Jackson had been with him then, in their first great campaign together. And Stuart had fairly danced around McClellan. So many good men had served him well, only to fall away.
If he could not resurrect Tom Jackson before Judgment Day, Lee mused, he would at least have welcomed McClellan’s return to command. How much better to face a cautious general captive to his fears than these remorseless men and, above all, Grant, who seemed to advance as relentlessly as the plague.
He did not know what he could have done differently. He did not know what else he could do now, beyond what he was doing. The army had not let him down, but, privately, he wondered if he had not let down the men lost from its ranks. And those still with him.
But this day Grant had not attacked, which was a welcome blessing. He now had enough men on the field—men who had trudged southward yet again—to make an assault on his lines so costly that even Grant would feel it.
If they did not come tonight, they would come in the morning. Those people were running out of room, nearing the impossible obstacle of the James. Grant would fight because he had to fight.
Deserters claimed that Union morale was poor. Lee yearned to believe it. Yet, deserters were contemptible men, no matter the army they fled, and he was ever wary of their claims.
Still, if it was true, if the Army of the Potomac was nearing collapse …
He dared not ask the Lord God for a miracle. But he would have been thankful, had the good Lord delivered one.
On his worst days, he foresaw losing the war, a thing once unimaginable. Angered by events yet to transpire, he raged and thought he would take his men to the hills to fight as partisans, anything to avoid the gross indignity of surrender. In calmer, wiser moments, though, he knew he would not carry out the fantasy. He was too old for the life of a guerrilla. Too old, perhaps, for the weight he already bore.
Correcting his bearing at every step, he approached the headquarters tent, miffed that no one had emerged to greet him and annoyed by the thought he might need to return to the carriage tomorrow.
Today had been crucial, though. This was the day he had needed to be on horseback. Hancock had stolen a march on him and Lee still could not understand why an attack had not swept over his entrenchments early that morning, before his line was extended and prepared.
Was it possible that Union morale truly was that bad? Might there have been a mutiny?
He warned himself not to luxuriate in daydreams, but to deal with the facts at hand.
Belatedly, Marshall emerged from the tent. The two men almost collided.
“Your pardon, sir,” the military secretary said, adjusting his glasses. “I was finishing an order.”
“What time is it now, Colonel Marshall? My watch has grown unreliable again.”
“We do have to get you a better timepiece, sir. We—”
“A matter of sentiment. What time is it?”
“Five minutes past four.”
Lee’s features tightened, but his voice remained controlled. “I hear no guns.”
“It’s a good distance away.”
“No, Colonel Marshall. We would hear the guns.” A first note of agitation infected his tone. Early was fiery, but new to corps command. With Ewell sent off to Richmond as an invalid. “General Early
must
make this attack while there is time.”
“Getting Early to attack isn’t a problem.”
“A chance such as this may not come to us again. With General Burnside leaving Warren uncovered. If General Early catches Burnside in midwithdrawal…”
Addled by his own concerns, a young officer thrust past them. When he recognized the men he had rudely handled, his apologies threatened to run out the decade.
“Haste
becomes
a soldier on such a day,” Lee told him. “Go on now, Lieutenant.”
When the boy had disappeared into the tent’s shadows, Marshall said, “Two Union corps
hors de combat
would certainly put a damper on their purposes.”
“I count on General Burnside’s unique qualities,” Lee said, almost merry for that moment. “I trust he will not disappoint me.”
“Never has before,” Marshall noted.
Lee felt a sudden need to attend to personal matters. His recovery was still incomplete.
From the north, the sound of cannon rolled down the barren landscape.
“Little late, not much,” Marshall said.
Lee began to turn away, but halted to ask, “Which division has General Early detailed against Warren’s flank? Has he informed us?”
Marshall shook his head, but added, “Figuring from this morning’s dispositions, it must be Gordon’s.”
Four thirty p.m.
Ninth Corps headquarters, Bethesda Church
The chicken was splendid! Simply splendid! No other way to describe it. Careful of his uniform, Major General Ambrose Burnside held the dripping breast gingerly, bending his bulk to take another bite.
Best part of the day, this chicken. Best part of the day. No question, no question. Warren. Rude man, distinctly unpleasant. What did Meade mean, telling him to “cooperate” with Warren? Bad enough being subordinated to Meade, that was bad enough. He was so far ahead of Warren on the Army rolls it was contemptible of George Meade not to place him over both corps and give him command of the right wing of the army. Meade could do that, at least. But no: All of them were forever playing favorites, playing favorites.
Delicate maneuver, a withdrawal in the face of the enemy. All the books said so, every one of them. Bit like breaking things off with a mistress. It asked maturity, skill. Warren was all thunder and no lightning, as far as Ambrose Burnside was concerned. Cooperate? Damned if he’d subject himself to
that
humiliation. Warren could take his bird beak and peck for himself.
“Awfully good chicken,” he said, still chewing, “awfully. Compliments, my compliments. Simply splendid.”
“Plenty more, General,” a grinning aide declared. “Virginia chickens been volunteering for the good old Union.”
Burnside swallowed and said, “I’m sure the men are availing themselves of the bounty.”
“They’re eating like pigs,” his commissary chief put in. “If there’s one hungry mouth in this whole corps, shame on him.”
Burnside tossed away the bones and rested in the shade, gathering strength to assault another chicken breast. Bottle of chilled champagne would have capped the fare, just one good bottle. Hadn’t had a decent drop since crossing the Rapidan. Deprivations of war, dreadful business. Had to get in with Sheridan, that was the thing. Rumor had it the man kept a good supply, enough to waste on newspapermen. Befriend the fellow, worth the bit of effort. Word had it Sheridan disliked Meade, so they had that in common.
Fortifying his constitution with a heel of bread—fine napkin it made, too, soaking the juice off a man’s chin—he surveyed the chicken parts piled on tin plates, selecting his target with a marksman’s eye. The commissary’s remark had troubled him, though. Couldn’t have the men indulging too recklessly. This wasn’t about killing chickens, after all, but war, cruel war! Soldiers needed a certain rigor, discipline. That was the thing, discipline! He tried to remember a French phrase he had read, something from de Saxe, but it eluded him.
He grasped at the breast he had chosen. It lay just beyond his reach. About to roll forward onto a knee, he heard the
clap-clap-clap
of rifle volleys, followed by the thumps of a number of cannon.
“What’s that, what’s that?” he demanded.
No one had an answer. And a captain snatched the chicken breast upon which he had settled.
“Find out, find out!” he snapped. “Can’t have this. Surprises, always surprises! Why ain’t I told anything?”
As if in response, a horseman galloped up to the headquarters tents and was redirected to the officers clustered under the oak. The man stayed on horseback and came on as if he meant to charge right through their picnic.
“Gather up the chicken,” Burnside ordered.
The courier flung himself out of the saddle as smoothly as a trick rider in a circus. Nor did he observe the proper formalities, but aimed his eyes and words directly at Burnside, ignoring the staff and the proper chain of command.
Burnside made a note of that.
“Sir, General Crittenden says ’least a corps of Rebs coming down that ’ere Shady Grove Road, a-coming on with all but a brass band. General Crittenden’s got his line stretched out a little ways north of here, but he says you better bring Potter and Wilcox up, ’cause there’s a serious to-do a-coming on.” Belatedly, the man saluted.
“
I
shall be the judge of whether my other divisions move or not,” Burnside told the man.
“Yes, sir. I just—”
“You are dismissed, my good man.”
“Yes, sir.”
Burnside heaved himself to his feet. He was angry. First good meal he’d had in days, and the Rebs had managed to spoil it. They needed a lesson, a lesson.
He turned to his chief of staff. “Send to Wilcox and Potter. They’re to move north at once and reinforce Crittenden. No shilly-shallying. Bring up my horse.”
He was sure the chicken would be gone by the time he returned, dead certain. It was simply infuriating, no less than maddening. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Ambrose Burnside felt a young man’s vigor swelling in his breast. And rage born of righteous anger.
After two attempts to swing into the saddle, he succeeded and spurred his mount straight to a gallop. He and his trailing staff had not gone far when they encountered fleeing soldiers. Many had discarded their weapons in their panic. Burnside gave his horse another kick.
The sounds of battle swelled to a roar, but he felt no trepidation. The vengefulness he reserved for political squabbles had swung against the ill-mannered Confederates, and he saw with astonishing clarity what must be done. He even grasped that he had been attacked because he was perceived as the army’s weak point.
The Rebels were going to learn differently.
He had forgotten his hat, just left it on the ground under the tree. Bound to be stolen by some Irish scoundrel. Good hat, too. Expensive. The thought served only to stimulate his ardor.
Round shot ripped through the trees. Rifle fire crackled. Not all of his men were running, no. Ahead, he saw a blue line in good order, stretching across the road.
Fresh rain spattered.
Ambrose Burnside was about to frustrate Robert E. Lee and give his best performance of the war.
He even forgot the chicken.
Four forty-five p.m.
West of Bethesda Church
“‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever,’” Gordon recited. It was a favorite refrain of Fanny’s. Fanny, who was in Richmond, so close but as good as separated from his embrace by oceans.
The beautiful thing was the spectacle before him. Yankees ran pell-mell, their skirmish line surprised and their forward positions shattered. Disarmed and made prisoners, men in blue and others in Zouave dress shambled by, now and then glancing furtively at Gordon as he trotted forward. The Yankees who tried to form up were cut down, shot or clubbed, as his magnificent ragamuffins swarmed over them. Even those Georgians newly arrived and untested fought like lions. Their unsullied uniforms stood out at a distance, the gray so dark they almost looked like Yankees. Hollering their heads off, they slaughtered any Yankee who made a stand.
His men thrust forward so quickly he almost had to spur his horse to a canter. Even the rain was battling the Yankees, blowing into their faces.
Taking off his hat and sweeping it in a forward arc, Gordon cried, “Lord, boys, cavalry couldn’t keep up with the likes of you!”
The soldiers nearby cheered him and charged on all the more fiercely.
He spotted Clem Evans leading his old brigade, merry as a drunkard in a distillery, driving his men through the rifle pits.
Colonel Terry had sent back word that things were going pudding-fine on the flank as well, where Gordon had placed a brigade to envelop the Yankees and slam into their rear. The message had barely reached him before he saw Terry’s bag-of-bones devils with his own eyes, racing down an open field at a right angle to his main advance, chasing Yankees like hellions at a fox hunt. The bewildered Yankees had to fight on two sides, those that had any fight left in them. Soon it would be three, if Clem Evans kept punching deep on the right flank.
He had expected to hit the seam between two Yankee corps, and that alone would have been a handsome thing. But there had been no seam, just a flank hanging out like drawers on mammy’s clothesline.
More Yankees raised their hands. Other ran like jackrabbits from a wildfire. And they still had not gotten a single piece of artillery into play.
“Don’t slow down, boys,” he called to a pair of soldiers who’d paused to root through a rucksack. “Fun’s just beginning.”
He almost added a phrase about his “brave Myrmidons,” but shut his jaw before the words escaped. He was done with all that now. Done with all the fancy talk, with everything but the killing.
His men collided with the remnants of a Union regiment and swept right through it, leaving blue-clad figures on the ground, writhing or stone still, while others stumbled westward into captivity.
Another glorious Rebel yell resounded. Caught up in the rapture, Gordon bellowed, “That’s the way, boys! We’re going to that church yonder, and not for a hymn sing. You keep on going!”
A thing of beauty.…
Five p.m.
Fifth Corps right flank, west of Bethesda Church
“Fucked for beans,” Charlie Griffin muttered. But he damned well wasn’t going to shout it out loud. Things were bad enough.
And the damned rain, too.
His men were running like he’d never seen them run before, pouring back from the skirmish line and their forward positions. And those were Rome Ayres’ men. On the right, Bartlett’s brigade had just plain collapsed, as if the burst of rain had melted their lines. From the saddle, Griffin could see the Johnnies pursuing the skedaddlers, descending from the flank and front, a screaming, squalling mob of scarecrows from Hell.
That sonofabitch Burnside had just pulled out, with no word of warning. And not one soul in the brick-brained Army of the Potomac had seen fit to tell Charlie Griffin his flank was open.