army’s right flank hanging open.

And Otis Howard, annoyingly lackadaisical, had not acted upon his order of the previous day to refuse his flank and prepare west-facing defenses. Yes, it appeared that Lee was quitting the field. But Hooker did not trust Lee or Jackson one bit. One had to be prepared for unwelcome surprises, even now.

And Howard had remained unconcerned during their ride along the Eleventh Corps lines. Hooker had even overheard him telling the army’s chief engineer that no attacker could make it through the undergrowth on his flank. Hooker had refrained from upbraiding the corps commander and embarrassing him in front of his subordinates, but now he regretted the courtesy. By the time he had returned to his headquarters, his concern had swelled to the bursting point. So he’d sent Howard a directive to be prepared to resist not only a possible frontal attack but a flanking movement as well.

He hoped Lee wouldn’t try to bring off some stunt, that he’d leave without fighting. It really was the best solution for all.

Flaring again, he decided that the message just sent to Howard had not been firm enough. Horace Greeley’s favorite one-armed Christian abolitionist had seemed lethargic, at best, and needed the spurs applied. The man had looked exhausted, true—but weren’t they all bone weary? His own headaches, his queer spells, were formidable, but he mastered them. Everyone just had to stand up on his hind legs and do his duty.

He would have welcomed a glass of whiskey, though.

“Van Alen!” he called. “To me.”

The brigadier general quick-marched through the crowd of staff men and hangers-on.

“Take this down,” Hooker told him. “Additional message to Howard.”

“Yes, sir.” Van Alen drew out a notebook and a pencil.

“General Howard … the right of your line … does not appear to be strong enough.”

Van Alen scribbled and looked up again, ready.

“No artificial defenses worth naming have been thrown up … and there appears to be a scarcity of troops at that point…”

“Yes, sir.”

“… and not, in the commanding general’s opinion … as favorably posted as might be.” Hooker paused, wondering what remained unsaid, undone.

“That all, sir?”

Hooker’s head abruptly began to throb again. Why must he bear this? He’d expected the fresh air of his inspection tour to have bought him more peace.

“Add that the enemy is moving to our right. And that Howard’s corps has to keep a heavy reserve.”

Van Alen raised an eyebrow. “Sir … I thought it had been decided that Lee was retreating?”

Hooker nodded curtly. “He is retreating, damn it. But I want goddamned Howard to pay attention. I can’t trust anyone, anything.…”

He dipped his head and pressed his hands to his temples.

“Just get the message off, will you?”

Ten a.m.
The March

Press on, press on!” Jackson called as he rode forward. “No straggling, keep up. Press on.”

He longed to drive them harder but knew he dared not. His soldiers had to arrive with the strength left to fight. So the march had to be kept to a pace of two miles per hour, with pauses. It grated on him to do the mathematics and realize how little of the day would be left him to slay God’s enemies.

As Jackson regained the head of the infantry column, with Rodes, mounted, at the front of his division, he neglected to so much as nod. He respected Rodes, who fought well and earned his promotions without politics. Tall, broad of shoulder, and lean, Rodes even looked the part of the ideal warrior. But there was too much on Jackson’s mind for niceties.

The lithe tongue was the foe of the flaming sword.

He reviewed each detail of the march, with Fitz Lee clearing the path ahead, while Stuart deployed the rest of the cavalry on the flank of the march, pushing out troopers to block each road and trail that might let the Yankees stumble upon the column. He’d placed Rodes’ division first in the order of march, since Rodes exacted discipline and would permit no delays. Raleigh Colston came next, in temporary command, while Powell Hill brought up the rear. Chastised and chastened, Hill would not dally today; still, it irked Jackson that Hill was next in seniority.

As for artillery support, each division had its batteries, but the only wagons permitted to clutter the march were ammunition carriers and ambulances.

Even with all things superfluous pared away, Jackson calculated that the tail of the column would just be beginning its march as the head neared its attack position. Based on the latest returns, he led thirty-three thousand men of all arms, while Lee had been left to face Hooker’s might with fewer than fifteen thousand.

But Thomas Jackson had faith that the Lord, the God of Battles, would see justice done.

He refused to think of his wife, his flawless esposa. When she entered his mind, he expelled her. There was no time. Not even for the child.

War demanded all of a man, and he had no patience with anyone who gave less.

The mounted party of generals and colonels had fallen silent at Jackson’s arrival. Rodes smoothed his mustaches and stared ahead. Crutchfield’s eyes narrowed, expression as grim as his guns. The others of lesser rank strove to look severe. But they were Southern gentlemen all and could not go long without talk. Tom Munford, trailing his cavalrymen, announced that, by his calculation, almost two dozen faculty members or graduates of VMI would be in this attack.

Jackson snapped his head up and threw back his shoulders. Yes, he himself, Rodes, Colston, Crutchfield, Munford, so many others. Turning to Munford, he said:

“Colonel, the Institute will be heard from today.”

With that, the silence was broken and a mood of goodwill and confidence swept the party. Relieved of his calculations for the moment, Jackson added:

“If I had one more division, we would destroy them utterly. We would humble them as Jericho was humbled.”

“I suspect we’ll do well enough, sir,” Bob Rodes offered.

But Jackson had been taken by his vision. There were never enough men, not ever. He added:

“Our problem … this army’s problem … is that we never have enough men to keep a reserve. We have to put everybody in and there’s no reserve when needed, no men left to finish things. And they escape us.”

“Won’t many escape us today,” Tom Munford said. He still possessed the confidence of youth.

Jackson grew silent again.

Ten fifteen a.m.
Dowdall’s Tavern, Eleventh Corps headquarters

Carl Schurz held in his hand a message he hoped would bring Howard to his senses.

It had been a disheartening morning. Enraptured by the cheers of the troops as he rode the lines, Hooker had not challenged Howard regarding the neglected flank and the corps commander’s obvious disobedience. Hooker had seemed to take the matter lightly.

This message, just delivered, corrected the oversight.

Schurz stood on the tavern’s porch, waiting for the orderly to wake Howard. With reports streaming in from pickets who’d sighted Confederates on the march, he’d ridden off to the high ground on Talley’s farm to see for himself. And there they had been, unmistakable, in a dirty-gray column glimpsed through a break in the trees, not two miles distant. They were moving across the corps’ front, not to the south.

Meanwhile, artillery fire had erupted to the southeast, echoing the fight of the previous day. That would be a distraction. The Confederates were attempting an envelopment. It could not have been any clearer.

Was that Jackson out there?

He’d galloped back to the tavern, pausing only to order young Dilger to seek out west-facing positions for his guns. And he’d found Howard grumpy and haggard, skeptical of every word.

Instead of showing alarm, the corps commander had told him:

“Schurz, I’m blown. Tried to get some sleep last night, but they gave me no quarter, woke me every half hour until I gave up. Look here. You’re my number two, I want you to stay here while I nap. Read any messages, deal with the nonsense, but don’t take any action. And don’t let anyone roust me unless it’s important.” Before he retired, he added, “Truly important.”

This message was truly important.

The half hour prior to its arrival had been a torment for Schurz, left powerless while Howard took to his cot. He’d stood, arms folded, watching supply wagons and even a sutler crowd the single road that served the corps.

The morning was gorgeous, ironically so. Its azure and golden grace called to mind the Rheinland and, for a moment, he’d felt an unaccustomed surge of homesickness, of Heimweh, along with his hopelessness. But soon enough he remembered that this was his home, this land of immense freedoms, and a finer one than ever he had known.

This was mankind’s chance. In Europe, the counterrevolution had prevailed, leaving the people chained as never before. Now the Confederates fought to uphold their own ancien régime, a lingering aristocracy based not only on slavery but on serfdom—call the latter what you might, it was feudalism pure. The forces of reaction must not prevail, not here. Freedom, the wondrous freedom of here and now, in these United States … it was worth dying for, if need be.

But no good man should die without necessity because of the sour mood of a man who had been unwisely empowered.

Bravery on the field of battle was easy, Schurz had learned. A man simply got caught up in it. Harder by far were the challenges in between, the need to subdue oneself and serve a common good, to accommodate men you not only disliked but even despised, for a higher purpose. He recalled all too clearly how the Frankfurt parliament had frittered freedom away, as personalities and programs clashed, as petty jealousies undid great dreams and Freiheit bled to death amid endless squabbling.

And so he had struggled to get along with Howard, to show forbearance, and to keep his officers in line and loyal. They had to find common ground, to remember their shared cause. At least Howard was committed to ending slavery, to preserving the Union, to human liberty. And he was a brave man, if pigheaded.

If only …

Schurz did not believe in God, but he found himself praying to the vastness that Howard would see sense.

What was taking the fellow so long? Was his slumber that profound?

Howard appeared from around the corner, awkwardly fitting his sword belt over his coat with the one hand left him.

“What on earth is it now?” he demanded.

Schurz held out the message. “It’s best if you read it yourself, sir.”

Howard snapped the message from Schurz’s fingers. As he read it, his face grew sullen. Schurz almost expected him to ball it up, but instead the corps commander handed it back.

“Have it logged.”

Schurz hesitated. “Orders, sir? Should we tighten the lines? Refuse the flank in depth?”

Howard looked genuinely surprised. “Don’t be absurd.”

“But the message … it’s an order.…”

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t be such a … such a German. Spare me the lessons and lectures, would you? You haven’t any military background, none to speak of.” Howard looked into the distance, past a teamsters’ quarrel out on the road. “Joe’s just got the jumps. All the responsibility on his shoulders. Natural enough to have moments of weakness. Yesterday, for instance. If Butterfield were here, he’d buck him up.” He fussed with the fit of his sword belt. “One thing that man’s good for.”

Working his way through the jumble on the road, another courier made haste toward the tavern. He slipped from his horse a mere yard from the porch. Saluting and sweating, he offered his message to Howard.

The corps commander smirked at Schurz. “Marching orders, I suspect. Get after Lee.” He glanced eastward. “That artillery. Their rear guard, no doubt.”

But after Howard had opened the message and read it, his look turned cutting.

He passed the paper to Schurz. “You’ll delight in this.”

It was another directive from Hooker, restating his last order still more forcefully: Howard was to prepare to defend his flank.

Schurz raised his eyes to Howard.

The corps commander waved his one hand dismissively. “Oh, I’ll see to it, do something or other. Never expected Joe to be such an old hen.”

“It says we’re to form a strong reserve,” Schurz noted. “If we shortened the line and Devens refused the flank … my division could—”

“That’s Frank Barlow’s job, his brigade’s the largest in the corps. I should think that’s reserve enough.”

From the direction of Chancellorsville, rifle fire joined the artillery shelling.

“Hear that?” Howard asked. “If there is a proper scrap today, we’re unlikely to get near it. The fact is this corps isn’t needed. Lee’s whipped, and he knows it.”

“General Howard…”

“Go back to your division, Schurz. I’m wide-awake now. And try not to frighten your soldiers with ghosts and goblins.”

Twelve thirty p.m.
Catherine Furnace Road

General Posey, you must blunt their advance,” Lee said, striving to conceal the alarm he felt.

“We’ll do it, sir,” Posey, a Mississippian of intense dignity, promised. “By God, we’ll do it!”

His men double-quicked forward, raising their hats in salute at the sight of Lee.

Lee disciplined the muscles of his face: The men must see confidence.

It was as he had feared: With Jackson well on his way, the Federals had shown curiosity then spunk, and a fight for the furnace had begun to develop, threatening to further divide the army. Colonel Best had returned from the field with the flag of his Georgians but not with the Georgians themselves: The regiment had been captured. A give-and-take of skirmishers had exploded into a crisis.

Ahead, the firing intensified. Federal cheers met Rebel yells. More Union guns joined the fray.

They just had to hold now, to keep those people at bay, until Jackson could strike.

Nor was the situation entirely disadvantageous. If Hooker’s attention could be held here, if he could be mesmerized by the fight under way, Jackson would have an even greater chance at achieving surprise.

He waved up his chief of staff: Posey’s Brigade would not be sufficient. Judging by the roar of the Union batteries, at least another brigade would be required. He would have to thin his lines elsewhere and take the risk. Then wait.

The fate of the South, of their world, lay with Jackson now.

Pulling off his riding gloves, Lee discovered a tick on the back of his hand. He pinched it off and crushed it between his fingers.

“Hooker,” he muttered.

Two p.m.
Hazel Grove

By damn, that’s how you do it,” Sickles cried.

His forward artillery positively pounded the Rebs. His corps had driven them back a mile since the first shots were exchanged, and he’d bagged four hundred prisoners—including three hundred bedraggled Georgians from a single regiment.

The damned West Pointers could eat their words: He was winning this battle for them, while the rest of the army did nothing.

Somebody had to fight. He could not believe the sloth and confusion around him. Or, for that matter, the cowardice.

Joe had done a fine job, to a point—Christ, if he and Butterfield weren’t the perfect companions for a carouse, though. But Joe had turned yellow the day before, no other way to put it. Now it was time for Sickles himself to land his fist on Lee’s nose and draw the claret.

“Excellent gunnery, Randolph!” he told his chief of artillery. “Splendid! Guns to the front, that’s the ticket.” He reached into his tunic and drew out his cigar case. “Captain, you deserve a smoke.”

Randolph’s eyes grew avaricious at the sight of the famed Habanas, which delighted Sickles. He liked to win men over with little treats. You’d get more gratitude for a well-timed swig from a silver flask than for a no-interest loan of ten thousand dollars. As for the cigars, they followed him faithfully, courtesy of a pal in the New York Customs House. Even Dan Butterfield, for all his deep pockets, couldn’t get finer smokes.

Cigar plugged in between his chops, he watched Whipple’s boys join Birney’s in the donnybrook.

“Mighty fine cigar, sir,” Randolph said over the guns.

“Damned right, young man. Nothing like it.” Sickles turned his politician’s smile toward the captain. “I always say, if you can’t have a woman, have yourself a smoke.”

“Yes, sir.”

War was a grand business, really. The great redeemer of reputations. Joe’s. His own. Shot that whoreson Key down like a dog and did not regret it. Plumping his wife while his back was turned, the bugger had it coming. Trial had been a spectacle, and he’d needed to deal gingerly with Teresa, but this war was bound to launch him back into office. And Ed Stanton had been a member of his defense team, a sharp one behind the scenes. Now Ed was the secretary of war.

It was just the way Dan Butterfield liked to put it: Life was about erections and connections.

He’d even made things up with Mary Lincoln, who had the distinction of being even less favored by nature than her simian husband. Now she called him “Dan” and took his part.

Sickles raised his field glasses again.

Unmistakable. Lee was retreating, had been all the damned day. Just watch ’em go. While their rear guard struggled to stave off destruction.

He’d nudged Hooker to come forward and see the show for himself. Better than a line of dancing girls sans undergarments. But other than his morning ride round the lines, Joe seemed downright afraid to leave his headquarters. Tied to that damnable telegraph. Which Butterfield had buggered up indescribably.

He turned to the captain, who had done good work and stank of powder, despite the cigars’ perfume.

“Randolph, I want you to ride back to General Hooker with a message. Oh, your guns will do fine without you for half an hour, don’t make faces. I’ll write it up in a moment, but I want a fighting man to carry it back, someone who knows what’s what and can answer questions. Not another damned clerk.” Sickles tossed the rump of the cigar into trampled grass. “If he asks for your opinion, you tell him the Rebs are running faster than whores with the shits. And whether he asks you or not, you repeat what I’m going to write, that if he can just send one more brigade to come up on my right, I’ll finish these peckerwoods. We’ll run Lee down like Five Points ratcatchers.”

Just one more brigade. Surely that do-nothing Howard on his flank could spare a few men.

Two thirty p.m.
The March

Jackson felt his confidence grow by the minute. Rodes had marched his men crisply, nearing the end of the route and the line of attack. Colston was coming along, as was Hill, although Hill had needed to face two brigades about to parry a probe. And the cavalry had screened the flank with skill, turning back all Federal scouts and patrols.

He would crush them, these Moabites, these Philistines, these Egyptians.

In the heat of the afternoon, he turned toward Rodes and said, “Good. Good.”

Rodes understood that Jackson did not mean to invite conversation. He nodded toward Jackson, and the party of horsemen continued in renewed silence.

The men would be tired, Jackson knew, and thirsty. But he counted on their fervor when faced with battle. They would do their duty. Because they must.

Ever instantly recognizable, Fitz Lee galloped back toward the generals.

Jackson quickened. Something had to be wrong. Lee’s urgency pierced.

Reining up, the younger man didn’t bother with a salute, which was unusual.

“General Jackson … sir … please…” Lee gasped for breath. “If you’ll ride with me, I’ll show you the enemy’s right. It’s not where we thought.”

Jackson pulled his horse about.

“Just bring one courier,” Lee told him. “Yankees will be able to see us, they need to take us for a couple of scouts. And halt the column, sir. You’ll see the reason.”

Jackson nodded to Rodes, who understood the order and raised his hand.

The little party rode forward, with Lee’s horse spattering foam from its mouth. The cavalryman turned them onto a track and slowed as they broke into open ground by a hillock.

Topping the rise, Jackson needed no warning to rein up. Before him stretched a long, thin band of blue—well to the rear of where Stuart had reported them at midnight. Were the attack to go forward as planned … it wouldn’t turn their flank but strike their front at an oblique angle.

For a moment, Jackson’s heart sank. To get around the flank of those men, to shock and overwhelm them, his soldiers would have to march on.

He looked up at the sun. Time was their master now. The Lord had stopped the sun for Israel, but he could not expect such a miracle. He had been given as much as a man could ask.

Lee chattered a bit. Jackson ignored him. Peering at the Federals through his binoculars.

They were at ease, unprepared. There were abatis in their front, but their line was thin, the soldiers at their leisure, with arms stacked and blouses removed. Wagons crowded the few open spaces, and beeves had been hung for butchering. The position forbade a rapid change of front.

He would have to push on, to get well past them. But the Lord had blessed him truly. The Federals could not have been more vulnerable.

He would have to act swiftly now. With the swiftness of the angels.

He turned to Lee. “Can you get us behind them? Without delay?”

“Quick as I can, sir. Just a matter of going a lick farther. Same roads, mostly.”

That “lick” would consume an hour and more, Jackson reckoned.

He turned to the courier. “Ride back to General Rodes. Tell him to continue across the Plank Road and halt when he reaches the Turnpike. I’ll meet him there.”

The man didn’t wait for further encouragement.

Jackson looked at the sun again. Its descent was unmistakable.

He would have to change his plan: He could not wait for all of his men to close up, for the divisions to be deployed properly, side by side, in deep echelons. He saw what he would have to do instead: Spread each division out in a long line, one behind the other, advancing as soon as the first two were in position.

Three thin lines, division behind division. It was the same unsound arrangement Johnston had used at Shiloh. Now his soldiers would have to make it work. Surprise and valor would have to carry the day.

What was left of the day.

Still in sight of the Yankees, he removed his hat and bowed his head in prayer, repenting his sins and asking forgiveness for his struggling nation.

Then he rode back at a merciless pace, unsparing of Little Sorrel or himself.

Time, it was all about time.

Two forty p.m.
Dowdall’s Tavern, Eleventh Corps headquarters

Schurz abandoned his last attempt to be calm and accommodating. He rode up to the tavern as if pursued—and he was, by a sense of fate.

Dismounting, he caught his boot in a stirrup and danced a clumsy jig to free himself. Loitering staff men found it entertaining.

Schurz didn’t care. He strode toward the porch just as Meysenburg emerged.

“Theo, I have to see Howard right now.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Barlow. His brigade, the corps reserve. It’s marching away. I have to see General Howard.”

“You can’t. He’s with Barlow.”

“What…”

Meysenburg shrugged. “Orders. From Hooker. Barlow’s to support Sickles. A pursuit or suchlike.”

“Pursuit? We’re going to be attacked. You’ve heard the reports, the sightings.”

“The general doesn’t believe a word of it. Hooker told him, personally, that Lee’s retreating.” The chief of staff nodded toward the on-and-off fight in the middle distance and well out of sight. “General Howard believed he’d be of greater use with Barlow.” He shrugged again. “Curiosity, I think.”

“Damn it, Theo! You know what’s going on. The only man in Devens’ division who doesn’t think we’re about to be attacked is Devens himself. And my pickets have—”

“What do you want me to do? General Howard thinks you’re all wrong. His orders are to remain here and reprovision.”

“What do you think?”

“What I think doesn’t matter. I follow orders.”

---

Schurz rode the short distance back to his division headquarters. He’d had the tents near the farmhouse taken down to clear fields of fire. Earlier, on his own authority, he’d pulled his two largest regiments from the line and faced them west, one north of the farmhouse and one south of it, on the only defensible ground granted to his division. He’d cleared off as many wagons as he could and, later, he’d drawn back a third regiment, positioning it in echelon, willing to risk a reprimand or worse. And young Dilger had repositioned his battery. It wasn’t much, not if they attacked in strength, and it wasn’t going to save Devens’ division, but it was all he could do.

Poor von Gilsa, he thought, poor Leo. He hasn’t a chance. And damn Devens right along with Howard.

Searching out Krzyzanowski, his Second Brigade commander, he found him conferring with Jacobs of the 26th Wisconsin, the division’s largest regiment but one untested in battle.

Dismounting—with more care this time—he warned himself not to appear or sound pessimistic. Somehow, these men had to be given confidence.

It was hard.

The two colonels saluted. Krzyzanowski was a Pole, a fellow revolutionary, and phenomenally brave. To Schurz he seemed almost a caricature of his country’s szlachta although Kriz only sprang from the minor gentry: Dashing and high-spirited one day, sunk in Slavic gloom the next, he was as Polish as beet soup.

Now Kriz’s brows were low and his face was grim.

Schurz knew the dilemma the Pole had faced. Just as the shots were fired at Fort Sumter, another Polish revolution against the Russians had erupted. Kriz had been torn over which fight to join. Finally, as Schurz himself had done long since, Kriz had chosen this new land.

Jacobs, too, was an immigrant.

They all knew how much was at stake.

“Is it true?” Kriz asked. “Have they pulled off the corps reserve?”

“Only temporarily,” Schurz said. He had to believe that.

The Pole looked aside, mustaches quivering. He said nothing. There was nothing to say. Schurz turned to Jacobs:

“Willie, your boys will have to give a good account of themselves.”

“They’ll fight. You’ll see.”

“Well, keep them well in hand. Devil of an introduction to combat.”

Jacobs smiled. “They wait for their chance to fight. Sind ja gute Kerle.”

“Well, they’re going to get that chance.”

Kriz turned about, facing the two men equally. “How can they not listen? The reports … all day … a madman could see it, only a fool could not.”

Schurz resisted replying that there lay the difference between the mad and the foolish. He concentrated on Jacobs.

“Skirmishers out?”

“My best men.” He pointed. “In those trees. Across the field there.”

“Good.” He considered both subordinates: two men of great decency, captivated by a dream of freedom passing all borders.

He said, “This is your ground, your place. I need you to hold it. This is Poland, Kriz. This is Germany, Willie.”

Jacobs smiled. “Don’t forget Wisconsin.”

Dilger, the young artilleryman, found them. He looked uncharacteristically unsettled. Hubert Dilger was known almost as much for his coolness as for his exemplary gunnery skills—and for his uniform, with which he took liberties. Handsome to break hearts on successive continents, he always looked more like a hussar flirting with opera girls than he did like a smoke-tarred gun-master.

He didn’t look a bit romantic today. Picturesque still, but too fierce for soft hearts. Nor did he dismount. The young man clearly had more work on his mind.

He saluted handsomely, though.

“General Schurz, sir. Colonels.” He drew off his shako and swept a sleeve across his forehead. “I just rode over to the First Division. General Devens is the only man there who doesn’t believe the Johnnies will attack, it’s not just the Germans now. McLean, Richardson, Rice, Lee, Reilly … they’ve all tried to convince him, but Devens won’t be moved, he won’t let them reposition a single regiment. Poor Dieckmann’s beside himself, he’s got two guns pointing west but no fields of fire beyond the road.”

Dilger paused to drink from his canteen. Usually possessed of flawless manners, today he slopped water over his chin and neck. Finished drinking, he gasped.

Schurz knew his men. He asked:

“That’s not all, is it, Captain? You rode outside the lines to have your own look. Didn’t you?”

Nonplussed, Dilger said, “Sir … I just wanted to…”

Schurz smiled, if faintly. “Well, tell us what you saw.”

Dilger opened his mouth, but no words passed his fine white teeth. At last, he said:

“They’re everywhere. I blundered into them. I barely made it back.”

Krzyzanowski raised his eyes back to Schurz. The Pole was about to speak, but Dilger got in first, addressing the division commander.

“Sir … I took another liberty.”

“And what was that?”

“I tried to convince General Devens myself. It did no good.”

“No.”

“Then … I rode to General Hooker’s headquarters, sir. To tell him what I saw. What I saw with my own eyes.”

“And what did General Hooker say?”

Dilger looked as forlorn as ever Schurz had seen the man. The captain said:

“I didn’t see him, sir. They wouldn’t let me in. A major stopped me.” Dilger took a profound breath. “When I told him what I saw, he called me a coward.”

---

As Schurz moved on to encourage Schimmelfennig and his brigade, he attempted to take a shortcut through the tangles. But a man on horseback couldn’t pass and he had to turn around, laboriously. As he re-emerged into the glare of the afternoon sun, it struck him that he’d encountered such a dense and forbidding forest long before, when he’d read the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm.

Four p.m.
Chancellorsville, headquarters of the Army of the Potomac

Joseph Hooker’s physical headaches granted him an interval of relief, but headaches of a different sort assailed him. Wagons had cut the ground-laid telegraph wires again and he had no idea how Sedgwick was doing at Fredericksburg. But that was a minor irritant compared to the silence from the cavalry. Stoneman still had not been heard from, not for four full days.

He found himself wishing he’d held back more of the cavalry, that he had not given Stoneman so much freedom. He’d felt the need of more cavalry all day, with the Rebs parrying every attempt his outnumbered horsemen made to penetrate their screen and confirm, beyond doubt, that Lee was retreating. Gathered together, the horsemen he had present barely numbered enough for a nipping pursuit.

Of course, he wasn’t certain how aggressively Lee should be pushed. Dan Sickles, bless him, had shown grit, chewing into the Reb rear guard and making a fine catch of prisoners—and mass surrenders were always a sign of demoralization.

Still, a man had to be certain. He’d allowed Sickles one additional brigade—from the Eleventh Corps, which stood idle—but that was as much as he intended to do. Sickles thought the entire left wing should advance to crush the Rebs, but he could not bring himself to give the order.

Even George Meade, on a visit to headquarters, had argued that they should attack in force immediately. A rigorous Philadelphia snot who took no joy in life, Meade always knew what other people should do.

Better to let Lee escape, for now. That would count as victory enough. It made no sense to give Lee an opening for some escapade that the press and his rivals could use against him. Let Lee get free of this jungle. Then he would follow. And fight him at some better time.

Perhaps it wouldn’t even be necessary to fight? Perhaps Lee and Davis would see the futility of dragging out what was clearly a hopeless cause. Might they not surrender, given the reality they faced? Spare further bloodshed, on both sides? If the South would see reason, that would be best for all.

But if they had to fight, if he had to fight … another day would be better.

Major General “Fighting Joe” Hooker just wanted Robert E. Lee to leave him alone.

Four thirty p.m.
The Wilderness, one half mile west of the Union flank

His feet were bleeding. He didn’t need to remove his shoes and stockings to see it. A man could tell the difference between sweat and blood without looking.

Didn’t think he’d ever been so miserable in his life. Not since he’d begged Auntie Delsie to let him finish churning the butter, only to climb up on that chair and find he wasn’t strong enough to drive down the stick. But that had been a different kind of misery: his first shaming.

Now this. Pushing through briars worse than a crown of thorns and thick as a woven basket. Wasn’t only his feet that were scourged, but the backs of his hands, those rifle-clutching hands, were streaked red as well. The scratches itched like a hundred bedbug bites. On his face, too.

He struggled to keep the thorns out of his eyes. Those cap-grabbing, deviling thorns.

Hushed by officers, they’d filed off the road, doing their best to keep silent but crashing through the brush like a herd of spooked cows. Surely if there were Yankees out there, they heard them coming. Wouldn’t be no surprise, or not much of one.

His canteen was empty.

Heart set to bound from his chest.

The terrible waiting.

They stretched out Indian file then stopped and faced to the right in a queer formation, as if they were darkies lined up to flush game.

Every man in the 5th Alabama knew there was trouble ahead.

Fears came sneaking. Scratching at a man’s courage the way those long thorns scratched his flesh. A man’s breath roared like a hurricane. Heart thundering. He quivered in secret.

Lieutenant Borden thrashed by, telling them all to lie down, rest, and be quiet.

When they did so, they heard Yankee voices.

Five p.m.
Right (western) flank of the Eleventh Corps

Standing in front of two of Dieckmann’s guns, Colonel Leopold von Gilsa heard Southern accents.

Five p.m.
Abandoned railroad line, south of Chancellorsville

This,” Francis Channing Barlow said, “is a grotesque absurdity. It’s a wild-goose chase missing the goose.”

Beside him, Major General Oliver Otis Howard didn’t reply. Barlow’s tone was insolent, but that was Barlow. Best family, right sort. Harvard, and top his class, if Devens could be trusted. Howard wondered how his own life might have been had he gone to Harvard rather than West Point.

“There’s not a Johnny anywhere in this godforsaken morass,” Barlow went on. “If there were any, they’re damned well gone.”

“Retreating,” Howard said. “Faster than we could advance.”

The ghost of his right arm haunted him for a few unsettling seconds. Would that never cease?

To the left and a bit to the rear, perhaps a half mile distant, fighting continued in front of Sickles’ corps, but not at a level to cause anyone alarm. The day’s little squabble was already winding down, and the flanking movement by Barlow’s brigade had barely seen a skirmisher.

“Lee must have gotten off,” Howard said. “We’ll be after him in the morning, though. Joe won’t waste time now.”

“My men will have to retrieve their knapsacks and bedrolls. Rather wish we hadn’t left them behind. No point lightening up for battle when there isn’t a battle.” Barlow smirked. “Much ado about nothing. Again. Cat-and-mouse without the mouse.”

“I’ll have Meysenburg see to the baggage. Bring it all up in commissary wagons, now they’ve been emptied.” He considered the situation again: Unlikely that Joe would have the Eleventh Corps lead a pursuit. “You may well be recalled in plenty of time.”

Barlow glanced about, all but ignoring his superior officer.

“Thought we’d have a fight,” he said. “Hoped we would. Wretched place though it is.” He snorted. “Wouldn’t give you a broken stick for a hundred acres of it.”

Howard agreed with the sentiment, but didn’t reply. Barlow could be a bit much, but he’d proven himself quite the soldier, the sort you wanted where the fighting was heaviest. Already wounded badly—twice—the brigadier general didn’t show a trace of damage; rather, he still resembled an undergraduate, quite a handsome fellow, in his superior, highbred way. Until he smiled and showed that crooked tooth.

His brigade was the pride of the corps, the backbone.

“All right, Frank,” Howard told him, “you’re on your own. I need to go back and see to things. Report to General Sickles in the meantime.”

“Not a gentleman, Sickles,” Barlow said.

Again, Howard agreed, but he decided he’d best not say it. Sickles could stroll into the President’s House anytime he liked, he had Mary Lincoln’s ear. Never did do to make powerful enemies.

“I’d best be off, then. It’s miles back to our bunch. And rough going.”

“Don’t get lost,” Barlow told him.

Howard couldn’t tell whether the younger man was casually wishing him well or insulting him.

He waved up his escort. It really was rough going. He’d be lucky as the devil to make it back to his headquarters in half an hour’s hard riding.

As Howard tugged his horse about, Barlow muttered:

“I must say I feel rather wasted.”

Five thirty p.m.
The Turnpike, at the Luckett house

With two divisions spread out in the woods—overlapping the Union flank by nearly a mile each way—Jackson decided his instincts had been right: He could not wait for Hill to complete a third line. Hill could continue deploying his men while the attack went forward, then he could follow.

The sun would set in just over an hour.

He sat in silence, horse stilled, beside Rodes. Waiting only for young Blackford to return and confirm that the skirmishers had been deployed. Alabama sharpshooters. Good, hard men.

Rodes didn’t speak. There was nothing left to say.

Around them, artillery batteries waited to roll forward the moment the road had been cleared. Scouts loitered, their work done. Beyond a few remarks made in low voices, beyond the mild chinking of gun chains, beyond the occasional snort or tap of a mount, the world had hushed. Miles away, guns sounded, where Lee was fighting off an untold number of Federal divisions. Here, Jackson heard birdsong: not the morning calls or the birds that sang at eventide, but day birds, their calls sharp and businesslike.

He loved birds, flowers, plants.

How dearly he longed for an end to this. War enticed him, succumbing was a sin. He fought well, by the Lord’s grace, but feared he was too fond of it.

Lee, too, was wary of that sin, he’d remarked on it back at Fredericksburg, during the slaughter.

After this war, after this terrible necessity, he would make his dream come true. Nothing would stop him, short of the hand of the Lord. He would have his farm in the Valley. His family would grow, with the Lord’s consent, and they would build their Eden, a blessed place and safe, a good and godly place.

At the sudden caw of a crow, he recalled how the big, black birds would gather on the roof of his uncle’s mill. And then he remembered the wondrous days, when he was still too young to know misery’s depths—in his memory, it was always summer—and he would have hours of freedom, lazy hours. Alone, or perhaps with a rare friend, he would wade across the river’s shallows to the sheltering grove then sprawl and drowse and dream with a child’s purity. He remembered lying on the moss, at peace, for hours. Resting, before he had this dreadful, grown-man’s need of rest.

He would like to rest again.

Perhaps, he thought, those were the best days of all. Before he knew sin. Before he knew this world. Before he had lifted his hand against another.

Once he had met a copperhead snake there and killed it. His uncle said every paradise had its serpents.

And there were frogs. And raspberries at the end of June.

He reminded himself how blessed he had been in his later life. His wives, the child. Yet the memory of that fragrant glade across the river remained a comfort.

His paradise.

Major Blackford returned.

“The skirmish line’s posted, sir. Four hundred yards to the front. Give or take.”

Jackson cocked back his head and peered at the eager young man. A smile touched his lips and he said:

“Today, Major, we shall take, but not give.”

He turned. “Are you ready, General Rodes?”

The last near silence. That memory of flowing water, of the glade.

“Yes, sir,” Rodes told him.

“You may go forward then.”