Crossing (46 page)

But in the last week of November, suddenly General Jackson’s temperament sweetened tremendously. He was cheerful, making his clumsy little attempts at wit, smiling more often than anyone had ever witnessed. None of them knew what had caused this sea change in their general, for as always, he was intensely private and secretive.

Jackson had been expecting news from Anna, and finally he received a letter. It read:

On December 10, Yancy was reading a letter with much pleasure:

Yancy perused Lorena’s sketches for long minutes, a smile playing on his lips. Mrs. Hayden, smiling down at the artist as she mounted the stairs, candle in hand; Dr. Hayden, putting on his ancient slouch hat and holding his beat-up medical bag, going out the door to Chimborazo; Missy, frowning down at a steaming pot on the stove as she stirred it—these three were all obviously done from memory. But Elijah’s picture was blatantly posed. He stood looking straight at the artist, his bulky arms crossed in front of his chest. On his face was a smile so wide it seemed it would split his face. In her letter Lorena had said that he had stood as still as if it were a glass-negative photograph, even when she had told him to relax. He didn’t stop posing until she had finished all but the fine shading.

Yancy chuckled to himself.
She’s so talented, I had no idea. He looked over the sketches again and thought, It’d be great if she’d do some of herself and send them to me. I bet she never draws herself, she’s so modest … but I’m going to write her and beg her. Bet she’ll do it for me …
.

He got up and went to the little folding desk in their tent, sitting down with pencil and paper, and began:

Dear Best Friend (I’m pretty sure)
,

But that was as far as he got. Peyton, who was on courier duty that morning, came into the tent. “Hope you enjoyed your morning off, Yance,” he said, going to his storage trunk, taking out a cigar, and lighting it with pleasure. General Jackson disapproved the use of tobacco, so the aides and even the staff officers basically hid and smoked. “We’ve got an assignment.”

Yancy rose, threw on his tunic, and began buckling on his saber. “Are we riding?”

“No. That is, no courier duty. General Lee found out that there are still some holdouts in Fredericksburg, mostly old people and ladies with small children, and it’s upset him. He’s ordered all of the couriers that aren’t riding today and all of the wagons that can be spared to go into town and help them evacuate.”

When General Lee had arrived on November 20, he had been greeted with delight and relief from the inhabitants of Fredericksburg, believing that he would save their town from the Federals massing across the river. Regretfully General Lee had explained to the mayor and the city council that it was impossible to defend the little town. Federal artillery was aimed straight down at it from Stafford’s Heights, and no number of charges by any thousands of infantry would be able to dislodge such well-placed guns. It was, Lee explained, a basic tenet of warfare that even privates knew. Infantry assailing well-placed defenders on high ground was simple suicide. Sorrowfully the city leaders came to understand this and ordered an evacuation of the town.

Twenty-two couriers and aides went down into town, followed by eight sturdy supply wagons that had been emptied. Peyton and

Yancy, perhaps because their horses were the showiest—or maybe because they naturally tended to assume leadership positions—led them in.

Many of the people were already standing outside in heavy traveling clothes, some with trunks, some with their possessions simply knotted up in sheets. On Main Street through the center of town, just down from the Episcopal church, was a boardinghouse—a clean, simple three-story building painted white with neat black shutters.

As they neared it, Yancy could see that there were about a dozen people standing outside, with their trunks and cases on the walk. He reflected that he would start loading these people up first, and he rode to that side of the street.

He guided Midnight up to the hitching post directly in front of the building and scanned the little crowd. Suddenly he drew in a painfully quick sharp breath. His head and hands felt too warm. His vision narrowed until all peripherals disappeared. He stiffened and froze so suddenly that Midnight, sensing the intensity of Yancy’s agitation, grew stock-still.

She stood just to the right of the door of the boardinghouse. Her hands were in front of her, holding the handle of a small portmanteau. Her face was upturned as she watched Yancy. It was heart-shaped and she was pale and sad, and her eyes were dark and filled with tears. She was wearing a royal blue mantle, and the cape was drawn up, and soft tendrils of her light brown hair damp in the dismal mist escaped, curling around her face.

Yancy did not see this girl. He saw Lorena. She looked up at him, her soft voice catching in her throat as she told him of her sorrow, the blue mantle framing her perfect face, her eyes shimmering with tears.

I loved her … I love her! I–I’ve loved her for so long! How—how could I have forgotten my darling Lorena? How could I have seen her every day, laughed with her, talked to her, listened to her sweet voice, and not feel this great longing? How, how … What have I done? What can I do?

“Yancy,” Peyton said softly, touching his arm, “are you all right? You look like you’ve been struck by lightning.”

“What?” Yancy said vaguely. His gaze was still locked on the girl, though in his mind he still saw Lorena.

“Yancy,” Peyton said more insistently, “you’re almost as pale as a white man. Are you sick?”

With an effort, Yancy tore his gaze away from the girl, took a deep breath, and managed to focus on Peyton’s face. In spite of his joking words, Peyton looked concerned. Yancy passed a hand over his brow, realizing that one of his headaches, very rare now, was starting to threaten him with a vague ache behind his eyes. “No. No, I’m not sick. I’m—fine. I just …”

He couldn’t possibly articulate what had happened to him. Yancy, private man that he was, had never told his friends about his memory loss after he was wounded. He stole a look back at the girl. Now he could see that she didn’t really look like Lorena; this girl was tall and curvy and her features were nothing like Lorena’s. There was a very old man standing next to her, holding her arm, and Yancy realized that he must be her grandfather, perhaps, and likely he was the reason she had not attempted to evacuate.

Yancy forced himself to say firmly, “It’s okay, Peyton. Don’t worry about me. How about we start with these people here? I’ll go back and bring up one of the wagons if you’ll start organizing them.”

He turned and rode back to the line of wagons behind the mounted couriers, taking the few minutes to calm himself and to bring his chaotic thoughts to order. He had a job to do, and it was important. These people needed him to be kind and attentive and reassuring. He would have to put his shocking revelation about Lorena aside for now. Later, perhaps, he would figure out what to do.

The next night, December 11, at 2:00 a.m., Federal engineers started building bridges. The night was smothered in a heavy, wet fog, and it was bitterly cold. Though the sounds were completely recognizable, the clanks of tools and crash of timbers sounded oddly muffled on the thick air. Still, they were enough for the sharpshooters Lee had stationed along the Confederate side of the riverbank.

They fought off the bridge builders all night and all the next day. Supremely frustrated, Burnside fired 5,000 shells into Fredericksburg, reducing it to rubble. Still the sharpshooters picked off the engineers every time they showed their faces.

Burnside ordered the army to cross in pontoon boats, which they did successfully, though with some losses. The Confederate skirmishers fell back slowly, grinding the first line of Yankees down, giving every yard grudgingly. But finally they were threatened to be overwhelmed, and they withdrew to the safety of the heights.

That day, the Union soldiers had literally sacked the entire town, dragging furniture, pianos, paintings, dishes, linens, clothing, books—anything they could get their hands on—out into the streets and destroyed them. They stole every valuable they could find and every scrap of food and drink. Fires raged all over the city from the Federal shelling, and the soldiers often took torches from the houses that burned and set others on fire.

From the grim heights behind the benighted town, Robert E. Lee watched Burnside’s army. More and more of them swarmed across the Rappahanock, the pontoon boats crossing again and again, each time full, coming from the east side. Surely, Lee thought, Burnside would not do the unthinkable—attack these unassailable hills. Lee’s army was ordered in what was as close to perfect position as could ever be in war. He had the high ground, with almost no cover below in the approaches to the foot of the hills, his artillery arranged so as to inflict sure death over carefully laid zones of fire. No sane opponent would dare attack him.

Yet Burnside did just that. He was not insane, though throughout the Battle of Fredericksburg, Lee and his generals had very good cause to wonder.

On December 13, in the cold gray dawn, Burnside ordered the attack to begin. They attacked Jackson, on the Confederate right, and were beaten back with heavy casualties. They attacked Longstreet, arrayed on the invulnerable reaches of Marye’s Heights.

The Federals were routed, with heavy casualties. Again and again, brigade after brigade charged First Corps’ guns and massed musketry. The slaughter was horrendous.

Burnside ordered a final assault on the center at dusk. They fell in their hundreds crossing the open ground to those impossible heights. At dark, at last, the guns were silenced.

In one day of massacre, the Union army had sustained 12,653 casualties in killed, wounded, or missing; the Confederate army, 5,309.

On the next day, a truce was declared and the armies recovered their dead and wounded. The truce ended that afternoon, and the Federals resumed their battle formation on the field. Lee, Longstreet, and Jackson readied themselves for another attack. It did not come.

That night a violent rainstorm assaulted the area. The next morning, Lee and his lieutenants looked out over a deserted battlefield.

In the storm, the Federals had crept back across the Rappahanock River. The Battle of Fredericksburg was over.

Y
ancy, what are you doing?” Peyton asked lazily. He was sprawled on his cot, smoking a cigar, blowing smoke rings into the air.

“I don’t know,” Yancy answered distractedly. He was pacing, though not in a fast back-and-forth manner. He would sit at the camp desk, stare down at the papers spread out on it, then jump up and stride to the tent opening. He’d open the flap and stand there, staring outside for long moments. Then dropping it, he would go to stand by the camp stove, open it, jab irritably at the coals, slam it shut, and then walk a few paces back and forth. Again he would sit down at the desk and moodily peruse the papers. He had been doing variations of this routine for almost an hour.