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AURA LEE -- PART 13
1/2/2010 1:31:01 PM
AURA LEE – PART 13
“There it is!” Stonewall Jackson sang. “See it? Can’t you see it? That drunken fool Hooker thinks he’s Attila the Hun, and he thinks I’m Flavius Aetius!”
Chess players, especially those capable of playing at the level of a Thomas Jackson, Robert E. Lee, an Ambrose Burnside, Joseph Hooker or Abraham Lincoln—or even a Lieutenant Joe Morrison—know full well the most effective strategy one can employ when faced with a deficit of numbers, but favored with a promising, comfortable overview of offensive positioning, is, normally, to “castle on the Queen-side.” And, with equal acumen, the worst possible outcome is usually a draw.
Whether Flavius Aetius, the last of the great Roman generals, knew this or not is uncertain, but what is known is that in A.D. 436 Aetius and his adopted army of Huns so thoroughly demolished a nation of Burgundians in a pitched battle on the German frontier, a true legend was born (the Ring of Nieblung.) It was not until four years later, however, that the renowned Attila the Hun—Attila, Descendent of the Great Nimrod, Nurtured in Engaddi, By the Grace of God, King of the Huns, the Goths, the Danes, and the Medes, the Dread of the World—Attila, who had no use for Aetius and no interest in dealing with Rome, rose to prominence as the leader who finally had to face Aetius in the most horrific battle ever engaged on this planet, then or now, on a battlefield near Chalons-sur-Marne, on the plains of Campi Catalaunici, in the northeast of France.
The slaughter was so great that neither the Romans nor the Huns desired a further offensive, and Attila managed to escape with barely his own skin intact.
Earlier, it was noted, Attila had sent a message to Aetius that he wished, under a flag of truce, to meet with the great general one last time. The purpose and nature of that meeting was never preserved for posterity, and neither victory nor defeat was achieved because or in spite of it. The damage had been done on the battlefield, and Attila, preferring death to capture, demonstrated the pyre upon which he planned to throw himself if the Romans were somehow able mount a fresh offensive and overrun the Huns. Aetius may or may not have been impressed, but even if victory could have been his, he simply rode away.
Some historians have suggested that both sides merely declared themselves the victor, buried their tens of thousands of dead, scooped up their additional tens of thousands of wounded, and—this time—went home. Attila, back to Hungary; Aetius, back to Rome. Not one square foot of territory changed hands . . .
Such were the thoughts in Stonewall Jackson’s head in late April 1863.
General Joseph Hooker, having replaced Ambrose Burnside at Lincoln’s request, drew, or had drawn, a map outlining the Battle of Fredericksburg that looked no more like what Jackson remembered than an early map of the Northwest Territory bore any significance to what Lewis and Clark later saw. What Hooker had so conveniently let fall into Jackson’s hands was a map, rough but accurate, of what the Battle of Chalons, A.D. 451 might have looked like if a talented cartographer had been there to render the overview. The names and locale, of course, were altered, but Jackson saw this immediately, having for years taught the strategies that Aetius had so masterfully employed, and he literally danced with joy about his campaign desk while pointing it out to Morrison, Captain Jameson, and Lieutenants Kreson, Naylor, and Purvis.
“Look at this! Look at this!” he cried, signaling for even Scoffie Goodis and Hunter Worboys to stop what they were doing and join the officers circled about him.
“Hooker is so clever, so abominably clever! Look at this: Fredericksburg has become Chalons, and the Rappahannock winds by it like the muddy Loire! But the deployment of forces—particularly Lee, Longstreet, and myself—is what first caught my eye. Attila was never the true aggressor in that battle; he did not have the high ground; it was Aetius who waited for him to cross the Loire to lay ruin the city of Chalons; but the two armies, consisting together of over five hundred fifty thousand men, literally slaughtered each other in the same amount of time we took to destroy the Union forces at Fredericksburg! . . . But unlike Ambrose, Attila made strategic and accurate military decisions—right up until the very end. But then, like Ambrose and Hooker, he pulled away and forfeited whatever advantage he might have had, allowing Aetius to make his move—and the horrible massacre continued. Just as it did at Fredericksburg! Do you see it? Do you see it here? If I could turn this into a text, a collection of events, it would be a perfect chrestomathy!”
Jackson paused and his men looked at the map, then at each other; no one had more than a rudimentary clue of what the general was talking about.
Captain Jameson spoke first. “General, I remember your lectures, your classes on Aetius Flavius and, I guess, the collapse of the Roman Empire, and I remember the huge battle in France, the one with Attila along the River Loire . . . but I don’t see the connection you make here, sir—with all due respect.”
Jackson peered intently at his former pupil, his eyes squinting to mere slits, and his gaze bore deep into the young officer’s psyche. “Of course,” he said, at last, and his voice was barely a whisper. “It was a part of my course in military strategy that very few passed. I suspect you,” he added, “were among those who somehow managed to muddle through—one way or the other.”
Jameson’s cheeks blazed, remembering it was in this exam that he had been caught pilfering answers from his sleeve.
For several moments nothing was said, and a dull silence hung over the assembled group.
Lt. Morrison broke the spell. “Well, I don’t see anything here that looks like Fredericksburg.”
“Really,” replied Jackson, and there was another slight edge of sarcasm in his tone. “Let me enlighten you thenm, all of you.” He spread the curling top and bottom of the map even flatter on the campaign desk, and with his gloved finger as a pointer, let himself drift back in memory from the dusty encampment to an even dustier classroom at VMI.
“The key is right here, in the layout of the town, just back from the river and sitting on a flat in front of the rise we know as Marye’s Heights. General Longstreet’s corps sat up there with thousands of men and artillery pieces looking down on an open stretch of land beyond the town that would prove absolutely impassable.
“Then between him and me, in the center with a weaker, lesser force, was General Lee’s primary force, commanding a view of the upcoming debacle that surely must have reminded him of Aetius’s position just before the Battle of Chalons. On Lee’s right flank I was positioned in such a manner that any encroachment across the river by Ambrose’s General Franklin would have rendered him, Franklin, crippled and dazed and out of contention.”
Jackson suddenly thrust his forefinger against the map with such force that everyone jumped, startled. “Here,” he snapped, “was the only flaw—and thank the Almighty God of our fathers neither Burnside, Hooker, or General Sumner saw it! The breach, the opening, the staggering lack of defense between Lee and myself that would have spelled disaster if either had sent up a line of as few as a thousand men.
“But Burnside made no move, took no action, and precisely as occurred when Attila sat mute and frozen and quietly ignored the identical same flaw in Aetius’s tactics, the opportunity went begging; the day was lost.
“Instead, the Union army’s central strength crossed the Rappahannock and went straight for the town, much to their dismay, having no information that we had completely evacuated the town and had set up two sharpshooters in every window of every house, in every room from attic to basement, in rifle pits in every yard, behind every fence, behind and in every tree—our best men in position and waiting for the Yankees to move away from the river and into the streets. And then they came, and the rifles and muskets and two cannon let go, one soldier firing then turning aside to let the other fire while the first loaded, and so on and on. It was a staccato cacophony of firepower unlike any ever seen in modern warfare. Yankees fell like startled geese that had stupidly flown directly into the hunters’ barrage. They fell by the hundreds, the thousands, dead and dying, the blood, the screaming, the Rebel yells making the sweetest music I’d ever heard . . .”
Jackson stopped for effect and glanced around his men. He knew what they were thinking. They had been there. They had seen.
“You’re right,” he said, “you’re right. We were, eventually, driven back, driven out of the houses and back into the broad plain, and up into Marye’s Heights—but Lee had expected that. We had anticipated that short, necessary withdrawal.
“And what happened next? The foolish Union infantry drew up short and spent literally hours destroying the town of Fredericksburg. The looting and smashing, the utter useless, pointless destruction of that beautiful little town went on for hours, well into the dawn of another day. Why? Because it was— Southern. And that army seriously believed, has been indoctrinated, that everything Southern must be destroyed. Not one of the hundreds of stately homes was left unscathed by these, these insane . . . do I dare call them Vandals?”
The general leaned against his desk and again referred to the map. “But what I’m showing you here, though, is not the same. This is a map of the Battle of Chalons disguised as the Battle of Fredericksburg—and it is identical in its beginning, middle, and end to the Battle of Fredericksburg. Whereas Attila was positioned as we saw Burnside, Lee held the high ground, as did Sangipan, the king of the Alans. And on his left was Longstreet, precisely where the ancient Visigoths waited; on Lee’s right stood my implacable soul, a pretender to the strength of Aetius and his league of loyal Romans. Ha!”
Lt. Kreson, a dark and swarthy career officer, took a breath and interjected a thought that may have been on others’ minds. “Sir, just one question, one point of curiosity. . . .Why did not General Lee move his lesser force off to the right flank and move your command in and across the center to fill up that threatened gap? Why did he position his strength along the edges, with Longstreet on his left and you on his right? What if Ambrose or Hooker or Sumner had stormed through Fredericksburg and mounted a full frontal attack? It might well have spelled the end of General Lee and this whole bloody war!”
“Yes,” Jackson said, wistfully. “Yes . . . O, that the Almighty had not fixed his cannon ‘gainst self-slaughter! You are most perspicacious, Lieutenant. But you are not the chess player I thought you were.”
“Sir?”
“I thought it would be obvious. . . .How about you, Jameson; do you see it?”
Captain Jameson stared at the map but said nothing. He was racking his brain trying to remember the weeks they had poured over the exploits of the Huns and the Romans in class after class at VMI. Nothing came to mind.
“Anyone?”
It was Scoffie Goodis who spoke first. “Sir, may I talk freely?” Stonewall Jackson looked quizzically, with surprise, at his batman and nodded. “Corporal.”
“Sir, I think that if ol’ Gen’ral Ambrose, or those others, had moved off up at Gen’ral Lee, he would’ve, well, just traded places with you and—castled on the queen-side, like in a good ol’ game o’ chess. That’s what I think.”
Jackson stood upright and raised his right hand in a sort of salute, his palm out, five gloved fingers raised high; and he reached across the table and grasped the corporal’s shoulder. “By the Almighty, then, you do see it! That’s exactly what would have happened, and the unholy slaughter that Longstreet perpetrated on those hapless, confused Federals would have begun—and concluded—even sooner. That’s exactly what Lee had planned to do—to, as you say, ‘castle on the queen-side’, just as Aetius planned and executed at Chalons. And the result was the same: absolute, unholy slaughter, piling Yankee bodies one atop the other until they were five and ten deep for as far as the eye could see. Their blood ran in a flowing torrent across the flat, through the town, and into the river. And that river actually glowed iridescent crimson from Falmouth to Port Royal. For every brave confederate who went down, there were six or ten bluecoats wasted on that flat between Fredericksburg and Marye’s Heights. It was butchery, and it was horrific! It was what made General Lee say, for all to hear, ‘It is well that war is terrible! We should grow too fond it!’”
The assembled officers and enlisted men stood immobile about the table, paying silent reverence to the memory of that great battle, and even greater Southern victory. Stonewall Jackson stood proudly, yet with humble pride, in their midst; and there was a feeling in every heart that the war was nearly over and, surely, the South was predestined by a just God to be declared the honorable winner. It was Joe Morrison who broke the meditation.
“But, general,” he pondered, “where does it say here General Hooker wants to meet with you? I don’t see—“
“It doesn’t,” Jackson cut in. “That’s just it. It doesn’t. And neither did the original. But they did meet, and that’s why Hooker let this map come to me. That’s why that little girl dressed like a boy came in here, got all the way in here past all but a couple pickets, and handed me this map . . . .Who was that youngster, anyone know?”
Lieutenant Purvis answered, recalling the moment. “Young towhead from a Carolina regiment the Federals had captured. Sent him—well, actually he was a girl, a full-growed woman—back to us on the condition she bring that map so’s you’d get it. Then she went off, out toward the river again to find her platoon, I guess.”
The general stepped back from the desk and looked out over the terrain between him and the woods.
“Yes, I know; the young boy who turned out to be a lady . . .” His voice trailed off, and then it came back. “Well, it worked. I am going to meet with Hooker and his officers as quickly as I can make the arrangements. In fact, I want you, Goodis, and you, Worboys, to accompany Captain Jameson and five others, under a flag of truce, to go find Joe Hooker and set up the time and place. And it must be within the next forty-eight hours. Go! Now!”
The general’s staff spun about and began filing out of the tent, half of them pausing just long enough for a perfunctory salute, when Jackson spoke again, suddenly, “Corporal Goodis, a moment, please.”
All of them stopped, coming up short, and those in the rear collided with the ones nearly past the tent’s flap.
“Sir?”
“Chess. Are you an aficionado?”
“Sir?”
“How well do you play the game?”
A perceptible shrug preceded, “I dunno, sir. I jess play it cause it’s fun.”
“But,” the general insisted, “you know things like ‘castling,’ and you know the difference between the king and queen side. What else do you know?”
Scoffie thought about it. “Nuthin. Sir.”
“Do you know how many different moves can be made per side in the opening four moves of any chess game?”
The corporal from Georgia looked at the loose carpet covering the dirt floor of the tent. After a moment: “I heard once from this fellow at school I played with a lot there was almost three hundred and nineteen billion possibilities in the first four moves per man. Seems like a whole lot to me! Sir.”
Old Blue Light smiled and reached for half a lemon sitting on his desk. “Son, we have to sit a spell and play some before we’re all done here.”
“Sure would like that, General.”
Jackson nodded and began sucking. “Dismissed. All of you. Go!”
TO BE CONTINUED
Copyright©2002 by Robert Mills
BONUS BLOGS: “ALEX’S FIRST BIRTHDAY (1985)” will be posted on February 23, 2010
“ALEX’S THIRD CHRISTMAS (1987)” will be posted on December 20, 2010
and “ALEX’S FOURTH CHRISTMAS (1988)” will appear on December 27, 2010.
These are all Henry Wadsworth Longears stories written by Alexandra E. Faucette (Mills) as told to her father many years later.
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• "POPCORN" THEATER REVISITED - Tuesday, September 22, 2009
• OPEN WIDE - Friday, September 18, 2009
• CAMELOT IS CLOSED - Monday, September 14, 2009
• HEALTH CARE, ANYONE? - Friday, September 11, 2009
• MARTYRDOM - Monday, September 07, 2009
• CLOSE THE POOL! - Friday, September 04, 2009
• THE WEEK BEFORE LABOR DAY - Tuesday, September 01, 2009
• MORNING JOE - Friday, August 28, 2009
• LIPS THAT TOUCH WINE . . . - Monday, August 24, 2009
• KING TEDDY - Friday, August 21, 2009
• SHOP TIL YOU FLOP - Monday, August 17, 2009
• MOVIES ARE BETTER THAN EVER (?) - Friday, August 14, 2009
• THE BIRCH JOHN SOCIETY - Monday, August 10, 2009
• EVERYTHING I KNOW I LEARNED FROM SAM SPILLIOPOLIS AT THE PASTIME POOL ROOM - Friday, August 07, 2009
• SHORT PEOPLE - Tuesday, August 04, 2009
• ANDY ROONEY - Friday, July 31, 2009
• CHERNOBYL 7.28.09 - Monday, July 27, 2009
• ACTING STUPID 7.25.09 - Friday, July 24, 2009
• JUSTICE FOR SOTOMAYOR 7.21.09 - Monday, July 20, 2009
• ONLY AS OLD AS YOU FEEL 7.18.09 - Friday, July 17, 2009
• THE NATIONAL RADIO HALL OF FAME - Tuesday, July 14, 2009
• BIRTH OF THE TEDDY BEAR 7.11.09 - Sunday, July 12, 2009
• (Close Counts) 0NLY IN HORSESHOES 7.7.09 - Monday, July 06, 2009
• MAD AS HELL . . . 7/4/09 - Friday, July 03, 2009
• 4th OF JULY - Wednesday, July 01, 2009
• HOBBIES? - Monday, June 29, 2009
• LONG WAY FROM BUCK HOUSE - Friday, June 26, 2009
• NAVAL ENGAGEMENTS - Monday, June 22, 2009
• REGINA BRETT IS NO LADY BRETT ASHLEY 6.20.09 - Friday, June 19, 2009
• JULY 4th's A-COMIN'! - Monday, June 15, 2009
• WINNING THE LOTTERY - Friday, June 12, 2009
• THE TONIGHT SHOW - Monday, June 08, 2009
• PERSONAL DISCOVERY CHANNEL - Friday, June 05, 2009
• Jon and Kate, The Great Debate - Monday, June 01, 2009
• Philadelhia Lawyers - Friday, May 29, 2009
• MEMORIAL DAY 2009 - Monday, May 25, 2009
• La Isla de los Alcatraces 5/24/09 - Saturday, May 23, 2009
• CONFESSIONS OF AN INTERNET IDIOT - Thursday, May 21, 2009
• HAIL TO THE BOSS - Monday, May 18, 2009
• SAY CHEESE . . . - Friday, May 15, 2009
• NUMBER, PLEASE . . . - Tuesday, May 12, 2009
• AND THEY'RE OFF! - Saturday, May 09, 2009
• Some Enchanted Evening - Tuesday, May 05, 2009
• Fox Boycotts Obama - Friday, May 01, 2009
• RAILROADED - Tuesday, April 28, 2009
• NAKED GNOMES - Friday, April 24, 2009
• THE EYES OF TEXAS ARE UPON ME - Tuesday, April 21, 2009
• THE TEA PARTY - Friday, April 17, 2009
• HAPPY INCOME TAX DAY! - Wednesday, April 15, 2009
• THE FAIR TAX PLAN - Monday, April 13, 2009
• THE REST OF THE STORY 4/10/2009 - Friday, April 10, 2009
• A SPORTSMAN'S PARADISE - Monday, April 06, 2009
• IF AGENTS & BEST SELLERS ARE A DIME A DOZEN, HOW COME WRITERS AIN’T RICH? - Sunday, April 05, 2009
• BONUS BLOG 4.4.09 - Saturday, April 04, 2009
• TYCOON! - Tuesday, March 31, 2009
• End of Year Report - Sunday, November 02, 2008
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