Hell or Richmond (24 page)

NINE

May 6, five thirty a.m.
Northern flank

The smell of the coffee enchanted Gordon. No parsimony had degraded its preparation; the men who brewed it were spendthrift with the beans. The fragrance was so rich it was nigh on lascivious, enticing as the Sirens. He would have liked to stroll right over and help himself to a cup.

The problem was that the coffee belonged to Yankees.

It was an amazing, bewildering, breathtaking situation, so perfect for his army’s purposes that he could scarcely believe it. As he lay on the ground in the underbrush, peering through branches parted by a scout, the Union troops behaved as though safe in the rear: Their entrenchments were slapdash, their weapons rested by the low dirt parapets, and their leaders appeared unconcerned. The early morning firing along the corps’ line had sputtered out, and these men had not been engaged in it, anyway. The fighting was miles to the south now, a constant roar from down by the Plank Road. Here, the flank of the Army of the Potomac simply dangled, not refused by even one regiment. Blouses unbuttoned, the men and boys in blue studied their breakfasts, not the war.

He ached to attack immediately, to deliver a blow that would send Grant and Meade and their self-righteous minions reeling. But he and a scout made an insufficient force.

Still, the prospect before him was a gift, and he felt a thrill so rich it bordered on sin. His lack of sleep was nothing now, overpowered by the vision of what he knew could be done to these careless men. He foresaw his greatest moment of the war.

In the black hours of the night, his brigade had been shifted from the corps’ right to its extreme left, to guard the flank of the Army of Northern Virginia. Upon arrival at the new position, a clean place beyond the infestation of corpses, he had sent scouts out past his picket line immediately, unwilling to let weariness suborn duty, preaching to his men on the virtues of diligence. And yet, he’d been cranky himself when they awakened him, until he heard the news the scouts had brought. They swore the Yankees were nowhere to be found to the brigade’s front, that his men could have lined up and marched straight forward.

He knew what that meant, but didn’t believe it possible. His enemies, veterans now, could not have made such a blunder. But he also knew he would get no more sleep that night: The report would gnaw at him until he confirmed it.

He sent out another brace of scouts, his best men, before dawn. They returned with an identical report, adding that they had located the end of the Yankee line off to the right.

Thereafter, a cavalry patrol reported to him: There were no Union troops to the north, either, not even a cavalry screen. Nothing stood between his brigade and the road to Fredericksburg but a supply train and a crawling procession of ambulances.

He
still
had been unable to credit the news, so he set off himself with a scout who had been with him since his captaincy of the fur-capped Raccoon Roughs at the start of the war. They rode, unchallenged, for miles through the forest, and it might as well have been peacetime. Birds trilled and chirped with confidence, and though a scent of powder marred the air, the reek of death had not yet come so far.

At last, the scout led him, afoot and then on their bellies, to the vantage point where the two now lay, within pistol range of their enemies. And Gordon was ravished by the aroma of coffee.

He heard the Yankees speak of petty concerns—even complaining about the drink he envied—while he envisioned how the attack would be executed. The plan made itself. His brigade stretched a quarter mile beyond the end of the Union line. The Yankees had exposed not the mere heel of Achilles, but the leg right up to the hip. His brigade could simply advance and wheel to the right, hitting the Union flank at a right angle. Achieving surprise, his men could collapse the Union line like a squeezebox, spreading panic and pushing on at a left oblique to allow the other brigades of Early’s Division to connect with his right flank and sweep down to the Turnpike, where the rest of Ewell’s corps could finish the destruction of at least half of the Army of the Potomac.

It would be a victory greater than Chancellorsville, more lopsided than Fredericksburg, and more powerful than either in its advantage to the Confederacy. It would make him. He’d gain a division command, Lee would have to create an opening. The old man’s sense of justice would demand it, as would the public. He would sew on his second star—if the war even continued after Grant, the North’s great hope, suffered such a disaster. In any case, his reputation would be indomitable. In war he could pick his command, in peace he could choose his office.

He
would give the Yankees the licking they needed, as surely as mighty Caesar subdued the Nervii. He foresaw the blue lines breaking, dissolving, men running madly, others throwing down their rifles and raising their hands, and just enough of them making a stand to polish up the glory. His men would lay dozens of captured flags at the feet of Robert E. Lee.

No finer opportunity had presented itself in the war. For the Army of Northern Virginia. For the Confederacy. And for John B. Gordon.

*   *   *

In wonderful spirits, Gordon regaled his staff: “I almost walked on over there, grabbed that coffeepot, and drank right from the spout in a fashion most barbarous. Gentlemen, I tell you, the perfume of that beverage was pure Elysium. Surely, Helen herself was no more desirable.…”

Shaded from the blood-red sun by the trees, he squinted at his map again, wishing he had a better one. But the plan he’d committed to paper was sound, of that he was certain.

“We’ll git you your coffee, sir,” a captain from downstate said. “Missed it for breakfast, but you’ll have it rightly for dinnertime. Lord, I’d pay gold dollars to be part of this.”

“Just ain’t right,” another man said, “how Grant sent off his sutlers. Boys feel cheated.”

“Well,” Gordon said, “tonight they shall revel in plenty.”

Rather than dashing to headquarters, he had dispatched his aide to alert General Early. He wanted his plan down in writing before they conferred. A document in his hand, countersigned, would guarantee that the credit could not be purloined.

Almost finished, he straightened his back and told his warrior band, “The incautious foe shall perish as did the legions of Varus, defeated as were the mongrel hordes of Persia by Alexander.” He wasn’t sure any of them understood even the reference to Alexander, but it didn’t matter. They liked to hear him declaim as much as the soldiers did. He made them smile. And smiling subordinates would die for you in a blink.

Anyway, his mood was so fine, so ebullient, that Gordon could not restrain himself from the innocent joy of speechifying. He was a happy man, almost as delighted—almost, but not quite—as if he were returned to Fanny’s arms. Had he needed to glower like Zeus, he could not have done so. Today, even Mars wore a grin.

Hoofbeats. Coming on fast. That would be Jones, his aide, coming back from Old Jube. But there should have been other horses, too. Gordon had flattered himself that Early would be so elated by his news that the division commander would ride straight down to praise him.

It all began to collapse.

After dismounting with a hangdog look, Jones glanced around before he dared say a word. Like a child fully expecting to be spanked.

“Well?” Gordon said. “Speak, winged Mercury!”

“Sir … General Early says you’re to hold still and stay put. He says … that you must be mistaken, that General Burnside’s entire Yankee corps is out there in front of us. He says we’ll be lucky if we can hold our own flank.”

Gordon opened his mouth to speak, but, for once, he found that events had robbed him of words.

At last, he muttered, “I … we must inform General Ewell.…”

“General Ewell was present, sir. With General Early.”

“And did he share our division commander’s opinion?”

“Seemed to. Just cussing a blue streak, the way he does. About the morning’s fighting down thataway.” Jones shrugged, making himself small. “It’s settled down, but folks are feeling gruff.”

“And General Early’s tone … was so dismissive?”

“It was one of rebuke, sir. Said he didn’t care to be pestered no more. And that’s a quote.”

“Damnation.”

Gordon could see it well enough, though. Early in one of his fits of spleen and Ewell enclosed in some momentary ire, hugging his bitterness the way a child clutched a doll and deferring to Early, only half listening to Jones. Gordon served two cantankerous men who would fight like lions, then lose a battle for spite.

He turned to his staff. “Gentlemen, if the mountain comes not to Muhammad, Muhammad must go to the mountain. Major Jones, if you’ll accompany me?”

*   *   *

“
I
was out there myself,”
Gordon said. There was a plea in his voice now. “I saw it for myself. There’s nobody. Not for miles. It’s quiet as a church at midnight.”

In one of his invincible grumps, Early told him, “I don’t know where exactly you rode, Gordon, but it takes a man of high ability to miss an entire Yankee corps to his front.”

Wounded men passed on their way to the rear, scrapped by the morning’s fighting. Those capable saluted or at least nodded toward the generals on horseback, but there was a sullen face or two as well.

“Cavalry reports had Burnside on the Germanna Road last night,” Ewell put in. His wooden leg was an awkward thing to behold stretched from saddle to stirrup. “Ready to come down on the flank of this corps.”

“And that flank would be you, Gordon,” Early said.

Already straight-backed as a Quaker chair, Gordon stiffened further. Warning himself not to give his temper rein.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “it may be that the Union Ninth Corps, or part of it, was on that road last night, but I swear to you upon my honor that it isn’t there this morning. That flank is just dangling, like the hem of a stepped-on petticoat. They’re spread thin, too.”

“They’re spread thin,” Early said, “because there’s a whole goddamned corps right behind them. They’re not worried, and for good reason.” He spit an imaginary gob of tobacco. “What you saw was just a goddamned skirmish line.”

“Just listen to that.” The corps commander gestured toward the south. “Hell of a fuss down there. Sounds like Powell Hill’s fighting for his life. I can only hope that some of the commotion’s due to the arrival of General Longstreet.”

Early smirked. “Old Pete got him another case of the slows. Same as Gettysburg. Lee may think that thickheaded Dutchman’s the Lord’s own gift to this army.…”

Ewell said nothing, but clearly did not mind criticism of his rival corps commander.

“If we attacked…,” Gordon tried again. “Hit them now, when they don’t expect it … that would take the pressure off of Hill. Longstreet or no Longstreet. With their northern flank collapsing, they’d have to go on the defensive.”

Early snorted. “Until Burnside comes in on
our
flank. And drives through you and the rest of us like a steel plow through a shit-pile.”

“Burnside isn’t there. For all we know, he could be reinforcing Hancock.”

“General Gordon,” Early said, “I just told you where Burnside and his whole damned corps happen to be. You border on insolence.”

Ewell tried again to change the subject. “Bloody damn mess this morning. Got the jump on Sedgwick, beat him to the races. But we just didn’t have the punch.…” He looked at Gordon. “John, we’re spread thin as boardinghouse butter up here. This corps has no reserve. Things went wrong on your end, we couldn’t answer.”

Gordon almost said, “Jackson would’ve taken the risk in a blink.” He longed to say it, to throw it in both of their faces. But he knew he didn’t dare. Ewell and Early were hardened in their jealousy. Of the living and the dead.

“Paid the sonsofbitches in full, though,” Early put in. “They drove us back, no denying it. But, Hell, if we didn’t give them twice the punishment when the fuck-a-doodles tried to break
our
lines.”

Ewell wouldn’t be cheered. “We can’t break their line, they can’t break ours. It’s all going to be decided by Hill and Longstreet.”

“If Hill isn’t sick again.” Early snorted. “He’s dainty as Miss Sallie with the cramp.”

“But we
can
break their line,” Gordon insisted. “We could collapse it like a Chinese fan. Just let me hit them with my brigade, my one brigade. Have Hoffman and the rest of them ready to come in, if what I say proves true.”

Early narrowed his eyes. They were not the eyes of a likable man, or of one who had enjoyed much success with women. There was no streak of joy in any part of him, ever, and not much in Dick Ewell, either. Gordon was wary of such men: At the banquet of life, they squabbled over crusts.

“Gordon,” Early said coldly, “I am telling you, once and for all, that I want you to hold still. Right where you are. Your brigade will not move one inch. That’s a direct order, and General Ewell is my witness. You just stay put, boy. You’ll have plenty of chances for glory when the entire Ninth Corps comes for your behind.”

Gordon looked at Ewell in a last, forlorn hope.

It was clear from the expression on the corps commander’s face that he had no intention of overruling Early.

But Ewell did say, “General Gordon, I understand that you’re convinced of what you say. You believe we’re forgoing a grand opportunity.” He glanced southward again. “But this entire army is at risk, and we can’t add more risks on top of what General Lee’s already got to deal with. Nonetheless, I promise you that, when I can find the time, I’ll have a look at that flank of yours myself. Will that satisfy you?”

No.
No, because opportunity is fleeting in war. No, because a chance such as this may never come again.

Gordon said nothing.

The torrent of noise from Hill’s portion of the field became a deluge.

“Something going on, all right,” Early said. “And Gordon here thinks he can save us all single-handed.”

Ewell touched his fingers to his hat. “Gentlemen, I’d best see to this corps’ other flank.” He gee-upped his mount.