Battle Flag

Faulconer had no intention of allowing that advance to enmesh his Brigade. "I want the 65th on the right," Faulconer called to Swynyard, referring to the 65th Virginia, which was the second largest regiment after the Legion in Faulconer's Brigade, "the Arkansas men in the center, and the 12th Florida on the left. Everyone else in reserve two hundred paces behind." That meant that the remaining six companies of the Legion, who were presently the foremost battalion in the Brigade, would now become Faulconer's rearmost line. The redeployment was hardly necessary, but moving the front line to the rear killed some precious moments while Faulconer tried to determine just what disasters were happening beyond the woods. "And, Colonel!" Faulconer called after Swynyard, "send Bird to reco

"Colonel Bird's already gone," Swynyard said. "Went to fetch his skirmishers back."

"Without orders?" Faulconer asked angrily. "Then tell him to explain himself to me the instant he returns. Now go!"

"Sir?" Captain Thomas Pryor, one of Washington Faulconer's new aides, interjected nervously.

"Captain?" Faulconer acknowledged.

"General Jackson's orders were explicit, sir. We should advance quick, sir, with whatever units are available. Into the trees, sir." Pryor gestured nervously toward the woods.

But Faulconer had no wish to advance quick. The woods seemed to be alive with smoke and flame, almost as though the earth itself was heaving in the throes of some mythic struggle. Rifle fire cracked, men screamed, and ca

He wondered where Starbuck was and felt the familiar flare of hatred. Faulconer blamed Starbuck for all his ills. It was Starbuck who had humiliated him at Manassas, Starbuck who had suborned Adam, and Starbuck who had defied him by remaining in the Legion. Faulconer was convinced that if he could just rid himself of Starbuck, then he could make the Brigade into the most efficient unit of the Confederate army, which was why he had ordered Swynyard to place a company of skirmishers far ahead of the Brigade's position. He had trusted Swynyard to know precisely which company of skirmishers was to be thus sacrificed, but he had hardly expected the drunken fool to throw away both companies. Yet even that loss might be worthwhile, Faulconer reflected, if Starbuck was among the casualties.

On Faulconer's left a column of rebel troops advanced at the double, while another, marching just as quickly, headed for the woods to the right of his Brigade. Reinforcements were clearly reaching the fighting, which meant, Faulconer decided, that he had no need to hurl his own men forward in a desperate panic. Slow and steady would win this fight, and that natural caution was reinforced by the sight of a riderless horse, its flank a sheet of crimson, limping southward down the turnpike with its reins trailing in the dust and its stirrups dripping with blood.

The Faulconer Brigade laboriously formed its new battle lines. In the first rank were the 65th Virginia, Haxall's men from Arkansas, and the 12th Florida. The three regiments raised their dusty flags, the ba

"By drinking water, sir?" Pryor asked in puzzlement. Thomas Pryor was new to the Brigade. He was the younger son of a Richmond banker who did much business with Washington Faulconer, and the banker had pleaded with Faulconer to take on his son. "Thomas is a good-natured fellow," the banker had written, "too good, probably, so maybe a season of war will teach him that mankind is not inherently honest?"

A second's silence greeted Pryor's naive assumption that Swynyard was drinking water, then a gale of laughter swept the Brigade headquarters. "Swynyard's water," Faulconer informed Pryor, "is the kind that provides the Dutch with courage, puts men to sleep, and wakes them sore-headed." The General smiled at his own wit, then turned indignantly as a mounted man galloped toward him from the turnpike.

"You're to advance, sir!" the officer shouted. The man had a drawn sword in his right hand.

Faulconer did not move. Instead he waited as the officer curbed his horse. The beast tossed its head and stamped nervously. It was flecked with sweat and rolling its eyes white. "You have orders for me?" Faulconer asked the excited officer.

"From General Jackson, sir. You're to advance with the other brigades, sir." The aide gestured toward the woods, but Faulconer still made no move other than to hold out a hand. The aide gaped at him. No one else on this field had demanded written orders, for surely no one could doubt the urgency of the cause. If the Yankees won here, then there was nothing to stop them crossing the Rapidan and breaking Richmond's rail links with the Shenandoah Valley, and nothing, indeed, to stop them advancing on the rebel capital. This was not a time for written orders but for Southern men to fight like heroes to protect their country. "General Jackson's compliments, sir," the aide said in a tone that barely managed to stay on the civil side of insolence, "and his regrets that he has no time to put his orders into writing, but he would be most obliged if you were to advance your Brigade into the trees and help dislodge the enemy."

Faulconer looked at the woods. Fugitives still emerged from the shadows, but most were now men wounded by the fighting rather than frightened men seeking safety. Nearer to the Brigade two small guns were being unlimbered by the road, but the ca

Faulconer drew his sword. He did not want to advance, but he knew there was no choice now. Reputation and honor depended on going into the awful woods. "Colonel Swynyard!" he called, and the words were hardly more than a croak. "Colonel!" he shouted again, louder this time.

"Sir!" Swynyard pushed the flask of whiskey back into his pouch.

"Advance the Brigade!" Faulconer called.

Swynyard drew his own sword, the blade scraping into the day's dying light. Ahead of him fires burned in the wood, their flames bright in the dark shadows where men fought and died. "Forward!" Swynyard shouted.