Darkness at Chancellorsville

by Ralph Peters

  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 pur
sued—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.