by Ralph Peters
He would give the Yankees the licking they needed, as surely as mighty Caesar subdued the Nervii. He foresaw the blue lines breaking, dissolving, men running madly, others throwing down their rifles and raising their hands, and just enough of them making a stand to polish up the glory. His men would lay dozens of captured flags at the feet of Robert E. Lee.
No finer opportunity had presented itself in the war. For the Army of Northern Virginia. For the Confederacy. And for John B. Gordon.
* * *
In wonderful spirits, Gordon regaled his staff: “I almost walked on over there, grabbed that coffeepot, and drank right from the spout in a fashion most barbarous. Gentlemen, I tell you, the perfume of that beverage was pure Elysium. Surely, Helen herself was no more desirable.…”
Shaded from the blood-red sun by the trees, he squinted at his map again, wishing he had a better one. But the plan he’d committed to paper was sound, of that he was certain.
“We’ll git you your coffee, sir,” a captain from downstate said. “Missed it for breakfast, but you’ll have it rightly for dinnertime. Lord, I’d pay gold dollars to be part of this.”
“Just ain’t right,” another man said, “how Grant sent off his sutlers. Boys feel cheated.”
“Well,” Gordon said, “tonight they shall revel in plenty.”
Rather than dashing to headquarters, he had dispatched his aide to alert General Early. He wanted his plan down in writing before they conferred. A document in his hand, countersigned, would guarantee that the credit could not be purloined.
Almost finished, he straightened his back and told his warrior band, “The incautious foe shall perish as did the legions of Varus, defeated as were the mongrel hordes of Persia by Alexander.” He wasn’t sure any of them understood even the reference to Alexander, but it didn’t matter. They liked to hear him declaim as much as the soldiers did. He made them smile. And smiling subordinates would die for you in a blink.
Anyway, his mood was so fine, so ebullient, that Gordon could not restrain himself from the innocent joy of speechifying. He was a happy man, almost as delighted—almost, but not quite—as if he were returned to Fanny’s arms. Had he needed to glower like Zeus, he could not have done so. Today, even Mars wore a grin.
Hoofbeats. Coming on fast. That would be Jones, his aide, coming back from Old Jube. But there should have been other horses, too. Gordon had flattered himself that Early would be so elated by his news that the division commander would ride straight down to praise him.
It all began to collapse.
After dismounting with a hangdog look, Jones glanced around before he dared say a word. Like a child fully expecting to be spanked.
“Well?” Gordon said. “Speak, winged Mercury!”
“Sir … General Early says you’re to hold still and stay put. He says … that you must be mistaken, that General Burnside’s entire Yankee corps is out there in front of us. He says we’ll be lucky if we can hold our own flank.”
Gordon opened his mouth to speak, but, for once, he found that events had robbed him of words.
At last, he muttered, “I … we must inform General Ewell.…”
“General Ewell was present, sir. With General Early.”
“And did he share our division commander’s opinion?”
“Seemed to. Just cussing a blue streak, the way he does. About the morning’s fighting down thataway.” Jones shrugged, making himself small. “It’s settled down, but folks are feeling gruff.”
“And General Early’s tone … was so dismissive?”
“It was one of rebuke, sir. Said he didn’t care to be pestered no more. And that’s a quote.”
“Damnation.”
Gordon could see it well enough, though. Early in one of his fits of spleen and Ewell enclosed in some momentary ire, hugging his bitterness the way a child clutched a doll and deferring to Early, only half listening to Jones. Gordon served two cantankerous men who would fight like lions, then lose a battle for spite.
He turned to his staff. “Gentlemen, if the mountain comes not to Muhammad, Muhammad must go to the mountain. Major Jones, if you’ll accompany me?”
* * *
“I was out there myself,” Gordon said. There was a plea in his voice now. “I saw it for myself. There’s nobody. Not for miles. It’s quiet as a church at midnight.”
In one of his invincible grumps, Early told him, “I don’t know where exactly you rode, Gordon, but it takes a man of high ability to miss an entire Yankee corps to his front.”
Wounded men passed on their way to the rear, scrapped by the morning’s fighting. Those capable saluted or at least nodded toward the generals on horseback, but there was a sullen face or two as well.
“Cavalry reports had Burnside on the Germanna Road last night,” Ewell put in. His wooden leg was an awkward thing to behold stretched from saddle to stirrup. “Ready to come down on the flank of this corps.”
“And that flank would be you, Gordon,” Early said.
Already straight-backed as a Quaker chair, Gordon stiffened further. Warning himself not to give his temper rein.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “it may be that the Union Ninth Corps, or part of it, was on that road last night, but I swear to you upon my honor that it isn’t there this morning. That flank is just dangling, like the hem of a stepped-on petticoat. They’re spread thin, too.”
“They’re spread thin,” Early said, “because there’s a whole goddamned corps right behind them. They’re not worried, and for good reason.” He spit an imaginary gob of tobacco. “What you saw was just a goddamned skirmish line.”
“Just listen to that.” The corps commander gestured toward the south. “Hell of a fuss down there. Sounds like Powell Hill’s fighting for his life. I can only hope that some of the commotion’s due to the arrival of General Longstreet.”
Early smirked. “Old Pete got him another case of the slows. Same as Gettysburg. Lee may think that thickheaded Dutchman’s the Lord’s own gift to this army.…”
Ewell said nothing, but clearly did not mind criticism of his rival corps commander.
“If we attacked…,” Gordon tried again. “Hit them now, when they don’t expect it … that would take the pressure off of Hill. Longstreet or no Longstreet. With their northern flank collapsing, they’d have to go on the defensive.”
Early snorted. “Until Burnside comes in on our flank. And drives through you and the rest of us like a steel plow through a shit-pile.”
“Burnside isn’t there. For all we know, he could be reinforcing Hancock.”
“General Gordon,” Early said, “I just told you where Burnside and his whole damned corps happen to be. You border on insolence.”
Ewell tried again to change the subject. “Bloody damn mess this morning. Got the jump on Sedgwick, beat him to the races. But we just didn’t have the punch.…” He looked at Gordon. “John, we’re spread thin as boardinghouse butter up here. This corps has no reserve. Things went wrong on your end, we couldn’t answer.”
Gordon almost said, “Jackson would’ve taken the risk in a blink.” He longed to say it, to throw it in both of their faces. But he knew he didn’t dare. Ewell and Early were hardened in their jealousy. Of the living and the dead.
“Paid the sonsofbitches in full, though,” Early put in. “They drove us back, no denying it. But, Hell, if we didn’t give them twice the punishment when the fuck-a-doodles tried to break our lines.”
Ewell wouldn’t be cheered. “We can’t break their line, they can’t break ours. It’s all going to be decided by Hill and Longstreet.”
“If Hill isn’t sick again.” Early snorted. “He’s dainty as Miss Sallie with the cramp.”
“But we can break their line,” Gordon insisted. “We could collapse it like a Chinese fan. Just let me hit them with my brigade, my one brigade. Have Hoffman and the rest of them ready to come in, if what I say proves true.”
Early narrowed his eyes. They were not the eyes of a likable man, or of
one who had enjoyed much success with women. There was no streak of joy in any part of him, ever, and not much in Dick Ewell, either. Gordon was wary of such men: At the banquet of life, they squabbled over crusts.
“Gordon,” Early said coldly, “I am telling you, once and for all, that I want you to hold still. Right where you are. Your brigade will not move one inch. That’s a direct order, and General Ewell is my witness. You just stay put, boy. You’ll have plenty of chances for glory when the entire Ninth Corps comes for your behind.”
Gordon looked at Ewell in a last, forlorn hope.
It was clear from the expression on the corps commander’s face that he had no intention of overruling Early.
But Ewell did say, “General Gordon, I understand that you’re convinced of what you say. You believe we’re forgoing a grand opportunity.” He glanced southward again. “But this entire army is at risk, and we can’t add more risks on top of what General Lee’s already got to deal with. Nonetheless, I promise you that, when I can find the time, I’ll have a look at that flank of yours myself. Will that satisfy you?”
No. No, because opportunity is fleeting in war. No, because a chance such as this may never come again.
Gordon said nothing.
The torrent of noise from Hill’s portion of the field became a deluge.
“Something going on, all right,” Early said. “And Gordon here thinks he can save us all single-handed.”
Ewell touched his fingers to his hat. “Gentlemen, I’d best see to this corps’ other flank.” He gee-upped his mount.
When their superior had gone, staff trailing behind, Early smirked at Gordon. “You just think you know every last goddamned thing. Don’t you, John?”
Gordon remembered his division commander on the previous afternoon, begging him to save the collapsing corps. And he had done it. Gratitude had a shorter life than a mayfly.
He could not believe that the opportunity before them would not be seized. Nor was he ready to give up. There was no progress to be made at the moment, but he’d try them again in a few hours. And hope that the Yankees had not grown any wiser.
“Just every last goddamned thing,” Early repeated.
Five thirty a.m.
Orange Plank Road
His men fled. Ignoring his pleas, they ran past, only the best of them pausing to meet his eyes before running again.
“You must stop!” Lee shouted, his tone harsh beyond custom. “Halt and re-form! Stand to your regiments, men!”
For the first time in his experience, soldiers ignored him. He rode among them, fierce of heart, alternately pleading and nearing profanity. It did no good.
“You! Captain! Form your company.”
The officer slowed, wild-featured, and shook his head. “I got no comp’ny, sir.” And he moved on. The Plank Road had flooded with such men, the heroes of the afternoon before, of the sanguinary evening.
Lee looked down the road, past the shameful exodus, yearning to see Longstreet. The man’s latest promise had been to arrive with the dawn. Now defeat swelled around a dying army and Lee could not see so much as a dust cloud.
His fault, his fault, he knew. He should have ordered Longstreet up immediately when Grant and Meade began to move, should not have placed him so far to the south, and should not have attempted a complicated plan. Surely, Longstreet had done his best. Surely. Yet, the anger was there, a thrashing anger. At Longstreet. At Hill, so afflicted today he could barely sit his horse. At these long-brave men made cowards by the numbers applied against them. And, always, at himself.
He had behaved foolishly, forbidding Hill to reorder his lines in the night or to set the men to work on better entrenchments. He had been so confident that Longstreet would come to Hill’s relief that he had chosen to let the men sleep a few hours. But war held no brief for mercy.
“Soldiers! Halt! You must re-form! Form on those guns, men!”
His words accomplished nothing.
He spotted General McGowan leading a fragment of his brigade to the rear. Lee nudged Traveller through the throng toward the brigadier.
“My God!” he cried. His voice surprised McGowan. “Your splendid brigade … are they running like geese?”
McGowan glared, but his answer was not uncivil. “General, my men were surprised, not whipped. They just need a place to form. I get ’em formed, they’ll fight as well as ever.”
Then Major General Wilcox appeared, face streaked with tears.
Lee felt a burst of anger and turned from the man. He knew the action was unjust, that Wilcox was not to blame.
But Wilcox would not be deterred from delivering his message. “Sir,” he reported, “my men can’t hold much longer. They’re flanked on both sides.”
Lee turned on him. “Your men … your men have not held, sir. They’re fleeing all around us. See to your division, man.”
Mortified, Wilcox saluted—as stiffly as an automaton—and turned back to the debacle.
He had been unjust, unjust. But his temper had leapt the fence and would not be penned again.
Turning to his aide—who was threatening men with his sword to no effect—Lee snapped, “Longstreet must be here. Colonel Taylor, go bring him up.”
Obedient ever, Taylor steered into the human flood.
“And ready the trains to retreat,” Lee called to his back.
Better to die. Better to die than live with such ignominy. That Grant … a wretched creature too small to retain in his memory … that such a man would humble him like this. Defeating him after but two days of effort. Lee raged against the shame.
Better to die.
He guided his horse back into the rising field, toward the line of guns by the ravaged farmhouse. Poague’s batteries stood alone against the blue swarm about to erupt from the trees around them.
Some of his men still fought. They only wanted aid. Wilcox had tried to tell him that. He had been unjust to Wilcox. But who could bear this? Even faith in God availed nothing now.
A wave of gray fugitives burst from the far trees, running for all they were worth. Powell Hill had given up trying to rally his men. Ill or not, he had dismounted and stood by Colonel Poague. They were arguing furiously.
Lee looked to the east again and saw them: the first blue lines, bowed and uneven, but dauntless. Victory fed victory. So oft before, his men had been in pursuit.
A wave of dizziness stopped him. The early heat, his bowels. Gathering himself as best he could, he rode over to Hill and Poague in time to hear the artilleryman say, “I can’t fire across that road. Our men are mixed in with them.”
“I order you to fire now!” Hill shouted.
Newly aware of Lee’s presence, Poague looked up at him. Lee nodded: Do as Hill says.
A bullet dropped a nearby cannoneer.
Poague leapt to his task at once, screaming to be heard, ordering his right battery to manhandle their guns to sweep the road.
They were everywhere now, those people. Swarming south of the road and to the north, slowed by the guns, by the terrible cost of advancing across open ground, but pressed on by the masses to their rear.
Lee resolved not to move. He would die here.
Some of the Union infantry paused to unleash volleys toward the artillery on the ridge. And gunners fell. But the cannon kept blasting, with Poague rushing from piece to piece and directing his left battery to swing northward.
Through new smoke, Lee spotted Hill wielding a swab, the work of an artillery private. Hill, too, had made his resolution to stay.
How could he have harbored anger toward such a man, blaming such a one as that for ancient indiscretions and ill health? He suspected that one of his last sights on earth would be of Powell Hill in a flannel shirt sweated black, hair flying as he shouted commands to the gunners still on their feet. Hill had begun as an artilleryman, and he would end as one.
Colonel Marshall edged his horse up to Lee’s side. The military secretary said nothing, but removed his spectacles and put them in a
pocket of his coat.
“Why doesn’t Longstreet come?” Lee said softly, careless of whether the other man caught the words.
Marshall said nothing. There was nothing to say. But he waited for the end beside his chieftain.
With a hurrah, the Union troops south of the road burst through a last pocket of resistance. To the north, Union regiments had re-formed for a final assault on Poague’s guns, barely half of which were still manned and firing.
Those people had grown confident enough to call up drums to regulate their advance. As if they meant to parade across the field.
Straight ahead, blue ranks left the tree line at the double-quick, while the long lines in the north stepped out to a drum’s tap. Flag-bearers waved their banners in the absence of a breeze.
A bloody sun shone through the smoke behind the advancing enemy. It was a fitting sun for a last morning, suited to an apocalypse.
Lee’s hand tightened on his sword. His last guns barked. And he caught another glimpse of Hill, face blackened and gleaming. Perhaps he, too, would welcome death.
Marshall reached over and touched Lee’s sleeve.
Turning, Lee saw the head of Longstreet’s column.
* * *
As the lead brigade formed a hasty front to charge, Lee spurred his horse up to their commanding officer. He did not recognize the man.
“General, which brigade is this?”
“Texans,” the hard-eyed officer said, bellowing to be heard. “The Texas Brigade.”
“I’m glad,” Lee said. “Oh, I’m glad! Go in and give them cold steel. Don’t let them stand and fight. You must charge them, sir.”
“Yas, sir. That’s just what we’re aiming to do.”
Lee turned to the men around him. “The Texas Brigade has always driven the enemy … always.…” He spoke to their brigadier again, trying to recall this new man’s name. Gregg? He wasn’t certain enough to speak it. “Tell your men, General, that they fight under my eyes today. I will be with you. Every man must know.”
