The best that I could say of us was that we had learned to lose without disaster. Nor could the men be faulted, in my opinion. We had veterans now, troops every bit as soldierly as our enemies. When handsomely led, they fought like blue-backed devils, only to lose the day when their generals failed them. Our boys took their lickings, then went another round. The Rebels must have grown annoyed, for time and again they beat us fair in battle, but could not make us quit. The Rebels might defeat us, see, but lacked the means to destroy us, and the war in the East had come down to a bloody stand-off. And bloody it was, with a wastage of life that would have shamed a heathen potentate.
But let that bide.
We did not speak with the general, although I spotted him through an archway. Burnside looked asleep on his feet, bedeviled and worn down, which is not an encouraging state on the eve of a battle. Amid the coursing of staff men, he seemed the party least concerned in the business of his army. I noted General Hooker, too, who come strutting in with an aide and made no secret of his discontent. I overheard him instruct a colonel, “It’s going to be a goddamned mess, and you can tell him I said so.” Then off he huffed. A dashing fellow Hooker was, though somehow more of a sergeant than a general. He was fit to fight with his hands, but not with his head.
The moment our passes were countersigned, we left to go down to the bridges, working our way through a muddle of regiments waiting to cross the river, past wagons skidding and slopping through the mud under a barrage of curses, ambushed by obscene volleys of speech fired off by gunners unlimbering fieldpieces in the cold and dark, on uneven ground. Even there, upon that confused hillside, sutlers managed to cry their wares and men who should have been in uniform themselves wandered from one clot of soldiers to the next, collecting last letters home, which they promised to post for a small consideration.
The soldiers we passed ran the gamut, as soldiers will when battle looms ahead: nervous or exuberant, resigned or simply weary, sick with premonitions or foolish in their confidence, chastened by knowledge or comforted by their ignorance. Some ate rations they should have saved, while others squatted, white-rumped, in the trees, sick in body or, possibly, sick of soul. They smelled of wool soaked through and not quite dried, of cartridges newly issued, of sweat and urine and weather. Mules and horses churned the earth, threatening to trample incautious boys in greatcoats too large for their shoulders. And all of them, all the lads waiting to suffer, to die, or to live by a miracle, reflected the light of a burning town in their eyes, on their brass and leathers and steel.
Flames rose from a warehouse across the river, from commercial buildings here and an old barn there. As if the regiments gone across had lit great torches to light the way for the columns of men trailing after. We heard shots, too, but any man who had soldiered before could tell there was no real fighting.
At least the regiments short of the bridges maintained a semblance of discipline. Their roughness was that of tired men, impatient at the lack of sensible orders, but no more than that. The pontoons marked the division between an army that still deserved the name and an army gone over to riot.
As the provost passed us onto the bridge ahead of a forming brigade, we met a dogcart returning, drawn by a pair of captains instead of a pony. Its bed was piled with loot. The firelight revealed a painting of cherubs, who looked unpleasant, mischievous and fat. A massive frame rimmed the artist’s Heaven, propped up by a traveler’s trunk stuffed too full to close. A chair with a needlework back perched high and empty, a throne for a fallen king of Mr. Shakespeare’s. Velvet draperies swirled over a spittoon, and a fine sweep of brocade trailed after the vehicle. A major closed the little procession, with a bottle of port or sherry in each of his hands.
Reflected flames stretched over the river, splashing the thieves with light that changed them to devils. The provost sergeant made not the slightest effort to stop them. I sensed that these were not the first rogues to pass his post that evening.
Twas then we saw that sergeant got up in a lady’s intimate garments. It was a double shock to me, for in India only the officers dressed like girls.
Jimmy tugged me along the streets, for I was incensed by the spectacle and felt I should intervene. We might have been back at the siege and sack of Delhi, after we burst through the Kashmir gate and gave the niggers what for. The only difference was the lack of corpses. These boys in blue destroyed and stole, drank and made great fools of themselves. But in Delhi we killed, and we called the killing good.
Still, I could not quite believe that our officers countenanced viciousness and plundering. This was not Delhi or Lucknow, or—God forbid—Cawnpore. The citizens of Fredericksburg were white of skin and recently our fellows. We hoped to regain their allegiance for our Union, to win them over to Mr. Lincoln and liberty. But this was a rape of possessions, if not of persons.
Such actions make of war a bitter thing. The truth is that men can bear to kill each other. Some even learn to enjoy it, as Jimmy and I knew well. But when you ravage homes and drive out families, the hearts of your enemies harden and mercy fades.
The town seemed largely emptied of civilians, which I suppose was a blessing. Doubtless, they had fled before our crossing, for I had been told that General Burnside dithered, in perfect emulation of McClellan, throwing away his impetus and advantage, allowing the Rebels to fortify themselves on a ridge behind the town. I could not see their lines in the dark, but the situation did not sound very encouraging. Perhaps the soldiers gone wild around me had seen the Rebel entrenchments and their guns. Perhaps they knew full well what the morning must bring.
Drunken men there were in plenty, and the fondness for dressing up in ladies’ things seemed to have swept through the army. A got-up band played at a corner, while soldiers danced all fancy with one another. Some of the boys wore paint on cheek and lip. And everywhere we found broken glass, crunching underfoot, jagged in ravaged window frames, catching firelight from a block away.
A white-haired gent who had lacked the wit to flee begged a corporal not to loot his household. The old man tottered, tear-stricken, while the soldier staggered forward, bearing a grandfather’s clock upon his back. God only knew what the corporal believed he might do with it, for he could not carry it with him into battle. At best, he would possess it for a night. The old man attacked the thief with withered fists. With a profane cry, the corporal let the clock crash to the ground. We heard a brevity of chimes and the groan of works undone. The old man sat down on the stoop of his house and wept, although that did not stop another pack of soldiers from pushing past to see what they might find.
The only houses partly intact were those taken over by officers and staffs. Guards stood before those doors, watching in envy as their comrades frolicked.
The army had dissolved. Had the Rebels attacked that night, they could have had the lot of them as prisoners.
Oh, there was fighting enough. But that had to do with fists, with blue sleeves striking blue, as soldiers battled over loot they would cast aside on the morrow or simply settled grudges nursed too long.
One group of fellows, whose regiment must have crossed early, had gotten up a theatrical performance, costumed in finery scavenged from the town. A wisp of a lieutenant, of the sort Americans mark as a college man, declaimed the words of Rosalind distressed. He spoke so fair that majors lowered their bottles and captains grew stern-faced as they fought back tears.
A few doors on, debauchery resumed. The better officers and sergeants did attempt to rein their soldiers in, but when discipline breaks it is like a dam collapsing. Alcohol was the fiendish spur to much of our disarray. The day when Temperance triumphs in our land will mark a glorious date of celebration, after which all behaviors will be bettered, spirits cleansed, and men and women kinder to each other. We will fight less, and think better of our fellows.
A soldier sang a bawdy song that would have shamed the Magdalene before her reformation. He gave us a chorus, right in our faces, fumed with whisky and spite.
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The damnable thing, if you will excuse my language, is that these were not the men of the Irish Brigade, but normal fellows just like you or me.
A pair of cannon fired in the distance. It sounded like guns ranged from the Rebel lines. Not long after, we heard screams and shouts, for the enemy had taken aim by the light of the fires. Yet, no one in the streets paused in their revelry.
“Serves the Reb hoors right,” a private declared as he put his foot through a portrait of a woman in old-fashioned dress. His comrades pitched crystal glassware against a wall, while a sergeant made his water on a pile of satin gowns. Soldiers passed with hams stuck on their bayonets. Deep in their cups, a circle of Germans sang, “Am brunnen, vor dem Tore . . .”
In the street next on some lads had rolled a piano into the walks. They drank champagne wine from the bottle, singing Mr. Foster’s songs, which verge on the ribald. A pair of fellows in cocky hats brought a bleeding boy past on a litter, but no one paid his wounds the least attention.
I will not tell you the town resembled Hell. Twas nothing so grand as that. It only made me sick at heart, for an army must pretend to purpose and dignity. When order breaks, we see the truth about ourselves, that soldiers in the best cause are still butchers.
We must believe in higher truths. Even when those higher truths are lies. Otherwise, no good man can stay a soldier. Unless he turns his back upon the good.
Let that bide, too.
We collided with the Irish Brigade. Lads were posted with fixed bayonets to protect the pleasant street the mickies had claimed for themselves. Shamed though I am to admit it, the Irish fellows showed no worse than the other troops we had passed, no drunker and no wilder. Truth be told, they almost looked like regulars, if a bit flushed and unsteady.
“Take yourselves off,” a private told us, displaying his bayonet, “or I’ll put me darling here where the sun don’t shine.”
“We are looking for General Meagher,” I told him. I began to draw out my pass, but a sergeant gave me a hard push from the side.
“Ye can go do your thieving elsewheres,” the sergeant said, all belligerence. The respect he owed my rank was dead and gone, killed by the evening’s disgraces.
He gave me another shove and Jimmy tensed.
Quick as I could, I shook my head to tell Jimmy not to swing. For Jimmy was ever ready with fists when a friend of his was threatened.
“Sergeant,” I said, in my firmest tone, “we have come to see General Meagher. We have been sent here by President Lincoln, see. We have our passes, signed and countersigned, and you should be—”
“Did ye hear the likes o’ that, Seamus Mahoney?” the sergeant laughed. “This banty cock’s from Lincoln himself, he says.”
He pushed me again.
That was enough. In a moment, the sergeant lay on the ground, with the tip of my new cane pressed against his throat. Jimmy held the rifle from the sentry. The private himself lay flat in the road, pondering a starry reach of sky. A great lot of Irish come at us then, ready for a glorious bit of sport, but I swapped the cane into my left hand—I still could not close the fingers quite to a fist—and drew out my Colt, with the hammer back and ready.
The sergeant was a bully, a bar-room champion, whose mouth was markedly larger than his spirit. Though twice my size, he let me pull him up by the collar until he stood on his feet again. I rested my pistol’s muzzle behind his ear and asked him nicely to lead me to General Meagher.
We went down that street at the head of an Irish mob, accompanied by grumbling, guns and torches. Jimmy walked backward, musket leveled, while I kept my Colt pointed into the sergeant’s brains. By the time we reached a handsome house with flags set before the door and flaming sconces, we had gathered at least a hundred soldiers behind us. They were not well disposed toward Jimmy and me.
“Jaysus,” Jimmy hissed in my ear, “I hope their buggering general an’t passed out.”
Meagher himself stepped out of the door to look into the hoopla. The mob stood roaring and growling in high complaint. When they saw him, wreathed by flames and banners, their cries redoubled, heathen warriors clamoring for their chieftain.
I recognized him from his portraits in the illustrated weeklies and from my distant glimpse of the man at Antietam. He was a handsome fellow, indeed, just beginning to succumb to his mortal appetites. A green sash girdled a waist no longer youthful, but his face shone sculpted and lordly. An Irish cavalier he looked, with his fine mustaches and elegant, soldierly bearing.
The general paused two steps above us all, framed by a lovely doorway yet unsavaged. He swayed a bit as he took in the scene. After their tantrum of acclamation, the soldiers quieted down. As their ancestors might have done for Tara’s king. When the street had grown sufficiently still to echo the calling and cursing a block away, the general opened his mouth to pronounce his judgement.
He burped. Magnificently.
Steadying himself, Meagher considered the temper of his countrymen.
“Jesus Christ and the holy saints of Ireland,” he said, making an extravagant sign of the cross, “the Rebels must have Irishmen among ‘em, for they cook up the finest whisky this side of Athlone.” He puffed out his chest and preened his waxed mustaches, staring into the faces behind me as if he meant to share a secret with each and every one of them. “Why, I’ll tell you what we’ll do, lads. In the morning, why don’t we go for a stroll in a southerly direction and take a few more barrels of it from ‘em? I’ve heard they’ve got kegs of it stacked to the rafters in Richmond!”
The men hurrahed him, and clear it was that he feasted on the sound of their approval.
“Steady now, lads, steady,” he cautioned. “We’ll content ourselves with a dram or two this evening, for tomorrow both armies shall look upon us to have their instruction in valor . . . nay, not only the armies, but all the world must turn its gaze toward us . . . to take a lesson in courage, from the sons of Napper Tandy and Edward Fitzgerald . . . the avengers of Wolfe Tone and Robert Emmet. For no man should mistake the heart and soul of this war . . . I say let no man mistake it . . . the enemy who once wore red, now wears a coat of gray. He it is who would impose an aristocracy . . . an aristocracy of landed wealth and human servitude . . . upon this fair Jerusalem, these free United States, this land of succor . . .” He straightened his back, grown solemn of expression, and posed with arm outstretched. “Let any man who ever has spoken ill of the Irish nation . . . let every one of Ireland’s enemies and each of her false friends . . . take his comeuppance from your conduct tomorrow, my lads!”
He glanced back toward the flags set by his door. “I’m sorry to say our brigade’s new flag has not come down from New York—but what of that, lads, what of that, I ask you? Our brigade don’t need a flag to follow . . . the sons of Ireland have only to follow their hearts.” He swayed again, but fixed himself by settling a hand on a railing. “Where are my brave boys of the 69th? Where are my brave boys? Will you lead us along with your own green harp tomorrow? Shall we follow the flag with the green harp set upon it?” Oh, they cheered him then. “Shall we all fall in on the flag of the 69th?” he asked again. He had the speaker’s art down to a mastery, allowing time for the crowd to urge him on.
He grinned. “We’ll show ’em the meaning of valor, that we will, lads. And if some of us don’t return from the fields of glory, well, the rest will drink a toast to the fallen with Richmond’s finest whisky!” He held up both arms. “Erin go Brach, Ireland free and Ireland forever!”
They raised their rifles and waved their caps, swung bottles and bits of loot. They might have been lifting broadswords and pikes into the midnight sky. Jimmy and I were forgotten now, as those fellows cheered their general, shouting for Young Ireland, or recalling the lads of the ’98 and the boys of Vinegar Hill. “Remember Fontenoy!” a red-whiskered captain cried, although not even his grandfather had been alive when that great battle was fought. They do not let go, the Irish, they do not let go.
At last, Mea
gher calmed them, waving his arms to tame their wild hearts. “Off with you now,” he told them, “and mind you sleep enough to make a fight of it. For we’ll have no laggards among us, come the morning.”
As the crowd began to break apart, he looked down at me and the sergeant, whose brains I had been threatening with my Colt. “Holy Mary, Sergeant O’Toole,” he said, “would you let that poor devil go that you’ve got in your grip there?”
The sergeant gave a clown’s salute and slipped away with his comrades.
Meagher began to descend the steps, then thought better of his condition. He steadied himself on the railing again. “Jimmy Molloy!” he said with a pussycat’s smile. “Come back to your kith and kin, have you? Did you bring yourself back to join up at last, or just come for another palaver?”
WE SAT ABOUT A TABLE in a handsome room all full of books and pictures. A half-dozen bottles of whisky and brandy wooed a pitcher of water. But the strange thing was that General Meagher was not unsteady at all. His tipsiness had been an affected thing, put on to appeal to his angry soldiers. I saw at once he was canny as Whittington’s cat.
Against a backdrop of acolytes, who were deep in discussion of New York City politics, Meagher listened as I explained my purpose. When I had done, he preened his mustaches, nodded his head, and looked me in the eye.
“It’s a sorry, bloody business,” he said, with nary a trace of drink in his speech or manner. “Danny Boland’s da was the only proper fighting man of the lot of us in those days. And I’m sorry to see the boy come into misfortune. Fusser Donnelly wrote to me, you know—you’d know him as ‘Thomas,’ I think—and I broke the news to the wretched lad myself. Now, how do you tell a man that the woman he loved above life itself was burned to death in a horror? I couldn’t for the life of me tell you the words I said, but the poor devil understood me. Oh, Danny Boland’s a broken-hearted man.”
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