Let Us Fight It Out - Chapter One

Room 5
Spotswood Hotel
Richmond, Virginia
May 5, 1863

Lieutenant General James Longstreet, commander of the Army of Northern Virginia’s First Corps, pushed back the faded curtains and gazed outside. The cadet gray sky was streaked with vermilion. Last night’s rain had moved out sometime after he had gone to bed. Puddles spotted the muddy streets. Quiet reigned except for a merchant across the way sweeping the sidewalk in front of his store.

Two days ago, the army had won a tremendous victory at a small village – no more than a crossroads in the Virginia wilderness – and sent the Union army scrambling back to Washington City to lick its wounds. A victory the army had won without him. He, along with Hood’s and Pickett’s divisions, had spent the winter in North Carolina securing food for Robert E. Lee’s starving soldiers.

In early March, Lee had sent a warning that the Yankees were preparing to cross the Rappahannock. Longstreet was to make immediate arrangements to return to Fredericksburg. It was an order Longstreet was in no hurry to obey. He had found something better to do than gather food. There were Yankees garrisoned in Suffolk, and he planned to seize the city and drive the enemy from North Carolina. But just as his plans were unfolding, the Yankees had crossed the Rappahannock in force. Urgent telegrams arrived from Richmond. Lee was in desperate straits and needed Longstreet and his men. Still, Longstreet took his time to move, hoping that the order would be rescinded and he could remain in North Carolina.

Hearing voices in the hall, Longstreet turned from the window and listened to Jeb Stuart implore his “good and gallant Jackson” to hurry up, for Stuart was starving. Jackson mumbled something in return.

Longstreet shook his head in amusement. That was one relationship he couldn’t figure out: the boisterous Stuart and the puritanical, devout Jackson. They were polar opposites except Stuart was the only man in the army who could match Jackson’s zeal for all things sacred. Longstreet gave the young cavalry leader credit though. Around Stuart’s teasing ways, Jackson was almost human…and likeable. Their footsteps faded and the hall was silent.

Longstreet sat down at the desk and opened his portfolio. The leather notebook released its tight grip on papers and marked-up maps and splayed them over the scratched surface of the desk. He unfolded a map of Vicksburg and the surrounding vicinity. Right now, his old friend, Sam Grant, was poised to seize the city and, with it, control of the Mississippi River. The Confederates, under General John Pemberton, were scattered throughout the Mississippi countryside trying in vain to stop the Union juggernaut. If Grant forced the Confederates into Vicksburg, both the city and army would be lost.

The situation cried out for the strong hand of a purposeful commander. A commander who could rally the demoralized troops and stave off the disaster threatening to consume the South and end its bid for independence. It cried out for someone like him.

But Longstreet desired to go west for another reason. He was slowly suffocating under the shadows of Lee and Jackson. Over the past two years, both men had cheated him of accolades that belonged to him. After all, it had been his brigade that had been responsible for the majority of the victories on the Peninsula when the Confederates had hurled McClellan’s great army from the gates of Richmond. It had been his corps that had withstood the bloody attack at Sharpsburg, and the victory at Fredericksburg had been due to his defensive line and nothing else.

But as a Georgian in an army named for Virginia, he received very little credit. Oh, Lee may affectionately call him “his old war horse,” but in the past year, Lee had turned more and more to the taciturn Jackson to shape the army’s strategy. Longstreet deeply resented being pushed aside in favor of the VMI professor.

He set the map aside and picked up the proposal he planned to present at this morning’s meeting with President Davis. He was confident Lee would propose an invasion of the North, and knowing Lee as he did, he was also certain that the plan would concentrate only on short term remedies and not long term solutions.

His plan, on the other hand, gathered up all the Confederate forces – the Army of Mississippi, the Army of Tennessee, and the Army of Northern Virginia – for an invasion of the North through Kentucky. This would force Grant to break off his attack on Vicksburg. The Confederates would cross the Ohio River, turn, dig in, and have the Yankees wreck themselves on the Confederates’ strong defenses. He would assume command of the western armies and overall command of the invasion. Yes, even over Lee.

Humming tunelessly, he updated the maps with the latest intelligence. The sun came up, the candlelight faded, and his papers were bathed in rich, golden light. A knock at the door roused him from his task.

“General!” It was his adjutant, Moxley Sorrel.

“Come in, Major. Door is open.”

Sorrel burst into the room. The young man, handsome with his dark hair and mustache, was a fellow Georgian and considered by many to be the best chief-of-staff in the Confederate army. Those in the Second Corps would vigorously protest that Sandie Pendleton was Sorrel’s superior, but they would be wrong. “General Lee wants to know if you’ll join him for a quick breakfast.”

“Tell General Lee I’ll be right down.”

Sorrel backed out of the room and closed the door behind him. Longstreet jammed the papers into the portfolio and forced it closed.

***

Longstreet sat in a rickety chair opposite the thick oak door of President Jefferson Davis’ office. He gripped and released his portfolio until his knuckles hurt. He shifted in his seat and leaned back. The chair squeaked in protest. Burton Harrison, Davis’ secretary, glanced up from his papers long enough to frown reproachfully.

Longstreet had been correct about Lee’s intentions. In this morning’s meeting, the commanding general announced that he wanted to go north. In the silence that followed Lee’s declaration, and before Longstreet could open his leather case, Jackson, always Jackson, had spoken. Of course, the Presbyterian had his own plan – some nonsense about occupying coalfields and damaging the northern economy.

It was folly, but Jackson had gotten Davis’ attention with high talk about defeating the Army of the Potomac, occupying Harrisburg, and perhaps affecting the presidential election. Davis was won over. Jackson left Richmond immediately to prepare his corps to march to Pennsylvania and Jeb Stuart went with him.

Longstreet sent word to a well placed contact within Davis’ office that he needed to see the president on an urgent matter. He warned his contact to approach the president only after Lee had left the White House.

Some might see such subterfuge as a betrayal, but Longstreet didn’t care about appearances. He knew Lee’s influence with Davis was so great that a simple shake of Lee’s gray head would keep Longstreet forever chained to the Army of Northern Virginia.

His contact was true to his mission. He sent word to Longstreet that Davis would see him at three o’clock.

Longstreet sat at his desk and gutted his proposal. Gone was any mention of the Army of Northern Virginia. He would leave the East to Lee and Jackson. He would go west and prove two things: that Lee and Jackson were nothing without him and that his defensive strategy was far superior to Jackson’s flank moves and Lee’s audaciousness.

The door opened and Secretary of War James Seddon motioned for him to enter. Longstreet unfolded his long frame and smoothed his jacket. He gripped his portfolio, cleared all doubt from his mind, and marched into the president’s office.

“General Longstreet.” Davis greeted him warmly. “I hope you don’t mind, but I thought it best if Secretary Seddon joined us.”

“Yes, sir.” Longstreet waited at the round table, his portfolio clutched in front of him.

“Sit, sit!” Davis ordered, settling back in his chair. “Now what’s so important that you had to see me immediately? I do wish you’d have given me more notice. I’d have liked General Lee to sit in on this meeting as well.”

Longstreet held his breath. Had the president sent for Lee?

“But my runner informs me that General Lee is unavailable. So, you’ll have to settle for us.”

“I’m very happy to do so,” Longstreet said in relief.

“Now what can I do for you?” Davis asked.

Longstreet cleared his throat and spoke quickly. “I believe the situation out west is critical. If we don’t do something in the next few days to change it, the war will be lost.”

Davis folded his hands on the table. “What do you suggest?”

“Consolidate all the commands scattered throughout the Department of Mississippi into a single army under my command.”

Davis shot Seddon a wary look.

Longstreet also glanced at Seddon, but the Secretary’s face didn’t give away what he was thinking. Seddon gestured for Longstreet to continue. “I believe I’ve proven my worth as both a corps and an independent commander.”

“You’re one of the best,” Seddon responded.

“General, how developed are your plans?” Davis asked.

Longstreet stared at the president for a long moment. How many letters had he sent Davis since the first of the year? At least a dozen, if not more. He opened his portfolio and selected a map. Unfolding it, he set it before the commander-in-chief. “There’s only one way to prevent Vicksburg from being captured. We need to concentrate our forces in Tennessee. I’m talking about gathering them all in. Pemberton’s army, Taylor’s small force, the army General Johnston is assembling in Jackson, General Gardner’s force at Port Hudson, and Bragg’s army at Tullahoma.”

Davis folded the map and handed it back to Longstreet. “Absolutely not! That will leave the entire river open to the Yankees.”

Longstreet appealed to Seddon but the Secretary sat impassive. Longstreet cleared his throat. “The river is threatened because Grant’s army is between Pemberton’s scattered forces and Bragg’s inactive one.”

Davis held up his hand. “I’ve heard all of this from General Johnston.”

“General Johnston is essentially correct,” Longstreet insisted. He reopened the map and slid it over to Davis. “If we don’t concentrate our forces, Grant will drive General Pemberton into Vicksburg and besiege the city. Then he will march to Murfreesboro and combine his forces with the Army of the Cumberland. A quick march to capture Chattanooga and from there, Atlanta and Savannah.”

“But Vicksburg!”

Longstreet unfolded another map. “Vicksburg isn’t Grant’s true target.”

Davis turned his head to stare out the window.

“Go on, General.” This came from Seddon.

Longstreet turned his attention from the President’s averted head to the approving face of the Secretary of War. “Before General Grant can take Vicksburg, he must defeat Pemberton or risk being shut up in Vicksburg himself.”

Davis turned back from the window and stared at Seddon, who slowly nodded.

Confidence shot through Longstreet. He had an ally. He passed another map to the Secretary. “I know Sam Grant. Before the war he was one of my best friends. I know the way he thinks and how he will react in most circumstances.”

Davis leaned back in his chair. “Really?”

Longstreet’s nod in response was authoritative. He did know Sam Grant. “Grant will push Pemberton into Vicksburg and starve him out. We can’t allow that to happen. If we combine all our forces, we can match the Yankees in manpower. We move swiftly against Rosecrans, defeat his army, then march through Tennessee and Kentucky and invade the Ohio Valley. Grant will have no choice but to leave Mississippi and chase us. We maneuver around him, find good ground, and make him attack us.”

Davis pulled on his iron gray goatee as he contemplated Longstreet’s words “No, we can’t lose Vicksburg!”

From the expression on Davis’ face, Longstreet knew he was in danger of being dismissed. “We can if it helps us drive the Yankees from our land.”

“You sound more and more like General Johnston,” Davis declared. “His telegrams are filled front to back with tactical retreats and dire warnings.”

“Except General Johnston’s only strategy is to retreat. He never commits his troops to battle. I do and I will.”

Davis’ gaze returned to the window.

“That’s true,” Seddon said.

What was true? That Johnston didn’t put his troops into the fray or that he, Longstreet, would fight. Longstreet wasn’t sure.

“The Army of Northern Virginia is heading north,” Davis said to the window.

“Public relations.” Longstreet was dismissive.

It was the wrong thing to say. Davis went rigid with anger. Another surreptitious glance at Seddon revealed that his remark had also angered the Secretary.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Longstreet swiftly backpedaled. “I believe Lee’s march is the right strategy for the eastern theater, but west is where we’ll win our independence.”

Davis relented. Longstreet handed the President his proposal.

Davis quickly read the first few pages and handed them to Seddon. “Why not just give this plan to General Johnston. He’s already in Mississippi.”

Longstreet’s blue eyes revealed his fear. What if they accepted his plan but rejected him?

Before he could speak, Seddon did. “I think the most important component of any winning strategy is the commanding general.”

Davis opened another map and studied the Mississippi’s winding curves. “General Johnston feels that the department is too much for one man to handle.”

Longstreet sensed a trap. Either Davis was planning to dilute his command from the outset or he was seeking assurances that Johnston was the man for the job. He leaned back in his chair. His fingers rifled through the edges of his papers while he thought his way clear of the snare. “I’d have to disagree with General Johnston’s assessment. I believe the situation calls for one commander.”

Davis studied Longstreet. “Is General Johnston that one commander?”

Longstreet paused. Johnston was a good friend, and he didn’t want to harm Johnston’s reputation. “If General Johnston had fully recovered from his wounds, then, yes, he’d be that commander,” he said slowly, “but he hasn’t and that hinders him.”

Davis seemed to agree with Longstreet’s assessment. He picked up the proposal and scanned it again. “Having a steady leader would certainly solve an enormous problem,” he said to Seddon.

“As I have suggested several times,” Seddon replied.

“Yes, you have,” Davis said tightly. “General Longstreet, whereas I appreciate this proposal, I do have to say that with the army headed north, I believe your place is with your corps.”

Longstreet swallowed deeply. “There are many capable generals in the army who can lead the First Corps: A.P. Hill, Generals Ewell or Hood. I’m needed out west.” He swallowed again. That last sentence made him sound desperate.

Davis chewed on the remark as he reread the proposal. “Have you spoken to General Lee about this?”

Longstreet stepped warily around the subject of Lee. “Since my detachment from the army, my communication with General Lee has dealt mainly with supplies. I left any talk of strategy for a face-to-face meeting. Due to the extreme emergency we find ourselves in, I haven’t had the opportunity.”

“What do you think he’d say?” Seddon asked.

“I think he’d agree with me.”

Davis sighed. “The Confederacy is in extreme emergency and I have no confidence in General Johnston or General Bragg to successfully deal with the Yankees.” Davis’ head dropped down on his chest. He closed his eyes. “What do you think, Secretary Seddon?”

“I believe General Longstreet’s an answer to prayer,” Seddon said, smiling at Longstreet.

Longstreet held his breath.

“I agree,” Davis replied, opening his eyes and raising his head. “General Longstreet, I approve your proposal. How soon can you leave for Tennessee?”

Longstreet wasn’t ready to accept Davis’ offer just yet. He hadn’t received everything he wanted or needed. He splayed his large hands on the table. “Sir, I am a lieutenant general…”

“Yes, yes.” Davis waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll recommend your promotion to full general to the Congress.”

Longstreet swallowed his triumphant smile. “Then I can leave for Tennessee at first light.”

“Excellent!” Davis stood, followed promptly by Seddon.

Longstreet kept his seat.

“What else?” Davis questioned impatiently.

“General Lee.”

“I’ll inform General Lee of my decision at dinner.”

Longstreet stood.

Davis offered his hand. “General, I don’t need to tell you what’s at stake.”

Longstreet gripped Davis’ hand. “No, sir, you don’t.”

***

Robert E. Lee stood across the street from the Spotswood Hotel and stared through the hotel’s wide windows at the hectic activity in the lobby. He spied Major Sorrel hurrying through the room. Where was Longstreet? He wasn’t visible, but Lee was certain his old war horse was in the middle of the crush of men, orchestrating the commotion.

Two couriers exited the hotel on the run and headed toward the telegraph office. They clutched slips of papers in their hands; most likely orders to Longstreet’s new subordinates out west – the most fractious and ambitious bunch of men in the entire Confederate army. Well, Longstreet was welcome to them.

Dinner was winding down when Davis had brusquely informed him that late this afternoon the Congress had approved Longstreet’s reassignment to the Department of Mississippi and promotion to full general. Davis paused so Lee could object, but Lee said nothing. In the silence, Davis stammered out justification after justification for snatching Longstreet away on the eve of the army’s invasion of the North.

As Davis stumbled through his list of reasons, Lee could only nod in agreement. The situation out west was deteriorating rapidly. But if there was going to be a change in command, then Jackson was better suited to lead an army against the aggressive Grant. Lee was preparing to offer Jackson but stopped before he did. It was a selfish impulse, yet it snatched the words clean from his throat. He didn’t want Jackson to leave his command. He would miss the reticent professor. Over the past winter a friendship had grown between the two men – a friendship Lee took pleasure in.

When Davis’ last reason had faded away, Lee acquiesced because he didn’t really have a choice. The decision had been made and the orders given. All Lee could do now was make a list of candidates to replace Longstreet.

Another courier dashed down the street. Major Sorrel stood framed in the doorway. As he turned to go back inside, he spied Lee and waved. Lee waved back and headed across the street toward the hotel.

***

“Sir, General Lee is coming,” Sorrel announced.

Longstreet suddenly felt like a disobedient child about to face a disapproving father. He steeled himself and forced the panic away. He had no reason to be intimidated. This afternoon he had become Lee’s equal. When he chased Grant from Mississippi, he would finally usurp the Virginian in the public’s affection.

He drained the whiskey from his glass and set it down on the table with a thud. He stood as Lee approached.

Lee waved him back into his seat and fell wearily into the chair across the way. In the candlelight, Lee looked older than his 56 years.

“Robert,” Longstreet said in greeting.

“General Longstreet.”

Longstreet ignored the reprimand in Lee’s voice. “When will you be returning to the army?”

“I’ve a few things to wrap up here first.”

“I’m headed for Tennessee tomorrow morning,” Longstreet said, careful to keep his voice free of triumph.

“So I’ve heard.” Lee rose. “Well, it’s late.”

“Robert, before you go, I want to talk to you about Stuart.”

Lee frowned and retook his seat. “What about General Stuart?”

“I’d like him to come to Tennessee with me.”

Lee’s frown deepened. “I don’t think I could do without General Stuart’s services.”

“Now, don’t be stingy, Robert,” he scolded. “You’ve plenty of officers to take Stuart’s place.”

Lee pulled hard on his shirt cuff.

Longstreet gave him a stare. “Are you not even open to the possibility that my need for Stuart could outweigh yours?”

“No.” Lee was abrupt.

Longstreet chuckled. “Perhaps we should bring the matter up to the president.”

Lee raised an eyebrow. “You’ve had quite a day, General. Why not be satisfied with the victories already won?”

Longstreet wanted to speak angry words, but Lee was on his feet.

“I wish you success in your new command. I know how much you longed for it and what was involved in securing it. I hope all your corps commanders obey your orders as swiftly as you obeyed mine last week. Goodnight.”

Without turning back, Lee disappeared from the lobby.

Read an Excerpt from Throw Away the Scabbard

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.

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.

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.

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.”

“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.”

Throw Away the Scabbard

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COMING IN MAY

THROW AWAY THE SCABBARD

THE CHANCELLORSVILLE CHRONICLES

VOLUME 1

The turning point of the South’s desire to create a new nation was the death of Stonewall Jackson. Without his military genius and leadership, the South was at a disadvantage to the economic power of the Union.

In this alternate history, Jackson survives Chancellorsville . With Jackson leading his Second Corps in an invasion of the North, the war shifts from the Virginia wilderness to the Pennsylvania countryside. After the Army of Northern Virginia wins a stunning victory on the banks of the Susquehanna, General Ulysses S. Grant comes east to drive the Confederates from northern soil. But when Grant fails to dislodge Lee’s army, President Abraham Lincoln risks all in a desperate attempt to win the war and restore the Union.

Throw Away the Scabbard is the first book of a trilogy that provides the exciting answer to the Civil War’s most enduring question: What if Stonewall Jackson had survived Chancellorsville?