'The snow is on the grass again…'
His wife, Mary, loved that one; so had his daughter Annie, the memory of her stabbing his heart.
' 'Us dust to dust beneath the sod;
'But there, up there, 'tis heart to heart'
Dear Annie, to think of her thus, returning to dust His youngest daughter dead at twenty-three the winter before. She had gone off to North Carolina to marry, and now she was gone forever.
Only last week a major from a North Carolina regiment had come to his tent nervous, respectful. He had been home recovering from wounds and just wanted to say that Annie was buried in the churchyard of his village, that the grave was well tended, fresh flowers placed upon it by the local women. The officer had actually choked back tears as he spoke, then saluted as he retired. He thanked the major, closed his tent flap, and silently wept a rare luxury, to be alone for a few minutes to cry for a lost child before others came, looking for orders, for advice, looking for a commander who could not be seen to weep.
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the letter he had been writing to his wife, Mary, until yet again command had interfered, Longstreet arriving with his spy. Though it was dark, he knew the letter by heart already, having labored over it trying to find just the right tone to still her fears.
My dearest wife,
I take pen in hand praying that this missive finds yon well, and that the protection of our blessed Savior rest upon you.
I write to you this evening with news which we must bear calmly. As you know from my last letter our son Rooney was wounded on June 8th in the action at Brandy Station. As I assured you then his injury was not serious; neither bone nor artery was damaged. I stayed with him throughout that night before leaving to embark upon this campaign the following morning.
I was just informed this day, however, that Rooney was taken prisoner last week. Captured in the house where he had been resting and has been sent to Fortress Monroe. Thankfully our young Robert, who was tending to him, was able to escape capture and is safely back in our lines.
My dear wife, do not be overly concerned. Though this bitter and terrible struggle has divided our country, it has not severed all bonds of friendship between old comrades nor has it stilled all sentiments of Christian charity. I am certain that friends of old on the other side, upon hearing of our son's plight, will come to his aid and insure his well being and restoration to health.
' Though I can ask no special favors, I am certain that our beloved son will soon be listed for exchange and returned safely to our loving embrace.
I know that your prayers are joined with mine for the protection of our son. That we pray, as well, that this campaign shall bring an ending to this bitter conflict.
He folded the letter up, looking back across the valley. No father should be asked to fight a battle into which his own sons must be sent When first he had seen them carrying Rooney back from the fight, features pale, thigh slashed open, he had feared the worst and nearly lost his composure. And though he was certain that friends would indeed intervene to ensure Rooney's protection, nevertheless there were some who might do him harm. It was obvious that the cavalry raid to capture Rooney had been launched for no other reason than to seize his son.
So far we've managed to keep the deeper darkness at bay, he thought. In most civil wars Rooney would have been hanged, if for no other reason than to bring me pain. We've fought so far with some degree of chivalry, the memories of old comradeship tempering the fury, but for how much longer can we do that? It has to end soon. It has to end; otherwise the rift will become too deep. It has to end as well, he realized, because if not, we will surely lose.
The song 'Lorena' ended; a harmonica struck up a jig; some of the men began dancing, the firelight casting cavorting shadows across the pasture.
He wished he could give them another week, better yet two weeks, of this easy campaigning, living off the rich land, fattening up, getting ready for what lay ahead, but Longstreet and his actor had changed all that.
But while he would have preferred another week, he knew, as well, that he was not up here for a leisurely march; ultimately he was here to fight, and this time to fight a battle that would end the war.
That was the plan he had laid out before President Davis a little more than a month ago. It started when Secretary of War Seddon suggested that part of Longstreet's corps be detached and sent west to relieve the besieged city of Vicksburg on the Mississippi. He had gone down to Richmond to meet with President Davis and the cabinet to present a counterproposal to win the war through a decisive victory in the East.
He tried to remember this Grant who was emerging so rapidly as the Union leader in the West and who had been so aggressive in besieging Vicksburg. So many other faces he could recall: comrades of old from Mexico; from the west plains of Texas; from the parade ground at West Point; John Reynolds, who was Commandant of Cadets at the Academy; Winfield Hancock; Fitz-John Porter, his old aide-de-camp, all now stood against him-and yet he could fondly remember their voices, their laughter, their friendship.
Many of the younger ones had been cadets at the Point when he was superintendent, a memory that burned hard when he read the casualty lists in the Northern papers and saw more than one name from those days, a boy who had come to a Sunday, tea at his home, or one whom he had gently chided for a minor infraction and was now dead, in effect killed by him.-
Grant, though, was someone he did not know enough to understand and therefore could not second-guess; and if Grant should win at Vicksburg, he knew they'd bring him east. No, it had to end before then.
He had argued against reacting directly to Grant at Vicksburg. By the time they deployed Longstreet west, the fight might very well be over. Besides, that would leave him with less than fifty thousand men, and surely the Army of the Potomac would come swinging in again, especially if they knew that a third of his forces were gone.
No, take the war into the North. Get into the rich farmlands of Pennsylvania to feed his troops, threaten a state capital, perhaps even take it. That would bring the Army of the Potomac out into the open. We then pick the place, lure them in, and finish it
Up here in Pennsylvania there would be no falling back; it would be a fight in the open, a chance for an Austerlitz, a Waterloo, the two great battles taught at the Point as classic examples of decisive victory. Do that and end it. Such a victory would leave Washington open for the taking, could perhaps even swing England and France to our side and end the war before winter.
Such a thing, however, required the crucial first step, another slaughtering match with the Army of the Potomac. He knew it would be no easy fight; it would mean yet more losses, ten, maybe twenty thousand men to do it, and as he contemplated that butchering he looked back to the fire, to the singing and dancing and laughing.
They believe in me.
Legend can become a trap if you believe it yourself. Napoleon had six years to contemplate that fact as he rotted on Saint Helena. Santa Anna learned it beneath the walls of Chapultepec. Might I now learn it here?
He stretched, sighing, hands resting lightly on his knees.
The men are ready… but am I?
'Sir, we'll storm title gates of hell for you this day,' one of his regimental commanders had cried as they'd charged into the inferno at Chancellorsville.
The impious words haunted him. It had not been a patriotic cry of resolve, a willingness to die for Virginia, or this nation called the Confederacy, or even in defense of home. No, it had become personal with this army; these men would fight and die for him.
He could see it in their eyes: the reverent gazes, the way men-even the officers-removed their hats, spoke with lowered voices, fell silent and stared at his approach. He looked back to the men dancing around the fire. They had seen him pass, falling silent, and when they realized he wished to be alone had reverently stood back. Even now, as they danced, more than one stood at the edge of the crowd looking in his direction.
I must be as fit as they are, and of late I have not been. That realization hit with a sharp intensity.
The death of Jackson and the decision to reorganize the army, he sensed, were the core of the problem. He had not felt comfortable with entrusting half the army to a new corps commander and instead had taken Jackson's command and split it into two new corps.
Dick Ewell, one of Jackson's veterans, out of action since losing a leg at Second Manassas, now had Second Corps. He thought, at first, that the choice was a good one. Yet of late he wondered. Sometimes when a man lost
