In some aisles of the forest there was great courage by the Army of the Potomac in face of the Dutch melee, and in those places the steady troops beat back their frenetic comrades and established a bulwark against Jackson. Union officers placed their men in line on their bellies, bayonets upraised, and in these steel traps caught shoals of Germans. One colonel, lying thus with his troops, snared a Dutch general, who fled into a ditch, screaming, “Sarr, you do not know who I am! I am Prigadier General” The colonel captured him with a naked saber: “You’re nothing but a damned coward to me.”
In the mid-current of retreat, handsome Joe Hooker sat his white horse for a time, turning about, calling encouragement in a princely voice. “Receive them with the bayonet, men!” he cried, pointing to the oncoming Dutchmen. “Receive them with the bayonet!” He seemed a rock of courage, but in the sight of the stricken faces of the disintegrating corps, he must have found something to shake him.
The stunned Howard himself, desperate at the wreckage of his corps, pottered in vain among the jostling men. He was ordered by a lieutenant colonel from Hooker’s staff to turn his artillery upon the retreating mass. “I will never fire upon my own men!” he shouted. And from somewhere the brave, distraught general drew forth an American flag, and pressing it with the stump of his arm, he held it over his breast as the remainder of his men broke past him toward safety.
Though he could not witness these spectacles, Jackson could shrewdly divine what had befallen the victims of his flank attack and perceive what he must do now. He prepared orders extending his lines to Chancellorsville and then rode ahead, scouting out the dim scene, giving little attention to those who galloped with him as they threaded along the crowded tracks—men crawling in and out of the underbrush, horsemen passing, men calling to companions, companies seeking new positions, reinforcements moving up, litter-bearers, deserters, skulkers, Negro servants. At their feet along the roadsides lay the dead and wounded.
John Casler, the private in Jackson’s ranks, would not forget these hours:
“The woods, taking fire that night from the shells, burnt rapidly and roasted the wounded men alive. As we went to bury them we could see where they had tried to keep the fire from them by scratching the leaves away as far as they could reach. But it availed not; they were burnt to a crisp. The only way we could tell to which army they belonged was by turning them over and examining their clothing where they lay close to the ground, so we could see whether they wore the blue or the gray.
“We buried them all alike by covering them up with dirt where they lay. It was the most sickening sight I saw during the war and I wondered whether the American people were civilized or not, to butcher one another in that manner; and I came to the conclusion that we were barbarians, North and South alike.”
Jackson went impatiently through the traffic, shouting, “Men, get into line! Into line! Whose regiment are you? Colonel, can’t you keep a line? Get these men under control instantly.” Then on, with the disquieting knowledge that Hooker would not long delay in flooding his front with new troops, knowing that the enemy had a reservoir of men and could yet commit regiments which had scarcely heard the sound of guns during the day. If Jackson could join his own ranks with those of Lee, by pushing Lane’s brigade to the front, he might prepare a fresh assault upon Hooker’s rear, while Lee once more occupied the attention of the enemy. The stage might then be set for the final act, the breaking of the Union columns against the river. Jackson might have his opportunity by daylight.
Jackson halted at a busy road intersection, where the roads from Hazel Grove and Bullock’s joined the Plank Road. Here he untied from his saddle his India-rubber cloak, and drew the thick wrap about him against the increasing dampness of the chilly night. Over the passing of men there was a call: “General Hill? Anybody seen Hill?”
Jackson answered. It was General James Lane who had called.
“My orders,” Lane said. “You want us to draw the line about here? I can’t find Hill.”
Jackson flung his arm abruptly, all but shouting. “Push right ahead, Lane. Right ahead.”
A group of horsemen emerged from the shadows. It was A. P. Hill and his staff, and before the officers had opportunity to exchange their triumphant gossip, Jackson was passing his order. As if impatient that it had not been anticipated, he gave Hill the command that he had been holding in his mind since sunset.
“Press them. Cut them off from the United States Ford, Hill. Press them.”
“I don’t know, General. I don’t know. My staff is not familiar with the ground, I’m afraid.”
Jackson wheeled to the party behind him, calling to Captain Boswell, his engineer. “Report to General Hill, Boswell, as soon as you can. I want you to show him how the ground lies. I want the ford cut off. You understand?”
As Hill and Jackson rode together, they followed the lead of a single mounted man, a courier named David Kyle, a native of the place who had often passed through the Wilderness trails. Jackson sent him ahead to test the paths. The scout walked his horse through a North Carolina regiment, as Jackson and his staff waited, and moved into a road. He drew fire from the enemy and returned galloping in a hail of harmless musket balls.
Hill then left Jackson, and with no more than a handful of officers and a team of signal sergeants and couriers, Jackson moved into the shadowed Plank Road. With him now were Lieutenant Joe Morrison, his wife’s brother; Lieutenant Wynn; and his signal officer, Captain Wilbourn. Jackson took no particular note of them.
He led the party with caution, through a swampy depression, and onto the slope which led to high ground about Chancellorsville. He stopped to listen. Over the weakening cries of men in the darkness, Jackson heard the enemy. Axes were ringing in the front, as the Federals strengthened their works. A few orders could be heard. Jackson remained motionless for several minutes, rigidly attentive, turning in his mind the daring question: Attack?
He made his decision wordlessly and, turning, spurred off the road, heading back toward his own lines. The crackling underbrush seemed louder than the earlier thunder of hooves on the oak planks of the turnpike. Once an officer halted Jackson, with a hand on his bridle. “General, you shouldn’t expose yourself. Let me take you back.”
“There’s no danger, sir. The enemy’s routed. Go back and tell General Hill to press on.”
The men with Jackson did not recognize the officer.
They were at this moment riding in dappled moonlight, in a dying storm of sound. Absurdly loud, it seemed to men of the staff, the calls of whippoorwills floated through the hot woodland. The staff itself spread ominous sounds as it crossed the front of the Eighteenth North Carolina, of Lane’s Brigade.
There had been a report among the North Carolina front ranks that a Yankee cavalry attack was making up, and the men had been tense. Jackson’s returning party approached the outposts of this regiment, in a light pounding of hooves and clatter of sabers—sounds for all the world like those of a party of cavalry, forming for a charge. The North Carolinians were given quiet orders: Fire, and repeat fire.
Jackson and his officers were some fifty feet distant. In the uncertain light of the moon they became darkening shadows. They had a Union look about them.
A yellow stitching of musket fire ran along the brush. The group about Jackson was shattered. Two men fell from saddles, horses screamed and reared.
“Cease firing men!” It sounded like Hill’s voice.
Joe Morrison drove toward the ranks of the Carolinians, shouting, “Stop! You’re firing at your own men!”
A hurried drawl came back from the bushes: “That’s a lie! Pour it on ’em boys!”
Sorrel wheeled under Jackson and carried him off to his right, skittish and rearing. They crossed the front of a second company. There was another volley. Pain staggered Jackson. Men shouted. The General lost his reins, and Sorrel plunged into the brush, in the direction of the enemy. A branch clubbed Jackson across the forehead, stunning him, knocking off his ca
p, raking a bloody gash. Jackson turned the horse into the open with his wounded hand and slumped in the saddle.
He did not recognize Lieutenant Wynn of his staff as the young man caught him. For a moment in the resounding blackness they stood together, the boy bolstering the hard-breathing general; they were no more than one hundred yards from Federal lines, judging from the sounds. The two listened as if the night hung on what they might hear: digging, scraping of spades, and of something else, probably bayonets and tin plates. Harsh orders in Northern voices. A company of men on the move, singing “John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the graaaaaave!” Laughter. And the whippoorwills. A shadow approached. It was Captain Wilbourn. With Wynn he led Jackson to a spot beneath a tree.
Wynn gave the General some water and disappeared. “I’ll get an ambulance,” he called. Wilbourn’s voice rose in the road, arguing with some troops in an effort to get litter-bearers. Somehow, General A.P. Hill was there. It was strange that the most bitter of Jackson’s enemies within the army should be there to give help.
“Oh, I tried to stop their firing,” Hill said. “General, are you much in pain?”
“It’s very painful,” Jackson said. “I think my arm is broken. I think all my wounds came from my own men.” The long face was without color in the moonlight.
Wilbourn sent someone to find help, to see if Confederate lines were near by, and warned, “Don’t let them know it’s Jackson.”
Soon Wilbourn was back at Old Jack’s side. With a knife he slashed Jackson’s rain cape, then the uniform sleeve and the shirt, revealing slow dark blood on the flesh. Wilbourn took the General’s haversack and cape and field glasses. The haversack contained only a few papers, two of them religious tracts.
General Hill pulled off Jackson’s gloves, one of them filled with blood. He took Jackson’s belt and sword, as well.
Someone held out a whisky bottle. Jackson shook his head, but Wilbourn insisted that he drink, and the General drained the flask, little more than a mouthful. He then asked for more water. He seemed to revive slightly. Someone asked about the coming of a doctor.
“My own men,” Jackson said.
“Dr. Barr is here somewhere,” a voice said.
“Dr. McGuire,” Jackson said. “I want McGuire.”
“He’s to the rear, General. Dr. Barr is here.”
Hill now sat, having taken the wounded man’s head in his lap. Jackson whispered, “Is he a skilful surgeon, Hill?”
“He stands high in his brigade. We will have him see to you until McGuire can come.”
“Very good.” Jackson closed his eyes and seemed to relax.
The doctor, carefully probing, found three wounds, one in the left shoulder, bleeding freely, another in the left forearm, and one in the right palm. A musket ball was lumped under the skin of the hand.
Jackson still lay outside his own lines. Two men stepped into the road near the growing cluster of the party about Jackson, bearing rifles: Federal infantrymen. Hill spoke in a quick casual voice. “Take charge of those men.” Several forms went forward and, almost without a struggle, the bluecoats were led to the rear.
Men came and went. Others of the General’s party were dead or dying: Boswell and another captain, a sergeant and courier were dead, three others injured. A number of horses were down, and at intervals one of them pawed and screamed in the brush near by. Sorrel had run off into enemy lines where he was to be held, unrecognized, for several days, and then returned.
Jackson stirred with the return of a form to the party, recognizing the voice of Joe Morrison.
“We’ll have to move him now,” Morrison said. “There’s Yank gun crews moving up there on the road. They’d blow us to bits.”
Morrison and two others lifted the General into a litter. Jackson’s breathing was harsh and staccato. As they entered the road, a yellow explosion burst the night beyond them, and flying iron filled the air. Grapeshot shredded the trees. The party flattened on the roadway, with the young men attempting to cover Jackson. They lay for a moment, and more fire poured past them—a small storm of sparks flew from the gravel of the road as the cannon scoured the ground.
The General attempted to rise, but was pushed down. “You must lie still, General,” someone said. “It will cost you your life to get up.”
As the party struggled to its feet and moved the General, the litter fell once more. A bearer dropped his pole and fled into the woods in a new burst of firing. The General groaned, complaining of pain in his side. Wilbourn begged passing men to give a hand, but none would come. He finally shouted that General Jackson was hurt; two men came quickly, and the litter moved forward once more.
In the roadway more men began to gather, curious at the sight of so many forms milling about. A few pressed through the officers. “Who you got there? Who’s hurt?” They did not fall back when told that it was only a wounded officer. One of the unidentified men came close enough to recognize his commander. “Great God, it’s Old Jack.” There was true dismay in his voice.
Excited talk spluttered through the group near Jackson: “General Hill’s been shot. Who’s in command?” Riders went for General Rodes and General Stuart. The litter passed out of that confusion toward the rear. It met General Dorsey Pender who, though wounded himself, went to the center of the party and dismounted, speaking to Jackson, expressing his regrets—and his fears that he must retreat. For the first time since his wounding, Jackson moved swiftly. He sat up. “You must hold your ground, Pender! Hold your ground, sir!” Pender said no more of the possibilities of pulling back his lines. The litter went out of sight, off the road, through the brush.
Captain Smith, who had now joined the party, spoke during a halt in a moonlit clearing. He was alarmed by the pallor of Jackson’s face and the pained expression. “General, are you much hurt?”
“Never mind me, Captain. Never mind me.” After a pause Jackson said, “Let’s win the battle first, and then worry about the wounded.”
The party still was under fire, still with great difficulty carrying the General and at the same time caring for the horses; but in crossing a roadway, the men came upon an ambulance. The officers sighed with relief, but found that the canvas-covered wagon already bore Colonel Stapleton Crutchfield, chief of Jackson’s artillery, as well as a strange captain. Crutchfield was moaning endlessly, and the driver said his leg was hopelessly shattered; he could not be moved. After a moment of discussion, the captain called from within, demanding that he be moved to make room for General Jackson. He began to struggle out, and the men went forward to help him; the General was placed inside, calling weakly for whisky. Several men went to find stimulants, Joe Morrison climbed into the wagon to hold Jackson’s arm, and the ambulance moved slowly rearward, over the path of the afternoon’s battle. An officer went ahead with a small party to locate the rougher spots in the road, leaving men to mark them for the driver. The two injured officers jolted along, Crutchfield still moaning, and evidently out of his mind. The wagon paused finally, in the yard of a house, that of the Reverend Melzi Chancellor. Here Dr. McGuire found Jackson.
McGuire leaned over him. “I hope you’re not badly hurt, General.”
The words of the reply were clear. “I am badly injured, Doctor. I’m afraid I’m dying. I’m glad you’ve come. I think the place in my shoulder is still bleeding.”
McGuire found the wound in the darkness and halted the blood by pressing a finger over the great artery in the shoulder. He called for a light, and in the glow of a lantern saw that the handkerchief tourniquet had slipped. He tightened it. Jackson thanked him gravely, as if he were a stranger. McGuire looked at the General more closely than he had during all the months of riding and fighting with him.
Jackson had control of himself and was remarkably calm, almost as if he were in his own home, preparing to retire for the evening. His mind was clear despite the pain and loss of blood.
His suffering was intense, McGuire saw. Cold hands, a clammy skin, deep pallor of the f
ace. The lips were bloodless, a thin band of ridged flesh drawn tightly over the teeth. The expression was fixed in a rigid mold, the brow furrowed. Breathing was slow.
McGuire halted the bleeding with ease and gave Jackson a bit of whisky and some morphia, which had been brought by a near-by regimental doctor. The ambulance began to move once more, this time with McGuire riding at Jackson’s side. On the road, Crutchfield still groaned. Once the General pulled McGuire’s ear to his lips.
“Is Crutchfield dangerously wounded?”
“No. Only painfully.”
“I am glad it is no worse.”
Crutchfield’s groans diminished, and during a time when Jackson seemed to sleep, the colonel asked McGuire of the General’s condition. The doctor’s reply brought a cry from the artilleryman: “Oh, my God.” Jackson stirred and, thinking his companion in greater pain, ordered the wagon halted and directed McGuire to give help to Crutchfield.
Near eleven o’clock the wagon mercifully paused, turned past the Wilderness Tavern, into a field where men and ambulances thronged, and halted at the field hospital of the Second Corps. Jackson was carried into a tent which had been warmed for his arrival; he could smell the charred wood of the camp stove. They lay him on a cot beneath clean, heavy blankets, and gave him a dram of whisky. He was greeted by Dr. Harvey Black, the chief surgeon, and two or three other doctors whom he did not know. The General drowsed.
McGuire found Jackson’s pulse quickening and his body warmth returning. The others went away, and McGuire sat with Captain Smith, watching. The General lay quietly on his back, his breathing regular, with good color in his cheeks. McGuire leaned over him at intervals, but for two hours he postponed his examination. He went out of the quiet tent and left Smith alone with Jackson, but was back within an hour, bringing the other doctors—Dr. R. T. Coleman, the chief surgeon of the General’s old division, Surgeon Walls, and Dr. Black. Their low talk aroused Jackson, who stared at them and then gave his abrupt smile, nodding. McGuire leaned over the cot.
They Called Him Stonewall Page 45
