by Ralph Peters
For all his concerns, his heart leapt at the prospect of fighting again. Lee smelled powder the way a horse smelled oats. There were things he dared not discuss with other men, matters he preferred not to think on too much himself. He loved war, that was the wicked truth. God forgive him, he loved it. Worse, this army had become his greatest love. It was a terrible thing for a man of faith, or any man, to recognize.
When he told himself that he loved his wife, he found himself insisting that he still loved her, as if effort were required. He felt a growing dread of his visits to the rented home in Richmond, where the beauty he had courted so long ago, when he had served under a different flag, kept to her bed with ever greater lassitude, surrendering to the temptations of the invalid. He treated her with tenderness forced by guilt: First he had taken her from a wealthy home, now he had seen that house turned into a graveyard. But that weight was nothing before the guilt of the soul.
As for his children, he loved them dearly, of course. His conduct attested to that. He was proud of his three sons, each of them in uniform, and his daughters adored him, rushing to serve with devotion almost unsound. He worried for the safety of the boys, especially Rooney and Rob, but knew not what to make of the lives of his daughters. Not one of them had married or shown a will to do so. And “Daughter” was nearly thirty years old; Agnes, what, twenty-three? And was it two years since Annie, a tender thing, had died of typhoid, a mockery of fate in the midst of war? Millie was still little more than a girl, of course, but it had been a delight to have her by him at Longstreet’s review.
The girls needed suitors, husbands. Well they might care for their mother and honor their father, but at what cost? What lives would be left them? Even if this war left beaux enough? A parade of widows darkened Richmond’s streets, but at least those women had known the wonders of matrimony. What of all the unmarried women and girls? What would be left for them, if this slaughter continued?
It was time to mount and ride down to the fields, where he would order to their deaths the men ten thousand spinsters would never know.
Dear Lord, he prayed, forgive me.
General Ewell’s dispatch rider tore off, followed by a courier headed for General Hill down on the Plank Road.
Lee felt the impulse to turn again, to take one last look at the Federal columns and the wealth they dragged behind them. In Mexico, he had thought Scott’s army magnificent, certain he’d never see the like again. Never had he or his brethren in arms dreamed of so great and fierce a war as this.
Forbidding himself that last glimpse toward fate, Lee turned to the officers who had accompanied him to the mountaintop.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “let us go down to the men and see to our duties.”
THREE
May 4, afternoon
Germanna Ford
“The man’s a damned swine,” General Humphreys said.
Another column of soldiers trudged up from the ford and passed the headquarters tents: Sedgwick’s first division. In the heat of the afternoon, shoulders drooped and feet dragged, and more than a few blankets lay discarded along the roads, but if the men were not as brisk as they had been at daybreak, they still maintained good order. Now and then they even mustered a cheer, sometimes at the sight of Meade, but more often for Grant, who sat impassively on the porch of a derelict house across the road.
“Lawyer, my foot,” Humphreys went on. “If that cur can spell his own name, he’ll leave me spellbound.”
“It doesn’t matter, Humph,” Meade said. “Forget it.” He, too, had been infuriated by the tirade Grant’s chief of staff had just inflicted on them. With everything going brilliantly, Rawlins had still found reason to mock and gloat, and not without his usual flood of obscenities.
“Grant may or may not be the second incarnation of Alexander,” Humphreys seethed, “but he’s a damnably poor judge of character. And what’s old Washburne doing here? He ought to be in Washington, stealing the Treasury blind with his fellow congressmen.” Bitterness carved lines around his mouth. “Grant’s staff is more circus than military establishment. Complete with a Red Indian.”
“Just let it go,” Meade repeated. “Take down the banner, put up the old flag. It hardly matters. You and I have greater matters before us.”
But it did matter. With all the complex marches and daring river crossings gone off without one flaw, this should have been a day for pride all around. Yet, no sooner had Grant and his staff caught up with Meade’s headquarters—Grant cantering across the pontoon bridge on his big bay horse—than Rawlins stormed across the road, pushing his way through the ranks of marching troops, face set in that venomous manner of his, with a hardhearted grin breaking out of his beard and murderous eyes above.
He had pushed up to Meade without a salute, waving his paw toward the splendid new swallow-tailed banner donated to the Army of the Potomac. The flag, all silk, bore a gold eagle wreathed in silver on a magenta field. Meade thought it striking.
“Know what Grant thinks about them coon drawers you got on that pole?” Rawlins had barked for the world to hear. “Know what he had to say? I’ll quote you just what he said.” The man’s eyes glittered with the joy of malice. “He said, ‘What’s this, what’s this? Is Imperial Caesar anywhere about?’ Hah! I was you, I’d haul down that hoor’s petticoat this minute.”
Meade had been mortified. He had expected congratulations on the day’s achievements. Rawlins was a rude, raw man, but, given that he was Grant’s personal confidant, Meade had been careful to treat the man with courtesy. And Rawlins had not seemed ill-disposed toward him.
Meade could only stutter, “If … should General Grant find our new flag inappropriate—”
Rawlins cut him off. “‘Inappropriate’ may be the gentleman’s word, but I’d say he finds it downright mule-fuck preposterous.”
Choking on dust and bile, Rawlins suffered a coughing fit. It climaxed in a burst of blood-flecked phlegm, and that only added to the fellow’s outrage. Without the hint of a compliment about the army’s performance, the former country lawyer who had clamped himself to Grant from the war’s first days—and now wore a brigadier general’s star—strode off to curse a battery to a stop so he could amble across the road at his own pace, waving his arms in anger at the miasma kicked up by a marching army.
“Just take it down,” Meade told his fellow Philadelphian a last time. But that was not enough. He turned from the endless stream of troops whose passing had tanned their uniforms with dust. Feeling a rush of warmth toward his chief of staff, he said, “It’s only jealousy, I think. Those western men wouldn’t mind seeing us fail. But we carried it off, and handsomely. Thanks to you, Humph.”
It was only true. Meade had given the orders. But Andrew Atkinson Humphreys, whose naval architect grandfather had designed “Old Ironsides,” was the man who had labored for weeks to calculate how to swiftly march a massive army over a patchwork of country lanes, how to sneak hulking pontoon trains into hiding places close to a river line guarded by the enemy, how to push out the cavalry and seize multiple fords by surprise, how to move and protect the largest supply train in history, how to herd along ten thousand head of cattle to feed the men, and how to time it all perfectly. The stay-at-homes wished to hear of epic battles, but few had a sense of the labors that delivered an intact army to the fight. When the history of the war’s campaigns was written, who would remember the commissary wagons?
The problem was that Humphreys detested his duties as chief of staff. He longed to return to a field command. Meade had been compelled to refuse his requests to go back to the troops again and again. There was no one to replace him: Humphreys was a man of genius who wanted an average job.
Watching his army pass in good order—thanks to Humphreys’ skill—Meade understood what his old comrade was feeling, that irrepressible soldier’s desire to lead men into battle, instead of scribbling orders back at headquarters. For his own part, he judged Humphreys to be the only indispensable man in the entire
army, himself included. George Gordon Meade had come to the conclusion, through hard experience, that a great commander would fail without an able chief of staff, while a great chief of staff could save almost any commander. Humphreys would have to wait awhile before he rode at the head of troops again.
Another veil of dust settled on the violets by the roadside. The determination of the tiny flowers to thrust up their colors reminded him of soldiers who would not quit. Lee’s soldiers. This march was one thing, the coming battle another.
“I’d like to thrash that lout,” Humphreys grumbled, aiming all his pent-up frustrations at Rawlins.
Meade laughed. He couldn’t help it. Even though there really was nothing to laugh about. Nor was he given to laughter by his nature. Wiping tears and grit from his eyes, he turned from the pageant on the road to face Humphreys full on. He could hold a grudge himself, but did not want to end up on Humphreys’ bad side, that was certain.
“Humph, I think the world of you. But Rawlins just might be your match.”
“He’s a damned consumptive and can’t face up to it.”
Plagued by the dust he had devoured while laughing, Meade coughed himself. “Well, Grant believes he needs the man. So bear with him. All in all, Grant’s been a decent fellow. He’s given us all we’ve asked for, he’s kept Washington off our backs … he does seem a man of his word.” Meade constructed a smile. “As far as I’m concerned, the occasional visitation from John Rawlins, Esquire, is a trivial price to pay.”
In an uncharacteristic gesture, Meade patted Humphreys on the shoulder. Beige smoke rose from blue wool. “If the worst they can do is to find fault with the taste of the best-bred ladies of Philadelphia, I’d call the day a success.”
The two men spotted Sedgwick trotting up from the river, urging on his corps and waving his hat. A good, grizzled man on a fine white horse, even Uncle John smiled today. And just before Rawlins’ intrusion, a dispatch had arrived from Hancock, stating that his trail division was crossing the Rapidan ahead of schedule and that Barlow, whose division had led the way at Ely’s Ford, had already reached the objective for the day’s march. Meade felt a burst of confidence and pride: Perhaps Grant was right. Perhaps they’d conclude the war in a matter of months, even weeks.
“I still say the man’s a swine,” Humphreys muttered.
Dusk
Chancellorsville battlefield
Holding the skull at arm’s length like an actor playing Hamlet, Colonel Frank declaimed, “Wer darf das Kind beim rechten Namen nennen?”
Oh, do shut up, Barlow thought. Without dismounting, he said, “Put down the skull. And set a proper example for your troops by saluting your superior officer.”
The colonel tossed the skull away, further angering Barlow. The remains belonged to a soldier who had fought upon this ground a year before. Barlow had been there. And while he didn’t subscribe to the fuss that glorified any ne’er-do-well the moment he donned a uniform, Barlow believed in a show of respect for the dead. If only for the sake of his living soldiers.
The colonel drew himself up and saluted. Barlow returned the gesture.
“I am just quoting Goethe,” the colonel said. “I cite a famous line, ‘Who will call the child by its proper name?’”
“I know what it means,” Barlow said. “I’ve had to learn no end of worthless drivel. Have you been drinking?”
The colonel shook his head. “No. Not drinking. One Schnaps. To celebrate.”
“You have nothing to celebrate. Win a battle. Then you can celebrate. Meanwhile, I’ll relieve you of command of this brigade if I find you drinking again.”
“But … I have not been drinking. It is only—”
“This is not a Berlin debating society, ColoneI, and I don’t measure degrees of inebriation. Now double your pickets and see that a capable officer’s in charge, not the butt of some regiment’s jokes. This division will not be surprised.”
“But … the Rebels are not here, I think.”
Barlow exploded. “That’s what I heard a year ago. On this very ground. See to your brigade, man, or I’ll rip those eagles off your shoulders myself.”
Barlow pulled his horse about and spurred it. At his back, the colonel muttered, “Gott im Himmel.”
A part of him hoped he would discover Frank falling-down drunk in the morning. He ached to relieve the man, had little faith in his leadership, but Hancock insisted the popular German’s removal would be impolitic. “Make it work,” Hancock had cautioned. And the colonel was sly: In the morning, he’d be preening at the head of his brigade, breath reeking of peppermint wash.
As he rode on toward the Irish Brigade—another story entirely—Barlow wondered if his distaste for Germans and all that went with them hadn’t to do with his longing to purge any lingering trace of Emerson’s woolly nonsense from his brain. New England’s Transcendentalists had afflicted his youth and his student years with the works of lumbering German seers and mordant Frenchmen. Their very inanity made the French less bothersome, but the notion that Americans had anything to learn from bilious Teutons had become as repugnant as vomit. He had pledged not to open another tome of Hegel’s, and that was a promise he certainly meant to keep.
Arabella, bless her, shared his disdain for the cabbage-eaters, whether the turgid philosophers or the commoners with their beer and maudlin tastes. And their bilious effrontery. Barlows had been in New England for two centuries, yet a creature such as Herr Oberst Frank walked down a gangplank, drained a glass, and thought himself the equal of any American. Stir in the Irish and it seemed clear the country was going to Hell, with the war the least of it.
As he followed the archipelago of campfires, Barlow heard laughter. The sound came as a relief. Upon reaching the day’s limit of advance, he’d been furious at Humphreys and Hancock for holding up his division on a mockery of a graveyard. All around the bivouac site, white bones thrust from the earth; elsewhere, rain had uncovered entire skeletons, all of them macabre remembrances of the debacle a year before. It was a grisly place, and his first thought beyond disgust had been that it must have a bad effect on the men’s morale. But he had failed to appreciate their fatalism, the humor that better served a man than anything in Feuerbach or Herder. The veterans made rough jokes, and the new recruits followed their lead. With shoes off and pipes lit, his men had become almost jovial.
Barlow was anxious to remove his own boots and bathe his feet. In the excitement of the day, his feet had behaved themselves, no more than a sneaking bother lurking in ambush. But as soon as his division coiled in, the itching had flared unbearably.
He wriggled his toes, loosening their sweat-grip on one another. It only made matters worse. The feeling that his toes and feet were trapped was maddening. It took all the self-control that he could muster not to stop and scratch right through his boots.
The itching faded again as his hackles went up. And not because of the pale litter of bones. No matter what the cavalry and his own patrols reported, he could feel the Confederates out there. How near, he couldn’t say with useful precision. But he sensed their vitality, their menace.
He expected fighting the next day, whether the grand plan called for it or not, and whatever Humphreys, Meade, or Hancock told themselves. It had the inevitability of a physical law, of chemical combinations in a laboratory: Lee would fight.
He could almost see gray columns in the dark.
And here he was, with his division halted in a poisoned spot where the stink of old defeat lingered all around. The thickets and scrub trees seemed to have grown even denser than they had been the previous year, fertilized with the blood and meat of the fallen. It was no place to fight, a worthless expanse of near jungle his division could have marched through to open ground. He understood the need to keep the army compact, the need for each corps to be in position to support the others, but some risks were worth taking, and seizing good terrain topped the list of reasons. God help the men who had to fight in these brambles.
As
Barlow understood the order of march, the Rebels would strike Warren’s corps initially, since Lee’s men would be marching from the west and Warren would be smack in front of them—and watching his flank, Barlow hoped. Tonight, though, the threat arose from Stuart’s cavalry, who would love to pin the tail on a Union donkey again. Barlow did not mean to be that ass. And Fitz Lee’s horsemen had been spotted outside of Fredericksburg, which raised a nice proposition: If Robert E. Lee’s nephew attempted some dashing coup, it would be charming to take the fellow captive. Or kill him.
That was a pleasant fantasy and no more, Barlow understood. The twilight hours fostered that sort of musing. But tomorrow would be a very different story. Brigadier General Francis Channing Barlow had no doubt that he and his men would be drawn in, if the armies clashed in the Wilderness.
And if it came to a fight, he was damned well ready.
Challenged by a picket, he gave the parole and steered his mount between the Irish Brigade’s campfires. As ever, Smyth’s tenors wailed. Drunk or sober, the Irish were always singing about their abandoned paradise. If it was such a bloody heaven, Barlow wondered, why had they left in the first place? Ireland had to be madder than Rhode Island.
A dark shape in the purple night, Colonel Smyth appeared.
“General Barlow, me fine man,” Smyth called out, “all’s well from County Cork to Donegal. What can we do for ye on this fine May evening, sir?”
“Have you been drinking?” Barlow asked.
Late evening
New Verdiersville
Lee’s hand quivered as he sipped the buttermilk. He had been fond of the beverage since childhood, but the richness did not always agree with him these days. It would have been poor manners, however, to decline the offering from the Widow Rhodes. She had delivered the drink in a cut-glass goblet that was, he was certain, the pride of her household goods. Approaching him directly, she had presumed to renew their acquaintance of the past autumn, when the grounds of her house had harbored his headquarters tents in another desperate hour.
