Nostalgia by Dennis McFarland Page A

united near Richardsville, where they slowed to a snail’s pace, moving onward to the Rapidan and the ford.
    The day, which started out soft and cool, quickly became hot, more like summer than spring. Once the forward units reached the river and began to cross the canvas pontoon bridge laid by the engineers, what had been a march became a long standing-still wait. Hayes spotted the foxhound Banjo weaving her way through the lines, begging for a scrap. Things picked up a bit midmorning, when the engineers completed their wooden bridge, but it would still be early afternoon before the whole corps got to the other side. When Hayes’s company finally reached the river, Hayes followed Leggett’s lead and waded straight through the waist-deep water, holding his gear over his head.Also prompted by Leggett, he filled his canteen. On the opposite bank, they passed through a narrow gulley and then had to climb a steep bluff before they reached a table of flatland thick with trees and scrub. Through the woods, on hard-packed paths of mud, they continued to Chancellorsville. Hayes noticed Leggett peering around—into the thicket at his left, then at his right, then up at the overhanging limbs—like a child, awed, moving through a cathedral. When at last they reached their destination, the men, weary and wretched from the long grueling march, were happy to be done for the day. But Leggett threw his gear angrily to the ground. “So here’s where I’ve ended up after all,” he said to Hayes. “Back where I was a year ago. A place I swore I’d never return to.” He removed his hat, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and looked at Hayes as if Hayes were responsible. “We’ve come this far,” he said. “There’s plenty of daylight left. Why don’t we keep going till we’re out of these godforsaken woods?” And leaving Hayes to pitch the tent and arrange their camp, Leggett had stalked off, determined to find out the reasoning behind the decision to stop in the Wilderness.
    Now Hayes watched St. Clair disappear into the trees with his backgammon set under his arm. Leggett continued to knock things about, grumbling softly, and Hayes decided to keep quiet. He knew Leggett would soon settle down and say what he’d learned. It wasn’t Leggett’s nature to go for long without talking. The sun had sunk fully behind the trees now, thankfully, since it had been oppressive. All around, birds were raising a din, an objection, Hayes imagined, to having their forest invaded by nearly thirty thousand men in blue. Leggett found his canteen and took a long drink. At last he looked at Hayes as if he recognized him and still counted him as a friend. “We’re waiting for the damned cracker line to catch up,” he said. “The general don’t want us to get too far ahead of the supply wagons. Now I ask you, Hayes: what good is supplies if we end up butchered by rebels out here in these gnarly infernal woods?”
    Leggett lay down on the ground, eyes open, gazing straight upward. “You’re an educated man, Hayes,” he said, after a moment. “So tell me. If you had to go into town, say, and there was a viciousdog along the road that attacked you and tore up your leg … would you take that same road into town the next time? Or would you find a different way to go? That’s my question.”
    “Assuming there was another route to take,” said Hayes, “yes, I would go a different way.”
    “That’s all I’m saying,” said Leggett. “That’s all I’m saying.”
    “But isn’t the cavalry forward?” asked Hayes.
    “Sure, they’re forward, some of them,” answered Leggett. “But they can’t be forward in every direction, can they? And besides, a good many of them have been sent back to protect the cracker line. Do you know what the problem with generals is? They always think and act like they know more than they do know. They’re always making assumptions about the enemy, and they might be right, and they might be