Authors: R.E. Thomas
“Yes, Major” Jackson stammered. I shouldn’t be this tired or this sore, he thought. It’s making me careless.
Might have been softness from months of bed rest, or might have been the wounding and the loss of his left arm that went with it, but whatever it was had left him feeling weaker, compromising what he thought of as his already precarious health.
Worried as he might about it, health didn’t matter so much Jackson, not when compared to his duty. Whatever the cause, he reckoned he should be overcoming his frailties, and doing so more speedily. He had already spent the entire summer recovering from his wounds, and was as impatient to return to his old strength as he had been to return to duty.
Straightening first his cap and then his coat with his one hand, he said to Taylor “I’m reporting as ordered.”
“General Ewell is already here, sir” Taylor replied. “Follow me, please.”
Jackson nodded, motioned to a pair of his aides, and then followed Taylor into the hotel. The Warren Green was still in presentable condition, in spite of the war. Armies had marched and counter-marched across northern Virginia for three years now, Warrenton was a crossroads town, and the Warren Green had been used as quarters and headquarters by both sides many times over. Jackson’s West Point classmate and the one-time commander of the northern Army of the Potomac, George B. McClellan, had said his goodbyes on these steps. Perhaps it was a shared sense between the armies that they would all pass this way again that spared it from ransacking.
Taylor showed Jackson and his party into the dining room, now serving as a map room. Jackson went to the table, while behind him his men quietly exchanged pleasantries with Taylor. Dick “Old Baldy” Ewell, with a wooden leg and a rooster’s face, stood on his crutches next to General Lee and studied the map, Ewell’s own staff officers standing behind them.
Jackson strode up to his commanding officer and saluted. Lee took a step forward, and with a look of concern, asked quietly “General, I do hope you are well.”
“Well. I’m well, sir.” Jackson replied flatly. I must look still worse, he thought ruefully.
Lee nodded and stepped away.
Ewell stepped awkwardly forward, and extended his hand. Jackson took it for a firm handshake, and Ewell grinned and stammered “Erm, Thomas,” still finding it awkward to address his old chief as his equal. “How the heh... how are you? Holding up?”
Jackson smiled warmly. Ewell had been a bachelor and a profane man for most of his life, but after he lost that leg he found both love and God from his sickbed. Still, old habits and all.
“About as well as you are,” he replied.
After Jackson’s wounding at Chancellorsville, Lee promoted Ewell and gave him a corps, while A.P. Hill became the acting commander of Jackson’s old corps. So it was that Old Baldy Ewell, Little Powell Hill, and James Longstreet all led infantry corps to Gettysburg, while Jackson lay in bed and recuperated. With Jackson returned to duty, Hill had gone back to his division. Longstreet was detached to Tennessee, which left Lee’s army in the hands of Jackson and his former lieutenant, Ewell.
Lee brought the pleasantries to an end by calling on Major Taylor to start his presentation. “Gentlemen, four days ago this army marched with the objective of reaching around the Federal right flank, taking advantage of their detachment of the XI and XII Corps to Tennessee. While we disengaged from the Rapidan and made for the Federal flank with some success, General Meade wasn’t fooled long, and pulled back.”
Taylor indicated positions on the map. “We know the bulk of the Federal force lies to the southeast of our position, about ten miles away, in the vicinity of the Orange and Alexandria rail line. General Stuart reports that Kilpatrick’s cavalry and the III Corps, under the command of William French, with perhaps as much as 25,000 men altogether, are several miles north on the Warrenton Turnpike, shielding their right flank.”
Jackson’s brow furrowed at the mention of French. Lee noticed this, and recalled the bad blood between the two men, back in the Old Army.
Taylor paused for a moment, and then said “Union numbers are thought to be at least 85,000 men. Perhaps as high as 95,000.”
Lee spoke up. “Gentlemen, Meade has no intention of stopping here. Those people are still retreating, even as we speak, indeed may continue retreating into the night. After we catch our breath, this army will march again for the Federal flank and rear. Your thoughts?”
Ewell murmured “Meade has conducted a skillful withdrawal, and that’s a fact. He kept his army together, put a strong rear guard in all the proper places. To reach his flank again, we must march much farther than he. I fear he won’t give us any opportunity.”
“Yes, the Yankees have always been very good at retreating,” Taylor said. Everyone laughed at that. Even Lee chuckled.
Everyone except Jackson, who instead looked up from the map at Taylor and asked flatly “Have we any reports of an enemy presence at Thoroughfare Gap?”
Taylor looked back quizzically. Thoroughfare Gap was at least 10 miles west of French’s position. Maybe a cavalry patrol had been out that way, but only maybe, and there were no reports about it one way or the other. “No, General Jackson, we have not. Although I would describe our knowledge of what goes on at the Gap as scanty at best.”
Jackson nodded. “Good, good. I propose to send a brigade of cavalry at once to occupy Thoroughfare Gap, by way of Georgetown village” he said, pointing to the map, tracing his finger along his desired route. The twang of the Virginia hill country seeped into his voice, just as it did whenever Jackson became excited. “After passing the Bull Run Mountains, the cavalry turns north and moves on back roads and overland, leaving guides as they go, emerging unseen at Thoroughfare Gap. I then follow with my entire corps. Once clear of the Gap, I march east and fall upon the enemy flank.”
An awkward silence followed. It was Lee’s habit to allow his chief subordinates to chew matters over, but Ewell was clearly too accustomed to taking orders from Jackson to readily question him at a council of war. Longstreet was gone, and there was no one else of such standing there. Speaking up was therefore left to Major Taylor.
“That is a march of some 20 miles,” Taylor eventually said, skeptically. “When do you propose to be in position to attack?”
Jackson imagined the roads, the country, both of which he already knew firsthand, and the time it would take to move all those horses, men, guns and a minimum of wagons. “If the cavalry is sent at once, I will follow immediately. I can clear the gap by day-dawn, and in position to attack by 10 o’clock tomorrow morning.”
That was optimistic, Lee thought. Very optimistic. I doubt that, doubt it very much. Noon sounded better.
“Why not advance directly, General, on the Warrenton Turnpike?” asked Colonel Chilton, Lee’s chief of staff.
Jackson looked directly at Lee and shook his head. “The enemy expects it. Even if we escape notice during the night, we will surely be observed at first light. We must attack where least anticipated, or the enemy will pull back all the quicker for it.”
Lee finally spoke up. “I believe you should give yourself more time, General.”
Jackson replied “As you say, sir. 11.”
Lee imagined Jackson’s plan unfolding. Those people only had a few ways north, across Broad Run. Milford and the railroad bridge at Bristoe Station were closest. Even if the Federals should march through the night, many of their troops would still be south and west of Broad Run at noon. Jackson’s Corps would then smash their flank, push across their line of retreat, and in so doing, cut off one or two of their corps. Of course, it would improve matters greatly if the Federal retreat was delayed...
Lee suddenly recalled that Stuart, his cavalry chief, was with Hampton’s Division, far away and probing the Federal right. I must supply Jackson with cavalry from elsewhere, he thought.
“There is no reason for delay” Lee said matter of factly. “Major Taylor, send a courier to Major General Lee,” referring to his nephew, Fitzhugh Lee, who commanded the nearest cavalry division. “Give him my compliments, and instruct him to select a brigade for detached duty. Send its commanding officer here for orders.”
“Yessir!” Taylor saluted and left.
“General Ewell,” Lee continued. “At first light, your corps must be ready to move directly upon the enemy, in the direction of Cattlet Station. Wherever you find the Federal army, there you shall attack it with the utmost vigor. Force those people to turn and fight you. When Meade stops or turns, General Jackson will strike their right.”
Ewell hesitated. “It’s risky, sir. A very risky plan. It divides our army in the face of the enemy, and places our two corps at least 10 miles apart until after mid-day. We won’t be able to support each other, General Lee, for at least the entire morning. Meade could easily hold off General Jackson or myself with only one or two of his corps, and crush the other with the rest. Or he could turn in the morning and attack my corps with the bulk of his army. He could come between us, and defeat us in detail.”
Lee looked at Ewell, studied him, shielding his disappointment behind dignified impassivity. Ewell had shown great promise under Jackson, yet at Gettysburg, the man had been indecisive, dithering. Lee could see Ewell remained focused on what the enemy could do, not what the enemy would do or what Ewell himself could do to the enemy.
Old Baldy was right, of course, if in a pedantic way. The absence of Longstreet’s Corps, off in Tennessee where it had helped win victory at Chickamauga, was keenly felt.
Yet there was nothing to do about that, Lee knew, except make do with what they had. Long odds demand great risks. The Seven Days, Second Manassas, Chancellorsville, these past battles proved that. And when has the Army of the Potomac ever shown as much aggression as that? To turn around and concentrate on us! Why, they have my army outnumbered by at least two to one, and here they are, backing away from a fight.
“Those people, General Ewell, are retreating” Lee said in a polite, but flat tone, his cue that the discussion was over. “And they will continue to retreat. General Meade may come to stand his ground, but he will do it closer to Washington, and he will not suddenly turn to strike us.” Lee said.
“Yessir.” Ewell replied.
I must stay with him, Lee thought, slowly rubbing his hands together, as was his habit when thinking things through. I’m feeling a little better, strong enough to ride a horse and not in that ambulance, like a feeble old man. I can stay with Ewell, make sure he pushes hard tomorrow. He needs very little, only nudging.
“That will be all, gentlemen. General Jackson, if you and Mr. Hotchkiss there will wait here with me, I wish to discuss your proposed route with you in greater detail. Very well. General Ewell, you can expect your written orders shortly.” Lee turned and left the room.
Ewell shook hands with Jackson again, and hobbled out. Lee watched, thinking they were quite a pair, these two corps commanders of mine. Eccentric and always worried about ailments that Lee thought were real and imaginary in equal measure. Jackson without his left arm, Ewell without his left leg.
Lee was broken from his reverie when Jackson barked to one of his aides “Captain Smith, ride back to headquarters. Tell Sandie to have Early’s men up and ready within the hour. Johnson and Hill ready to follow at 5 p.m. Then you collect those picked guides, and have them ready for dispatch upon my return. Understood?”
11:30 pm
Jackson’s Corps, Army of Northern Virginia, CSA
Behind the Bull Run Mountains
Jackson watched in the dark as the teamsters whispered a countdown, and men and mules strained together to free an ambulance from the mud. He sat in his saddle with his right arm bent at the elbow, thumb sticking up, as had been his practice ever since First Manassas. He had been shot through the hand then, ruining the circulation and causing his thumb to swell up painfully sometimes. It was more important than ever for his circulation, holding that thumb up, what with his left arm gone.
The main column of Early’s Division trudged through the mud beyond him, and the urge to intervene, to make things happen, gnawed at him. The march had begun later than Jackson had intended, and when darkness fell, it was into an inky black, moonless, drizzly night. Even with well-placed cavalry guides showing the way, the march had slowed to a crawl once the head of his column turned off the main road and behind the Bull Run Mountains.
A man couldn’t see ten feet in front of him now, and the damp ground was sodden again. The route behind the Bull Run Mountains was a patchwork of roads, tracks and open fields. Only a few of those fields had dried-up cornstalks still standing, leftover from the harvest and holding the soil in place. The rest had swiftly become a bog, churned up by the passage of men, horses, guns and wagons. The roads and tracks were only marginally better. Each passing regiment or battery made the route worse for all who followed.
Giving up on trying to see beyond more than a handful of men at a time, Jackson crooked his ear and listened. The men were silent, as commanded by their night marching orders, but there was still plenty of noise. Creaking wagons and gun carriages, the muffled, sucking sound of a horse pulling its hoof from the mud, and the endless toots and groans of flatulent men as they walked by in their thousands.
Jackson shook his head and muttered “Cabbage.”
It was a fine mess, and the slowness made Jackson restless, but there was nothing to be done about it. These were his boys. They knew what to do, even if he seldom admitted it, because he had trained them to do it. Many had been with him since the Shenandoah Valley, and slogging in the dark through miles of muddy fields was old hat. No sense in chastising a man who was already doing his duty, so Jackson sat, watched, and fumed.
I must not be so impatient, he thought. The rain was, like all else in nature, the doing of Providence. Providence blessed the cause, and Jackson knew that if he was slowed by the weather, it must be to His willful purpose. All great events in this world were the work of Providence. Perhaps the enemy was slowed more. That thought warmed him.