by Ralph Peters
Lee had awakened that day in excellent spirits, certain that his subordinates knew their roles and Sedgwick’s corps would be destroyed before the day’s meridian. Instead, nothing had happened, other than a half-hearted, broken-off effort by Early’s Division. McLaws had not moved, and when Lee arrived to find him seated under a tree devouring a chicken, Lee’s quiet remarks had cut like a saber.
McLaws had protested that his division alone was insufficient, that his scouts had found the Federals well posted and in strength. So Lee had ordered up the remainder of Anderson’s Division, only to find Dick Anderson’s slowness an outrage atop McLaws’ lethargy. Anderson’s men could not just pull off the Chancellorsville line without being replaced by troops from another division. And that took time, it stood to reason. But Lee had passed beyond reason. He wanted an attack. And the hours passed.
Behind those silver manners, Lee was a killer. More than once, Taylor had seen the old man’s savage will at work. It was not the sort of thing that one discussed, but there it was.
Still, Lee retained the self-control—that icy self-control—to recognize that any attack required coordination if it was to destroy the Federal Sixth Corps, especially after the Yankees had time to prepare. But even with Anderson up and in place at last, there had been more delays, with Early waiting for McLaws to advance, and McLaws waiting on Early, in a comic performance worthy of a minstrel show.
Taylor longed to say to Lee, “The men are tired, sir, they’ve been fighting for four days, that’s why they’re lagging.” But he knew that Lee, if he replied at all, would say, in a tone of impatient disdain, “Those people, too, are weary. But they can afford to be weary and we cannot.”
The afternoon waned.
* * *
Lee would have relieved all three, McLaws, Anderson, and Early, if he’d had men to replace them. But he had none with sufficient experience, none who were ready.
Jackson was right: The South could not win through mercy. Hearts had to be hardened, excuses punished, failure forbidden upon pain of death.
Jackson was right.…
Now the divisions were in place at last, the final orders issued, and his much-delayed attack would commence at the signal of three cannon shots in succession.
Blessedly, Hooker, a fool’s fool, had not lifted a finger to interfere, mesmerized by feints and occasional shelling that masked the depletion of Lee’s lines at Chancellorsville.
The equation was simple: Hooker was afraid, while he was not.
Lee drew out his watch. It was five twenty-six. He nudged Traveller toward Alexander’s gun line. He would give the order to fire at five thirty.
He longed to ride over a field paved blue with corpses.
* * *
“It’s hot,” Jackson muttered, as the wagon jolted along.
“Yes, sir,” Dr. McGuire said from his perch above him. “Gets hot under the canvas. But it’s worse without it.”
“Our wounded must suffer greatly.”
“We do our best, General.”
Voice much weakened, Jackson said, “I did not mean to chide.”
“No offense taken, sir.”
“War is a terrible matter, Doctor. It takes us in thrall, a seductress. I do believe the Lord meant to instruct me, with this wound.” Then he added, “I do feel warm.”
“You need rest. And you’ll get it soon, sir.”
“I would like … perhaps, at the next house…”
“Water? There’s water right here.” McGuire’s face spoke of thought and the surgeon added, “Cold well water might be dangerous, General. Given your condition, the shock to the internal system.”
“Not to drink. Compresses. Cold compresses. For my head. I would be grateful.”
After an awkward delay, McGuire said, “I don’t know if that would be wise.”
“I have always … I have always found water treatments to be healthful. I always gained from visiting the springs, the hydrology cure.” Jackson tried to smile, unsure if he managed it. The journey was hard, and long, and he did not feel as strong as he had the past evening. “Water, Doctor, is the font of life. It cures much. And cannot hurt us.”
Jackson’s ears quickened. He believed he heard artillery fire in the distance, serious gunnery this time, not mere teasing. He’d been waiting to hear it all day.
McGuire laid the back of a hand on Jackson’s forehead. The wagon creaked and jolted.
“You’re a bit warm. But it’s likely just the heat.”
“Wet compresses would ease me.”
Surrendering, the doctor ordered the driver to pause at the next respectable dwelling.
“I suppose the water wouldn’t do any harm,” he said.
THIRTEEN
Evening, May 4
Micky Deary hammered the hillside with the remains of his brogans, head ducked down to his shoulders and Yankee bullets thrilling the air about him. The slope was an insult that robbed a man of his breath, and the Irish lads of the 6th Louisiana managed but a half-hearted howl as they climbed. The only sweetness of it was that Yankees atop a hill always fired too high, though they fired enough.
Shooting from half a world away, long-range Union guns north of the river hunted their whereabouts.
“Jaysus, it’s set to flurry a man,” an Antrim banty complained.
Consumed by the calf-burning, knee-rending going-up-ness—after a day of shuttling here and there—Deary had no air to waste on words.
So on they went, as bitter as piss in the porridge, hating for hatred’s deliciousness—hate, the poor man’s treat.
Above the Yankees, thick clouds gathered to smother the pretty day, called by the guns. By twilight, there’d be rain, any man born of Ireland could tell, and their work had best be finished before that, or the whole commotion would bog down in the clabber.
Hidden Yankees, scoundrels all, fired into the regiment’s flank, sudden and savage, but Colonel Forno paid them no attention, for the top of the hill and the ground beyond was precious.
Deary missed his messmate Danny Riordan, for Danny was ever a joy amid a fight. But Riordan was in a hospital bed, claimed by the bloody shits, and Deary felt alone and on his guard. For all the packing and pushing, a field of battle was a lonely place.
The Yankees were stubborn and made them pause a turd-fling from the top. Only a heavy skirmish line they had, by now a man could tell, but the buggers were set up grand as a baronet’s footman. They wanted uprooting by force, and they’d get it sure.
The Yankee voices, defiant, offered no music, only an ugly growl of dull obscenities. ’Twas clear there were few Irishmen among them.
Deary delighted to see a blue-belly’s head burst and spit brains, for men took their bullets in many a way and pleasing it was to know the dead were dead.
“Forr-udd, Loooz-annah,” the colonel called in his taskmaster’s baritone.
Up they went in another rush, devouring the last distance, and the Yankees retired, though not in their usual haste.
Gasping, Deary surveyed the scene on the rolling ground they’d gained but not yet conquered. A fresh Yankee battery nudged them and the officers led them along. One or two of the older boyos faltered, either used up or pretending, but the regiment and their half of the brigade showed doughty enough.
Beyond a swale, the main Yankee line was aboil with boys in blue, dark as rotted praties in their multitude.
Deary kept to his swarm and pounded the earth, but he did think on black praties, the mush of death, the memory indelible although he’d been but five, if the counting was sure. And then his father died during the passage, done by the ailment he chose of the murderous many, and they dropped him into the waves, tah-rah, leaving his mother bewildered and lost, with not two coins to jingle. He, a boy, had only seen her rage and he learned the back-knuckled smack of a hand on his face, if ever he dared to whisper about hunger. He’d hated her then, even as he clung, as he’d hated the men who passed her along to New Orleans, where she’d left him at last w
ith the Sisters, who no more wanted Micky Deary, runt-grown, than they longed for a whore’s salvation. Bitter, bitter women they were, their mercies short and crabbed.
Yet how the years instructed a man, how misery taught him true! He saw now that his mother had been no more than a child herself, younger by years than he was on this bounty-of-blood day, and he thought of her not without kindness, wherever she might be, if still alive.
’Twas a wonder and sweet, what next transpired, as lovely as free whiskey: They struck the Yankees on the flank while others occupied them, and the blue-bellies ran like rats from dogs and torches.
Full-lunged and riled to a fury, the men about him shrieked like the great Banshee multiplied by a thousand. Of battle lines there were none left, just a mighty mob determined to do harm for the joy of destruction. Had church windows been in their way, they would have smashed them and barely repented on doomsday.
’Twas a killing hour.
But a single Yankee regiment broke in the beginning and Louisiana’s transplants from Kerry and Cork slammed into the next bunch, just as the Federals struggled to realign.
Soon the dread came upon them, and the weak peeled fast away.
Leaping a low mound of dirt thrown up, Deary found himself eye to eye with a Yankee born for a brawl. The blue-belly swung his rifle back to club out Deary’s brains, but Deary fixed his snout with a fist, for courage might be a noble thing, but quickness was better still.
As the Yankee reeled, Deary tripped the man and shoved him and he fell. But Deary had not survived on Christian virtue: He brought down the butt of his rifle smack on the Yankee’s snout, just where the bones shook hands, putting all his cock-of-the-walk weight behind it and catching a glimpse of terrified eyes before he pulped them proper.
The regiment moved on again, in triumph, with the Federal defense ruined. Oh, sweet it was, the glory of the evening!
Weary as he was from head to foot, Deary joined the mass exhilaration, embracing the thrill of conquest that elated the kings of old, the irresistible liquor of revenge and the raw delight of doing harm to others. War didn’t bring out the worst in men, Deary didn’t think that at all. War let men be themselves without fear of the law.
The officers struggled to reestablish order, but that was folly. The excitement overpowered even captains, and what man didn’t want the first peep of the Yankee bounty waiting to be plundered? They dashed ahead, beyond weariness, souls flocking to salvation.
Tonight they would eat their fill, like the warriors whose ancient songs still whispered in the winds of Connemara. Each man his master as in the buried age of Ireland’s glory, they swept over another weakling ridge only to find they’d been cheated by the devil.
A Yankee line, the strongest yet, waited behind sharpened abatis, artillery positioned on the flanks to cross their fires and take lives in a muchness.
The grim guns spoke.
The regiment raised a cry of rage and staggered toward the Yankees, with men tumbling. A few boyos reached the edge of the Yankee obstacle, only to be cut down by converging fires. Others took shelter wherever it was to be had. Deary chose his ground and chose his targets.
The 6th Louisiana showed as stubborn as poverty in the Limerick warrens, but worn the lads were and bleeding more each moment. The Yankees hollered, “Vermont! Vermont!” and Deary never had heard of the place until war came upon him, nor did he think he was inclined to visit. The North sounded colder of heart than an absentee landlord.
Without orders, Deary and his wronged fellows stepped backward once then twice, men done dirty by fate and through no fault of their own. They did not run but gave ground as a Scotsman gives a penny, ruing the loss.
With a cheer, the Yankees charged.
It was too much. Men with legs of stone found strength to run. And Deary was not the last.
No sooner had the survivors left the fateful crest behind than rifles blazed out from the Confederate rear, confounding all.
Men didn’t know which way to flee.
Officers, doing their duty for once, rushed straight into the volleys, waving their gentleman’s paws and crying, “Don’t shoot! We’re Southrons, cease fire!” Their wiser peers pushed forward flags and had the bearers wave them.
It took a grave lot of minutes to coax the firing to a stop. By then the regiment and the entire brigade was a fear-eyed shambles.
The long-range Federal guns came calling again.
Deary blundered into a grove, called by the treacherous safety of the forest, the old come-hither of trees, only to find himself in a lunatic scramble, where regiments joining the fight had somehow collided, their anger aimed at each other now and the Yankees all but forgotten.
Edging and shoving and threatening his way through the back end of the hooley, Deary made his way across a ravine—recognized from the eternity of half an hour before—and gained a field occupied by Confederate batteries waiting for something to do, forgotten and useless.
He stopped and stood in the open, alone, and shook his head.
It began to rain.
* * *
Watching the Louisiana Brigade—“brigands” more like—go up that hill, Jubal Early had grinned like a Methodist witnessing the sufferings of a sinner: A handsome victory was in his grasp.
And then it had all gone unaccountably wrong. Hoke got himself shot out of the saddle, just when he needed to pivot his command. Orders went astray and brigades either split into weakened parts or mingled. In the early dark of the woodlands, his men fired on each other. Then the Louisianans, the demi-brigade that had surged over the hill, came running back.
Goddamned mess.
And there was a drenching rain on the way, his lumbago was never wrong.
The only hope remaining was Gordon’s Brigade.
* * *
John Brown Gordon felt unstoppable. Aware of the pandemonium on his left, and stung by the heavy guns across the river, the Georgian simply refused to be discouraged, riding before his banners, upright and flaunting his saber, defying fate: A man placed his bets and took the consequences. Bloodthirsty and hollering, his brigade brushed off thin lines of Yankees and hastened toward the fords, the keys to bagging an entire Union corps.
He would not have objected to being the hero of the hour.
Nor would it be such a terrible thing if he alone succeeded while others failed. He never wished harm on his rivals—that was unworthy—but neither did he mind it if they faltered.
And they were faltering now. But they also were keeping the Yankees occupied and stretched to breaking. Bella fortuna, where Gordon’s Brigade had encountered the first skirmishers, both sides had been unsure of the other’s whereabouts. His Georgians had been spoiling for a fight, though—especially Clem Evans and his marauders—and they’d sent the Yankees flying once then twice, barely pausing to spoon up a helping of prisoners. Gordon had sent his captives rearward immediately, with an order to the lieutenant in charge to parade them past Jubal Early, even if he had to countermarch them.
The Yankees did have more artillery on the north bank than was decent. He reckoned that at least a full battery was composed of siege guns, with plenty of rifled batteries to assist.
Didn’t slow his men, though. The big shells only made them step out briskly.
Again, he wished his Fanny were magically near. A celebration of private joys would have capped the day most finely, nor would she have had the patience to let him bathe first. Gordon only shook his head whenever a man claimed women found loving unpleasant. Just took the right woman matched with the right man. Or, sometimes, the wrong woman with the utterly wrong man, though that was another tale.
Even in a battle’s moments of respite, Gordon could smile about the foibles and follies of the male and the inexhaustible wonder of the female. Life was a banquet, and only damned fools were afraid to eat.
Gordon favored red meat over chicken.
Ignoring the clouds running overhead and the graying of the light, his soldiers cheered o
ver nothing but sheer delight, like those Greeks raising a ruckus by pounding their shields.
“Drive on, boys, drive on!”
Gordon was not a drinking man, but he’d indulged more times than one. And this was better by far, a higher exaltation than stay-at-homes ever would know. There were times when fighting seemed fully half of the purpose of existence.
He didn’t hate the Federals, didn’t believe he hated any man. Hatred was wasteful, it ate men up. Gordon just found killing Yankees useful, for the time being, and he didn’t rule out befriending them again: After the war they’d still be next-door neighbors, and lives took many a turn. The man who reveled in making lifelong enemies was ultimately an enemy to himself.
There was no reason why you couldn’t kill a man and do business with his brother. That sort of thing happened all the time in the Bible.
It made him smile to think of teasing Clem Evans on that point.
Gordon heard cheers from his left rear, unmistakable Yankee hurrahs. That jarred him. He didn’t want his fellow brigade commanders to lose outright, just wished them lesser successes. He wanted his people to win, after all.
And he, at least, was winning. He’d struck the end of the Federal lines, there was nothing left in front of him. The Yankees must have misjudged the full extent of their perimeter, or they’d been forced to shift men to other points, leaving a gap. Otherwise these open fields, all but undefended, made no sense.
He’d had the luck of the day, that was the truth. After that not-unembarrassing charge up the heights early in the morning. Those chattering, untidy women, those homespun Fredericksburg belles—add ’em together, the sum wouldn’t rise as high as Fanny’s ankles.
