Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [200]
Couch glanced at Hancock, said, “Keep your column moving, General,” and spurred his horse, moving quickly away, leaving the colonel behind. Earle jerked his horse forward, and then both men were gone in a spray of dust.
Hancock turned, saw the puzzled faces of Couch’s staff, said, “Don’t worry, he’ll be back. It seems the plan has changed.”
“GENTLEMEN, THIS is a glorious day indeed!”
There were nods, some low sounds, and Hooker held his glass high, waited, and gradually the arms went up, the others joining in the toast.
Hancock and Couch stood under a great chandelier, and the large room was filled with the elegance of the great plantations and thick with the smell of cigars. Hooker had arrived after dark, a grand show, taking personal command of the attack, which now would begin the next morning.
Hancock held his glass high, had said nothing, glanced at Couch, who was not smiling, and he felt the shared anger, the sense that yet again they were led by a man who did not inspire respect. There was something else about Hooker that made Hancock uneasy. Unlike the personable and mildly buffoonish Burnside, Hooker was a man clearly focused on his own goals, behaving more like a politician than a soldier. Hancock heard it in the idle talk, the conversation of the others: Hooker was generally disliked by everyone who served close to him. They had respected his treatment of the army, but the rise in morale had not spread through the headquarters of the commanders. They would wait, instead, for the results of this new plan. Their gloom was lifted by the quick march, the efficient crossing of the river, but now, despite Hooker’s attempt to create a party, a celebration of some unnamed success, Hancock felt it clearly, through the toasts and the bouyant salutes. There was nothing yet to celebrate.
The troops were camped close to the small town, spread out in tiny clearings that dotted the thick Wilderness. Hancock understood, they all understood, that had they pushed on, turned to the east, they would be out in the open ground, closer to Lee’s position, where they could see what lay in front of them. There had been no official explanation from Hooker why he had slowed them down, just some vague talk of uniting the army. And so the afternoon had passed without contact with any major force from Lee, nothing to slow down the assault except the sudden caution of Joe Hooker.
The toast was concluded, and suddenly there was a wooden box, a case of whiskey, a common commodity around Hooker’s headquarters. There were more toasts, and Hancock knew this would go on for a while yet. Other corps commanders had arrived, his friend Oliver Howard, who now commanded the Eleventh, and Dan Sickles of the Third. The great room was filling quickly, and Hancock felt a stifling heat, a need for air. He left Couch’s side, began to move toward the wide front door of the grand house. There was a sudden shout, a man calling for quiet, and slowly the talk hushed. Hancock waited, turned to see Hooker’s aide standing on a chair, holding a paper.
“Gentlemen, you have all received the commander’s General Order Forty-seven, but . . . on this occasion, I feel it should be read aloud.”
There were nods, mostly from the junior commanders, who had not yet seen the order.
“‘It is with heartfelt satisfaction the commanding general announces to the army that the operations of the last three days have determined that our enemy must either ingloriously fly or come out from behind his entrenchments and give us battle on our own ground, where certain destruction awaits him—’ ” He was interrupted by cheers, a show of enthusiasm that Hancock tried to share.
Now Hooker spoke up, raising a glass, and shouted above the voices, “God Almighty will not be able to prevent the destruction of the rebel army!” There were more cheers, but they