by Jeff Shaara
Chamberlain reached the top of the hill, looked down again across the quiet fields and saw great masses of men, long battle lines, and small groups in formation, appearing just as they had that morning. Now the light was fading, and he watched, waiting for something to happen, expecting movement, some noise. The men did not move, however, and he felt a sudden wave of horror, realizing he was looking at long lines and vast fields of dead soldiers, the unspeakable conclusion, the bloody aftermath. He forced himself to look, felt a hot sickness rising in his gut, scanned the wide fields from the far right, where the sounds had first come, down toward the stone bridge, where it had ended. Every field, every open space, was dotted with clusters of the dead, every fence draped with dark shapes, every road a solid black line. He saw the cornfields, flattened and spotted with the dark shapes, and then he saw movement, the few men who wandered among them, and he felt sick again, thankful he was not down there, one of them. He wondered what they were doing, what they were thinking, what they were looking for. He stood for a long while, felt the breeze against his face, could still smell the smoke and powder, but not the dead. Not yet, he thought. The sun had dropped below the horizon, a distant line of trees, far behind the army in ragged gray uniforms that was still out there, was still facing them. Now the fields began to darken, the ghastly sight began to fade from his view, and he thought, They did not need us today . . . but the enemy is still out there, and there is still a war. . . . Could we not have helped?
THE FOLLOWING day the two armies faced each other without moving, like two fighters who have beaten each other senseless and don’t know what else to do. McClellan outnumbered Lee’s forces by better than two to one, had been given the best opportunity he would have to end the war, but he waited, again pleading with Washington for more reinforcements.
Lee realized his invasion to the north was no longer feasible, that even though his army had fought to a bloody draw, his smaller forces could not win that kind of war. And so, after bracing for a new attack from McClellan’s army, an attack that never came, he waited until dark, and during the night of September 18 withdrew his badly bruised army back across the Potomac, into Virginia.
26. HANCOCK
September 19, 1862
“SIR THEY’RE, gone.”
It was just light enough to see, a cool morning. Hancock had reached the front lines, had ridden through a fine foggy mist until he saw the green flag.
“They’re gone, General,” Meagher said again. “The lines are empty.”
Hancock did not stop, rode his horse past the shallow trenches, up over the low mound of earth that had protected his men, rode into the open field between the lines. Meagher rode out with him, and they guided their horses carefully, avoiding the scattered black masses, the bodies of the dead. Behind them the officers began to shout and men climbed up from the trenches, began to move out with the commanders, some running farther, to the advance, screening the generals. But there was nothing to screen against. They reached the Confederate lines, saw down long rows of shallow ditches, saw bodies piled out in front of and behind the lines; and in the trenches themselves, broken muskets, pieces of clothing and equipment, and nothing else.
Hancock stared at the empty ground, said aloud, “We let them get away.”
“Aye, General, that we did.”
Meagher moved his horse closer, and the two men sat quietly for a long minute. Finally, Meagher said, “We lost many a good man. Did ya know General Richardson, sir?”
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t. I heard he was a fine commander.”
“Maybe . . . A general that gets himself killed isn’t much good to anybody. We had a good fight of it, though, maybe better than some, maybe worse. I will say, beggin’ your pardon, General, we was all pleased when we heard you was takin’ over.”
Hancock nodded, said nothing. He knew the reputation of the Irishmen, knew they had indeed given the good fight. And they will again, he thought, if someone will give them the chance.
Meagher looked at Hancock for a long moment, said, “You know General McClellan, do ya, sir?”
“Yes, I know him. He’s a good friend, opened a mighty big door for me. More than once.”
“Aye. Do ya think we can win this war, General?”
Hancock looked at the heavy, round face and the sharp, honest eyes that hid nothing. “You mean, do I think General McClellan can win this war?”
“Is it not the same question, General? This army wants Mac to lead it, they’ve shown that. And who else can we follow?”
Hancock looked away, did not want to think about it, had felt this way before, the sense that no one was really in command.
“Forgive me for speakin’ freely, General. If you’d rather I’d button it—”
“No, General Meagher, your concerns . . . are good ones. We have all been taught how to follow orders. I just wish someone was back there who understood opportunity. I have been in this position before, General. I watch this army fight and maneuver itself into great advantage, and then we just stop, as though someone, somewhere, does not truly believe we can finish this. I am loyal to General McClellan because he is our commander. I have always believed he knows what is best for this army, what is best for his troops. That’s why the men love him . . . he is their general. And that may be his problem. He may love them too much.”
“I don’t know about much of what goes on back there, sir, under those big tents. But my men, General, these tough old micks . . . they been watchin’ each other get shot up for over a year now, and it seems that nothin’ ever comes from it. General, forgive me for sayin’ it, but these soldiers . . . they would have won this war by now if it weren’t for the generals, maybe me included.”
Hancock laughed quietly, but the humor passed quickly. “I expect Mr. Lincoln might agree with you.”
LEE RETURNED to central Virginia, moved his forces into the fertile comfort of the Shenandoah Valley. McClellan remained around Sharpsburg and Antietam Creek for over a month before the prodding from Washington had an effect. Lincoln himself had come to McClellan’s camp, pushing him to make some pursuit of Lee’s bloodied army, and so by the end of October, McClellan finally started the chase. While Lee’s escaping army had crossed the Potomac in one night, McClellan took eight days. And now, while he marched slowly and carefully down the Blue Ridge, Lee had time to move east, placing Longstreet between the Federal Army and Richmond, so that McClellan would again stall, and begin the persistent calls to Washington for more troops.
November 1862
“WELL, GENTLEMEN, I feel we have little to fear of old Robert Lee now! Look, outside!”
Hancock turned, with the others, saw what McClellan was pointing to: snow. It had turned colder all day, and the army camp had begun the first preparations for winter quarters. The troops had started digging the small square pits over which they would build whatever form of shelter they could find. There were mixed feelings about the winter break. Some of the men welcomed the rest, the opportunity to write letters, play cards, nurse sore feet or small wounds. Others despised the waiting, the weeks of inactivity, and, if the weather was bad, the necessity of staying cramped together inside these small, makeshift shelters.
Hancock watched the new snow, thought, We have waited for over a month, and now here is the first honest excuse. Behind him the large, single room was glowing from the warmth of a large fire. One end of the simple house was a huge stone hearth, framing an enormous firebox. As the fire grew, the men had begun moving away, toward the other end of the long room. They were all familiar to Hancock, mostly generals, brigade and division commanders of the Second Corps, who were camped near McClellan’s headquarters. Most had come through the recent campaigns weighed down with a sense of self-defeat, and privately, each man believed he had done the best that could be done, as though it was no one’s fault. Excuses filled every conversation: the weather, the ground, the government, some mysterious power that seemed to be with Lee. No one talked now of the end of the war
, there were no longer any grand predictions, no more fat boasting to the newspaper reporters. The sense of gloom was affecting the troops as well, spreading out through the entire army. But tonight, here, the mood was oddly buoyant. Men were laughing and talking, and McClellan himself sat on an old wooden chair, behind a crude table, smoking a cigar, the center of attention. A bottle of brandy had made its way around the room, was emptied, and another had appeared, began the same route.
Hancock knew the faces, men mostly around his age, many with long careers, and now some tough experience, and he did not feel attached, did not share the pleasant air of camaraderie, still stared out the window watching fat snowflakes and wondered, Why are they laughing?
He looked back into the room, through a haze of cigar smoke and blue coats, saw one man watching him. General Couch had been placed in command of the Second Corps after the apparent failure of Bull Sumner to again appreciate the value of initiative. While everyone bore some share of the failures at Antietam, Sumner had controlled the entire center of the line, and by keeping up the pressure, could have split Lee’s army in half. When the time had come, he simply quit, and the talk began quietly that he had run out of nerve. Even McClellan had understood that Sumner had only one advantage that gave him seniority in the army, and that was his age. He was simply the good old soldier, the career man who had spent his long life rising gradually through the ranks. At the start of the war neither Winfield Scott nor the War Department had any reason to assume that Sumner was not qualified to lead large numbers of troops into battle. It finally fell on McClellan to pull him off the line.
Darius Couch was slightly younger than Hancock, a small man of light build. He had come out of West Point in 1846 with the same class that produced McClellan and Jackson. He left the army after Mexico, but returned to serve with his friend McClellan, and had shown a fiery competence for leading troops.
Hancock returned his look, saw Couch glance toward the door, a silent signal, and Hancock moved that way, followed Couch outside into the blowing snow. They walked out a way from the house, toward the camps of the troops, and Couch stopped, reached a hand out, his palm catching the snow.
“Winter.”
Hancock nodded in the dark.
Couch said, “Nothing will happen now. We have wasted the last good month of the year. Have you spent much time in Virginia, General?”
Hancock looked out through the snow, toward a large field, a wide sea of small fires and huddled men.
“No, sir.”
“A miserable place to move an army. The roads . . . after a snow like this, it will probably warm up, melt it all, and the roads will turn to deep mud. Doesn’t get cold enough to freeze solid, so the cycle repeats. We’ll probably sit right here for months, until someone persuades our commanding general to get started again . . . if he is still our commanding general.”
“Yes, sir.” Hancock held himself back, did not know Couch well, but there was something in the man, something quiet and dark and dangerous, something he had begun to see in a few of the others, had seen it now in himself, that nameless thing: Men who advanced with their troops and did not hear the muskets and stepped over their dead without looking down. He also sensed that Couch did not fit into that great warm celebration behind them, powerful men who drank too much brandy and toasted each other’s empty successes. Couch pulled at his coat, wrapped his arms around his thin frame.
“I know how much Mac appreciates your work, General. I know he appreciates mine. He’s a good friend, and once he’s in your corner, he’ll go all the way to Hell to back you up. There’re a lot of people in this army who have never even met him, and they feel the same way, that he’s their friend too.” He paused. “I wish he was a better fighter.”
Hancock could not see his face, knew the words were difficult, that since their days at the Point, Couch and McClellan had always been close.
Hancock felt the cold now as well. Snow was blowing into his collar. He said, “Well, excuse me, General, I believe I’ll head back to my quarters.”
Couch turned, held out a hand, said, “Good night, General,” and Hancock took the hand, then started away.
There was a sound of horses on the road, between the house and the vast field, and Hancock saw four men. They rode up along the rail fence, reached the gate, where a guard halted them, then from a small shelter more guards appeared, and one horseman said, “Special courier, I have a message for General McClellan.”
The guards gathered closer. One man lit a match, tried to see the man’s papers, and Couch walked over, said, “Excuse me, gentlemen, I am General Couch, Second Corps commander, and this is General Hancock. You may give the message to us, we will take it to General McClellan.”
The man who had spoken said, “Begging your pardon, General. I am General Buckingham, from Secretary Stanton’s office. These men are my escort. I am to deliver this personally to the commanding general. If you will examine the seal . . .”
Couch stepped forward, took the papers, saw the heavy wax seal of the War Department, said, “General, please follow me. General McClellan is there, inside the house.”
The men dismounted, and Buckingham stepped up beside Couch and waited.
Couch looked at Hancock, said, “Well, General, still off to bed?”
“No, I suppose not. Maybe one more look at the fire . . .”
The three men walked toward the cabin, and Hancock held open the door, moved into the big room behind the other two. The noise did not stop, no one paid attention. Couch and Hancock waited by the door, and Buckingham made his way to McClellan and announced himself quietly. McClellan looked up at the man, nodded without smiling, and Hancock saw Buckingham hand him the paper. McClellan pushed his thumb through the wax, unfolded the letter, read for a few seconds, then stood up.
“Gentlemen . . . please. May I have your attention? Quiet, please.”
The talking wound down, faces turned, and McClellan said, “Is there any brandy left? This man is from the War Department. He has ridden hard through this weather and appears to need a drink.”
A bottle moved from the far side of the room, was placed on the table in front of McClellan. He poured the last of the contents into his glass, handed it to Buckingham, and Hancock saw that the man’s hands were shaking. He raised the glass slowly, said, “Thank you, General.”
“Gentlemen, this man has braved this miserable night at the request of the Secretary of War. I could read the letter out loud, but it is simpler to just say that I have been relieved of command. Effective immediately, this army is under the command of . . .” He paused, and Hancock sensed it was dramatics, McClellan making the best of his last moment in the spotlight. “. . . Major General Ambrose Burnside.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. The men began to look at each other, and Hancock dropped his head, stared at the floor, felt briefly sick, took a deep breath. Couch’s hand was on his shoulders and he said, “We can only do our jobs, General.”
TO THE troops, Burnside’s appointment was not as important as McClellan’s dismissal. Rumors began to fly immediately, angry men making big talk. The most radical story was that McClellan was to lead an armed force into Washington, unseating Lincoln. There was more widespread talk of a milder protest, men refusing to serve, resigning. The officers were more discreet. Most understood that angry talk was dangerous talk, and if rumors led to action, the effectiveness of the army could dissolve.
Hancock felt McClellan’s dismissal as a blow, but understood that the affection he held for the commander did not mean that McClellan was the best man to lead the army, and so when the angry talk reached him, he was quick to put it down. He was, after all, a career soldier, and he had no doubts that his loyalty lay to the nation, not to any one man.
The troops considered Burnside just another in a line, a man who held a title, who inspired nothing else. To the commanders, Burnside’s appointment was a serious mistake. Even Burnside himself had doubts, had been as surprised as the rest t
hat his name had come down from Washington. He was thought of in the high ranks as a reasonably capable commander, a friendly, generous man with no particular talents. He had been as culpable as anyone else for the failures at Antietam.
Burnside immediately made two decisive moves. He reorganized the army, creating three large “Grand Divisions,” putting them under the commands of the ambitious and temperamental Joe Hooker; William Franklin, Hancock’s original commander from the Sixth Corps; and, surprisingly, Bull Sumner. Burnside did not explain his logic, and Hancock assumed that by creating a buffer of experience between him and the corps commanders, Burnside would be able to shield himself from direct criticism, and perhaps direct blame. Hancock’s division, under Couch’s Second Corps, was placed in Sumner’s Grand Division.
Burnside’s second decision was to abandon the pursuit of Lee’s army through central Virginia, and instead make a sudden surprise move to the left, to the southeast, along the Rappahannock River, crossing below Lee’s army, placing the Federal Army between Lee and Richmond. Burnside assured the President that this would bring a speedy end to the war, as Richmond would fall before Lee could react. The place he chose to make the crossing was the town of Fredericksburg.
THEY HAD marched for two days, wound their way along the high banks of the Rappahannock River. Hancock rode at the head of his division, and today Couch rode with him. They were in the lead, and would reach their destination before dark, the town of Falmouth, across the river from Fredericksburg.
The weather had warmed slightly, and Hancock rode without his heavy coat. The men moved at a good pace, knew the march was a short one, stepped through a layer of mud on the road that gradually deepened as more of the army passed. Couch had said little, stared away, toward the other side of the river.
