The shelling kept up for several minutes, and when his eyes grew accustomed to the dark space, he counted seven men, all huddled against the heavy walls. Above them the terrible screams of the shells were muted, the sharp explosions dulled by the thick mud of the walls.
He could see faces now, smiles, nods, the heavy sounds from above blotting out their voices. He ran his hands over his legs and arms, no wounds, felt a painful ankle from the long jump down. He thought, It is just like this, all along the river, men in small groups, sitting in low crouches, waiting. But the cannon will have to stop, or soon they will hit their own men, the men on the lengthening bridges, and so we will just sit and wait.
The shelling began to slow, then abruptly stopped. He stood up, reached for the low ceiling with his hand, could not quite stand upright. He went to the small window, looked to the river, and saw the first glimpse of the men on the water, one ghostly figure standing in a shallow boat. Suddenly, there were shots, a scattered volley from his men, who did not wait for the signal. They could begin to see on their own now, and he saw the man fall, a splash of water and thin ice. Now he could see more, straight out in front of him, could see the buttons of their coats, officers yelling and pointing and their men moving in quick, short motions, scampering over the boats like big blue mice, trying to find cover in the wide-open middle of the river. His men kept firing, and now the figures disappeared back into the thinning fog, pulling away again, and his men stopped firing and he waited, knew what was coming, listened for the first high sounds. Then they came, shrieking overhead, shattering the walls of a house on the street behind them. He sat back down on the cold floor, saw the faces watching him in the small dark space, and he nodded, smiled, and they waited again.
31. HANCOCK
December 11, 1862
THEY WERE tight together, a sea of men standing together by regiment, muskets pointing high, and they could not move.
They had begun to form along the edge of the river at mid-morning, moving through the thinning fog. The engineers had started earlier, and the bridges now reached well out into the river. All morning the musket fire from the far side had whistled past them, blindly piercing the clustered masses of men who waited on the bank. The officers kept them together, and they all knew there was nowhere to hide, no cover, that if the small lead ball was meant for you it would find you, and they flinched and ducked and held their position.
Hancock had watched it all, had been out early with the engineers. The order to begin laying the pontoons came the night before, passed through his hands, and it seemed something positive was happening at last, and he saw they would finally have their chance, and thought it might work. Then, as he stared into the fog, watching the workmen falling into the ice, the angry shelling of the town that drove no one from their holes, his excitement faded and he began to feel angry, a boiling fire of fury.
He looked back, over the heads of his own men, up the hill to the mansion, said aloud, “You won’t move them out with guns!” and his men heard and cheered him, an outburst that betrayed their mood.
He saw Sumner now, riding down the hill, below the firing of the guns, thought, Fine, come see for yourself. The general’s staff followed close behind, made an elegant procession. Hancock pulled his horse through the crowd of men, slowly, carefully, moved to meet him. Couch came down the hill as well, from another direction, and now Hancock saw Oliver Howard, another of Couch’s division commanders, making his way to the spot where they would meet.
Now there was a pause in the shelling, and behind him the engineers tried again, more visible now to the riflemen on the other side. Hancock did not watch, stared ahead to the gathering commanders.
Sumner was in a new uniform, sat tall in his saddle, his back straight, the thin face set square and firm, and Hancock suddenly knew that this would be all for him, the last fight. He knows that this will not work, Hancock thought, but he has no choice. He suddenly felt pity, watched the old man’s face with a great sadness.
Sumner looked at him, showed nothing, no emotion, said, “General, are your men ready to move across?”
“Quite ready, General.”
Sumner turned to Howard, who was trying to steady his horse, said, “And you, General? I want you to be the first. Move your division through the town, spread them out on the streets, protected from those far heights. Keep them inside the line of buildings.”
Howard said, “Yes, sir, we await the order to move, sir.”
Hancock looked at Couch, who was staring down toward the river. “They’re coming back again.”
They all turned, and Hancock saw the men running along the wobbling pontoons, toward the safety of the near shore. Now, from above, the shelling began again. The ground rumbled, and across the river they could see the flashes of light, black smoke rising through thinning fog.
Hancock looked at Sumner, wanted to say . . . something, thought again of suggesting the crossing upriver, coming into the town from above, clearing out the sharpshooters from behind. Sumner stared at the river, and Hancock said nothing, let it go.
A rider yelled out, the man pushing his horse through the crowded troops. There were shouts, indignation, and the man kept moving, forced his way closer.
“General Sumner, Colonel Coppersmith of General Franklin’s staff. General Franklin has asked me to report, sir, that we have completed the laying of the pontoon bridges downriver. If you are ready to cross, sir, we will move on your signal.”
Sumner looked at the man, did not change his expression. “We are not ready to cross, Colonel. Tell General Franklin that he can begin his own crossing at his convenience. We will move across when we can. We have a bit of a problem up here.”
“Well, sir, General Franklin has not been successful in convincing General Burnside that he should not wait. General Burnside has expressed to General Franklin that the army move together. I was there, sir, when General Burnside said that we should . . . ‘sweep across as one mighty wave’ . . . sir.”
A smile escaped from the man’s face, and Sumner said nothing.
The man cleared his throat, said, “General, if I may return to General Franklin, I will advise him of your situation.”
Sumner nodded, and the man saluted, turned his horse and began to push again through the lines of men.
Hancock looked at Couch, questioning, and Couch shook his head, looked at Sumner. Sumner turned again toward the river, to the clearing scene on the far side. The houses could be seen now, and the impact of the shelling.
Sumner said, “They are still there.” He turned to Couch, said, “Pick some men who know how to row a boat. Send them across directly, with good speed. It might help to clear out those damned riflemen.”
Couch said, “Immediately, sir,” and Hancock saw his expression, a sudden flood of energy. Hancock turned his horse, his men clearing a path, and Couch moved quickly down toward the river.
The regimental commanders were assembled, and Hancock gave the instructions. Within minutes men were filling the pontoons and the wide boats were moving out into the river. Hancock watched them from the bank, saw the small flashes coming from the far side, from small holes under piles of debris, the sharpshooters still in place. More boats moved out from the shore, farther up, the oars breaking through the thin ice, and the rifle fire came across the river again, aimed this time at the boats. But the pontoons were heavy and the men kept low, and soon boats had reached the other side, men pouring up the banks into the town. Now the firing did not come across the river. Rebel soldiers began to appear, emerging out of their holes, moving back through the streets. There were more orders, loud voices beside him, and the engineers started forward again, the workers moving with new courage, without their officers prodding them.
Hancock rode back up the hill, glassed farther down the river, could see Franklin’s bridges stretching across the still water, saw no troops, no lines of blue. There was no crossing. He thought, Another day, we have lost another day.
It wa
s after dark before Sumner’s men could begin moving into town. Howard’s division crossed as ordered, and set up camps in the streets. But the army had run out of time, and Hancock’s men would have to wait until the next morning, and so he lay on his blanket, staring past the walls of his tent, thinking about the sharpshooters across the river, the small brigade that had kept eighty thousand men from moving all day. Outside, the fog began to fill the valley again, and across the way more gray troops arrived to fill the high ground.
32. JACKSON
December 11, 1862
HE DID not like digging trenches, but put his men to work all down the line. They did not have Longstreet’s great advantage of the steep hill, the stone wall. They were in the trees, mostly thick woods, and so they cut and dug and piled tree limbs and dirt, and soon they would be ready. The flat plain in front of him was nearly two miles across, and there was no cover, and so when Sumner’s engineers were being killed by Barksdale, Jackson could only watch as Franklin’s engineers did their work, laying their pontoons across the icy water. He had wanted to advance, place a line of rifles along the bank, but the Federal guns on Stafford Heights made that impossible. He watched through his field glasses as the long bridges gradually found their way to his side of the river.
They had not known what Burnside was going to do here, below the town. Lee thought he might cross lower, downstream, at Skinker’s Neck, and so he sent General Early there, commanding the division of the wounded Dick Ewell. Daniel Hill had been sent farther down, protecting the crossing at Port Royal, and Jackson’s own division, commanded now by William Taliaferro, set up close by at Guiney’s Station. Only A. P. Hill’s division was below Longstreet’s lines, around the place where Jackson sat, across from the new bridges.
As the fog lifted and the bridges grew, Burnside finally showed his hand. Now the instructions came from Lee: Jackson would bring the corps together. He had sent his staff out quickly, the call for his units to come together here, below Longstreet, forming a heavy line down through the trees. Below Fredericksburg the river curved away slightly, and the plain between the woods and the river was wider than in front of Longstreet. But it was open and flat and there would be nowhere to hide.
On his left, toward the base of Marye’s Heights, he linked up with Longstreet’s right, the division of John Bell Hood. It was slow going in the thick trees, but if the Federal crossing was not rapid, if they did not mass an attack today, there would be time.
The new uniform stayed behind, in his tent. Jackson had thought about it, felt the fine material again, rubbed his fingers gently over the new gold braid, but it was not time. He did not want to appear too . . . taken with it, with the grand appearance. He would wear it for the men, had seen how it inspired them, but not today; today they were working, their duty was clear, and so there was no need.
He sat stiffly on the small horse, stared through the glasses, focused past overhanging branches, bare and brittle, but behind him the trees were thick enough to hide his men. The ground rose up toward him, and he was high enough to see the white of the water and the thin lines of pontoons, the new bridges. He focused closer, scanned across the wide, flat ground, and it made him ache. It would have been so simple, such a good place to form strong lines, cover the river with thousands of muskets and cut them to pieces as they came across. But then he raised the glasses, looked to the far heights above the river, saw the vast cluster of black, more than a hundred long-range cannon, better guns, more accurate than the Confederate batteries, and he knew they would have to wait, sit back in the trees while the Federal Army crossed at will, unmolested.
It was getting late now, the light fading fast. He scanned the horizon far down to the right, downstream, saw balloons, wondered how much Burnside knew, how much he could see. The trees were thick along the river there, and any troop movement might be exaggerated, the numbers inflated by nervous observers. Small units had been left to guard the crossings downstream. They were ordered to keep moving, marching back and forth, showing themselves in the small openings in the trees. It had always worked with the Federal lookouts, who seemed anxious to embellish their reports of vast gray armies prowling the ground in front of them.
Jackson knew that today he had been vulnerable, too spread out, but it had to be—at worst, the divisions had been within a day’s march of each other, could delay the crossing at any point long enough for support to arrive. But then, gratefully, Burnside did not cross at all, sat still while Lee played the chess game, watched Burnside’s plan unfold, and now Jackson was moving everyone into place, and through the trees down to his right more men were filling the lines.
He saw movement, glassed toward the river, saw troops, blue dots appearing suddenly on his side of the river, climbing up, reaching the top of the steep embankment that lined the river there. He looked beyond, to the bridges, expected to see great masses of troops, but there was only a thin line now, men moving across in single file. So few, he thought, why are they not coming? It’s nearly dark, but . . . there is no opposition, they have a free passage.
He put the glasses down, rested his eyes, thought, Are they waiting for dark? But he knew the Yankees did not like to march in the dark. He shook his head, it made no sense. Upriver, to his left, the heavy shelling in the town had long stopped, and now the street fighting slowed. There was no mass crossing there either, he thought. Barksdale’s muskets held them up. So, it would be tomorrow.
He looked to the right, down his own lines, saw movement on the long narrow road through the darkening trees, wagons and guns and new flags. It was Early’s men, and they were spreading out, deploying into the woods. Jackson smiled, nodded silently, thought, We are stronger still.
Behind him Sandie Pendleton was directing the couriers, the men returning from the distant units, placing them at a discreet distance from Jackson, telling them to wait for further orders. There was a commotion in the trees, riders moving through the troops, and Pendleton saw the flag of D. H. Hill’s division, and Hill himself, leading a small staff.
Pendleton called out, “General Jackson, sir, General Hill . . . Daniel Hill . . . is approaching.”
Jackson turned, smiled, saw the small frame of his brother-in-law moving up the rise toward him. Hill threw up a formal salute, which Jackson acknowledged.
“General Hill, it is a pleasure to see you. Ride with me, if you please.”
The two men moved away from the staffs, rode forward, out of the woods, down into patches of snow and tall brown grass and a fading glimpse of sunshine in the cold blue sky.
Jackson turned to look at Hill, saw the hair more gray, the forehead taller, the bright professor’s eyes a bit more weary, and he said, “How are you, Daniel? How is Isabella?”
Hill was surprised at Jackson’s personal question, concern for his wife, nodded. “Very well, thank you. Allow me to congratulate you on the birth of your daughter.”
Jackson turned abruptly, glanced over his shoulder, still had told no one. He wondered how Hill knew, and Hill saw his surprise.
“Isabella wrote me, the letter came this morning.” He was puzzled by Jackson’s glare, and then Jackson returned to the smile, nodded. “Of course. Anna’s sister . . . Isabella. Women must reveal all, I suppose.”
“Is it a secret, General? Be assured, I will tell no one.” Hill turned away, hiding a smile, looked across the clean white of the field, knew Jackson well enough to understand that there need be no explanation for Jackson’s secrecy.
“Daniel, it is best if we keep good news . . . happy news . . . to ourselves. If we spend our energy spreading these . . . things . . . God is liable to take them away. I would rather use my good feelings thanking Him for the gift.” He turned toward the river, spoke, thinking out loud. “I must tell Anna. Do not put our precious daughter at risk. We must not be too happy. Thank God, thank Him.”
Hill lifted his field glasses, was watching the river. “They’re on this side,” he said. “They’re coming across.”
“No, not yet. Too few of them, maybe a skirmish line. They will cross tomorrow.”
Hill put down the glasses, looked at Jackson, said, “Do you think it’s a feint? Maybe they’re still going to move downriver. We have pulled out of Port Royal. I could turn the men around. . . .”
“No. Once they began building the bridges it was settled. How could they go anywhere else? It is too easy here, they control the open ground with their guns. We cannot even slow them down from back here. How soon will your men be up, be ready to deploy?”
“By morning, first light.”
“Good. It will happen tomorrow. They will do nothing more tonight.”
Jackson pulled at his horse, and Hill followed. They rode back up toward the trees, quietly, and Jackson thought of Lexington, of Hill the professor, and he turned, smiled at Hill. Hill did not understand, and did not ask, and saw Jackson pull something yellow from his pocket.
33. LEE
December 13, 1862. Dawn.