Darkness at Chancellorsville

by Ralph Peters

  “Help me up.”

  Once on his feet, he felt the world swirl and reached out for invisible grips. His back hurt, his shoulder, his hip. His left arm malingered, reluctant to take commands, numbed.

  “Hold him upright.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Shells crashed down around them. One exploded just beside the house, showering all with dirt and laying a soldier low. Wood cracked hugely, splintering. Brickwork growled and collapsed.

  Steadying himself, shutting his eyes then opening them again, Hooker said, “The wounded … have to get them out…”

  “What, sir?”

  “Wounded. Have to … get them out of the house. Shelling…”

  “Yes, sir. It’s already being done. Reb prisoners are helping clear them out.”

  Couch gripped his arm and said, “Your horse, Joe. Are you sure you can ride?”

  In answer, Hooker turned and attempted to mount, to inspire confidence. When his effort faltered, unbidden hands gave assistance.

  “Men have to see me.”

  But he allowed his horse to be guided rearward with him atop it. Brightness pierced his eyes, despite the smoke. He felt as though his skull had been cracked like an eggshell.

  After riding a short stretch up the ford road, he stopped abruptly: The burst of pain had been overwhelming, extravagant.

  “Down,” he said. “Have to…”

  Quickly, hands gripped and guided him.

  “Lay out a blanket. Unstrap mine. Put it over there. Hurry, damn it.” Couch. Good man. Couch would see to things.

  No. He had to retain command. Not trust anyone.

  He closed his eyes as others gripped his weakened arms and guided him onto the blanket. Lying flat helped and didn’t help. He felt nauseated.

  “Get a surgeon,” Couch said. “For God’s sake, get someone to see to him.”

  “They’re all busy, General. There’s so many—”

  “Get a surgeon, damn you.”

  Whirling, swirling.

  “It’s Major Tremaine, sir. Can you hear me?”

  “Of course I hear you.” He tried to nod.

  “It’s General Sickles. His men are out of ammunition, every kind.”

  “Not now…”

  “Don’t pester him, Tremaine.”

  “Sir, General Sickles needs to pull back. Twelfth Corps, too. They’re almost—”

  “Pull back,” Hooker said. “Defend … defend…”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tremaine, he doesn’t know what you’re saying. Let him be, for God’s sake.”

  “You heard him. He said General Sickles can withdraw.”

  “Tremaine, I’ll have you arrested.” Then Couch added, “Yes, Dan can withdraw. Coordinate with Slocum. Now get out of here.”

  “Withdraw…”

  More hands braced him up. He met the fiery scent of brandy, shoved right under his nose.

  “No.”

  They poured it into his mouth and he swallowed it. Then more.

  A lucifer match ignited in his body. A bright, splendid match.

  He knocked the flask away. “No. Nobody able to say…”

  “For Christ’s sake, Joe.”

  “Never say I was drunk…”

  But the slugs of brandy were magic. He felt as though he’d been shocked awake by one of those electrical devices, wired to one of those telegraph batteries.

  “All right,” he said. “Just help me up. Need … need to reestablish headquarters. Need to…”

  “Bring his horse over here. Help him. Joe, can you ride?”

  “I’m all right.”

  Shelling. Screams. Smoke.

  In the saddle again, he found his eyes in better focus. He felt … alert.

  As the party began to ride northward again, amid retreating soldiers, a shell whizzed down behind them. It struck the blanket upon which he had lain.

  * * *

  Colonel Joseph Dickinson climbed through splintered wood and over a corpse to get to the cellar door. He had to pry it open.

  The stairs were still intact. One small blessing.

  It was his second descent within the hour. The first had been to flush out skedaddlers who’d found their way inside, crowding where the Chancellor women huddled. Now he had another purpose, one too long delayed.

  Dust rode shafts of sunlight where the wall above had been shot through and the floor had collapsed. The women kept to a murky corner. Two sobbed, but the rest maintained fragile looks of defiance.

  “I’m sorry,” Dickinson told them, amid the racket, “for all this.”

  Nothing.

  “Come with me,” he told them. “You need to get out of here now.”

  One, whom he had come to know as the strongest, though not the eldest, got to her feet.

  “This is our home. You need to get out.”

  Her lips quivered and her hands, balled into fists, were unsteady.

  “I’m getting out, all right. And so are you. The upper floor’s on fire. I’m sorry.”

  “Our people will be here. Soon.”

  “Not soon enough, missy.”

  An explosive shell struck above their heads. More of the floors above them collapsed, crashing down. One of the women screamed. Another jumped up, maddened. Above them, soldiers groaned and pleaded and cursed.

  “You … you intend to thrust us out among your … out with your blue beasts? We’d rather … rather…”

  Brushing dust and debris from his hair and beard, Dickinson said:

  “You don’t have a choice.” Another shell landed close. The building’s remains trembled. “You’re not going to stay here and die.”

  He moved toward them. The spokeswoman winced and stepped back.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” he continued. “I’m sorry for everything. I’m … I’m sorry for locking you in that room the first night.” He scanned them, their blood-ruined dresses, sacrificed to the filthy work of helping wounded men—not the romantic labor some women imagined. “No one will interfere with you, you’ll be safe.”

  “You say.”

  He smelled burning. There was no more time.

  “Yes, I say. Because I’m going to escort you.” Then, in a quieter voice, he said, “It’s the one worthwhile thing I’ll do today.”

  Brusque again, he added:

  “Hurry up.”

  * * *

  Another unwelcome visitor. Hooker grimaced. Who was it this time? His brain was a torn muscle, it hurt to think, and the endless decisions demanded of him blurred. Couldn’t they leave him alone for a few minutes?

  A tall man, Meade ducked under the tent’s flap, nodded to Couch, and asked, “You all right, Joe? I just heard…”

  And salivated at the thought, Hooker suspected.

  “What is it, George?” He struggled to focus.

  Meade removed his spectacles and applied a dirty handkerchief to the lenses. “Well, I’m glad, if you’re all right.”

  Hooker forced himself to sit up on the cot, rejecting Couch’s help. “Of course I’m all right. See any blood? Now … what is it? Get it over with, whatever you’ve come for.”

  “Reynolds and I … we could sweep down on their left, they’re in utter turmoil. We could roll up their entire flank, turn things around.” Meade towered over the cot. “Joe, we could destroy them, this is our chance.”

  “No.”

  “Joe, would you just listen—”

  “No. Remain on the defense. That’s my decision. Hasn’t changed.” He shut his eyes, tightly, just for a moment. His head, his head.

  “Joe, they’ve taken frightful losses. Now their flank’s wide open, worse than ours was yesterday. Barely half of this army’s been engaged. My corps, Reynolds’ corps … even Howard could put in a brigade, he wants to fight.”

  “No!” Hooker was not about to be tricked in a moment of weakness, not by George Meade. “My decision … as commander of this army … is that we will defend.” Struggling with his thoughts, he added, “
Sedgwick’s on his way. He’ll take Lee in the rear.”

  “All the more reason for us to attack their left. Strike Lee on both flanks. John and I agree that—”

  Hooker exploded. “That’s it, isn’t it? You and Reynolds? Conspiring against me, the two of you.” He made a fist, as if about to rise from the cot and strike Meade. “You think you should command this army.”

  Meade stepped closer. “I wouldn’t want command of this army. Not with … with cowardly drunkards in it. I’d shun it.”

  Couch stepped between them. “Jesus Christ, we’re supposed to be fighting the Rebs.…”

  But Meade had been aroused. He leaned a long, severe face toward Hooker.

  “I can smell the liquor on your breath.”

  Hooker felt himself go pale. His shoulders sagged. His head …

  “George, that was unworthy of you,” Couch said. “And insubordinate. We gave him a sip of brandy when he collapsed. He tried to refuse it.”

  “Get out of here,” Hooker muttered. “Just get out. Advance one skirmisher, and I’ll see you court-martialed. For mutiny.”

  When Meade had gone striding off, Hooker sat with his face in his hands.

  “You’re at fault, too, you know,” Couch told him. “They’re not ‘conspiring’ against you, Joe. Everyone’s doing his best.”

  Hooker looked up. “And you think I’m not?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Call in Van Alen, would you?”

  Couch did as asked. When the field chief of staff appeared, Hooker addressed Couch in his presence:

  “Couch, I turn over command of this army to you. Until I’m better able to … until … until I’m ready to resume command. You will withdraw this army and place it in the position designated on Van Alen’s map, it’s all been detailed … our new line of defense.…”

  After a silence framed by the sounds of battle, Couch said, “Joe, you’re not giving me command. You’re giving me an order, you’re tying my hands. What if—”

  “Do as you’re told.”

  * * *

  Damned hemorrhoids. The enemy within. And under. Jeb Stuart reckoned that if a surgeon cut them out, they’d be Yankee blue, every one.

  And the spells of grogginess.

  The morning had been a disaster up to that moment, with two grand attacks shattered and soldiers cowering in a shameful spectacle. Now the Yankees had two fresh corps poised on his flank, a nightmare prospect. If they attacked his left, he had no doubt that the entire wing of the army would collapse: The men were already demoralized.

  He had … failed.

  He had a single division left, Rodes’ men, and he did not know what else to do but to send Rodes in as he’d sent in Heth and Colston, hoping that this time he’d break the Yankees before they roused themselves and broke him first. The order had already been issued, Rodes’ men were moving up. Rodes hadn’t said much, just got down to work.

  Stuart waited. Fearing that he was squandering all that Jackson had achieved.

  Couldn’t show it, though. Just dared not show it. Men had to believe.

  The latest message from Lee made it clear that he was expected to gain the Chancellorsville crossroads, and promptly. Lee was attacking in force now, from the south and east. And Stuart just did not know how to do what others did instinctively, didn’t know the magic tricks that Jackson kept hidden in his uniform’s pockets.

  The only bright spot was the artillery. Alexander had been right. Trusted, he’d seen to it that his guns not only held the Yankees at bay but pressed them back. To Stuart’s surprise, those batteries had done what the infantry could not, and he was resolved, in this next, last gasp of an attack, to be certain that Alexander got that other hill, too. He’d made it clear to Dod Ramseur, Rodes’ choice for the task, that Fairview had to be taken at any cost.

  Let Alexander stack his guns up there and see what came of it.

  He was glad he’d chosen to wear a red sash this day.

  What if, even now, the Yankees beat him to the punch and attacked his flank as Rodes was going forward?

  No choice. He had to take that chance.

  His rump grew just plain miserable. Wished he could reach a paw back into his drawers and scratch out some peace.

  Couldn’t even sneak off and do that.

  Rodes men began to appear along the road, flags up, and more emerged from the slashed and battered undergrowth. He didn’t see much pleasure shining off them. Word had gotten around of the morning’s debacles.

  Last chance, last hope.

  Just ahead, thousands of men still cowered along those no-good-now entrenchments, a humiliation to all.

  Something had to be done.

  As Bobby Rodes led his men up, silent and grim, Stuart spurred his horse back to life and rode ahead of the advancing lines. Turning his mount parallel to the human flotsam washed up behind the entrenchments, he rose in his stirrups and began to speak, to announce a confidence he didn’t feel:

  “Why, look, boys! Here comes Rodes! Set to finish the splendid work you’ve done.”

  No one seemed to pay the least attention, but Stuart would not be deterred. He continued:

  “Yankees are already quitting. Can’t stand up to our guns, let alone you boys. Finest attacks I ever did see, what you done this morning. Bravery folks back home would never believe, just couldn’t believe it.” He paused for breath, still waiting for men to stir. “Get up now, men. Every man needs to go forward, rally on Rodes, line up with General Rodes.”

  The mass did not stir.

  Rodes men reached them, stepped through them, on them.

  And still the soldiers cowered.

  There was some rough treatment, a bit too much hard mockery from Rodes’ boys.

  They did look determined, though. Say that much, and bully for Rodes.

  A weight on his heart and an itch back in his rump. Not his loveliest hour.

  Near despair, he rode along behind the survivors of the Stonewall Brigade and gave it one last try:

  “Damn it, men … Jackson just gave his arm for the Cause. And he didn’t so much as blink. Is there any man here, right here in the Stonewall Brigade, who wouldn’t give as much as Jackson himself?”

  Rodes men swept on. Alone.

  “Jackson would be here with you, if he could. Missing an arm, boys, he’d still be here to lead you. But he can’t. Not today. You’ve got to do it for him, got to get up on your hind legs and finish his work.”

  Did one man rise? Two?

  “Can’t let Old Jack down, men, we just can’t do it. Can’t report to him this evening that we failed him, after all he did for us. Don’t shame yourselves, men. Don’t shame Stonewall Jackson. Go forward and make the Yankees shame themselves.” As more men rose, he took a deep breath and continued: “They haven’t got your hearts, your plain, old guts. Nor other parts to match. Come on, men, get up and do your duty by Tom Jackson.…”

  Miraculously, they did.

  * * *

  Captain Hubert Dilger wanted to fight. He still had five guns left, and his caissons had been refilled, the losses to his crews made good by infantry volunteers. He listened to the artillery duel, which increasingly sounded one-sided, and could not understand why he wasn’t called forward. He didn’t mind the insults on the lips of the rest of the army: He minded being forced to do nothing at all.

  They all wanted to fight, their informal council that morning had been unanimous in favor of going forward, of redeeming reputations unfairly maligned. Schurz, Krzyzanowski, von Steinwehr, Schimmelfennig, even the battered, livid, and limping von Gilsa. And Schurz had told them that Devens and Howard wanted to do their bit, too.

  They went ignored.

  The corps would fight like beasts now, every officer believed it. Their losses the night before had been terrible, true. By dawn, though, more men had rallied than were expected. The Eleventh Corps was still a fighting concern.

  Hubert Dilger limped along his gun line. The muzzles aimed at
nothing. He held his teams in harness, ready to respond at once to a summons.

  It never came.

  * * *

  Porter Alexander watched through his glasses as the first red banner climbed the crucial hill. The infantry had found its footing, at last.

  He turned to the next-ranking officer on Hazel Grove and told him to shift his guns forward the instant he saw the first Confederate battery go into action atop Fairview. Meanwhile, he would himself guide up the batteries held back for this moment.

  He raised the field glasses for a final look. Here and there, scrub forest burned, and the high flames by the crossroads suggested that the Chancellor house was ablaze.

  None of that mattered. What mattered was that the Yankee batteries at work were ever fewer.

  At West Point, military history had not been his dearest interest, but now he recalled the “Cannonade of Valmy,” where an outnumbered French revolutionary army, by the artful use of artillery alone, had convinced the Prussians and their invading allies to abandon the field before one foot soldier advanced.

  The fight under way might not be the first battle in history decided by artillery, but Alexander was determined to run those Frenchmen a near second.

  He rode forward at a gallop to lead up his guns.

  * * *

  Hadn’t gone but a few steps past that ditch and all the quitters before Pickens took him a notion as to why they were reluctant to step off again. The litter of bodies was grayer than most times, grayer by a sight, but the worst was the mass of crawling or plain-stuck wounded who went ignored. That just wasn’t how things were meant to be done, just letting them lie like that.

  And it got worse. Before one Yankee leveled his rifle toward the 5th Alabama, Pickens reached the first island of flames. Shot-up fellows from both sides struggled frantically to evade the spreading fire, helping each other, blue or gray, if they could. But that wasn’t the stick-with-a-man part: It was the shrieks of men burning alive, just screams like you never heard. Some fellows paused, shaken, to try to help, but officers with pistols drawn ordered them to keep moving.

  Would’ve liked to shut his eyes, to be just any place else.