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By Root 1693 0

in front of where Hancock now stood. Richardson was the commander of the First Division, Second Corps, and McClellan had come immediately to Hancock, had brought the promotion as if asking a question, in that respectful way he spoke to those whom he trusted. Hancock had accepted with a thin veil over his eagerness. He did not forget that the position was vacant because a man had just been killed. His own brigade had not been engaged, had been placed by Baldy Smith around the division’s batteries, who had tried to lend support to the first attack on the far right. Hancock had time for brief good-byes, had taken his staff with him, and now was in command of his own division, right in the middle of it all.

He had ridden his horse quickly to the front lines, had met the brigadiers in a hasty greeting, had passed along a message from McClellan, an embarrassing note that Hancock read flatly and without comment: “We will push them into the river, before the sun sets.” But in front of him, across the narrow field, no one was running, and he had already sent a courier back, asking for instructions, had expected the word to come down the line, push ahead, advance. The Confederate lines were badly bruised, had withstood an assault by overwhelming numbers all morning, but the attacks were never coordinated, were fought piecemeal, and it was clear that Lee had been able to shuffle his units back and forth, meeting the greatest point of attack.

Now, the only serious fight was down to the left. He looked that way, heard big guns and muskets, thought, It has to be Burnside, trying to cross that damned bridge. He could not see it from where he stood, but he knew the location, knew Burnside’s orders, and could only listen as one more small piece of McClellan’s massive army was sent against Lee’s thin lines.

He climbed back up on his horse, could see more clearly the lines across from him, and a musket ball whizzed by, above his head, then another, and he thought, Best not sit in one spot. Spurring the horse, he rode back over a small rise and dropped out of sight of the Confederate lines.

He dismounted, his small staff following him, and saw an officer, trailing aides, one holding aloft a bright green brigade flag. It was General Meagher, Thomas Meagher, of the Irish Brigade.

“General Hancock, sir, are we to be movin’ forward now? The men . . . they’re waitin for a fight.”

Hancock stared behind, back toward headquarters, saw no one coming, no courier. “General Meagher, I have no orders to advance. The last word I received from General McClellan himself was that we were to hold this position against an assault by the enemy. General, have you seen any signs that the enemy is preparing to assault?”

“Not hardly, General. There’s a pretty thin line out there in front of my men. Unless Bobby Lee’s got a herd of ghosts backin’ them up . . . I believe we have a good chance of bustin’ right through.”

Hancock looked again at the empty ground behind him, removed his hat, rubbed a hand across his head, felt a throb, the birth of a headache, the back of his neck tightening, squeezing up and over the top of his skull. He said aloud toward the empty field, “Dammit!”

Meagher watched him, understood, said, “General, I’ll be gettin’ back to my men. I will wait for word, General. We’ll be sittin’ tight.”

Meagher spurred his horse and rode off, leading his aides, and Hancock watched him leave, saw the green flag in a quick flutter as it dropped away over the rise. He began to feel truly angry, once more the frustration of the commander who has the men, the strong position, and must wait while someone else sits in a fog. He turned, looked at the faces of his staff, saw Lieutenant Hughes, knew he was the best horseman, would move quickly.

“Lieutenant, go to General Sumner’s headquarters. Maybe they decided to attack and forgot to tell us.”

Hughes moved his horse closer. “Sir, might I word that differently? General Sumner is—”

“Lieutenant, please pay our respects to General Sumner, or General McClellan, or whoever else might be in charge of this damned