He had taken over five thousand men to the stone wall, taken them to within twenty-five yards, the closest anyone had gotten, and all three of his brigades, Zook and Meagher and Caldwell, had been decimated. They had lost nearly forty percent of their strength, over two thousand casualties. Once he saw the figure, he handed the report to his staff, could not complete it, not yet, and left the men behind. He walked back to the river, passed through the undamaged batteries that still watched the town, the guns that could not help them.
Hancock moved with careful steps, his boots sliding in the soft mud and small patches of ice. He walked upriver, away from the army, walked to the place in the river he had seen before, where the cattle had come across, where his men could have crossed days earlier. A decision, he thought. A command decision.
He understood command, understood the value of discipline, it was the most basic lesson a soldier could learn. If you were asked, you offered your input, your suggestions, and in the end you did what the commander told you to do. It was simple and straightforward, and it was the only way to run an army. And this time it had been a horrible disaster.
He found a rock, climbed up, found a dry spot and sat down. Across the river he could see the burnt and crushed buildings in Fredericksburg, the debris piled along the streets, the scattered ruins of people’s lives, lives that were changed forever. His men had done that. Not all of it, of course. The whole corps had seemed to go insane, had turned the town into some kind of violent party, a furious storm that blew out of control, and he could not stop it. The commanders had ordered the provost guards at the bridges to let no goods leave the town, nothing could be carried across the bridges, and so what the men could not keep, what they could not steal, they had just destroyed. And now, he thought, the people will return, trying to rescue some fragile piece of home, and they will find this . . . and they will learn something new about war, more than the quiet nightmare of leaving your home behind. They will learn that something happens to men, men who have felt no satisfaction, who have absorbed and digested defeat after bloody stupid defeat, men who up to now have done mostly what they were told to do. And when those men begin to understand that it is not anything in them, no great weakness or inferiority, but that it is the leaders, the generals and politicians who tell them what to do, that the fault is there, after a while they will stop listening. Then the beast, the collective anger, battered and bloodied, will strike out, will respond to the unending sights of horror, the deaths of friends and brothers, and it will not be fair or reasonable or just, since there is no intelligence in the beast. They will strike out at whatever presents itself, and here it was the harmless and innocent lives of the people of Fredericksburg.
He stared at the town for a long moment, the church steeples that still rose high and had somehow survived. At least you will have that, he thought. He wondered how strong their faith could be, after . . . He glanced up, looked toward God, something he rarely did, said to himself, All right, help them. Give them some strength to start over, rebuild what they have lost. If this is Your will, then explain that to them. I surely cannot.
He could see rebel soldiers in the town, men on horses, flags, but they were not in force, were not there to set up a line of defense. The big guns were still up here, after all, and by now Lee would know there was no need for a defense. It was over.
In the river below him the pontoon bridges were still fastened to the near shore, but had drifted down with the current, lay flat against the bank, and he could see men moving beside them, starting their work, untying them, salvaging what was worth keeping. He laughed, a humorless chuckle. It will be a long time before this army crosses a river on those things again, he thought. Maybe we should just cut them loose, let them drift in long strings down the widening river. They might make it all the way to the ocean, or hang up, clogging the river, preventing supplies from moving up this way. Might be a better weapon than these damned guns.
He rubbed his face, told himself to keep it under control. He knew he was angry, and an officer cannot be angry, does not have the luxury of the good old-fashioned cleansing temper, of walking up to headquarters with a pint of whiskey and two hard fists, kicking down the door and launching a bolt of lightning through the face of the man who did this. He felt himself shake. Yes, that would be very damned nice. The whiskey would be easy, there was always some around. He could even picture the scene, the whole thing, the staff officers moving to stop him, and he would brush them aside, the pale and weak men who did not dirty themselves with soldiers’ work, and there would be Burnside, the fat round face staring up at him with raw terror, and he would pull him up by the collar . . . no, he would grab the sides of his face by those ridiculous whiskers, and Burnside would scream out, “Have pity, mercy!” And he would say, “They are all gone. You sent them across that river and watched them die . . . you fat, bloody idiot.”
He laid his face down in his hands, felt it pour up out of him, tried to cry, felt his eyes fill, and then it cut off, would not come. He could still see the looks on the faces, the pieces of broken and blasted men, his men, still running at the wall, right into the face of the muskets; and after the blinding flash, if they were still standing, they still ran forward. How can we expect them to keep doing that? It is not just training, you do not train a man to face death, he either will or he won’t. And so many of them will.
He thought of Burnside again, thought, At least he knows what he did. Hancock still loved McClellan, would always consider him a friend, but McClellan did not understand, did not seem to grasp why a battle was lost, that he might have done something differently, better, faster. He would never blame the men, of course, but always looked behind him, to Washington, always found a conspiracy, some way to blame . . . them. But Burnside had accepted his failure, had even tried to lead another assault, ride out in front of his old Ninth Corps by himself, lead them up to that damned stone wall, die as the others had died. It was a foolish gesture, and no one ever considered letting him go, and even he had understood that the absurd plan would kill a great many more good soldiers in yet another suicidal assault.
Lincoln will certainly replace him, Hancock thought. He went through the names: Franklin, Sumner, Hooker. None of them seemed to inspire much of anything. There was Reynolds, Baldy Smith, even Couch: a better group than the first, probably. But there was always the issue of rank, of seniority. And this was still the army.
He saw clouds forming now, a long low bank far to the west, back behind Lee’s hills, more dark winter. We will do nothing for a while, he thought. Good, let them rest. Christmas . . . He thought of his son. My God, he is nearly ten years old. And he wants to be a soldier. He remembered Mira’s last letter, the toy gun, fighting imaginary rebs in the backyard. No, he will not get the chance. The war may last . . . but he will not go, not ever.
He stood up, stretched, felt a stinging pain, his stomach, a wound he had not even noticed until it was over. Something . . . a ball, shrapnel, had torn his shirt, grazed a raw red line on his skin. Lucky man, he thought. If it had been an inch closer . . .
He stepped down from the rock, slid in the mud, steadied himself. Best get back, he thought. They’re probably looking for me. Ought to find Couch, talk to him. And Meagher, his leg. He started back along the hill, was surprised to see a man higher up the hill, sitting against a tree, a civilian. The man was writing, had a pad of paper perched on his knee, and Hancock turned, climbed up closer, and the man looked up, surprised.
“Hello . . . you’re . . . a general. One of the leaders of our fine young men.” There was heavy sarcasm in his voice, and Hancock let it pass, nodded.
“Hancock. Winfield Hancock.”
The man looked up again, wide eyes, said, “Oh, General Hancock. It is a pleasure to meet you. Not too many generals on this field to whom I could say that. You are very highly regarded, General . . . which is also a rare comment.”
Hancock watched the man, who kept writing; a small man, older, thin gray hair,
wire-rimmed glasses.
“I don’t know you, sir. Are you an artist?”
The man laughed, put down the pen, said, “Well, yes, certainly I am. In the same way as you, I suppose. Anyone who rises to the top of his profession must have some artistry. In fact, I am a reporter. Have you heard of the Cincinnati Commercial?”
“No, sorry, I’m from Pennsylvania.”
“No matter. There’s a good many in Cincinnati who haven’t heard of her either.”
“You’re writing about what happened here?”
“What happened here has already been dispatched. By this morning my paper, and most others, have already given the people the news. Another chapter of disaster in the ever lengthening tragedy. No, General, I am writing a column, a commentary. From time to time there are people in Cincinnati who actually seem to care about what I think.”
“So, may I ask?”
“What I think? What does it matter, General? You have only one duty, only one opinion to guide you, that of your commander. We civilians have little influence over either your actions or your thoughts. My audience is interested in hearing the point of view that does not flow through a headquarters, is not censored by the official rationale that, alas, war is a necessary evil, and thus any tragedy or idiocy is just a small part of the greater curse, which of course you all deplore. The people have heard all that, General. What they do not often hear is some honesty, the uncensored view of someone outside of your bloody little fraternity.”
“I assure you, Mister . . .”
“Bolander, Cyrus Bolander.”
“I assure you, Mr. Bolander, we do not all share the same official view of events. The commanding general has a responsibility to speak for his army, but he does not tell us what to think.”
The man looked at his pad, then back at Hancock, said, “Hmmm, well that may be, General. All right, fine. Here.” He handed the pad up to Hancock. “That’s my column. Forgive me if you find my words a bit harsh.”
Hancock turned the pad around, saw the writing of a skilled hand, neat straight lines, and he began to read. “It has never been possible for men to show more valor, or generals to manifest less judgment . . .”
He stopped, looked at Bolander, said, “No, sir. I do not find your words too harsh. Perhaps they are not harsh enough.”
PART
FOUR
39. CHAMBERLAIN
January 1863
CHRISTMAS HAD been white and cold, and they did not talk about the men who were no longer there. Griffin’s division moved out away from the river, spread out into winter quarters around an obscure place known as Stoneman’s Switch.
They had dug shallow pits in the hard ground, piled logs around for short walls, then capped the huts with what had been their tents. It was cramped and dark, but it kept them warm. But the warmth also softened the ground beneath them, and so the huts became soggy dens of mud and sickness.
They did not celebrate the New Year. Burnside would not allow the army to sit quietly while his great failure haunted him, and so he sent troops out, up the river, small reconnaissance patrols and larger probes, as though by the effort he could somehow discover some soft vulnerability in Lee’s lines, some undiscovered part of the countryside where the army could redeem itself, and thus redeem him. Chamberlain led the regiment on such a probe, had done nothing to create any miracle, only the men having passed the time over the New Year without having to huddle together in the crude huts.
His feet were cold. They were always cold. He walked among the huts, could hear the squishing sound of his boots now, the ground softening, the weather warming slightly. He looked up to the sun, thought, So, what now? An early spring? The weather over Christmas had been brutal, a heavy, wet cold that even the men from Maine found miserable. Now he felt a slight warmth, looked into the bright glare above him. Damned strange. He thought of Maine, the dependability of the winter. By November it was there, without doubt, and the snow would come, and it was consistent and definite, and you worked around it, understood it was simply part of life. It would stay there often until April, and then you began to think once more of spring. He thought of the simplicity, the four seasons. It was a good system. But in Virginia there was no system. The cold gave way, a day or two of warm air, and the snow would melt, turning the ground to soft glue, and then without warning it would snow again, sometimes a foot or more, or a hard freeze would catch them by surprise, torturing the men, who had begun to lighten their load, letting down their guard. And so they would prepare for the worst again, scramble into the huts, and then it would warm up again. Chamberlain thought, I will not miss this.
They were nearly three weeks into the new year, and did not believe anything serious would happen until an honest spring came upon them, but now there were orders, and most of the huge army was stirring around them, new activity. Ames had come around early, told Chamberlain to bring the men together. They were to begin a new march.
There were no announcements, no send-off, and even the bands were quiet. All they knew was that Burnside had a new plan, and they were to move back up the river, to cross the Rappahannock where many had insisted they cross two months before, the shallow fords above Fredericksburg.
Again Burnside assumed he would outsmart Lee, would make a bold and quick assault from the north, catch Lee by surprise, coming at him from behind. Burnside waited until the roads were firm, the weather fair, and now he would lead his men to the victory they had no chance of finding in December.
Chamberlain did not ride, led his men on foot, and they filed into place on the wide road that would lead them along the river. He heard little talking; there was no sense of adventure now, the energy drained away. He saw Ames, on his horse, sitting beside the road ahead. Ames was talking to another officer, a man missing an arm. Chamberlain walked toward them, stepped down off the surface of the road, and his feet slid suddenly away, slipped sideways into the depression that ran beside the road. He caught himself, one hand landing hard in the wetness, and Ames saw him. The other man said something, laughing, then rode away.
“Are you all right, Colonel?”
Chamberlain straightened, shook his hand, looked for something to wipe the mud away, and behind him, a voice: Tom.
“Lawrence, you hurt? Here . . .” Tom had a handkerchief, held it out, and Chamberlain took it, grateful, and wiped his hand.
Chamberlain looked at Ames, said, “Just a clumsy fall, Colonel. These roads are a bit of a mess.”
“No, they are not, Colonel. I have just been told—that officer was Colonel Markey, of General Griffin’s staff—these roads are now ideal for a new and glorious advance of this army. That is, in so many words, part of General Burnside’s orders. So, Colonel, you see, you did not slip in the mud. There is no mud.”
Chamberlain stared at Ames, heard the bitterness, something new, looked at his hand again, the handkerchief. “No, sir. No mud here.”
Ames abruptly turned his horse, rode away along the edge of the wet road.
Tom said, “He’s in a fine spirit today, eh, Lawrence?”
Chamberlain handed the cloth back to his brother, realized Tom was wearing a new uniform. “So . . . it’s official.”
“Ain’t it grand, Lawrence? Got it this morning. Look . . .” He pointed to the shoulder, the gold bar of the lieutenant. “Lawrence, I tell you . . . it’s real different. They salute. Even those boys from Bangor—the Capper brothers? I was always afraid they was gonna whip me for no good reason. Now, they call me sir!”
It had been Ames, and Captain Spear, who had recommended Tom for promotion. Chamberlain had stayed out of it, knew better, but it was clear that Tom had done his job well enough to attract the praise of the others. And now there were many vacant positions for officers.
Chamberlain smiled, said, “A uniform does strange things to people. Good things, I suppose. It has meaning . . . we’re trained to accept that. We see that bar on your shoulder . . . the eagle on Ames’s. We don’t even have to see the fa
ce, the man. I guess that means we’re soldiers.”
“Lawrence, I was gonna write to Papa today, tell him about the promotion . . . the new uniform. Anything you want me to say?”
Chamberlain watched the line of troops moving past, momentum pushing them into the rhythm of the march. “I suppose . . . tell him we did good. You and me both. We did as good a job as soldiers are supposed to do. He’ll appreciate that. Probably mean as much to him as anything else we could say.”
“All right, I will. They’re proud of both of us, Lawrence, you know that.”
Chamberlain watched the last of the regiment move past, saw new officers, the next unit in line, knew they had better move along, catch up. “Yep, I know that. But please, stop calling me Lawrence.”
Tom smiled, saluted, then turned and ran, falling into line at the rear of his company. Chamberlain climbed carefully up to the road bed, walked with a quick step alongside the lines of troops, thought, We follow symbols, we follow the commands of men who have stars on their uniforms. The man doesn’t matter, the face or the name. Unless . . . he makes some bloody awful mistake, then the stars are given to someone else. He looked at the ground, felt his boots sink slightly into softening dirt, thought of Ames’s words. Of course, Ames understood, it is happening again.
He passed Tom, kept moving forward, moved by the other familiar faces, made his way toward the front of the line. He glanced over to one man, saw Kilrain, who was looking up, and Chamberlain followed the look, a brief glimpse toward a thick gray sky, and then he felt it, hitting his cheek, one cold drop of rain, and he looked back toward Kilrain. The heavy round face was looking at him, the hard look of a man who also understood, who had seen all the stupidity, who knew, after all, that the gold stars were often mindless decoration, that the army was led not by symbols, but by the fallible egos and blind fantasies of men.