Chapter One
Virginia Wilderness
Near Chancellor’s Crossing
May 2, 1863 – Night
Lieutenant General Thomas Jackson, commanding the Second Corps of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia, raised his hand. His party of eight staff members halted on the Mountain Road, a half-mile in front of the corps’ skirmishers. Jackson was inching his way down the heavily-rutted path, cut through an impenetrable terrain of pines, shrubs, and hardwood trees, trying to spy out whether the Union army was going to run all the way back to Washington or make a stand in the wilderness. Since he heard nothing but tree limbs rasping in the cool evening breeze, Jackson nudged Little Sorrel, his small red horse, and continued down the road.
The moon escaped from its cloudy shroud and illuminated the thickets on both sides of the road. Jackson scanned them; they were empty. A flurry of activity, 200, no, maybe 300 yards in front of him, caught his attention. He flung up his hand. His aides pulled up, not making a sound. Jackson leaned forward in his saddle, listening. The sounds were recognizable: the sharp ring of axes on trees, shovels scraping against the rocky ground, shouts, and commands. All the sounds associated with the hasty construction of breastworks.
Jackson took out his watch and tilted it until he could read the thin black hands in the faint moonlight. It was nine o’clock. Four hours ago, the Second Corps came screaming out of the woods and smashed into the Union’s right flank. The surprised and overwhelmed Yankees ran. Jackson ordered his men to give chase until fatigue, darkness, and the thick undergrowth unraveled his assault. He instructed his three division commanders to reorganize the men as quickly as possible. Not satisfied with routing the Yankees, Jackson was determined to cut them off from the fords along the Rapidan and Rappahannock Rivers. While his men hastened into formation, he pressed ahead to see if he could determine what the Yankees planned to do. A tree crashed to the ground. Jackson had his answer. They were going to fight.
“Let’s go,” he said, turning Little Sorrel around and heading back toward the Confederate line, back to the battle, and back to the two-year war for Southern Independence.
He followed his aides onto the Bullock Road where he had left the 18th North Carolina Infantry Regiment holding the Confederate forward position. Suddenly, the woods exploded with the thunder of hundreds of guns. Musket flashes pierced the darkness, lighting up the blooming dogwoods. Bullets ricocheted off trees, whistled through the underbrush, and slammed into the dirt. A branch crashed to the ground on Jackson’s left. His aides stampeded to avoid the deadly fire.
Before Jackson could flee, someone knocked him out of his saddle. He flew through the air and landed on an exposed tree root. He stifled a groan. A body fell on top of him and pinned him down. Bullets smashed into the tree above his head.
“Lie still, General!”
Jackson recognized the terrified voice of his brother-in-law, Joseph Morrison.
Another volley pierced the night. Jackson tried to get up, but Morrison shoved him back down to the ground. The root dug into his ribs. Overhead, his men yelled for the Tarheels to cease firing.
Slowly, the gunfire abated like the end of a rainstorm.
Jackson shifted impatiently. “You can get off me now, Lieutenant. The shooting has stopped.”
Morrison released his grip and rose to his knees. Jackson sat up, leaned against the tree, and felt his ribs. He winced in pain.
“Are you bad hurt?” Morrison asked.
“It’s nothing. Providence has been kind to us this evening.”
More horses poured down the road, this time from the direction of the Confederate line. In the moonlight, Jackson saw the red-shirted Ambrose Powell Hill, commander of the Light Division, jump off his horse.
“General, are you hurt?” Hill asked.
“Just a couple of bruised ribs,” Jackson replied after completing a very thorough search of his person. He stood and plucked his weather-stained kepi from the ground. He shook the dust from it. “Tell me, Hill, have you managed to find your way to the Rappahannock?” Jackson drew the kepi down over his blue-gray eyes.
“Yes, sir, but the men are exhausted. I think we should hold off the attack until morning.”
“No, sir. No! Press them!” Jackson stabbed his finger into Hill’s chest. “Don’t let them escape. Cut them off from the United States Ford.”
Hill remounted and disappeared into the night.
“Lieutenant Morrison, I want you to return to General Lee. Tell him to press forward immediately.” Jackson swung up on Little Sorrel and rode in the direction of the army. His aides scrambled to catch up.
Chapter Two
Fairfield Plantation
Guinea Station, Virginia
May 9, 1863
Jackson stood on the steps of the Chandler House waiting for General Stuart to arrive for a staff meeting. The Yankees were gone. They had retreated to Washington to lick their wounds. When that was done, conscripts would refill their depleted ranks, new weapons would be distributed, the cavalry would be mounted on fresh horses, and the Army of the Potomac, twice the size and strength of the Army of Northern Virginia, would march, once more, down the highways to Richmond.
Guinea Station, Virginia
May 9, 1863
Jackson stood on the steps of the Chandler House waiting for General Stuart to arrive for a staff meeting. The Yankees were gone. They had retreated to Washington to lick their wounds. When that was done, conscripts would refill their depleted ranks, new weapons would be distributed, the cavalry would be mounted on fresh horses, and the Army of the Potomac, twice the size and strength of the Army of Northern Virginia, would march, once more, down the highways to Richmond.
Jackson knew time was not on the South’s side. An opinion shared by General Lee. That’s why the moment the Yankees lit out for home, Lee, accompanied by his senior staff, left Chancellor’s Crossing for Richmond and a meeting with President Jefferson Davis. Lee stated that he wanted to take advantage of his army’s victory before those people – as he called his northern opponent – had a chance to regroup and return to Virginia.
After an exchange of pleasantries and congratulations, Jackson opened his battered portfolio and proposed an immediate invasion of the North. His goal was to impede the Union war machine by destroying the railroads and canals that brought Pennsylvania coal east. A Confederate presence north of the Mason-Dixon Line would force Lincoln to send the Army of the Potomac before it could refit and rearm from its latest defeat. “We pick good ground and destroy their army,” he told the attentive Davis. “Once we do, the Eastern Seaboard will be open to us. We can winter in Harrisburg or Philadelphia. In the spring, we can march on New York or Washington. We’ll force the Yankees to understand the price they’ll have to pay to hold the South in the Union at bayonet’s point.” Davis and the Cabinet approved the plan. Jackson immediately left Richmond to prepare his corps for the journey.
Now came the difficult part; saying goodbye. He crept into the nursery and leaned over his daughter’s crib. Julia was awake. She recognized him in the morning light and smiled. He swept her into his arms and held her close. She grasped his finger in her tiny fist. Tears stung his eyes. Since her birth, less than six months ago, he had only been with her a handful of days, and, if all went according to plan, a year or more would pass before he held her again. In that year, she would take her first step and say her first word. He kissed her forehead. “My sweet little girl, your Papa has to go away. But I want you to know that I love you very much, and I’ll think about you every moment I’m away.” With another kiss on her forehead, he laid her back in her crib. “But I’ll come home. I promise.”
Anna filled their last moments with loving admonishments for him to take care of himself. When she ran out of advice, he gathered his wife close. “Set me as a seal upon thine heart,” he quoted from the Song of Songs. “For love is strong as death…”
“Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it,” she whispered.
The clock on the mantle struck the hour. He had to go. One
final kiss; one lingering glance at the door.
final kiss; one lingering glance at the door.
Tears spilled from Anna’s eyes. “I’ll expect you home.”
“Then I best come home.” It took all his strength to walk down the hall and out the front door. The way back to his family was to perform his duty and defeat the Yankees.
The sound of hard riding turned his mind from the heartbreaking scene in the parlor to the more practical matters pressing him. General James Ewell Brown Stuart, called Jeb, pulled up with his typical flourish: the yellow fringe of his sash dancing, black ostrich plumes bobbing in his hat, gold spurs jangling, and red silk-lined cape swirling about him like a matador’s cape.
“Good morning, General Jackson.” Stuart threw himself off his mare and came to stand at the bottom of the steps.
“General Stuart.” The early morning sun reflected off something shiny on Stuart’s jacket. Jackson pointed to a small gold shield. Attached to the shield was a chain, and at the end of the chain was attached a small stiletto. The blade was stuck in the coat’s buttonholes. “That’s new.”
Stuart gazed at the shield fondly. “I think it lends me certain panache, don’t you think?”
Jackson laughed. Stuart and his love for fancy uniforms! He was the South’s Beau Brummell. The more gold braid a uniform had, the better he liked it. He imbued the role of the knight errant, the dashing cavalier he had read about when he was a boy. The romantic portrayal of Stuart as the Beau Saber sold newspapers, but Stuart was more than the dandified caricature the editors portrayed. He was the best cavalryman Jackson had ever known. Twice, he had ridden around the Union army. In last week’s battle, Stuart had discovered the Union’s right flank in the air. This intelligence was responsible for the South’s triumph in the Wilderness.
“Yes, it brings out the rose,” Jackson said.
Stuart grinned and sniffed the red flower sticking out of the buttonhole above the stiletto.
“Is General Rodes away?” Jackson asked. He headed toward the back of the house.
“He left for Orange Court House on time.”
“Good, good.” After the staff meeting, the rest of his corps and two brigades of Stuart’s cavalry would join Rodes’ division on the long journey to Pittsburgh.
Jackson’s adjutant, Major Sandie Pendleton, met the two generals as they came into the backyard. He handed them cups of what passed for coffee in the Confederacy these days. Any other young man, not yet 23, might find it daunting to be the assistant adjutant general of the Second Corps and be responsible for, among other things, organizing the corps’ march from the Rappahannock to Pennsylvania, but the blue-eyed, lantern-jawed Pendleton thrived in the position.
“Everyone’s here,” Pendleton reported, “but General Ewell brought his wife.”
Jackson frowned at the irregularity. He glanced at the bald headed Ewell seated next to a pretty, blonde widow at the mess table. Ewell was returning to duty after losing his leg last summer at the Battle of Groveton. Jackson was pleased to have him back. Ewell was an aggressive fighter, unafraid to commit his troops to battle. Unfortunately, Ewell’s aggressiveness could only be activated if he was told precisely what to do. For Old Baldy was a man who was good at following orders but never initiating them. Which explained his contentment at obeying the dictates of his new wife, even down to the amount of milk he poured into his coffee.
General Jubal Early greeted Jackson as he took his seat at the head of the table. Early was a small man, gray with age, bent to pieces with arthritis, and prone to the occasional profane outburst. Jackson overlooked the profanity when Early forgot who he was talking to. A raised eyebrow from Jackson was usually enough to remind him.
“General Ewell, I’m glad you’re back,” Jackson said. “This corps has missed you. We’re not the same with you gone.”
Ewell flushed at the kind words. “It’s good to be back. If it would please the General, I’d like to introduce my wife. General Jackson, this is the Widow, Mrs. Brown.” His face lit up with the happiness of a newlywed. “My dear, this is General Jackson.”
Mrs. Brown rose and curtsied. Her black crepe veil fluttered in the breeze.
Jackson didn’t know how to respond to the odd arrangement. He sipped his coffee and waited for inspiration to strike. Next to him, Stuart sat ramrod straight like a setter on a pheasant. His blue eyes flashed with curiosity, and he quivered at the promise of a secret to ferret out. Jackson took another sip of coffee and decided to leave the matter with the cavalry leader. Stuart would breathlessly report all the reasons Ewell was calling his wife by her dead husband’s name before the army marched five miles down the road.
Jackson set down his mug. “General, congratulations on your marriage. I’m happy for you. Now, having said that, a staff meeting is no place for your wife.” He smiled at the Widow Brown. “I suggest you go into the house and have breakfast with my wife and daughter.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” the bride insisted. “I’m here at my husband’s request. He needs me.” She fixed Ewell with a piercing stare. When the stare failed to gain a reaction, she poked him hard in the ribs.
Thus roused, Ewell came to his wife’s defense. “I’ve come to rely on Mrs. Brown since our marriage. She’s proven to be an immeasurable help.”
“What possible help could she give you at a staff meeting?”
“I counsel him in all types of matters,” Mrs. Brown answered for her husband. “Therefore, I’ll remain.” She planted herself in her seat, opened her fan, and began to cool herself.
“No, you will not!” Jackson raised a warning eyebrow at Ewell. “Don’t force me to make it an order.”
Ewell snapped to attention at the bark of command in Jackson’s voice. He gave his wife a pleading smile. “I’ll be fine, dear. Go, and have a nice visit with Mrs. Jackson.”
The Widow Brown shot Jackson a withering glare. She appealed to Ewell. “I’ll go, if that’s what you wish, dear.”
He nodded. The fan closed with a crack. She jerked to her feet and stalked across the yard.
“In the future, I’ll make sure she doesn’t attend any more staff meetings,” Ewell eagerly assured Jackson.
“What do you mean in the future? Surely, you don’t intend to bring her along?”
“She’ll remain safe behind the lines.”
“She’ll remain in Virginia!”
The back door slammed shut. Ewell flinched. “How do I tell her?” He whispered.
“I suggest you tell her gently.”
Early choked on his coffee. Jackson stared at him. “Is there something you find amusing this morning, General?”
Early’s shoulders shook in laughter. “No, sir.”
Jackson looked around the table and saw that most of the men were having a hard time containing their laughter. Except for A.P. Hill, who looked ghostly. “Are you feeling any better?” Hill was suffering another bout of the mysterious illness he had contracted during his West Point days.
“I’m ready to go,” Hill said.
“Good to hear. Now, if there are no further distractions, let’s get down to business.”
Pendleton handed Jackson a file.
Chapter Three
Abraham Lincoln, sixteenth President of the United States, at least of those northern and western states that had stayed the course upon his election, stared out the White House window. At the moment, he was ignoring the table full of generals just returned from Virginia. They were a thoroughly whipped contingent and listening to them chilled him more than the cold, damp room or the dispiriting scene unfolding in the streets beneath his window.
The ruins of the Army of the Potomac, whose sole purpose was to restore all the states to the Union, marched through the muddy, empty streets and a soaking spring rain: heads down, shoulders slumped, and guns dragging in the mud. No cheering throng welcomed them. The few citizens dashing through the rain didn’t even acknowledge the army’s passing. The weary mules struggled to draw the heavy cannon through the mud. The mules were not the only ones who were exhausted. The soldiers, the Cabinet, the Congress, and the nation were exhausted, too. And so was Lincoln.
The last telegram he had received from Virginia forewarned of disaster. The Eleventh and Twelfth Corps had surrendered, the Third and Fifth Corps had been severely damaged, and Commanding General Joseph Hooker had been captured.
Lincoln sighed to the very depths of his tortured soul. “What will the country say?” He said to no one in particular. “How will I be able to explain this defeat?” He tugged at his tie as if the black strip of material was strangling him. “How will I be able to convince the nation that we must carry on?”
He returned to the table, sat down, and studied each general: Reynolds, Couch, Sickles, Meade, and Sedgwick, in turn. “For we must carry on, gentlemen. We can’t allow the lives lost to be sacrificed in vain. No, that I cannot ask from the nation. Now, tell me, what are we to do about the Army of Northern Virginia?”
“Permission to speak freely?” General John Reynolds asked.
Lincoln was relieved to hear the fire in Reynolds’ voice. Maybe some spark of battle remained within his generals. He waved his hand in permission.
“Sir, you need to get out the way and let us do our jobs.”
“I don’t believe I’m in the way.” Lincoln observed his generals’ careful, neutral expressions and realized he was the only one in the room with that opinion.
“I’m sure General McDowell wouldn’t agree,” Reynolds said. “Or General McClellan…”
Lincoln interrupted angrily. “If I hadn’t interfered with General McClellan, he’d still be sitting on the Virginia peninsula bombarding me with telegrams demanding more men and supplies.”
“That’s because you forced him to take the field before he felt the army was ready. And you denied him the reinforcements that were a necessary part of his strategy.”
“I had to protect Washington.”
“No, you had to answer Congress’ demands that you do something about Jackson running loose in the Shenandoah Valley.”
Defeated, Lincoln sighed.
“Exactly.” Reynolds smiled sympathetically. “Your political realities dictate to you, and you, in turn, dictate them to your commanders. And when they fail, the newspapers scream, Congress turns up the heat, and you summarily dismiss them. It’s public; it’s messy; and it’s humiliating.”
“What do you suggest?”
“That you trust your generals to get the job done. We want to win this war as much as you do.”
Lincoln sat back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. The War Department’s file on Reynolds did not differentiate him from any of the other generals in the army. He was a West Point graduate who served in the Mexican War and had been brevetted twice for bravery. He did most of his active duty out west. When the war began, he was the Commandant of Cadets at West Point. As for his conduct, the file described him as a soldier’s soldier: smart, fearless, and beloved by his men. But the defiance in the dark, flashing eyes was not in the file. While the rest of the generals sat staring at the table, Reynolds dared to challenge his commander-in-chief on the very way he was running the war. “Take command, and I’ll give you all the leeway you require.”
Reynolds shook his head. “We both know you can’t do that. You’re up for reelection next year, so you must have victories. General Grant’s triumphs out west are too far away to matter. You must win in Virginia, so the newspapers can trumpet your success in bold headlines. You need the nation to know this war will successfully end.”
“You are very astute, General. If you’ll not come to my rescue, to whom shall I turn?” He gazed at his generals again.
“Your new commanding general is sitting in his room at Willard’s Hotel,” Reynolds told him. “Send for General Hancock. He’ll give you the victories you need.”
“I don’t know much about him.”
“Find out. You won’t be disappointed.”
Winfield Scott Hancock sat outside the president’s office fidgeting with his hat. Two hours ago, a runner had appeared at his hotel room with orders to report to the White House; the president needed to speak to him. Hancock arrived promptly at three o’clock, only to have the White House usher inform him that Lincoln was running late. The usher gestured to a bench against the wall and asked Hancock to wait. That had been 30 anxious minutes ago.
Winfield Scott Hancock sat outside the president’s office fidgeting with his hat. Two hours ago, a runner had appeared at his hotel room with orders to report to the White House; the president needed to speak to him. Hancock arrived promptly at three o’clock, only to have the White House usher inform him that Lincoln was running late. The usher gestured to a bench against the wall and asked Hancock to wait. That had been 30 anxious minutes ago.
Hancock crossed to the window. He straightened his tie in his reflection, smoothed his mustache, and raked at his goatee. All his grooming couldn’t stop his heart from thudding in his chest or his stomach from churning. Satisfied that he looked calm and collected, at least on the outside, he looked past his reflection and down into the street below. The sun had come out from behind the clouds and was attempting to dry the large mud puddles in the middle of the road. The sidewalks teemed with people hurrying about their business with such sublime casualness, Hancock wondered if they even cared that a battle had been fought and lost no more than a week ago.
The office door opened, and a young man stepped out. “General Hancock?” Hancock turned from the window. “I’m John Hay, the president’s secretary. He’ll see you now.” Hay led the way into the office. Lincoln sat behind his desk, reading what appeared to be a dispatch. “Have a seat,” Hay whispered, pointing to one of two chairs in front of the desk. The President signed his name and handed the document to Hay. The secretary left them alone. “I apologize for the delay, General.” Lincoln took off his spectacles. “Too many papers to sign. An occupational hazard.”
“No apology’s necessary.”
“No apology’s necessary.”
“I’m glad you’ve agreed to see me.” Lincoln walked around the desk and collapsed into the chair next to Hancock. “I hear you’re called Superb. I have many nicknames and none of them superb.” He smiled ruefully.
“Don’t let the newspapers get you down, Mr. President,” Hancock said. Lincoln sat slumped in his chair; his eyes dull with fatigue. He was thin, as if the weight of the war was whittling him down to nothing. “Strong leaders are easy targets.”
“Would you mind being a target?”
“Sir?”
“General Hancock, I’ll be honest with you. I’m desperate for this war to end.” He rubbed his brow with a weary hand. “I need a man who’ll fight. I thought that man was General Reynolds, but he turned me down. Instead, he suggested I give the army to you. I’ve looked at your record. It’s very impressive. Will you help me? Will you take command?”
Hancock’s heart stopped pounding and his palms stopped sweating. In one unexpected moment, he was being offered the army; the culmination of a 20-year career, spent mostly occupying insignificant positions in out-of-the-way posts because his superiors considered his talent to count mules and bullets an irreplaceable skill. Now, at last, he was being given a chance to prove what he long believed about himself; that his genius was for war and not bookkeeping. He wouldn’t waste the opportunity. “It will be my pleasure to serve.”
“What needs to happen for the army to return to the field?” Lincoln asked. Then he grinned. “Even though I don’t want to interfere with your command, I can’t have the army sitting in Washington forever.”
“I’ll meet with my corps commanders tonight and have a comprehensive plan on your desk within the week.” Hancock stood. “With your permission, Mr. President, I’ll get to work.”
“Permission granted.”
