Darkness at Chancellorsville

by Ralph Peters

  Hill’s men were taking over up there, waiting to advance. Well, more power to them. The 5th Alabama had done its part and Pickens was glad to be out of it—those batteries didn’t sound welcoming. No, the Greensboro Guards had done their share. And the wondrous thing was that only five men in the company had been wounded, none gravely, and none had been killed. Fumbling reunions had triggered an hour of handshakes.

  Those damned Yankee guns just would not quit, but rare was the shell that landed sufficiently rearward to be a bother. Still, the feel of a terrible anger awakened made Pickens think: What would the morning bring?

  “Best get back to the regiment,” Ed Hutchinson, the voice of authority, told them. He was still riled over that poison ivy patch. “Be calling roll again.”

  And back they traipsed. What bodies they passed or kicked up against were almost exclusively Yankees, clustered where they’d tried to make their stands. Didn’t stink yet, not of decay. Just the usual reek of filth and shot-open guts. Nothing to spoil an appetite.

  Lieutenant Borden surprised them in the darkness. He’d come to gather in the foraging parties.

  “Ill met by moonlight,” Doc Cowin said.

  Borden had heard rumors of Yankee cavalry moving behind their lines. There’d already been a clash, according to some reports. He told them everyone needed to watch out.

  “Horse jockey wanted to ketch me,” Charlie Hefner said, “he’d have to see me first. And I reckon I’d hear him long before he did.”

  “Worry not, ye faithless!” Doc Cowin declared. “Old Ned’s Ironsides shall be opposed by our very own Prince Rupert.”

  Sometimes a body just had no idea what Doc was talking about.

  The Yankee barrage on the front line grew heavier still. Sounded like they’d called up every last gun from every state in the unlamented Union.

  Didn’t envy Hill’s men when they did step out. Which had to be soon or never.

  Wouldn’t be a great surprise to the Yankees, either. With officers hollering at their men in the dark, making their intentions plain as could be.

  Again, he thought of what might be asked of his regiment in the morning. The prospect would not give him any peace.

  All those Yankee guns.…

  Life wasn’t only a sorrow, though: A happy surprise awaited him and his messmates. When they reached the regiment’s rallying point, sergeants were divvying up the wealth from two commandeered Yankee commissary wagons. There was ham, tinned cheese, crackers to fill up haversacks for an entire marching season, sugar, and coffee, good Yankee coffee, its scent already calling out to the men like a scarlet woman late on a Saturday night.

  Still no sign of that bacon, though.

  * * *

  “Oh, we had a few bad moments,” Hooker told the newly arrived John Reynolds. He steadied his hands by gripping the edge of his saddle. “Livened things up for a time.”

  Reynolds was late, but his First Corps was welcome. There had been still more telegraph problems, but all would come right. It had to.

  Dan Butterfield had met face-to-face with Sedgwick to straighten things out on that flank. The Sixth Corps should be marching west from Fredericksburg already, to close the vise on Lee. The morrow might see a complete reversal of fortunes. After all, only one of his corps had been beaten—and that one the least reliable.

  Surely there was reason to hope, the campaign was far from over.

  “Rebs played a little trick on us,” Hooker continued, forcing confidence into his voice. “There was some roughhousing, I won’t kid you. The Germans panicked, simply ran away. Howard tried to restrain them, but they’re incorrigible. It’s all right now, though.”

  The two generals sat their mounts in front of a gun line in the Chancellor field. To the immediate west and south, artillery hammered away, man-made thunder and lightning.

  He added: “Dan Sickles is itching to go at them. May let him do it, too.”

  Reynolds spoke at last. “I saw the runaways. Meade’s men were halting them at bayonet point.” He didn’t smile. “George was livid. He takes every setback personally.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Every bit as angry as he was back in December.”

  “Speaking of Fredericksburg … Sedgwick’s on his way. The Confederates abandoned the town, I have good information. I expect Uncle John by morning, he’ll strike Lee in the rear. Teach that old dog a lesson.”

  “That would be … refreshing,” Reynolds said.

  Hooker leaned from his saddle, as if to confide a great secret. “The truth is … the truth is Lee’s gambit backfired. Prisoners we took claim that Jackson hit us with his entire corps. Which means Lee’s hopelessly thin on the other flank, only two divisions left to hand. And Early appears discomfited, unable to come to his aid.” He nodded, as much to himself as to Reynolds. “We just need to hold off Jackson. Until Sedgwick can come up.”

  “Well, you’ve got six corps present, even Jackson’s handsomely outmatched.” Reynolds paused, as if reviewing too broad a selection of words. “He’s a trickster, of course. This affair tonight … you have to respect the man, if not the cause. Give him that.” He gestured westward, toward the tireless guns, toward an enemy weary, perhaps, but snarling. “The fellow does bear watching.”

  Hooker didn’t need to be reminded. He rather resented it. But, yes, Jackson …

  Considered objectively, though, what had the old fanatic really done? Pulled off a grand surprise, but how much damage had been done? Nothing irreparable. Once Sedgwick came up …

  He almost began to expound again on the worthlessness of the Germans—before recalling that Reynolds was a Lancaster man and might take a somewhat more generous view of the Dutchmen. Always had to weigh the politics. Better to simply show a good front.

  Hooker sat up straight and said:

  “Tomorrow will be a glorious day for the Union, John. The fact is Lee hasn’t a chance, he’s blown his powder.”

  A few seconds passed in silence then Reynolds said, “I’d best see to my corps, then.”

  As Reynolds and his escort rode off, Major General Joseph Hooker regretted his last brag. Why couldn’t he ever control himself? Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? Lee, he feared, had more than just a chance. And Jackson, damn the man …

  Have to fight him tomorrow. Both of them.

  But Reynolds was right, of course. About the odds. If Sedgwick didn’t make a complete hash of things … perhaps he might just …

  Major General Joseph Hooker felt as unsteady as his hands. For hours now he’d passed from exhaustion to bursts of energy and back again, from discouragement, to hope renewed, and back to unspeakable fears.

  Nor would the old craving spare him, the need almost physically painful.…

  Just make it through tomorrow. It wouldn’t take a miracle. Just a decent turn of luck, the right hand at cards for once. Everything could still be turned around. He’d been embarrassed, not beaten. Nothing had been decided, really.

  Damn Howard, though. It wasn’t just the Germans. But Howard was … unassailable. And someone had to be blamed.

  Tomorrow. The prospect weighed on his shoulders like a cadet’s full marching kit.

  In the morning, the men would need to see the Hooker they adored, the man with the will of iron. The old Joe Hooker.

  Good old Joe Hooker. “Fighting Joe.” He’d long disliked the moniker, but now he wished he might find that man within him.

  Tomorrow.

  * * *

  Major General John Reynolds trotted back to emplace his division, passing yet more stragglers and wondering how much of his own blustering Joe Hooker believed.

  * * *

  “General … don’t you think this is the wrong place for you?” Sandie Pendleton asked. “It’s too far forward.”

  “Danger’s over,” Jackson snapped. He knew his aide meant well, but the boy’s endless admonitions were annoying. It was impossible to lead from the rear at a time like this. “Federals are whipped,” he continued. “Onl
y worry now is our case of the slows.” He twisted in the saddle, the better to observe Pendleton’s large silhouette. “Go on back and tell General Hill he needs to attack immediately.”

  From the brush by the side of the road, a voice inquired, “General Hill?” That was Jim Lane’s voice, Jackson believed.

  He sidled his horse closer. “What do you need of General Hill?”

  Startled by Jackson’s presence, the brigadier general said, “Sir, I’ve got my brigade in line, North Carolina’s ready. Had some confusion, thanks to that Yankee gunnery a time back, but we’re ready now. Just need General Hill’s permission to step off.”

  “Push right ahead, Lane. The instant General Hill gives the command. Smite them.”

  Not a minute later, Hill and his party clopped up the road. Jackson rode to meet him.

  “You are much delayed, General.”

  “Yes, sir. I know it.”

  “When will you advance? Time runs against us.”

  “Soon as I finish relieving Rodes’ men. All the confusion. Then the artillery fuss.”

  “Lane’s Brigade is ready.”

  “Don’t want to attack piecemeal, sir. The others will be up soon.”

  Jackson controlled his impulse to upbraid Hill, subduing his deep distaste for the man. It wouldn’t help to reopen the wound here and in front of their staffs. But the Federal line was stiffening, he could feel it. They needed to press on now.

  His burning ire brought him an inspiration and recharged his confidence: Extend a goal and men would stretch to achieve it.

  And Hill must not get off lightly.

  “General Hill, when you attack—and I trust it will be soon—do not pause at the Chancellorsville crossroads. I want you to continue on to United States Ford.”

  Features polished to ivory by the moonlight, Hill looked astonished.

  “It is a long way,” Jackson allowed. “But your men are capable.”

  It had struck him that it was not enough to reunite with Lee and trap half of the Union army. They needed to seize the ford and trap them all. It could be done—he knew it with the force of revelation.

  Hill appeared doubtful but did not argue.

  “Do you know the road?” Jackson asked. “From the crossroads to the ford? This is your country, I believe.”

  Recovering his composure, Hill told him, “Haven’t passed that way for years.”

  Jackson turned. “Captain Boswell, report to General Hill. You will guide him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There would be no more excuses.

  More staff men joined Jackson, returning from various tasks to swell his party. Hill took leave and rode over to Lane, to issue the new instructions. Jackson remained on horseback in the road, a few yards ahead of Lane’s waiting battle line.

  Sounds of skirmishing lingered off to the right, but here, at the point he judged crucial, the Federals had gone quiet, apparently content to go unmolested.

  Or had they already decided to pull back? Was their new resistance genuine, or was it a demonstration to mask a withdrawal? How far would Lane and the other brigade commanders need to advance to reach them? Each hundred yards would matter under artillery fire. How strong were the Federals gathered in front of Hill?

  Time burned.

  Jackson nudged Little Sorrel forward, away from the waiting regiments and toward Lane’s skirmish line. Pendleton had not returned to badger him and he intended to inspect the field himself, to examine Joseph Hooker’s embarrassed legions, to smell them out.

  He rode through a realm of uncanny silence, following a rustic track that branched off from the main road, leading his staff northward and, gently, eastward, behind the skirmishers. He was not incautious and paused where the byway forked. Turning in the saddle, he called softly, “Private Kyle? Where are you, son?”

  The young cavalryman was near. Jackson had kidnapped him earlier in the day, the instant he learned that the lad had grown up on this ground.

  “Tell me where these roads lead.”

  Still shy of the general, the private spoke slowly. “That there’un…” He pointed to the right trail. “That’un sort of doubles on the Plank Road. Finishes up a ways below Chancellorsville. Runs straight toward the Yankees, pretty much.” He nodded toward the other track. “This’un edges rightwards, too, but on a ways. Slow like, not straight off. Folks call it ‘Mountain Road,’ though there ain’t no mountain.”

  “Lead us that way,” Jackson said. And he followed the cavalryman, with his retinue strung out behind him. He opened his senses to his surroundings, the way he always did. It was not a trick he’d learned or a conscious decision, just the way he always had been, for as long as he could recall: in tune with everything but his fellow humans. He saw and sensed and knew things others didn’t, although he had learned not to speak of it to others. It was yet another of the Lord’s abundant gifts, akin to his ability to know, immediately, what to do on a battlefield, even as others doubted and dithered. The Lord’s bounty was endless unto His servants.

  Again, he ordered himself to beware the mortal sin of pride. He sensed himself growing vain about this day, about the accomplishment still unfinished. It was already as complete a victory as he’d known. But it needed to be forced to a conclusion. With the help of the Lord, whose blessings exacted humility.

  He came abreast of the guide and halted him.

  And he listened. Yes. The sound of axes, the calling of Union voices. They were not leaving, not quitting. They were preparing defenses and extending their flank.

  They had come very close to the Federals. Too close, in truth. Pendleton would have been beside himself.

  Jackson smiled, slightly and briefly, at the thought of his ever-worried aide, a tall, solid man who at times seemed almost womanish.

  They had not even breached Lane’s skirmish line. The enemy was close, then. The North Carolinians would not have far to go.

  But they must go soon.

  He turned his horse and rode back past the various staff men. Signal officers and couriers nudged their mounts aside to let him pass.

  He did not need to tell them to be quiet. They had ears.

  Toward the rear of his party, he paused again and whispered to Captain Randolph, who oversaw the couriers:

  “Who’s that behind us?”

  “General Hill, sir. He decided to accompany us, I suppose.”

  In a flash of pique, Jackson said, “He should be organizing his attack, the fool. Too long, too long.” Then he mastered himself and told Randolph, “Ride back and tell him to turn around, to clear the way.” He hesitated. “Randolph? My remark just now … was unguarded.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As they eased back toward the Plank Road, with Hill’s party leading now, Jackson began to seethe almost uncontrollably. He deplored Hill’s repeated tardiness. It was Cedar Mountain again, but with far more at stake.

  What would it take to make the man attack? Oh, Powell Hill was fine in a fight. But he had to be dragged into it. In his building anger, Jackson told himself that he’d never encountered an officer so laggard in his duties. He knew he was exaggerating, knew he was being unfair. He understood that their long-standing grudge had become personal and his own behavior un-Christian … but he could not help himself, this deep rage was a weakness, a temptation against which he had to struggle time and again.

  He felt the greatest opportunity of the war—a chance to end the war—slipping away.

  At times, the wrath coiled deep within him, the gnawing fury locked in its cage of flesh, the venomous ire aimed not merely at Hill but at all of sin-ridden mankind … it made him fear he’d been possessed by Satan and cast off by the Lord. Then he would walk in the darkness, praying feverishly, longing for release from the madness that gripped him.

  He was being tested, he knew. As those God loved were tested. The path to salvation was sharp with stones and men must walk it barefoot. The flesh must bleed.

  Yet on other, better, blessed days, he
took delight in the very air, in birdsong and the miracle of blossoms, in his wife, his child … elated by a world absolved of sin by Jesus Christ, overcome with merciful tenderness toward his fellow man.

  He resolved not to speak in temper on this exalted day. He would chide Hill, but not chastise him, when they returned to the line.

  And if Hill failed again, he would bring new charges.

  The moon had taken on a crimson cast.

  With a start, Jackson saw they had already reached the Plank Road, just in front of Lane’s still-waiting regiments. He had let his mind wander unforgivably, slighting his duty.

  He heard the report of a rifle nearby, but he could not read the direction.

  A flurry of shots followed.

  * * *

  A volley exploded from Lane’s front. Ambrose Powell Hill realized at once what was happening. He leapt from his horse and rushed toward the North Carolinians, shouting, “Confederates! We’re Confederates! Don’t shoot!”

  To his right another voice, unfamiliar, screamed, “Cease firing! You’re firing at your own men! Cease firing!”

  The firing broke off.

  * * *

  “Who gave that order?” Major John D. Barry demanded, voice hoarse and furious. Around him, soldiers of the 18th North Carolina reloaded with veteran speed, while those with rifles ready held their fire, uncertain. “Who gave the order to cease firing?”

  No one answered him.

  “It’s a lie!” Barry told his men. “That’s Yankee cavalry. Pour it into them, boys, give them all you’ve got.”

  EIGHT

  Night, May 2/3

  Pain. Pain. First the blazing light, red and yellow. Then the noise, and the shock of being struck. Once, twice. A third time?