Cain at Gettysburg (16 page)

Except for enduring the brief artillery bombardment, his own brigade had not been engaged and the tedium of waiting had returned. Krzyzanowski did not doubt that more Rebels were out there, some of them to his front, marching or already mustering beyond the fringes of trees, hidden by the low ridges and marshy swales. Streams cut the land, unseen until you blundered into them, as he had noted on the brigade's march north. The landscape could be an enemy in itself, good for a bad surprise.

While he believed that he sensed an enemy presence not yet visible, he knew, too, that he was cursed with an imagination common to his old countrymen, ever afflicted with visions of misfortune. Understandable, of course, given how often misfortune had been Poland's lot. But battles went to those who kept their heads. So he watched, and waited, suppressing emotion, but reasoning that there had to be a Confederate force before them, or the Rebels to the west would have withdrawn after the beating they'd taken that morning. Fond of the theater, Krzyzanowski doubted that he was attending a one-act play.

Then he saw a thing that shocked and appalled him. Right flank and forward, at least one brigade of Barlow's division had begun to move. Heading away from the rest of the Union line. Barlow's skirmishers had engaged stray Rebs on a rise far in front of their lines, but the annoyance didn't merit such a response. Yet, there it was: Barlow's entire division seemed to be shifting forward and right. Aides rode across the fields to post as guides, and batteries rattled forward, all shouts, whips, and hooves. Passing their rifles to comrades, soldiers dashed ahead to tear down fences. Regiments swept past a burning house at a run. Barlow's intent seemed to be to reanchor his defense upon that knoll.

It was madness. A fool could see it. Reduced to two divisions on the battle line, with von Steinwehr held in reserve behind the town, the Eleventh Corps was already spread thin. Straining to cover the northern approaches to the town—a fan of roads—the corps also had to hold fast to the flank of the First Corps, whose battered divisions held the western ridge. Barlow was being an ass, unhinging the entire defense and begging the Rebels to flank him. Beyond Barlow's right, there were only a few Union cavalrymen. Now the corps' center began to break open as well.

With eyes inherited from centuries of soldiers, Krzyzanowski understood Barlow's thinking, faulty though it was. It was the sort of decision a well-meaning captain might make. Possessed of more pride than judgment, and scornful of experienced German officers, Barlow was a man whose view of the universe reached no further than his own division. The bump of earth toward which his troops were advancing might have served as an artillery platform for an enemy attacking him. Taking it gave Barlow high ground of his own, so moving forward seemed the obvious thing to do. Obvious, and blind to the greater purposes of the army and the day. The movement was amateurish. Selfish.
Stupid.

The Polish colonel touched his horse with the edge of his boot heels, gently and just right. The animal understood him and didn't need the application of spurs. At a canter, the white horse carried him over the field, heading toward General Schimmelpfennig, who had taken the division after General Schurz moved up to lead the corps. Even before Krzyzanowski's men had fired a shot, there had been a plentitude of confusion, as General Howard took overall command of the field on Reynolds' death.

Krzyzanowski had been sorry to hear that Reynolds had fallen. The man had a fine reputation throughout the army. But such events were the stuff of war, and mourning must wait on battle. He was more concerned about the living Oliver O. Howard's role as the senior man present now, although the Virgin alone knew where he was. He had ridden past perhaps an hour before, and that was the last the Eleventh Corps had seen of him. Was he back on the graveyard hill behind the town? Where he might not see Barlow's folly? Did the man, in fact, command anything?

From Krzyzanowski's sister brigade, Colonel von Amsberg had also ridden up to confer with Schimmelpfennig. With at least a regiment already engaged, von Amsberg gleamed with sweat, but his uniform remained in perfect order. The two were speaking German, hotly, as Krzyzanowski joined them.

“Der verdammte Arschloch!”
Schimmelpfennig bellowed.
“Dieser Englische Scheisskerl! Gassen laufen soll er! Was macht der Idiot?”

The general was not happy with his fellow division commander.

“We're in the shit now,” von Amsberg told Krzyzanowski. “That supercilious horse's ass is exposing both his flanks. He's breaking the whole damned line.” His horse bucked slightly and von Amsberg tightened his grip on the reins. “This is going to be one bloody mess.”

As Barlow's lead regiments reached their forward positions, small-arms fire erupted on the far right.

“Move your brigade up to where you can support the blasted fool, if he needs help,” Schimmelpfennig barked at Krzyzanowski. “Then wait for my order.”

*   *   *

Lee sat astride his horse, watching the battle dwindle toward failure. Those people still held the formidable ridge that stretched across his front, and flanking efforts had failed. He could not see beyond the high ground where the blue line had been refused, but reports were not encouraging. It was a bad day that cried out for redemption.

Not one of the staff officers present said a word to him and they kept a broad silence even among themselves, ears cocked to the ebb and flow of war. Lee had masked his anger as best he could, commanding himself to keep his voice even and his facial features placid. But the men who knew him felt his cutting mood.

He was furious with Harry Heth, who had behaved impetuously, as a mere captain hungry for glory. No matter the man's excuses and explanations, the fact was that Heth had ignored his orders not to bring on an engagement. When Lee had arrived on the ridge, only to find that two brigades had been shattered, his human impulse had been to admonish Heth severely. But a commanding general had to be more than human. And Harry was a good man, gallant and brave, a wellborn Virginian. It would not have done to upbraid him in front of others.

Still, it had been a struggle to show restraint. Oblivious to Lee's mood, Heth had pestered him for permission to send in his uncommitted brigades, those of Pettigrew and Brockenbrough. Heth was anxious to redeem himself after the morning's debacle. But the army did not exist for personal use. When Hill failed to deny Heth's request himself, Lee had told Heth directly that there would be no attack until he knew more of the enemy.

Hovering in the background, young Pettigrew had looked crushed when Lee spurned the proposed attack. Although not a Virginian, the man had good bloodlines and behaved with proper form. Pettigrew led the army's largest brigade, and Lee expected him to acquit himself handsomely when the time came.

But the time had not yet come.

The morning's bleak defeat bit into Lee. His temper flared as he thought about it anew. He had arrived on the ridge only after passing a widening stream of wounded, and those men had been dejected, not defiant. Some wounded men would always claim the worst had befallen the army, of course, but when the day ran well, others capable of speech would call out as he passed that the Yankees were “a-running,” or that “we're pushin' 'em, General Lee, we'll whip 'em for you.” But those men walking rearward in the rising heat had whipped no one. They had been whipped themselves.

It rankled.

Still, the urge to regain the advantage was insufficient reason to stoop to folly. Lee had to be patient for an impatient army, hard though it was. Fresh hope had flared, as word came from Rodes and Ewell that they were approaching from the north, with Early near. But Rodes' initial assault, visible at a distance through the smoke, seemed to have been blunted.

It was not a good day.

And where on earth was Stuart? Lee had never needed his eyes and ears as much as he felt the need now. Where could the fellow be? Had he lost his senses? Was Longstreet right that the man had grown vanity-addled, seeking an exploit to cancel Brandy Station? Never had a trusted officer let him down so badly, with the potential for such consequences for the army.

It was vital, of course, to conceal the depth of his concern from those about him. The army must not know how blind he felt, but must see him in full confidence.

Lee stiffened his perfect posture in the saddle.

He wished to confer with Hill, but could not spot the man now. If an opportunity did arise to reverse the day's defeat, Hill must be ready to seize it. Lee wished to make clear, though, that nothing more would be done without his order. There had been blunders enough. The army's reputation must not be further tarnished, those people allowed no additional cause for confidence.

A captain approached on foot, bearing items wrapped in cheesecloth. He was a new man on the staff and, to Lee's dismay, the fellow's name had fled him.

“Will you take some refreshment, General Lee?” The captain looked up expectantly.

Lee waved him away. “This is not the time.” He caught another officer signaling the captain to take himself off. Which the fellow soon did.

What was Rodes about up there? Was it going to be another piecemeal slaughter on the far end of the ridge? Couldn't Ewell control his corps? Was there a single capable general on the field? It burned in Lee that, according to reports, General Archer had gotten himself captured.
That
would be a fair prize for those people. Better had Archer died a worthy death.

Where had Hill gotten to? He wanted to speak with Hill.

Coat patched charcoal with sweat, Harry Heth rode up. He wore a hat clearly too large for him, padded out with rags or the like, and Lee felt compelled to speak of it. Generals could not afford to appear as buffoons.

But that, too, must wait. For a private moment.

Gasping, as if his horse had ridden him, Heth said, “Rodes is heavily engaged, sir. Had I better not attack?”

“No, General Heth,” Lee told him. “Must I repeat that I am unwilling to bring on a general engagement today?”

“But Rodes, sir? His attack will fail if he goes unsupported.”

Lee's demeanor turned chilly enough to freeze the afternoon. His expression did not alter, although his color warmed. In a steadied voice, he said, “I have given you my decision, General Heth. Longstreet is not up. For all we know, those people may have their entire army present. Good day, sir.”

Hangdog, Heth took himself off.

Better, Lee consoled himself, to have men too enthused about giving battle than men who would hold back. Yet, so much had been lost in so few months. Men meant to command divisions had risen to lead corps because they were the best of those who remained. Others, such as Harry Heth, who led brigades to splendid effect, were elevated to fill divisional commands before they were fully ready. Colonels who had not yet completed the school of the regiment had to take brigades into battle. And Jackson was gone, the greatest loss of all.

Longstreet was strong and dependable, but he did not see that the army's strength was its valor, the shock of its attack. The Army of Northern Virginia,
his
army, could not fight too often or too long on the defensive. It must strike, impressing its will upon those people. It was a sword, not a shield.

Yes, blood would be spilled in pressed attacks. Did Longstreet think him such a fool as not to understand that? Lee harked back to Mexico, to the bloodshed at Molino del Rey. Men had drawn the wrong lesson, too focused on that engagement's casualties and unable to grasp its subsequent effects. What Lee had noted was how those hours of ferocity had eased the assault on Chapultepec and the battle for the causeways. That sacrifice of American lives made the Mexicans lose heart.

The cost of stunning an enemy was immediate, but the dividends endured. Why did Longstreet refuse to understand that?

The best of the men left to Lee, Longstreet had sulked of late. So determined was he to force Meade to attack first that Lee was weary of hearing it. Yes, if the situation was propitious, Lee would take the defensive. But if those people seemed likelier to yield to a sharp attack pressed home, he would deliver it. Longstreet made too high an ideal of Fredericksburg. Not every one of those people would be as inept as Burnside. Meade would not make such errors.

The trick to beating George Meade, Lee judged, would be to hit him very hard and so swiftly that the need to make quick decisions would overwhelm him. Meade would be attentive to details, so he would have to suffer an avalanche of them on the field of battle. An engineer understood an engineer, after all. He needed to make Meade think too much and do too little when every moment mattered. Unbalance him, then keep him off balance. Hit him hard, and keep hitting. Prevent him from gripping the situation and turning it. That would be the way to defeat George Meade.

And when you beat the man, you beat the army.

For all that, their first encounter had not been promising, thanks to Heth's blunders. While Hill, incommoded, had lingered in the rear. It scorched Lee's pride to recall how he had indulged them. An excursion for shoes, indeed. A lark and a folly.…

Yet, those fateful shoes had mattered enough to the men who had marched off to get them. What was
his
merit, finally, as a general at the head of a shoeless army? If he could not clothe these men who did all he bid them? After all, the Duke of Marlborough's victories had been those of a quartermaster. Still a mere John Churchill, he had seen to it that new shoes awaited his soldiers along his line of march. But Lee had men who had gone without shoes for months. At Chancellorsville, he had hoped for a Blenheim, but ended with a gory Malplaquet.

Each time Lee visited Richmond, he heard the Confederacy creak a bit more loudly. Despite the resolute parties—which he declined to visit, pleading duty—he detected a growing hollowness as well. The mistress of the grandest house no longer served the delicacies that, last year, had been essential, and mourning garments robbed the streets of color. For his part, President Davis grew unreasonable … although Lee would never have breathed it to any man.