Читать книгу Sharpsburg - Kent Gramm - Страница 9
Army of Northern Virginia
ОглавлениеOrders in the Hands of God
The Book of Revelation has a scroll
of writing coming out an angel’s mouth
as if to say, “These words are from the Lord.”
Well, Lee’s orders made in duplicate sent
to all four corners of our army found
their men. Stonewall Jackson committed them
to memory, then tore the order up;
and so did Lafayette McLaws, promptly.
Old Peter Longstreet, making sure, reversed
the picture in Revelation, stuffing
the paper into his mouth—chewed it up
and spat the ugly mush back out—as good
as never issued, except in his mind.
And Harvey Hill was many things, but careless
was not one of them. Yet he was blamed.
As good a general as he was, he never
could get right with the Old Man, or Jackson,
or anybody else. His own men liked
him well enough. He thought well and fought well
but seemed meant to be alone, which is how
he spent most of the war after Sharpsburg:
independent command, outposts, defenses—
brooding on the Will of God perhaps: why,
exactly, someone dropped a copy, wrapped
around three seegars; and why, exactly,
some damnyankee soldier boys happened to
take a rest in just that field, in that green
pasture, beside some still water, and spot
those seegars with the sharp eye only Yanks
have got, and bored or thinking, actually read
the paper tied with string around the smokes—
signed by Lee’s adjutant, the signature
recognized by a Yankee officer—
and that, they say, made all the difference.
Well, I don’t know. You’d like to think nobody
beat us, short of God Himself, least of all
an army full of nothing but Yankees—
but that Potomac army was the best
of any on the planet, except for one
which modesty forbids my mentioning.
Which is why I say Never, do not ever,
underestimate a people who fight
for principle, however self-righteous,
irreligious, and murderous it is.
I am saying that the reason the Army
of the Potomac had the dumb luck
or was given our plans by the clean hand
of Providence, was that they were coming
after us in the first place. Those Yankee
boys in that meadow were on our track, if
the truth be told. They had been whipped all summer,
outgeneralled and humiliated,
but they were not defeated. We were better,
keep in mind, so let them come: we would turn
and fight them. And that is what Harvey Hill
did, his men all alone, the way he wanted,
on South Mountain, while the rest of the Army
tried to concentrate. See, many a time
our fast-marching boys would be forced to tell
a gaggle of chatty Marylanders,
“Beg pardon, we are a-tryin’ to think.”
Well then, sometimes I’ve wondered what a battle
is a concentration of—rage, hatred,
fear, nobility, the devil’s spite; or
the deep and awful, gracious will of God—
or underneath it nothing like those things
at all, just chance. But what were the chances
in that farmer’s field, that our enemies
would find our orders so they could know what
to do? What concentration of the sky
appeared in that small field? Are blades of grass
planted by God’s hand? Are God’s marching orders
issued everywhere, copies stored in stones,
instructions in the beauty of the lilies—
His strategies strung somehow in the fragile
maps of the spider’s web, his plans waiting
as plain as the day, visible to us
and invisible to us? These quiet
fields are filled with unheard thunder, called up
by a voice we don’t hear. They have been spun
of the same stuff as angel wings; so we
spot only now and then, in fields murmuring
with careless voices, orders He has written.
*
We Stand and Fight
As in your sleep you tell your legs to run
but they don’t move; they are slow and heavy
like in water, chest pressing against water—
that was the nightmare of the long, late night
of the fourteenth, and the seared-eyed, parched-mouthed
stumbling morning of the fifteenth. Hill’s men,
staggering from all day’s fighting back at
South Mountain, mortified beyond all speech
to be running from the hordes of Yankees
for the first time, and damned if not the last,
skedaddling from the damnyankee army—
and damned thankful to get out with their lives—
ordered by the Old Man toward the River:
take the roads to Sharpsburg, cross the River
there, get back into Virginia before
the Federal army crushes every piece
of our five-way scattered band of brothers.
Longstreet’s boys marched fast from north and west while
McLaws, about to be caught by Yankees
to his north while he faced south at Harper’s
Ferry, training his guns at the Federal
arsenal and garrison, wondered what
to do: escape himself, or obey orders
calling for his men to block escape from
Harper’s Ferry by the Yanks? Walker’s men
stood on the heights across the River, east
of Harper’s Ferry, and Stonewall Jackson—
childish, I admit, the names we make up
in war, but in this case a solid comfort—
Stonewall with the largest part of the corps
circled Harper’s south and west, demanding
surrender. The Yankees helped us out—we
thought. Green troops ran back into town, letting
us have the heights on all sides, and when we
opened with artillery all around,
well, the officer in charge of those twelve
thousand men thought, It’s only a question
of time; might as well surrender now—save
some lives anyhow. If he’d have held on
one more day, there would have been no fight
at Sharpsburg. But he didn’t hold on. So
Deacon Jackson in his usual way, giving
praise to God but in the end not knowing
for what, sent General Lee a little note:
“Through God’s blessing,” he wrote, Harper’s Ferry,
with its stock of cannons, small arms, wagons,
food, and Yankees was to be offered up—
surrendered presently, that is; and that
did it.
Now, when the surrender took place,
the Yankee boys all stretched to get a look
at Mighty Stonewall. They were disappointed.
“He isn’t much for looks,” one said, “but if
we’d had him, boys, we wouldn’t have been caught
in this trap.” A reporter from New York—
New York Times no less, a man of taste—wrote
that Stonewall cut a shabby figure, dressed
in coarse homespun, worn and grimy; a hat
the likes of which any Northern beggar
would refuse if offered—in short a seedy
tramp no different in appearance from those
bearded, barefoot tramps that followed him—which
would have made you wonder, wouldn’t it, whether
God weren’t on the Southern side after all?
“They glory in their shame,” the reporter
wrote, and so we did. That Harper’s Ferry
crew laughed and joked, confident as crows, boasting
as anybody would, even Deacon
Jackson in his grim and pious way: “Through
God’s blessing,” he dispatched to Lee, and isn’t
that just how the Good Lord works? You never
know what He’s doing, and just when most you’re
satisfied He’s on your side, look out, here
it comes. So Lee got Stonewall’s message, knew
that within a day Jackson and the larger
half of his army could join him: he changed
his mind about retreat, thought the campaign
in Maryland was saved, looked at the high
ground behind Antietam Creek at Sharpsburg,
and said, “We will make our stand on these hills”—
and thus fulfilled again the ancient words,
The stouthearted are spoiled, have slept their sleep;
and none of the men of might have found their hands.
At thy rebuke, O God, both chariot and horse
are cast into a dead sleep. Surely
the wrath of man shall praise Thee.
*
Dunker Church, evening
That evening I sat in the Dunker Church
alone. Way off up cemetery way
the bump, bump now and then of our guns sounded,
and fainter, deeper, Yankee crews thumped back,
their heavy shot whistling toward that graveyard.
But birds still twittered in the trees around
the meeting house. It was just a square room,
as plain as biscuits on a clean-washed plate.
Against the north wall stood a bare table,
unpainted. On three sides, plank-backed benches.
The floorboards and plain benches gave the dry
rose smell of books a quiet schoolroom gives
in deep late summer, after months of heat
and standing empty in the afternoons.
The whitewashed walls bore no adornment but
the windows. What you see out such windows
looks more sharply colored for those white walls—
the clean walls, and that pure light of heaven—
green trees through hand-washed glass clearer than water—
and then some boys came in. They hushed at first
and then broke into talk and I stood up
and shuffled out. It was all right. I’d seen
what heaven is. I’d felt it in my lungs
and smelled it. This was what the great battle
was fought for. This is what we all wanted.
The battle’s center was the Dunker Church.
Old Jack is Here
When General Lee drew up his line behind
Antietam Creek that early afternoon,
we hadn’t but about fifteen thousand
worn-out, hungry, angry men. The Old Man stood
on Cemetery Hill, his hands still bandaged
from a fall, which must have made him just mad,
and looked across the middle bridge. He saw
the Yankee army, or half of it, forty
thousand, come down the Boonsboro Road, deploy
three miles along the Creek, place artillery—
some batteries of big twenty-pounders
included—on the high ground. McClellan