Stonewall Jackson and the American Civil War
covered with scrub, and the ridge, depressed at this point to a level
with the plain, afforded no position from which artillery could command
the approach to or issue from this patch of jungle. A space of seven
hundred yards along the front was thus left undefended by direct fire.
Early, who with D. H. Hill had marched in shortly after daybreak,
formed the right of the third line, Taliaferro the left. The division
of D. H. Hill, with several batteries, formed the general reserve, and
a portion of Early’s artillery was posted about half a mile in rear of
his division, in readiness, if necessary, to relieve the guns on
Prospect Hill.
Jackson’s line was two thousand six hundred yards in length, and his
infantry 30,000 strong, giving eleven rifles to the yard; but nearly
three-fourths of the army corps, the divisions of Early, Taliaferro,
and D. H. Hill, were in third line and reserve. Of his one hundred and
twenty-three guns only forty-seven were in position, but the wooded and
broken character of the ground forbade a further deployment of his
favourite arm. His left, near Deep Run, was in close touch with Hood’s
division of Longstreet’s army corps; and in advance of his right,
already protected by the Massaponax, was Stuart with two brigades and
his
horse-artillery. One Whitworth gun, a piece of great range and large
calibre, was posted on the wooded heights beyond the Massaponax,
north-east of Yerby’s House.
Jackson’s dispositions were almost identical with those which he had
adopted at the Second Manassas. His whole force was hidden in the
woods; every gun that could find room was ready for action, and the
batteries were deployed in two masses. Instead, however, of giving each
division a definite section of the line, he had handed over the whole
front to A. P. Hill. This arrangement, however, had been made before D.
H. Hill and Early came up, and with the battle imminent a change was
hazardous. In many respects, moreover, the ground he now occupied
resembled that which he had so successfully defended on August 29 and
30. There was the wood opposite the centre, affording the enemy a
covered line of approach; the open fields, pasture and stubble, on
either hand; the stream, hidden by timber and difficult of passage, on
the one flank, and Longstreet on the other. But the position at
Fredericksburg was less strong for defence than that at the Second
Manassas, for not only was Jackson’s line within three thousand yards—a
long range but not ineffective—of the heavy guns on the Stafford
Heights, but on the bare plain between the railway and the river there
was ample room for the deployment of the Federal field-batteries. At
the Second Manassas, on the other hand, the advantages of the artillery
position had been on the side of the Confederates.
Nevertheless, with the soldiers of Sharpsburg, ragged indeed and
under-fed, but eager for battle and strong in numbers, there was no
reason to dread the powerful artillery of the foe; and Jackson’s
confidence was never higher than when, accompanied by his staff, he
rode along his line of battle. He was not, however, received by his
soldiers with their usual demonstrations of enthusiastic devotion. In
honour of the day he had put on the uniform with which Stuart had
presented him; the old cadet cap, which had so often waved his men to
victory, was replaced by a head-dress resplendent with gold lace;
“Little Sorrel” had been deposed in favour of a more imposing charger;
and
the veterans failed to recognise their commander until he had galloped
past them. A Confederate artillery-man has given a graphic picture of
his appearance when the fight was at its hottest:—
“A general officer, mounted upon a superb bay horse and followed by a
single courier, rode up through our guns. Looking neither to the right
nor the left, he rode straight to the front, halted, and seemed gazing
intently on the enemy’s line of battle. The outfit before me, from top
to toe, cap, coat, top-boots, horse and furniture, were all of the new
order of things. But there was something about the man that did not
look so new after all. He appeared to be an old-time friend of all the
turmoil around him. As he had done us the honour to make an afternoon
call on the artillery, I thought it becoming in someone to say
something on the occasion. No one did, however, so, although a somewhat
bashful and weak-kneed youngster, I plucked up courage enough to
venture to remark that those big guns over the river had been knocking
us about pretty considerably during the day. He quickly turned his
head, and I knew in an instant who it was before me. The clear-cut,
chiselled features; the thin, compressed and determined lips; the calm,
steadfast eye; the countenance to command respect, and in time of war
to give the soldier that confidence he so much craves from a superior
officer, were all there. He turned his head quickly, and looking me all
over, rode up the line and away as quickly and silently as he came, his
little courier hard upon his heels; and this was my first sight of
Stonewall Jackson.”
From his own lines Jackson passed along the front, drawing the fire of
the Federal skirmishers, who were creeping forward, and proceeded to
the centre of the position, where, on the eminence which has since
borne the name of Lee’s Hill, the Commander-in-Chief, surrounded by his
generals, was giving his last instructions. It was past nine o’clock.
The sun, shining out with almost September warmth, was drawing up the
mist which hid the opposing armies; and as the dense white folds
dissolved and rolled sway, the Confederates saw the broad
plain beneath them dark with more than 80,000 foes. Of these the left
wing, commanded by Franklin, and composed of 55,000 men and 116 guns,
were moving against the Second Corps; 30,000, under Sumner, were
forming for attack on Longstreet, and from the heights of Stafford,
where the reserves were posted in dense masses, a great storm of shot
and shell burst upon the Confederate lines. “For once,” says Dabney,
“war unmasked its terrible proportions with a distinctness hitherto
unknown in the forest-clad landscapes of America, and the plain of
Fredericksburg presented a panorama that was dreadful in its grandeur.”
It was then that Longstreet, to whose sturdy heart the approach of
battle seemed always welcome, said to Jackson, “General, do not all
those multitudes of Federals frighten you?” “We shall very soon see
whether I shall not frighten them;” and with this grim reply the
commander of the Second Corps rode back to meet Franklin’s onset.
9 a.m. The Federals were already advancing. From Deep Run southward,
for more than a mile and a half, three great lines of battle,
accompanied by numerous batteries, moved steadily forward, powerful
enough, to all appearance, to bear down all opposition by sheer weight
of numbers. “On they came,” says an eye-witness, “in beautiful order,
as if on parade, their bayonets glistening in the bright sunlight; on
they came, waving their hundreds of regimental flags, which relieved
with warm bits of colouring the dull blue of the columns and the russet
tinge of the wintry landscape, while their artillery beyond the river
continued the cannonade with unabated fury over their heads, and gave a
background of white fleecy smoke, like midsummer clouds, to the
animated picture.”
And yet that vast array, so formidable of aspect, lacked that moral
force without which physical power, even in its most terrible form, is
but an idle show. Not only were the strength of the Confederate
position, the want of energy in the preliminary movements, the
insecurity of their own situation, but too apparent to the intelligence
of the regimental officers and men, but they mistrusted their
commander. Northern writers have recorded that the Army of the Potomac
never went down to battle with less alacrity than on this day at
Fredericksburg.
Nor was the order of attack of such a character as to revive the
confidence of the troops. Burnside, deluded by the skill with which
Jackson had hidden his troops into the belief that the Second Army
Corps was still at Port Royal, had instructed Franklin to seize the
ridge with a single division, and Meade’s 4,500 Pennsylvanians were
sent forward alone, while the remainder of the Grand Division, over
50,000 strong, stood halted on the plain, awaiting the result of this
hopeless manœuvre.[8] Meade advanced in three lines, each of a brigade,
with skirmishers in front and on the flank, and his progress was soon
checked. No sooner had his first line crossed the Richmond road than
the left was assailed by a well-directed and raking artillery fire.
Captain Pelham, commanding Stuart’s horse-artillery, had galloped
forward by Jackson’s orders with his two rifled guns, and, escorted by
a dismounted squadron, had come into action beyond a marshy stream
which ran through a tangled ravine on the Federal flank. So telling was
his fire that the leading brigade wavered and gave ground; and though
Meade quickly brought up his guns and placed his third brigade _en
potence_ in support, he was unable to continue his forward movement
until he had brushed away his audacious antagonist. The four
Pennsylvania batteries were reinforced by two others; but rapidly
changing his position as often as the Federal gunners found his range,
for more than half an hour Pelham defied their efforts, and for that
space of time arrested the advance of Meade’s 4,500 infantry. One of
his pieces was soon disabled; but with the remaining gun, captured from
the enemy six months before, he maintained the unequal fight until his
limbers were empty, and he received peremptory orders from Stuart to
withdraw.
On Pelham’s retirement, Franklin, bringing several batteries forward to
the Richmond road, for more than
half an hour subjected the woods before him to a heavy cannonade, in
which the guns on the Stafford Heights played a conspicuous part.
Hidden, however, by the thick timber, Jackson’s regiments lay secure,
unharmed by the tempest that crashed above them through the leafless
branches; and, reserving their fire for the hostile infantry, his guns
were silent. The general, meanwhile, according to his custom, had
walked far out into the fields to reconnoitre for himself, and luck
favoured the Confederacy on this day of battle. Lieutenant Smith was
his only companion, and a Federal sharpshooter, suddenly rising from
some tall weeds two hundred paces distant, levelled his rifle and
fired. The bullet whistled between their heads, and Jackson, turning
with a smile to his aide-de-camp, said cheerfully: “Mr. Smith, had you
not better go to the rear? They may shoot you.” Then, having
deliberately noted the enemy’s arrangements, he returned to his station
on Prospect Hill.
11.15 a.m. It was past eleven before Meade resumed his advance. Covered
by the fire of the artillery, his first line was within eight hundred
yards of Jackson’s centre, when suddenly the silent woods awoke to
life. The Confederate batteries, pushing forward from the covert, came
rapidly into action, and the flash and thunder of more than fifty guns
revealed to the astonished Federals the magnitude of the task they had
undertaken. From front and flank came the scathing fire; the
skirmishers were quickly driven in, and on the closed ranks behind
burst the full fury of the storm. Dismayed and decimated by this fierce
and unexpected onslaught, Meade’s brigades broke in disorder and fell
back to the Richmond road.
For the next hour and a half an artillery duel, in which over 400 guns
took part, raged over the whole field, and the Confederate batteries,
their position at last revealed, engaged with spirit the more numerous