Last Cavaliers Trilogy

by Gilbert, Morris

  General Robert E. Lee was uncertain of what this change of command would take. He lamented McClellan’s departure. “We always understood each other so well,” he remarked to Longstreet with his characteristic modesty. What he really meant was that McClellan was transparent to him. General Lee, from the beginning of his adversary’s command, had understood that McClellan dawdled, he was reluctant to seize the offensive, he was an incredibly poor strategist, and that most of his reputation as a military genius was due to adroit political posturing. Lee rarely spoke so harshly aloud of anyone, however, so he merely continued, “I fear they may continue to make these changes till they find someone whom I don’t understand.”

  It was, indeed, a while before General Lee came to understand Ambrose Burnside. It was not because Burnside was clever, however. It was because he was so incredibly incompetent that Lee viewed him with disbelief…until he proved it.

  However, when Burnside took command, Lee had good reason to be wary, because his army was split in two. This was because at the beginning of November, in the last days of McClellan’s command, “Little Mac” had perhaps deep down begun to sense his own downfall. He had begun to slowly deploy the Army of the Potomac into Virginia, creeping down to Warrenton, Virginia, on the east side of the Blue Ridge Mountains. His strategy, as Lincoln had been pressing for months, was to stay astride Lee’s lines of supply from the Shenandoah Valley and then to press south toward Richmond, engaging Lee from the north.

  The problem, as always, was that McClellan dawdled along so slowly that Lee had been given time to position his army in what would most likely mean another Confederate victory and another Federal rout. Lee sent Jackson and Second Corps to the valley, threatening McClellan’s western flank. He sent Longstreet and First Corps to Culpeper, twenty miles to the southwest, directly in McClellan’s path.

  Still, Lee was no fool, and he understood the peril that his army was in. It was divided in half, which in military terms equaled a weakening of the whole. As always, Lee was terrifically outnumbered—at this time the Army of the Potomac numbered about 116,000 men; the Army of Northern Virginia, 72,000. Again, as always, the Federal army was much better equipped than Lee’s men. Lee knew very well that if the Federal army could be led by a daring and courageous commander instead of Little Mac, the odds of a victory for the Confederates would be diminished indeed.

  And so, when Lee finally did see the new strategy of Burnside’s Army of the Potomac, he was puzzled. On November 19, he learned that Burnside was moving the entire army south, along the east side of the Rappahanock River. Burnside was abandoning a promising opportunity to strike the two separated wings of the Army of Northern Virginia. Also, he was skirting around the Confederates again, a move very reminiscent of McClellan. Lee couldn’t understand how Burnside could hope to gain a better position, but that was because Robert E. Lee was a military genius, and it was difficult, if not impossible, for him to comprehend utter military ignorance.

  Abraham Lincoln and the War Department did not view General Burnside as ignorant. They had approved his grand new strategy. He proposed to position the army on the east side of the Rappahanock, just across from Fredericksburg, which was a picturesque village that stood squarely midway between Richmond and Washington. Burnside planned to build floating bridges across the Rappahanock River, send across the army quickly and in force, take Fredericksburg before Lee could block him, then move south and seize Richmond.

  The plan depended on speed. General Burnside did succeed in marching his forces quickly, a stunning change from the days of “Little Mac.” The army began their march on November 15, and by November 19, they were in position, a long, heavy blue line from Falmouth, north of Fredericksburg, some miles south of Fredericksburg at a possible alternate crossing called Skinker’s Neck. From Stafford Heights, a series of hills on the west side of the river, Federal cannons brooded menacingly, aimed directly at the eastern shore.

  And there and then the Army of the Potomac stopped and stayed, immovable and unmovable. Once again, incomprehensible Union hesitation gave Robert E. Lee ample time to deploy his army and position them on the most favorable ground. Fredericksburg was down in a little valley, with a line of gentle hills just behind it. Longstreet’s First Corps was on the right, arrayed along a ridge called Marye’s Heights. Jackson’s Second Corps was on the left, along a crest of hills that looked down on wide, flat fields that stretched from the river all the way to the steep banks of the hills.

  And so the two mighty engines of destruction faced each other across the gentle river and the forlorn little town. And still Burnside waited.

  General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson was not, in war, a man who could tolerate inaction very well. Every day he rode or walked the heights behind Fredericksburg restlessly, eyeing the army across the river with flaming blue eyes, envisioning scene after scene of vicious attacks. He was as cross as a fishwife, so irascible that his staff and aides—though they always accompanied him—stayed at a discreet, safe distance.

  But in the last week of November, suddenly General Jackson’s temperament sweetened tremendously. He was cheerful, making his clumsy little attempts at wit, smiling more often than anyone had ever witnessed. None of them knew what had caused this sea change in their general, for as always, he was intensely private and secretive.

  Jackson had been expecting news from Anna, and finally he received a letter. It read:

  My Own Dear Father—

  I know that you are rejoiced to hear of my coming, and I hope that God has sent me to radiate your pathway through life. I am a very tiny little thing. I weigh only eight and a half pounds, and Aunt Harriet says I am the express image of my darling papa…and this greatly delights my mother. My aunts both say that I am a little beauty. My hair is dark and long, my eyes are blue, my nose straight just like Papa’s, and my complexion not at all red like most young ladies of my age, but a beautiful blending of the lily and the rose….

  I was born on Sunday, just after the morning services at your church.…

  Your dear little wee daughter

  On December 10, Yancy was reading a letter with much pleasure:

  …and so I hope you like the sketches, and that they may cheer you. I believe that my favorite is the one of Missy in the kitchen, it’s such a comforting and homey scene. Remember how many hours we spent in there, reading the newspapers and watching her cook, our mouths watering? Or yours, at least, as always. While you were here I came to believe that Missy is right, your stomach goes all the way down both your long legs to your ankles.

  We are going to try to send you some Christmas presents. I find it a miracle that the mail still runs smoothly, by all appearances. I know you’ll be glad to know that we get letters regularly from Leslie. He is doing very well and always mentions you and writes of the hope of better days when we may all be together as a family again. (Your second family, of course!)

  We pray for you daily, and we miss you very much. I miss you very much. I understand that since you are camped at Fredericksburg along with General Lee, naturally he would send all of the army’s messages to Richmond. But we do miss the days when General Jackson’s dashing courier would ride in all hours of any day for a visit. Should any opportunity at all present itself for you to come to us, we should be so very glad to see you. Blessed Lord grant that it may be soon!

  From your best friend (probably),

  Lorena

  Yancy perused Lorena’s sketches for long minutes, a smile playing on his lips. Mrs. Hayden, smiling down at the artist as she mounted the stairs, candle in hand; Dr. Hayden, putting on his ancient slouch hat and holding his beat-up medical bag, going out the door to Chimborazo; Missy, frowning down at a steaming pot on the stove as she stirred it—these three were all obviously done from memory. But Elijah’s picture was blatantly posed. He stood looking straight at the artist, his bulky arms crossed in front of his chest. On his face was a smile so wide it seemed it would split his face. In her letter Lorena had said that h
e had stood as still as if it were a glass-negative photograph, even when she had told him to relax. He didn’t stop posing until she had finished all but the fine shading.

  Yancy chuckled to himself. She’s so talented, I had no idea. He looked over the sketches again and thought, It’d be great if she’d do some of herself and send them to me. I bet she never draws herself, she’s so modest…but I’m going to write her and beg her. Bet she’ll do it for me.…

  He got up and went to the little folding desk in their tent, sitting down with pencil and paper, and began:

  Dear Best Friend (I’m pretty sure),

  But that was as far as he got. Peyton, who was on courier duty that morning, came into the tent. “Hope you enjoyed your morning off, Yance,” he said, going to his storage trunk, taking out a cigar, and lighting it with pleasure. General Jackson disapproved the use of tobacco, so the aides and even the staff officers basically hid and smoked. “We’ve got an assignment.”

  Yancy rose, threw on his tunic, and began buckling on his saber. “Are we riding?”

  “No. That is, no courier duty. General Lee found out that there are still some holdouts in Fredericksburg, mostly old people and ladies with small children, and it’s upset him. He’s ordered all of the couriers that aren’t riding today and all of the wagons that can be spared to go into town and help them evacuate.”

  When General Lee had arrived on November 20, he had been greeted with delight and relief from the inhabitants of Fredericksburg, believing that he would save their town from the Federals massing across the river. Regretfully General Lee had explained to the mayor and the city council that it was impossible to defend the little town. Federal artillery was aimed straight down at it from Stafford’s Heights, and no number of charges by any thousands of infantry would be able to dislodge such well-placed guns. It was, Lee explained, a basic tenet of warfare that even privates knew. Infantry assailing well-placed defenders on high ground was simple suicide. Sorrowfully the city leaders came to understand this and ordered an evacuation of the town.

  Twenty-two couriers and aides went down into town, followed by eight sturdy supply wagons that had been emptied. Peyton and Yancy, perhaps because their horses were the showiest—or maybe because they naturally tended to assume leadership positions—led them in.

  Many of the people were already standing outside in heavy traveling clothes, some with trunks, some with their possessions simply knotted up in sheets. On Main Street through the center of town, just down from the Episcopal church, was a boardinghouse—a clean, simple three-story building painted white with neat black shutters.

  As they neared it, Yancy could see that there were about a dozen people standing outside, with their trunks and cases on the walk. He reflected that he would start loading these people up first, and he rode to that side of the street.

  He guided Midnight up to the hitching post directly in front of the building and scanned the little crowd. Suddenly he drew in a painfully quick sharp breath. His head and hands felt too warm. His vision narrowed until all peripherals disappeared. He stiffened and froze so suddenly that Midnight, sensing the intensity of Yancy’s agitation, grew stock-still.

  She stood just to the right of the door of the boardinghouse. Her hands were in front of her, holding the handle of a small portmanteau. Her face was upturned as she watched Yancy. It was heart-shaped and she was pale and sad, and her eyes were dark and filled with tears. She was wearing a royal blue mantle, and the cape was drawn up, and soft tendrils of her light brown hair damp in the dismal mist escaped, curling around her face.

  Yancy did not see this girl. He saw Lorena. She looked up at him, her soft voice catching in her throat as she told him of her sorrow, the blue mantle framing her perfect face, her eyes shimmering with tears.

  I loved her…I love her! I–I’ve loved her for so long! How—how could I have forgotten my darling Lorena? How could I have seen her every day, laughed with her, talked to her, listened to her sweet voice, and not feel this great longing? How, how…What have I done? What can I do?

  “Yancy,” Peyton said softly, touching his arm, “are you all right? You look like you’ve been struck by lightning.”

  “What?” Yancy said vaguely. His gaze was still locked on the girl, though in his mind he still saw Lorena.

  “Yancy,” Peyton said more insistently, “you’re almost as pale as a white man. Are you sick?”

  With an effort, Yancy tore his gaze away from the girl, took a deep breath, and managed to focus on Peyton’s face. In spite of his joking words, Peyton looked concerned. Yancy passed a hand over his brow, realizing that one of his headaches, very rare now, was starting to threaten him with a vague ache behind his eyes. “No. No, I’m not sick. I’m—fine. I just…”

  He couldn’t possibly articulate what had happened to him. Yancy, private man that he was, had never told his friends about his memory loss after he was wounded. He stole a look back at the girl. Now he could see that she didn’t really look like Lorena; this girl was tall and curvy and her features were nothing like Lorena’s. There was a very old man standing next to her, holding her arm, and Yancy realized that he must be her grandfather, perhaps, and likely he was the reason she had not attempted to evacuate.

  Yancy forced himself to say firmly, “It’s okay, Peyton. Don’t worry about me. How about we start with these people here? I’ll go back and bring up one of the wagons if you’ll start organizing them.”

  He turned and rode back to the line of wagons behind the mounted couriers, taking the few minutes to calm himself and to bring his chaotic thoughts to order. He had a job to do, and it was important. These people needed him to be kind and attentive and reassuring. He would have to put his shocking revelation about Lorena aside for now. Later, perhaps, he would figure out what to do.

  The next night, December 11, at 2:00 a.m., Federal engineers started building bridges. The night was smothered in a heavy, wet fog, and it was bitterly cold. Though the sounds were completely recognizable, the clanks of tools and crash of timbers sounded oddly muffled on the thick air. Still, they were enough for the sharpshooters Lee had stationed along the Confederate side of the riverbank.

  They fought off the bridge builders all night and all the next day. Supremely frustrated, Burnside fired 5,000 shells into Fredericksburg, reducing it to rubble. Still the sharpshooters picked off the engineers every time they showed their faces.

  Burnside ordered the army to cross in pontoon boats, which they did successfully, though with some losses. The Confederate skirmishers fell back slowly, grinding the first line of Yankees down, giving every yard grudgingly. But finally they were threatened to be overwhelmed, and they withdrew to the safety of the heights.

  That day, the Union soldiers had literally sacked the entire town, dragging furniture, pianos, paintings, dishes, linens, clothing, books—anything they could get their hands on—out into the streets and destroyed them. They stole every valuable they could find and every scrap of food and drink. Fires raged all over the city from the Federal shelling, and the soldiers often took torches from the houses that burned and set others on fire.

  From the grim heights behind the benighted town, Robert E. Lee watched Burnside’s army. More and more of them swarmed across the Rappahanock, the pontoon boats crossing again and again, each time full, coming from the east side. Surely, Lee thought, Burnside would not do the unthinkable—attack these unassailable hills. Lee’s army was ordered in what was as close to perfect position as could ever be in war. He had the high ground, with almost no cover below in the approaches to the foot of the hills, his artillery arranged so as to inflict sure death over carefully laid zones of fire. No sane opponent would dare attack him.

  Yet Burnside did just that. He was not insane, though throughout the Battle of Fredericksburg, Lee and his generals had very good cause to wonder.

  On December 13, in the cold gray dawn, Burnside ordered the attack to begin. They attacked Jackson, on the Confederate right, and were beaten b
ack with heavy casualties. They attacked Longstreet, arrayed on the invulnerable reaches of Marye’s Heights.

  The Federals were routed, with heavy casualties. Again and again, brigade after brigade charged First Corps’ guns and massed musketry. The slaughter was horrendous.

  Burnside ordered a final assault on the center at dusk. They fell in their hundreds crossing the open ground to those impossible heights. At dark, at last, the guns were silenced.

  In one day of massacre, the Union army had sustained 12,653 casualties in killed, wounded, or missing; the Confederate army, 5,309.

  On the next day, a truce was declared and the armies recovered their dead and wounded. The truce ended that afternoon, and the Federals resumed their battle formation on the field. Lee, Longstreet, and Jackson readied themselves for another attack. It did not come.

  That night a violent rainstorm assaulted the area. The next morning, Lee and his lieutenants looked out over a deserted battlefield.

  In the storm, the Federals had crept back across the Rappahanock River. The Battle of Fredericksburg was over.

  CHAPTER TWENTY–FOUR

  Yancy, what are you doing?” Peyton asked lazily. He was sprawled on his cot, smoking a cigar, blowing smoke rings into the air.

  “I don’t know,” Yancy answered distractedly. He was pacing, though not in a fast back-and-forth manner. He would sit at the camp desk, stare down at the papers spread out on it, then jump up and stride to the tent opening. He’d open the flap and stand there, staring outside for long moments. Then dropping it, he would go to stand by the camp stove, open it, jab irritably at the coals, slam it shut, and then walk a few paces back and forth. Again he would sit down at the desk and moodily peruse the papers. He had been doing variations of this routine for almost an hour.