They were in the deep woods, with the lines so close and entangled that from one foot to the next they couldn’t tell if they were closer to Federal troops or to Confederates. An overeager, keyed-up North Carolina infantry regiment fired a volley that knocked Jackson out of the saddle, wounded in the left shoulder, the left arm, and his palm. Jackson was carried away from the battlefield. His war was finally over.
“General Stuart,” the messenger said, “I have terrible news.”
“What is it, Lieutenant?”
“General Jackson has been shot. He’s not expected to live. General Lee orders you to take command of the army.”
What could have been the proudest moment of Jeb Stuart’s life turned out to be one of the most bitter. He had admired Jackson all of his military career; in fact, the two men, polar opposites though they were, had made fast friends. It was said that Jeb Stuart was the only man in the world who could make Stonewall Jackson laugh out loud.
Now his great head dropped, and he said, “I will assume command.”
Jeb Stuart was a cavalryman. But he took command of an entire army, infantry, artillery, and all, and he did a fine job. He managed to send Hooker back to Washington in disgrace. But there was no joy in Stuart’s heart nor in the heart of any Southerner. In losing Jackson, they had lost so much, and they had loved him well. General Lee, when he heard that Jackson’s left arm was shattered, had sent word, “You’re losing your left arm, but I am losing my right arm.” A pall fell over the Confederacy. It seemed that the army would never be the same again.
CHAPTER TWENTY–THREE
If Jeb Stuart had expected to be promoted after serving so well and salvaging the Battle at Chancellorsville, he soon found out that this was not to be. There were mentions of his bravery, the excellence of his command during this battle, but he remained in charge of the cavalry. No doubt both General Lee and President Davis were convinced that this was his most valuable contribution. And though Stuart might have felt some twinges of regret at being passed over, in his heart he likely agreed with them. He loved the cavalry above all.
In midsummer he arranged for a review of the cavalry at Brandy Station. There had been little action, so the troops were all available, and by the time the review was set in motion, ten thousand cavalrymen sat their horses in lines almost two miles long, and Stuart galloped onto the field.
One of his gunners, George Neese, said of Stuart:
He was superbly mounted, and his sidearms gleamed in the morning sun like burnished silver. A long black ostrich plume waved gracefully from a black slouch hat cocked up on one side, held with a golden clasp….He is the prettiest and most graceful rider I ever saw. I could not help but notice with what natural ease and comely elegance he sat his steed as it bounded over the field… he and his horse appeared to be one and the same machine.
In those few golden days of summer, it seemed as if the enemy was a world away.
Stuart’s officers were gathered together, and he explained that there was a drive to invade the North. “Our job,” he said, addressing his men, “is to cover the Union Army, to find out their dispositions, to see if we can find a weakness in their flank. They are just over that ridge.” He pointed east, to the Blue Ridge Mountains. “That will be an easy enough task. We’ll have no trouble.”
Afterward Clay was talking with several of the other officers. Clay had noticed some difference in General Stuart’s manner, and he was worried. “He doesn’t seem to be as alert or as focused as he usually is.”
“General Stuart knows what he’s doing,” a major scoffed. “He’s never let the army down.”
Clay could argue no more against his superior officers, and so he kept his mouth shut and followed Jeb Stuart, as always. But Clay had been right. Instead of watching the Union Army and sending reports to Lee on the western side of the Blue Ridge, Stuart led his army on side trails and in ineffective and meaningless skirmishes. Once they captured a huge wagon train.
Clay was worried, and Corporal Tyron could see it clearly. “Lieutenant, won’t this train slow us down?”
Clay shrugged. “General Stuart says he’s ordered to interfere with their supply lines. This is interfering.”
On the other side of the mountains, Robert E. Lee worried as the Union forces began to move against him. Without Stuart’s intelligence, he was blind.
And Jeb Stuart’s mistakes were going to haunt him.
“General…General Longstreet, please wake up!”
Longstreet came awake instantly and sat up on his bed. He pulled his fingers down through his thick beard and said, “What is it, Lieutenant?”
“Harrison’s back, sir.”
“The spy?”
“Yes, sir. He says he’s got information and you have to hear it.”
“I doubt it.” Nevertheless, he got up and said, “Have him come in.”
The officer departed, and Longstreet sat down at a chair behind the field desk and waited. He did not care for spies as a whole, but this one seemed to be better than most. As soon as the man entered, he pulled off his hat and said, “Hello, General. I’m back.”
“What have you got, Harrison?”
Harrison grinned and said, “I came right through your lines. It’s a good thing I wasn’t a Union Army.”
“What have you got?” Longstreet repeated.
Harrison was a slight man with a foxy face, innocent-looking enough. He was able to pass for a farmer or a workman of any kind. For this reason, he was able to move anywhere unobtrusively and get information that others could not. “I got the position of the Union Army.”
Longstreet grunted. “Where are they?”
“It wasn’t easy.”
“I’ve no doubt, Harrison, and I admit you’ve always done us a good job. So where is the army?”
“Less than a day’s ride away from this here spot.”
Instantly Longstreet straightened up. “Can’t be,” he muttered.
Harrison was offended. “I’m telling you, General, they’re less than a day’s ride away, and they’re going to get you if you don’t do something.”
“Show me.” Longstreet pulled out a map, and Harrison began pointing out different locations, telling him of their dispositions. Then he added, “Oh, and I forgot to tell you. They got ’em a new general.”
“Who is that? What happened to Hooker?”
“Lincoln got tired of him, I reckon, after that last dust-up at Chancellorsville. Now he’s got George Meade. That’s what the papers say.”
Longstreet knew that a catastrophe had suddenly reared up ahead of him. He got up and said, “We’ll have to tell General Lee.”
The two left Longstreet’s tent and made their way to Lee’s tent. They found Lee seated at his desk. “Harrison here says that the Federal Army is not a day’s ride away, sir.”
Lee stared at the scout. “I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Harrison, sir.”
“Well, Harrison, you saw this for yourself?”
“Plain as day. I saw General Buford leading his corps.” He began to name off other units, and Lee and Longstreet were both silent.
Finally Lee said, “We are in your debt, sir.”
Harrison knew this was his dismissal. “I’m glad to be of service, General.” He turned and left the tent.
“This changes things,” Lee said. “I had no idea the Union forces were so close.”
“It’s Stuart’s fault. You haven’t heard from him, have you?”
“No, I haven’t. It’s the first time he ever let me down, General Longstreet.”
“He ought to be broken for this.” Longstreet was a slow-moving man, the exact opposite of General Jeb Stuart. He liked to think things over and come to decisions slowly, whereas Stuart would throw himself in and worry later about the results.
“Never mind that now, General. We must make some decisions.”
Lee walked over to a map, looked at it for a moment, and said, “We’ll keep going here. We’ll come out
of the mountains close to this little town.”
“What town is that, General?”
Lee peered at it. “Gettysburg,” he said.
The Battle of Gettysburg should never have been fought. Lee was not himself and made his worst decisions, which he himself admitted. He had a terrible case of dysentery, and the heart disease that would later kill him was giving him severe problems. He was without Stonewall Jackson, and in his place he had a man he did not fully trust.
Lieutenant General Richard Ewell was a good soldier, but he had lost a leg and apparently had lost some confidence along with it. Even before the first gray lines took the field, the Union forces had entrenched on the high ground, and the plains below were nothing but a killing field.
The battle started on July 3, 1863, and both sides incurred disastrous losses. On the second day, the next step was made by General Lee. He sent men around to his right to a place called Little Roundtop. The Confederates were unable to take it, and the following day General Lee ordered a full assault on the center of the Union line.
General Longstreet argued vehemently against the attack. He came as close to insubordination as he ever had with General Lee, for the Union army was entrenched on a ridge. They had the high ground, with full range to sweep the valley below with murderous fire. Lee listened to him, but finally he pointed at the ridge and said, “The enemy is there, and I’m going to strike him.”
The Confederate division that led the strike was under the command of General Pickett. He led his men across an open field into the mouths of the artillery and muskets of a huge army. They were shot to pieces, and only a few pitiful remnants were able to stagger back to the safety of the lines.
Jeb Stuart finally rode in and went to General Lee, but Lee was angry with him and showed it. Stuart had ridden up and dismounted, and Lee had reddened at the sight of him and raised his arm as if he would strike him. “General Stuart, where have you been?”
Stuart was shocked. “I have been carrying out my assignment, sir.”
“I have not heard a word from you in days, and you are the eyes and ears of my army!”
Stuart had swallowed hard and then said, “I brought you a hundred and twenty-five wagons and their teams, General.”
“Yes, General Stuart, and they are an impediment to me now!”
Stuart was dismissed, and he did well for the rest of the battle, but there was no hope for the Confederate Army. At Gettysburg, Robert E. Lee, for the first time, suffered a crushing, brutal defeat.
Chantel was horrified, as was everyone who had gathered to watch the Army of Northern Virginia come back from the battle. Endless lines of wagons were full of wounded men. Blood was dripping out of the wagons, and some were crying to be killed. “Shoot me! Shoot me!” she heard one voice pleading. “Oh, my wife! My poor babies! What will happen to them after I’m dead?” Other cries like this broke her heart. She hurried to the hospital.
Hours later she looked up and saw Clay, and she ran to him. “Are you all right, Clay?”
“I’m fine, just—tired,” he said dispiritedly. Then he laid his hands on her arms and said evenly, “Chantel, Armand was hit.”
Instantly she cried, “Is he dead?”
“No. I just stopped to see him for a minute. He’s—there are still a lot of men out there. At the fairgrounds. I came to the hospital to see if there were any doctors.” He looked around, anguished at the men lying on the beds and even on thin blankets on the floor. “But I can see that they have everything they can do right here.”
“I must go to him, Clay.”
“Yes, go,” he said. “I’m going to see to my men that are here, and then I’ll follow you.”
She ran to the fairgrounds. The big field was full of wounded men just lying on the ground. Finally she found Armand and knelt over him. He was feverish and thirsty. As always after a battle, she had replaced her bag with a canteen around her neck. Now she lifted his head and gave him a drink.
“Ah, that was good,” he whispered. His face was pale, and his side was bloody. “Oh, it was so bad, cherie. So very bad.”
“I know, I know, Armand,” she said soothingly. “Here, let me see.” She gently pulled open Armand’s bloody tunic. She saw that his wound, though painful, was not likely to be serious. “You’re going to be all right, Armand,” she said with relief. “I’m going to clean this out a little and bandage it.” She poured some of the cool water in her canteen over his side, and he shivered. Pulling up her skirt, she ripped her petticoat to make a bandage.
Even wounded, Armand could not resist. “I never thought I’d see your petticoat, cherie,” he joked weakly. “Especially not this way.”
When she finished this rough field dressing, he drank again, still shivering, and Chantel wished desperately for a blanket. “You’re going to be all right, Armand. I know it hurts, but please believe me—you’re going to be fine.”
He nodded weakly then murmured, “It was a terrible thing. We had no chance at all, Chantel.”
“So many wounded,” she said sadly.
“And more dead. We had no chance,” he repeated. “We could not believe that General Lee could make such terrible decisions! Men heard, when Pickett came back from that last charge, General Lee met him. He kept saying, ‘It was all my fault. It’s all my fault.’ He was a broken man.”
Chantel stayed with him and tried to decide whether to return to the hospital and see if there was some way she could get some supplies to these many wounded men. But soon Jacob arrived with the wagon filled with supplies and medicine, and three medics were with him. She and Jacob stayed at the fairgrounds and worked all day until late into the darkness by lantern light. The wounded were still coming in, and many women from Richmond and from the country around came to the hospitals and out to the surrounding fields, the last places they had to put so many wounded. Many men died that night.
Chantel kept doggedly working, giving the wounded men water, sometimes dressing their wounds, comforting them. The medics had brought many tents, and they were organizing the wounded men and getting them all under shelter. Chantel had made sure Armand was taken care of and then had gone back to work.
She felt a soft touch on her hair as she knelt over a man who was unconscious, tucking a blanket around him. The medics had not gotten to this part of the field yet, but Chantel was bringing armloads of blankets to cover them and canteens to give them water. She looked up, and Clay was there.
He lifted her to her feet and took her arm. “I tried to get here sooner, but many of my men were taken down to the south field by the ironworks. I’ve been there all day. You look exhausted, Chantel. Come over to the wagon and sit down for a minute.”
She allowed him to lead her to Jacob’s wagon, and she sat on the back, as she had done so many times before.
Clay settled in beside her. “Did you find Armand?”
“Yes, and the medics said that he wasn’t badly wounded. I thought that, me, but I was glad to hear them say it.”
“I am, too,” Clay said. “I count him as a friend.”
Chantel sighed. “It was terrible, wasn’t it, Clay?”
“The worst I’ve ever seen. It was General Lee’s worst day. He was ill. He had no business trying to lead an army. But it really doesn’t matter who is leading you or who you are. War is a cruel, senseless business.”
She took his hand and held it in hers. “I’m glad you’re back. I prayed for you so hard.”
Clay turned to her. “When the bullets were flying and the shells were bursting, I thought of you.”
He watched her hungrily, and with a little smile, Chantel put her hands on his face. “This time I really want you to kiss me, Clay.”
He kissed her then, softly and gently. “You know how much I love you, Chantel. I don’t have the words to tell you.”
“I know. I feel the same way. I do love you, Clay. I have, ever since I first saw you, so terribly hurt. I was so young. Maybe I don’t know exactly what love is then. But I do
now, me.”
He swallowed, hard. In a distant voice, he said, “If we weren’t in this terrible war, you know what I would ask you, Chantel. But right now I can’t even think of it. I don’t want to say it, not right now, in this terrible time.”
Chantel, as always, was a very practical girl. “We are going to marry, you and me,” she said firmly. She reached up again, pulled his head down, and kissed him solidly. Then she put her head on his shoulder. “We are going to trust God to bring us out of this terrible war, and then we will be together, and we will be happy, Clay. I know this, because it is the desire of my heart.”
CHAPTER TWENTY–FOUR
It is difficult to put a finger on the exact moment that a war makes a final turning. Most wars are either brief affairs wherein a huge force overruns a small one, or they are long tedious affairs that go on for years. In these long wars, much is done, but very few turning points in which the whole direction of a war is changed can be specifically cited.
The Civil War, however, presented a clear-cut and definite turning point. The South won many battles during the early part of the war, and this drove Abraham Lincoln and, indeed, all the Northern leaders, nearly to distraction. The source of the strength of the Confederacy was in General Robert E. Lee. He was the South’s greatest military asset, and beside him was Stonewall Jackson, perhaps the second most potent force that kept the Confederacy alive and fighting ferociously.
Lincoln tried general after general, all of them failing to defeat Lee and Jackson. At Bull Run, Lincoln sent General McDowell, which proved to be a sad mistake, for McDowell was sadly defeated. In the Seven Days Battle, which was a short but very bloody affair, General McClellan, who was the idol of the North and one of the neatest men who ever wore the uniform, proved that he was unable to stand against these two soldiers. In the Battle of Second Manassas in August of 1862, General Pope was Lincoln’s choice. He failed miserably, as had his predecessors. At Antietam, the bloodiest day of the war, Lincoln tried McClellan again. McClellan had the battle in his grasp. All he had to do was make one great charge, but he was psychologically and emotionally unable to send men to their deaths. In the Battle of Fredericksburg, Ambrose Burnside threw himself against Lee and Jackson and introduced the Army of the Potomac to a slaughter from which Burnside and the army had to turn and run. Hooker spoke well and was a fine-looking general, but in the Battle of Chancelorsville, he lost his courage.
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