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IV
. Marye's Heights
After a quick lunch we picked
up where we left off, Lee Drive ambling the length
of the park’s finger of land between the two
December 13th fronts . . . Having pursued a leisurely
pace along the southern front, we’d come to
realize that two entirely separate battles had taken
place here at Fredericksburg. Franklin’s and
the Marye’s Heights assaults began at roughly
the same time, but were not in conjunction –
neither providing any real support for the other.
Both were fought over divergent topography, under
dissimilar offensive / defensive circumstances and
with inconsistent results. Of course, the results
as a whole would be devastating to the Union. It
may have been his military training showing through
– or just common sense – but Dad could
not stop railing on the U.S. leadership here at
Fredericksburg as we made our way towards Marye’s
Heights, already knowing of the repugnant loss of
life that had occurred there. It would be an on-again-off-again
rant I remember spilling over into breakfast the
next day. And I couldn’t have agreed with
him more . . . Lee Drive follows the Military Road
north towards the town, the preserved tracts here
often little more than roadside easements. Aside
from artillery, this section of the C.S. line was
held in reserve – Hood’s and Pickett’s
divisions of Longstreet’s I Corps. We drove
to Howison’s Hill. At 200 feet it held a commanding
frontal and cross-fire on the Union batteries atop
Stafford Heights and the assaults before Marye’s
Heights, respectively. A number of big siege guns
were hauled up from Richmond and placed within Fredericksburg’s
C.S. defenses. One of them was placed on Howison’s
behind a big crescent-shaped emplacement that is
still well preserved. Next was Lee’s Hill,
the highest point on the C.S. line and a natural
place for the commander’s HQ. It is a short
steep walk up along a forested rise. Prior to the
battle, C.S. “Pioneers” cleared all
of the timber from these slopes to open up fields-of-fire
for their artillery. In doing so, it provided Lee
with an unobstructed view for miles in every direction.
The “Pioneers” were the equivalent of
the Confederate engineer corps. It was not a formal
designation and its muscle was off-duty infantry.
They built roads, repaired bridges, perfected entrenchments
– performed all the skilled labor that the
dedicated U.S. engineers were specifically trained
to tackle. An informative interpretive sign details
the Pioneers’ contributions in the shelter
on Lee’s Hill. By today’s standards
their work seems primitive. But the ability to forget
history for just a moment is an essential tool in
getting closer to understanding the Civil War; forget
technological advancement for a moment and think
on what in 1862 were highly advanced technical methods.
The best engineering was the work of brilliant minds.
As you may have guessed, I had to drag Dad away
. . . We completed a full circle on our tour in
taking a right off the NMP road onto Lafayette Blvd,
then making the short jog to the Visitor’s
Center and “Sunken Road” before Marye’s
Heights. This is the only NMP unit that exists in
the actual township. It is also the sector for which
this battle is infamously known. This was the final
stop on our tour, an area that witnessed the final
measure of devotion én masse.
The "Sunken Road" |
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Thomas R. R. Cobb Memorial |
On Burnside’s orders,
Sumner moved his troops into position for assault.
Though Burnside had laid his fervent hope with Franklin
to the south, he also sought to break through the
Confederate defenses nearest the town. Again, puncturing
Lee’s defenses at any point could ripple a
reeling “skedaddle” along the whole
C.S. line and open a route south towards Richmond.
But the line of defense west of town was unlike
anything Meade or Gibbons’ men would encounter
. . . 600 yards beyond Fredericksburg rose Marye’s
Heights – not daunting, but elevated enough
to allow complete command of the mainly open fields
before it. Longstreet’s artillery had already
shown Sumner’s G.D. what it was capable of
during the river crossings. Now those troops were
heading directly into its teeth; and the brass barrels
atop the Heights – which had been lobbing
shells into the town since 10 a.m. – must
have seemed like snarling dogs champing at the bit.
Adding to this formidability was a road that ran
along the base of the Heights. As was common of
the day, years of wagon traffic had eroded the lane
down to where it was well below ground-level. This
stretch was four to five feet deep. Further, the
Sunken Road was bounded by a stonewall. Facing town,
it had been reinforced so that it would not topple.
The fiery states’ rights activist, Thomas
Cobb, and his Georgian brigade were now positioned
in the Sunken Road, having dug the roadside even
deeper and throwing additional earth as reinforcement
to the opposite side of the stonewall. As noted
in the Time-Life volume, “it was a
nearly perfect defensive position.”(19)
Against this emplacement – the juggernaut
of Lee’s entire line – Burnside would
hurl the Army of the Potomac’s hope
for victory. And so did the grand tragedy come off.
* * *
Though documented here in
succession, both Franklin’s and the assaults
on Marye’s Heights commenced at roughly the
same time: 11 a.m. Hanover Street runs the same
route today that it did in 1862. This would be one
of the main arteries for the U.S. attackers. As
mentioned, the area over which the attack occurred
was mostly clear. But it contained numerous obstacles
that would interfere with the orderly blue formations.
Depending on the route of attack, Union troops would
have to cross a deep overflow canal ditch (now Kenmore
Avenue), an unfinished railroad cut, the outbuildings
and fences of the few residents in the area (which
would also provide a little cover) and a major tangle
in the large running fence that ringed a fairgrounds
immediately in front of the Sunken Road. As a whole,
this sector is an oblong trapezoid marked today
by the Sunken Road to the west, Hanover Street to
the north, Kenmore Avenue to the east / northeast,
and the RF&P to the south / running southwest.
Inside this now commercial / residential “trapezoid,”
about a 1/4 mile square, Sumner & Hooker’s
Grand Divisions would absorb over 7,000 casualties
in a single horrific afternoon.
The U.S. II Corps division of William H. French
was given the “honor” of leading the
initial assault. The signal honor of lining up in
the front ranks of French’s three brigades
was awarded to Kimball’s brigade. Marching
out Princess Anne Street from their more than likely
comfortable bivouac, given the rampant pillage and
plunder of the previous night, Kimball’s men
turned right on Hanover and marched west from town.
The Washington Artillery, a crack artillery outfit
from New Orleans (in the heart of Jackson Square
rests a memorial in their honor), was positioned
on Marye’s Heights along either side of the
mansion. As soon as Kimball’s advance was
clear, the Louisianans opened up. Their shells tore
into Kimball’s men, who were now confronted
with improvising crossings at the canal ditch under
intense fire. In single file lines over hastily
thrown boards, or splashing through the frigid waist-deep
water, they pushed across – taking casualties
in demoralizing and gruesome ways. Shells ripped
heads from bodies. Torsos were rent through by direct
hits that showered those behind in a repellent spray
of blood, tissue and bone. A soldier in Kimball’s
14th Indiana recalled, “it seemed we were
moving in the crater of a volcano.”(20)
The brigade regrouped in the fields past the ditch
and made their push for the stonewall . . . This
area between Hanover and Lafayette is now residential
blocks. No vestige of the fields or fairgrounds
remains. Just north of the fairgrounds stood the
Stratton House. In 1862, the house was amongst open
fields. It still stands today in what would be your
average neighborhood – again, if it didn’t
stand on top of a Civil War killing field. Someone
out for a casual walk might have no idea. It is
quite peaceful . . . Busting through the fences
pinched, split and degraded organization amongst
Kimball’s four-regiment front. But this was
minor compared to what Cobb’s anxious, yet
patient riflemen were set to unleash. At about 200
yards, the Georgians in the Sunken Road let loose.
The fusillade was devastating. It blistered the
front ranks and ground up the supporting columns.
Though some ventured beyond, Kimball’s assault
as a whole made it only as far as the Stratton House
at the fairgrounds’ halfway point. Private
William Kepler, who advanced as a skirmisher, wrote:
“Wounded men fall upon wounded; the dead upon
the mangled; the baptism of fire adds more wounds
and brings even death to helpless ones; as we look
back the field seems covered with mortals in agony.”(21)
A 1/4 of the brigade, including Kimball himself,
was shot down in less than half an hour. And this
was only the first wave of the first of seven division-strength
assaults launched that afternoon. Around noon, French
ordered Andrew’s and Palmer’s brigades
forward. They were met with the same ferocious killing
power. Cobb had been reinforced with additional
regiments from North Carolina. The Confederates
now stood ranks deep in the Sunken Road and revolved
their positions at the stonewall firing-line so
that no less than a continuous murderous sheet of
lead poured out on the attackers. A Private Cory
in Andrews’s advance noted, we were “almost
blown off our feet.”(22)
French’s assault was bled to a halt. The survivors
slunk into a swale that ran across the fairgrounds
and before the Stratton House (what’s left
of this depression is still visible in front of
modern-day Littlepage Road). U.S. artillery was
called in to soften the C.S. positions. But it was
ineffectual, outside of a piece of errant shrapnel
bounding up and slicing through Thomas Cobb’s
thigh and leg, which severed the femoral artery
– a mortal wound . . . The U.S. II Corps division
of Winfield Scott Hancock was ordered to advance.
If
you can sense a brutal pattern in the making, you’re
correct. And as Dad & I walked along the “reconstructed”
section of the Sunken Road’s stonewall, we
reverted to our earlier discussion on the sense
of duty that came most naturally to the Civil War
rank and file – how these men often made their
“peace” and then marched forward to
certain death. When I think of Fredericksburg I
recall Charles Frazier’s fictional work “Cold
Mountain,” (Atlantic Monthly Press, 1997)
and his character Inman who – accurate as
a North Carolinian behind the stonewall –
began to hate the Yanks not so much for their being
the enemy, but more for their “clodpated
determination to die.”(23)
The Sunken Road, now at peace and lined of old locusts,
is a stark walk. From along this country lane, mass
death originated. It is silencing.
"Brompton" on Marye's Heights |
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The original "stonewall" |
Winfield Scott Hancock was a
regular army officer in the mold of George Meade.
He was hard-driving, expected a lot and usually received
it. He would cement his reputation in defending “the
angle” and crushing Pickett’s Charge at
Gettysburg. But at Fredericksburg, his men were on
the attack – and their task was more than Robert
E. Lee would ask of his men the following summer.
Hancock’s three brigades marched out and assembled
where the town limits traipsed off south of the canal
ditch. The brigades of Colonel Samuel Zook, Meagher
(the storied “Irish Brigade”), and Caldwell
were lined up and sent forward in that order. With
the Confederate artillery already hammering away,
Zook’s men went forward and into the grim assessment
the colonel had made a few days earlier. The fairgrounds
fencing would prove to be an enemy of the Union assaults
all afternoon, breaking them into piecemeal bands
that were ground down by the impregnable hail of bullets
and canister that exploded from the C.S. line. And
so did the Southern rifles behind the stonewall erupt
in the face of Zook’s disorganized men, beating
them down in the fairgrounds. A North Carolinian would
later write, “They were brave men and it looked
like a pity to kill them.”(24)
But kill them they did, by the score. As Frank O’Reilly
would note, “The Confederates mauled the silently
approaching mass of bluecoats”(25)
. . . Probably the most documented charge of this
slaughter was that of the legendary “Irish Brigade.”
In the impassioned moments before they stepped off,
commander Thomas Meagher handed out green sprigs of
boxwood to his troops as a reminder of their heritage,
empowering them with the blessings of their God, their
cause, and the expectation to do their duty. With
the green sprigs tucked proudly in the bands of their
kepis, Meagher’s men marched forward and were
mowed down – a regiment at a time. An officer
would claim of his fellow Irishmen, “they were
not there to fight – only to die”(26)
. . . There are numerous claims on the unit that drove
closest to the stonewall, a gruesome honor / epitaph
in one. Inside the adrenaline and cacophonic mayhem
on the field that day it seems impossible to know
for sure, but is said that the “Irish Brigade”
advanced furthest. No column drove any closer than
40 yards of the stonewall. Not a single bluecoat made
it to the C.S. line . . . Hancock’s final brigade
– Caldwell’s – followed directly
behind Meagher’s. Their results in assailing
the Sunken Road were no different. The 5th New Hampshire
advanced furthest before they too were blown back
into the swelling ranks of those still living and
huddling in the swale, behind torn-down fencing, or
the Stratton House itself. Two divisions had been
destroyed without making a dent in the combined Georgian,
Carolinian and Louisianan Confederate line posted
to defend Marye’s Heights. Hancock’s division
would suffer over 2,000 casualties alone, absorbing
in the process one of the highest divisional losses
– in terms of percentage of those engaged –
of the entire war. Angry and heartbroken, Darius Couch,
commander of the U.S. II Corps, was overheard yelling,
“See how our men, our poor boys are falling!”(27)
He would later note of the slaughter before the Sunken
Road, “the men were asked to conquer an impossibility.”(28)
But unlike the interpretation on Franklin’s
front, Burnside’s orders on this front were
explicit: continue the attacks. And so, Couch
ordered his final division forward.
Continuing down the route of the Sunken Road, Dad
& I passed by the small granite block in memory
of Thomas Cobb – marking the spot behind the
Stephens House where he was struck. The Stephens and
Innis House were the only structures incorporated
into the Sunken Road line. Both are small farmhouses
of the day restored to original appearance. Martha
Stephens was seen during the battle courageously issuing
aid to wounded Southerners. The Innis House still
bears battle scars, now 141 years old. At the end
of the Sunken Road stands the only original section
of the stonewall. The view from behind it is still
“sunken,” as it was during the battle.
Standing here provides ample appreciation of the strength
of the position: it’s impregnable. Before
it today stands a short field followed by apartments
and homes. This is true of the entire walk down the
Sunken Road. Residential property covers all of the
ground where the Union assaults were beaten down and
mauled. The town blends seamlessly – casually
– with the park.
Assaults on Marye's
Heights
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Oliver
Otis Howard, commander of Couch’s final U.S.
II Corps division, marched his men out of the city
near 1:30 p.m. It was about this time that Meade’s
assault was punching through Gregg’s brigade
and pouring over the C.S. Military Road. But on the
northern front – wholly separated as it was
from what was occurring to the south – even
a brief glimmer of victory was reserved only for the
unrealistic. And yet this trait seemed to hold Burnside
in its grasp all that afternoon and into the next
day – Dad’s condemnation following
suit . . . And as the assaults continued, their
bloody results became more and more predictable. Howard’s
men, once clear of the canal ditch, lined up straddling
Hanover Street and moved forward. Continual reinforcements
from Ransom’s North Carolinian and Kershaw’s
South Carolinian brigades’ had poured into the
C.S. line behind the stonewall. Joseph Kershaw, now
in command with the mortal wounding of Cobb, presided
over what was likely the strongest infantry position
of the war. And his rifles, along with the belching
fury of the Washington Artillery from the Heights,
leveled the approaching masses of Howard’s men.
Both Owen’s and Hall’s brigades of Howard’s
division were massacred in short order. Howard’s
final brigade moved up in support only, wisely opting
against a third push.
Around 2 p.m., Union leaders in the field began to
send back urgent demands for reinforcements in order
to stave off a possible Confederate counter. Units
of Willcox’s U.S. IX Corps, Sumner’s G.D.,
were ordered over the middle crossing at the wharves.
Sturgis’ division came across first. They marched
out past the train depot and were faced west towards
the canal ditch. The left flank of the advanced U.S.
line – then jumbled, prone and bleeding in the
swale – lay unsupported and vulnerable. Ferraro’s
IX Corps brigade was the first thrown forward into
the fray. They moved out in the area of modern-day
Lafayette Boulevard and into the maelstrom. Despite
a spirited advance, they were raked with fire once
within range. The Confederates in the Sunken Road
had begun to wait, goading each advance to come closer
than the last before they would open up. And when
they did, their fire was a wall of whistling death.
Nothing could stand it. Ferraro’s men were chewed
up like those before. They faltered in confusion and
frustration within the fairgrounds, dropping down
within the writhing remnants of those broken before
them. A soldier in Ferraro’s advance later recalled
of the fairgrounds: men “lay weltering in their
gore.”(29)
The U.S. troops – dangerously exposed, despite
the swale – had begun to create breastworks
by stacking their own dead comrades. This was as
brutal a day as our country’s history has ever
known . . . Nagle’s brigade of Sturgis’
division followed Ferraro’s men on their left
in order to extend the line. Their advance proceeded
up the unfinished railroad cut, a westbound spur off
of the RF&P. But the advance came under precise
C.S. artillery fire within the manmade ravine and
was decimated. The survivors came up on the very left
of the fairgrounds and charged the ground now occupied
by the Visitor’s Center. Again, the claim is
made that the 9th New Hampshire advanced further than
any other unit that day in rushing the stonewall.
Regardless, the 9th NH and the rest of the assaulting
column were ground down and thrown back. Another attack
had been defeated . . . Burnside didn’t hesitate
in calling up Hooker’s Grand Division.
Littlepage & Mercer, the swale runs parallel
to Littlepage |
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The Stratton House |
Dad
& I walked the block in front of the original
stonewall, starting up Mercer through the break it
made in the stonewall. An 1860s-era road, this was
an attack avenue for the U.S. II Corps. The Stratton
House stands at its corner with Littlepage Road. Littlepage,
running in parallel with the stonewall, marks the
furthest the Union attacks progressed as a whole –
a full 500 feet from the Sunken Road. Our walk north
on Littlepage was accompanied by the sound of a lawn
mower and a set of residents on their front porch-swing.
Passing a montesori school, we turned on Kirkland
and back towards the preserved stonewall. A dog barked
at us as we passed, wagging his tail. In all, the
short jaunt was about as neighborhood-friendly as
could be. Normally, I would fume over the destruction
/ development of “core battlefield” –
and there is no more core battlefield land in the
country than this block in west Fredericksburg. And
yet, as we walked up Kirkland I thought that –
given what happened here – allowing this neighborhood
to build up and over “core” land was maybe
not such a bad idea. Honor the fallen elsewhere and
allow time to erase the physical vestige of this inexcusable
tragedy. I’d never felt that way about even
an acre of Civil War battlefield before: that it
was just better left forgotten.
* * *
It was mid-afternoon: Saturday,
December 13, 1862. Meade and Gibbon’s men had
been driven back, as had the courageous yet reckless
counterattack by Atkinson’s Georgians. A minor
fight developed between the north and south front
along a stream that split the two called “Deep
Run.” A Union recon was driven back by Confederates
who came on in force. They were halted in turn by
U.S. reinforcements. This stabilized the tenuous centre
of each armies’ lines. The only heavy fighting
for the remainder of the day would occur in front
of the Sunken Road . . . Center Grand Division commander,
Joseph Hooker, saw for himself what was occurring
before the stonewall, Burnside – his HQ in the
Phillips House on the opposite bank of the Rappahannock
– being well removed from the futile bloodshed.
Hooker, who would boil into open and bitter insubordination
following the battle – his eyes fixed on Burnside’s
command – reluctantly ordered forward the fifth
assault of the day: Griffin’s division of Butterfield’s
U.S. V Corps. The time was 3:30 p.m. Griffin’s
first brigade – Barnes’ – moved
up from where Lafayette and Kenmore now converge,
west of the train depot. Griffin personally led forward
the 18th Massachusetts. But the inspiring example
of manly courage was subject to a grim reality that
afternoon. Barnes’ men were blown away before
they could rally momentum. The brigade was stunned
to a halt on the west side of the fairgrounds. Sweitzer’s,
then Carroll’s (U.S. III Corps) brigades went
forward successively. Both were beaten down in a bloody
mass. A Pennsylvanian in Carroll’s brigade said,
“It looks to me as if we were going over there
to be murdered.”(30)
Griffin’s final brigade – Stocktons’
– moved up in support only, taking a beating
as they did. The soon-to-be legendary 20th Maine advanced
with the rest of Stockton’s brigade. It was
their first test under fire, a gauntlet that made
even hardened veterans cringe . . . As was true of
the entire day – along both Union fronts –
these four brigades went forward one-following-the-other
in uncoordinated and unsupported advances. They were
ground up likewise . . . Hooker called up Humphrey’s
V Corps division.
Having entered Fredericksburg via the upper crossings,
Humphreys’ division marched out and up Hanover
Street – lining up for their turn against the
almost jubilantly confident Confederates behind the
stonewall. At a little past 4 p.m., Allabach’s
brigade moved forward as the vanguard. Tyler’s
brigade was marched out on their right, then moved
in behind them. Both advanced in direct line of the
Washington Artillery’s guns, which opened up
and tore apart this sixth major assault of the day.
Humphreys courageously and recklessly led the attack,
which included many “green” troops (including
the general himself). The attack stalled under the
intense killing fire of the Sunken Road position.
Yet to Humphreys and others it seemed as if the C.S.
artillery atop the Heights was pulling out. The Louisianans
had depleted their ammunition; but far from retreating,
they were being replaced by fresh reserves. The mistake
in judgment was tallied in more Union lives. Humphreys
ordered his men to fix bayonets and charge the stonewall,
personally leading the attack. Survivors in the scattered
advanced line – hugging the ground behind breastworks
of dead comrades – reached up and grabbed at
the feet and legs of the troops as they went forward,
pleading with the impetuous ranks to give it up, that
is was suicidal. The charge made it to within 50 yards
of the stonewall before the waiting Confederates erupted
– four ranks deep. The front line of Humphreys’
charge melted into a bloody heap. A second push forward
was beaten down likewise. The broken remnants reeled
back. Having watched the exasperating massacre, a
furious Hooker stood down any further assaults by
his men, further pulling the survivors of Humphreys
division out of the advanced line – which by
then stretched over 1/4 of a mile from the railroad
cut, across the fairgrounds, the Stratton property,
the Sisson store (a grocer whose lot bordered Hanover
Street), and extending north of Hanover towards Williams
Street (modern-day route 3). Hooker would later state,
acidly, that he had “lost as many men as his
orders required.”(31)
Yet with dusk turning on night, a seventh futile assault
was already underway. Getty’s U.S. IX Corps
division was moved up from the middle crossing site
and forward along the RF&P. The advance became
disoriented in a bog just north of the depot and proceeded
to cross the railroad cut in disarray. With Rush Hawkin’s
brigade “in the van” (the same officer
who’d told Burnside the attack “will be
the greatest slaughter of the war”), the assault
found some semblance on the very left flank of the
advanced line. They rushed forward. In the fading
grey twilight, Hawkin’s men advanced undetected
near the ground now occupied by the Visitor’s
Center. But their enthusiasm gave them away, as they
yelled in charging the stonewall. The surprised Carolinians
defending this stretch of the stonewall quickly leveled
their muskets and lit into this final attack of the
day. Despite closing to 40 yards, Getty’s troops
were poured into. Sheets of rifled flame lit up the
dusk and exploded in the face of the charge. The blue
columns were blown back . . . The assaults on Marye’s
Heights came to a merciful end. The frigid night would
bring misery.
Kirkland Monument, the "Angel of Marye's
Heights" |
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The National Cemetery |
Epilogue
Before the original stretch of stonewall stands
a stirring bronze statue in honor of Sgt. Richard
Kirkland, who was positioned behind the stonewall
with the 2nd South Carolina. On December 14th, after
enduring two days of the immobile Union wounded
crying for water, Kirkland – as a caring Christian,
above and beyond his secular affiliation –
found himself no longer able to stand by and do
nothing. Receiving permission – but no guarantee
for his safety – he gathered as many canteens
as he could carry and entered the field before the
stonewall. Since the battle had ended, sharpshooters
on both sides had been picking off anyone who dared
show themselves. Kirkland was not deterred. Rifles
opened up on him. But when he knelt down to issue
water to a wounded Union soldier, and then another
– often covering the wounded men with their
overcoats before moving onto the next and repeating
the process – his mission of mercy became
clear and the firing stopped. This act prompted
others – from both sides – to do likewise.
Those who witnessed Richard Kirkland’s selflessness
would call him, “the Angel of Marye’s
Heights.” Kirkland was killed the following
September at Chickamauga.
A kind of mental exhaustion had settled in while
touring the Sunken Road parcel of the park. The
emotion of the place seems visible and is –
at the very least – something that works on
you. Dad & I made our way back up from the Kirkland
statue at the far end of the Sunken Road and on
up to the National Cemetery, which rests on a knoll
above and behind the reconstructed stonewall. It
seemed a fitting place to end our tour, filled as
it was by those who’d died desperately before
the stonewall and in the field hospitals in the
days that followed. As you enter the cemetery, a
sign notes a few facts: the plot of 12 acres was
bought in 1865 for $3001.25; over 15,000 individuals
are interred there – only 15% were ever identified.
It was for us, strangely, a way to unwind after
a long day of touring. The sun was pushing down
on the horizon. It was a warm spring evening. I
jotted the following in a travel journal I kept
on me at all times during our trip: “the
National Cemetery: a great little walk amongst the
maples, the cedars, the holly . . . and the dead.”
All through the night of the 13th, and the following
day and night of the 14th, the advanced Union line
– the dead and living of the remnants of seven
divisions – was held in place, enduring scant
protection as they huddled in the swale’s
slight depression. Any movement during the day was
likely to bring a sharpshooter’s minié
ball; and it being December, the night-time temperatures
plummeted. The cold clear nights brought many Confederates
over the wall (and out in front of Jackson’s
lines to the south) to strip the dead or invalid
Yankees then carpeting the land of their government-issue
fine-quality boots, pants, shirts, winter overcoats
– everything. Unscrupulous pillagers from
both sides – and the armies were full of them
– robbed the same dead and invalid of all
valuables that might potentially be of worth. Adding
the ceaseless cries of the wounded for water, care
and mothers in far off homes, the scene on the frigid
morning of the 14th can hardly be imagined: hundreds
of frozen corpses bled stark white, and now naked
– stripped of every scrap of clothing and
possession. Only proximity and the protests of those
still alive and pinned down, it seemed, prevented
every Union casualty in front of the stonewall from
realizing this fate. Again, horrific. I could
provide numerous awful accounts, but will move on
. . . Despite the obvious depth of the catastrophe
before the Sunken Road, Burnside actually had to
be talked out of renewing the assaults. At one point
Burnside insisted on personally leading this charge,
many among those present feeling that the commander’s
sole wish was to have his own lifeless body strewn
among the dead. Mercifully, Burnside’s foolish
arguments were overwhelmed by sharp dissent. And
so, the Union dead lay naked; and the Union living
lay among them . . . Lee, having further reinforced
and strengthened both the northern and southern
sectors of his line, attempted to bait Union commanders
into attacking on the afternoon of the 14th. But
Lee’s jockeying of forces and ruse of a threat
went wholly unnoticed amongst the Union brass, beaten,
despondent, and almost – at this point –
uncaring. The long day passed terribly for the Union,
word having made its way to the capitol and Lincoln
– who would later note of its effect on morale,
“If there is a worse place than hell, I am
in it”(32)
. . . Amongst the Southern ranks, many now sporting
warm (blue) overcoats and new boots – both
rare commodities for any C.S. army – this
“splendid victory”(33)
had to make the pre-winter nights pass a bit easier.
And, as if to prove the prevailing point of heaven
having willed Southern victory, the northern lights
lit up the December 14th night sky. A very rare
phenomenon this far south, the celestial show was
no less than confirmation of this victory being
heaven sent. A Confederate artillerist would note,
“the heavens were hanging out banners and
streamers and setting off fireworks in honor of
our victory”(34)
. . . It should be noted that both sides prayed
to the same God, sought the gracious will of heavenly
intervention and the merciful blessing of splendid
victories for their respective causes. However,
in the post-battle fog that hung over the Army
of the Potomac, it seemed to many in the Northern
rank and file that they’d been abandoned –
secularly and spiritually. Morale, already low prior
to battle, sank even lower. Desertions would plague
the army’s rolls well into 1863 . . . On December
15th, the first formal truce was called since the
end of the fight to collect the wounded still living.
That night – the wooden planks of the three
crossing sites muffled with hay and dirt –
the Union army was withdrawn from west of the Rappahannock
and Fredericksburg to the fields east of the river.
The crossings were broken down and the Union was
left to ponder in the aftermath of its “grand
tragedy.” The U.S. forces had suffered almost
13,000 casualties, nearly 2/3 of that total before
the stonewall. The Army of Northern Virginia
had suffered just over 5,000, only 1/5 of that total
in defending Marye’s Heights. The Army
of the Potomac had been thoroughly “whipped.”
“Whipped” would also describe how Dad
& I felt as we made our way from the park and
off to dinner . . . To those prepared historically,
touring a Civil War battlefield is much more than
just driving around, taking pictures of cannon &
memorials and reading signs. As Dad & I knew
well enough by that point – this our third
“Ramble” (fourth in adding a 1996 trip
to Charleston) – it’s an experience
unlike any other. It connects you with a past that
seems distant, even archaic to our era. The experience
helps makes sense of a pivotal historical watershed
that wholly defined the culture in which we now
live and continue to shape. To walk the land where
so many lives were sacrificed while simply fulfilling
a “duty,” is humbling to say the least.
It proves the undeniable truth that history is more
than facts and stats, but is – simply –
the present we inhabit. Positives and negatives
bend history into this present. But as we “re-discovered”
at Fredericksburg – given the recent events
of Oklahoma City and September 11, 2001 –
it is often tragedies that leave the most indelible
marks on our national psyche. Robert E. Lee –
a man who understood honor and courage, but could
also articulate the real price of battlefield glory
– understood this notion well enough. As he
watched the horrific destruction of human life on
December 13th, he was said to state, “It is
well war is so terrible, lest we grow too fond of
it.”
It would become evident that this Union army contained
the grit and fiber enough to absorb tragedies and
the casualties involved with a disaster like Fredericksburg,
and continue to fight the fight. For the morale-depleting
slaughter at Fredericksburg was to be followed by
six more months of faith-damaging mishaps amongst
the U.S. leadership. Burnside would – to his
credit – mount another flanking maneuver that
with celerity could have delivered the desired results
of forcing Lee from his impregnable position as
early as late 1862. But the plan lost its wind due
to political wrangling from within the executive
branch (not exempting Lincoln himself) and the Army
of the Potomac leadership. The fallout from
Fredericksburg, which Burnside manfully took on
himself, came to overshadow the “U.S. Grant”
style of undoing damage-done through action –
a problem this army would suffer through its first
two years of existence, and a “blame-game”
that invariably cost thousands of Northern soldiers
their lives. By the time this “wrangling”
had – temporarily – worked itself out,
Burnside’s plan had been delayed by three
weeks. Mother nature took over where the wrangling
left off. On January 20, 1863, Burnside set his
army in motion west along the north banks of the
Rappahannock, looking to quickly secure and cross
the lightly guarded fords in Lee’s rear, and
outflank him. The 20th began as a beautiful day;
but by evening, clouds forewarned another impending
disaster. During the night, a cold rain / sleet
began to fall. It rained for two solid days. Soldiers
claimed that the bottom fell out of the roads, which
were churned into long ribbons of boot and wheel-sucking
muck. The infamous “march” stalled in
the mud. Mules by the hundreds were so blown by
the impossible labor of transporting supply trains
through knee-deep mud as to prompt the necessity
to cut them loose and shoot the poor dying animals.
Confederate pickets – watching the “Mud
March” from the opposite bank – could
only heap further humiliation on the exhausted mud-caked
Union ranks by painting a raw taunt on a barn roof
clearly visible from the northern banks. It read:
“Burnside’s army stuck in the mud.”
The worn further-demoralized bluecoats slowly trickled
back into their winter encampments at Falmouth and
Burnside was summarily relieved in favor of virulent
rival, “Fighting” Joe Hooker. One disastrous
tenure had been terminated for another, the latter
meeting its fate that May at a rural crossroads
ten miles down the Plank Road known as Chancellorsville.
The brilliant tactical potential of the C.S. Army
of Northern Virginia’s command structure
– under the guidance of Robert E. Lee –
would be showcased for all time at Chancellorsville.
Dad & I had earned our rest the night of April
29, 2003. With Fredericksburg in our rear-view,
we moved out the following day to tour “Lee’s
masterpiece.”
End .
Click for Bibliography,
Resources & Footnotes
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