Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [212]
Jackson sat, leaned over to the map, said, “Yes. The boy—the Wellford boy—has explained it to me. He knows the route. He will ride with me.”
Lee sat back, glanced toward the warmth coming now from the growing fire.
Jackson was still staring at the map, said, “There. We will march to that point, where this road rejoins the turnpike. Then we will turn east and attack the flank.”
“Very well, General. And what do you propose to make this movement with?”
Jackson looked up, seemed surprised at the question. “Well, General, with my whole corps.”
Lee was not surprised at the answer, flexed his stiff hands in the cool air.
“And what will you leave me?”
Jackson looked at the old face, thought he saw a smile, said, “Why, the divisions of Anderson and McLaws.”
Lee stood, walked to the fire, began to understand. Of course, it was the only way. The risk was extraordinary. He would be left with barely twelve thousand men, spread in a thin line facing Hooker’s mass of seventy thousand. But if the plan were to work at all, Jackson would need the strength, a sharp hammer blow to the Federal flank, enough force to do more than surprise. If Hooker had already shown a reluctance to charge into a hot fight, Jackson’s assault could unnerve him enough to fulfill Jackson’s prediction and withdraw back above the river.
It was Jackson’s job to lead thirty thousand troops quietly and discreetly through the countryside, and it was his to keep Hooker from realizing how weak the forces were that he was defending against. If Hooker pushed out of his trenches, even a short and brief advance toward Lee, or if he made an aggressive move toward Jackson’s marching column, he could destroy not only the plan, but possibly the army.
Lee held up his hands, warmed them toward the fire, shook his head. And of course, there was still Sedgwick along the river. . . . How long would he sit and stare at a near-empty hill? This is not an accident, he thought. We are led by Divine hands. He turned, saw Jackson standing now, saw the familiar look, knew Jackson was anxious, ready to leave, and Lee nodded, said, “Well, go on!”
IT WAS after daylight, dangerously late. The march would cover twelve miles, an easy distance for Jackson’s foot cavalry if there was no obstruction and no opposition.
They filled the road quickly and quietly—instructions had gone down, all the way to the lowest levels—this was a quiet affair. There would be no cheering, no shouts, and no stragglers.
The three divisions would march in a column of fours, led by Daniel Hill’s men, commanded now by Robert Rodes. Behind Rodes were Jackson’s own division, led now by Raleigh Colston, and in the rear, the division of A. P. Hill.
Lee sat on Traveller at the edge of the trees, watched them forming column lines, and now he saw Jackson, riding with a hard, fixed stare, moving alongside the troops. The men did not respond. The mood was clear, something was going on, the march would not end with tents and rations, but a hot and bloody fight. If they did not hear it in the orders, they saw it in Jackson’s face.
He rode up to Lee, tilted back his head, was still wearing the old cap, and Lee saw the eyes, nodded sharply, did not smile.
There were few words, small nods, and suddenly Jackson reached out an arm, pointed down across the intersection, to the route they would take. Then he spurred the small horse, Little Sorrell, moved out across the road. Lee watched him move away, lowered his head, a small prayer, God be with you, General, and in front of him the great column began to move.
47. HOWARD
May 2, 1863. Midday.
HE LET the empty sleeve hang loosely, did not roll it up and pin it as most of the others did. The arm was lost at Fair Oaks, on the peninsula, and the loose sleeve reminded him constantly. He did not want to forget. And it made a good show. The Eleventh Corps did not accept his appointment with enthusiasm, and with this bit of dramatics, the loud message that he was a veteran, had made the sacrifice, he thought they might respect him a bit more.
The Eleventh