by Jeff Shaara
The fresh troops moved toward the fire, the great crackling roar now blending with the sounds of the fight. From both directions, the Federal troops were moving toward the breakthrough, a tightening arc, containing the surge of rebels. The fight became hand-to-hand, the men in blue growing in number, too many for the rebels to push through. The break in the lines was shrinking, the rebels pushed back to the wall, to the great horror of the flames. Many gave up the fight, began to run, to climb through the fire, and those who escaped had to make the deadly retreat across the open ground. Many of the wounded tried to pull away as well, but they could not move quickly through the sheets of fire, and many could not climb the wall. As the surge of blue pushed them tighter together, those who would not surrender battled with whatever they carried in their hands, backed closer to the wall, closer to the flames that finally consumed them.
wounded, men who crawled toward the wall, only to have the flames roll over them. The clothes were mostly gone, burned away, and the men in blue stayed back, did not yet have the stomach for pulling the dead away, not like this, not when there was nothing to hold, to touch, but the burnt flesh, the charred bones.
There was a gentle shift in the breeze, and Hancock caught the awful smell, could see some of his men backing away now, some beginning to be sick. Hancock pulled his mind away, turned the horse off the road, thought, No, not here, you cannot let them see you... you cannot be affected by this. He pushed the horrible sights from his mind, moved the horse past more men who were gathering on the road. He turned, saw staff officers moving to catch up with him, and he thought, Tell them, keep them ready, pass the word. But he said nothing, realized the rebels were through here. This fight was over. No one over there would ask them to do this again, to charge this line. We are too strong, he thought. Nothing can be gained. He reined the horse, looked back to the road. No, they will not come again, not here. The soldiers have seen something new, a new horror, a new way to die. They have seen the face of hell.
THERE WERE SCATTERED SHOTS, A FEW REBEL SKIRMISHERS, AND then the jumbled firing from the woods far out to the right, the fight Burnside was trying to make. Hancock moved into the road, past the men who were gathering near the smoldering wall, staring quietly at what remained. The flames were mostly gone now, but small plumes of black smoke still rose from the ashes of the great logs.
Many of the burnt timbers were not timbers at all, but the bodies of the rebels. There were bodies all along the wall, beyond the place where the fire had roared through. Many were just draped across, some in grotesque shapes. But the men focused on the smoldering ashes, that part of the wall that still held the heat, the smoke. There were many twisted and blackened figures, hands reaching up, frozen in death, reaching out, still trying to escape the fire. Some were caught in the act of climbing up, seeking the escape, their breath swept away while they struggled to reach the safety of the woods beyond. Some had been
15. LEE
LATE AFTERNOON, MAY 6, 1864 THEY WERE SPREAD OUT ON BOTH SIDES OF THE
ROAD, A LONG line of trenches and piled debris, the men sitting low behind their cover. Lee saw motion down along the line, the red battle flags of each regiment, a slight wave in the fading breeze. The sun was beginning to set and long shadows spread across the road. He dismounted, still looked eastward, saw the dark smoke from the Brock Road, from that awful place where his men lay scattered, the smoke from the breastworks still rising, and Hancock's people safely behind their wall.
Faces were watching him, men were turning about, pointing at him. There were some shouts, but the men were brutally tired, and many were already sleeping. He walked off the edge of the road, into the darker shade, but there was no cool relief.
The staff waited out on the road, and Taylor followed him, moved quietly. Now even the affectionate salutes of the men faded out, and the woods were quiet. Taylor stayed a few steps back, and Lee sat on a long dead tree, punctured by many holes, colored by blood. Lee looked at the stain on the soft wood, put his hand on it, felt the wood crumble, slid his hand along, felt the rotting wood roll into small pieces under his fingers. He looked down beside the tree, to the thick mat of old leaves, saw another stain and, half buried, a man's shoe, old black leather. He reached down, freed it from the dirt, held it up in his hand, saw a hole, the sole worn through, the heel long gone. He thought, There are not many shoes in this army. This one... was lucky.
He did not often think of that, did not even use the word. What was luck, after all, but the will of God? He tossed the shoe aside, then looked at it again, thought, No, I should find him, he will want it.
It was an odd feeling, that he must have known this man.... He looked at the dark stain again, realized there might be no need.
He tried to clear his mind, pull himself away, thought, You cannot do this, you cannot see them like this... one at a time. He stood, brushed the dead wood from his pants, thought, You can never be this close. You cannot be absorbed in the fate of each man. But you are closer. This terrible fight has done that, the war has done that, slowly, over time, taken the good men, the good leaders. There is something in this... a lesson, God has shown you that you must not forget that each of these men has his own pain, dies in his own blood, has his own soul. The line is so thin, the strong line between the commander and these men, the men who lead the charge, the men who face the guns.
He had kept Longstreet's image away until now, his mind holding instead to the faces of the men he did not know, the men who left their shoes behind. But if he did not show it to his staff, he could not keep it away from himself for very long, and so the image came to him.
Longstreet's wound was thought to be fatal, but the doctors reached him quickly and the bleeding was stopped. I was not there, Lee thought, I don't know how I could have endured that. He had not seen Jackson after the arm was amputated, had been grateful for that, would not remember him as anything but the magnificent fighter, would see the man as he'd always been, not as he'd died. And now he thought of Longstreet, fought the image of the big man choking on his own blood. The staff had put Longstreet's hat over his face, to shield him from the sun, and so the men who gathered around thought he was already dead. Longstreet had heard the talk, heard them crying, lifted the hat off his face himself, and waved it at them. Taylor had been there and seen it, heard what the soldiers were saying, that it was a miracle, Longstreet back from the dead. Lee shook his head. No, he will die in his own time, in his own way. He is too stubborn to leave it in God's hands.
He looked around, the shadows filling the spaces, thought again of Jackson, and now Longstreet, both shot by their men. He was so pleased that the fight would be here, this awful place, and he remembered he'd felt the same way a year ago, when Hooker had drawn himself up into these woods. But there was a difference now. Lee knew.
This time the victory was not complete. Grant was not rushing away toward the river, as Hooker had. And so Longstreet would not die, not yet. Lee felt certain of that, the justice... God would be fair.
Taylor was watching him, and Lee saw him now, saw a sadness in the young man's face. He appeared pale, weakened.
"Colonel, have you any word? Anything I have not already been told? " Taylor said, "You mean about General Longstreet, Sir? No, Sir, just what the surgeons said. He should survive. It is a terrible wound. When I left him about an hour ago, he was awake, but... his neck. I cannot think of it without feeling sick. I'm sorry, Sir.
Lee nodded, said, "It is a ghastly thing... that we do here, that we do to each other. We are not supposed to think on that... it is part of the duty, of the tragedy. And there are so many..."
Taylor moved closer, said, "At least, Sir, the general will survive.
He will be back. He told me that himself."
Lee looked out past the distant line of men, looked to the gray light, fading in the small dark spaces, felt the anger rise, said, "That is what we were told about General Jackson." He pushed it away. No... do not question, there must be no bitterness.
Forgive me, Lord. I am weakened... I will not question Your will.
He turned now, began to walk back toward the road. Taylor moved out in front, went to the horse, took the reins from an aide, held them out. Lee stopped, looked up at the others, saw Marshall, the young man staring at him through small wire glasses.
"Colonel Marshall, have we received anything yet from General Ewell?"
Marshall sat up straight in the saddle, always responded to Lee with nervousness, something Lee did not understand.
"Um... no Sir. just that he expects his attack to begin about... now, Sir." Marshall looked at a small pocket watch.
"Yes... about now.
Lee climbed the horse, moved to the center of the road, looked to the north, stared at the spreading darkness. There was no sound.
The meeting had come at Lee's request, early that afternoon, to find out exactly what was happening in Ewell's front. He thought of Ewell's explanations, still felt the small fury that had swirled inside of him, an anger he would never reveal. Ewell had done little all day, except hold the Federals in front of him tight in their lines. Both sides were aware of the other's strength, and so, as Hancock's flank was being rolled up by Sorrel's surprise from the railroad cut, and later, as the attack against the Federal defenses on the Brock Road had threatened Hancock's position, neither Warren nor Sedgwick could risk weakening their defenses in front of Ewell. But if there had been no Federal advance there, nothing to lend support to Hancock's hard thrust early that morning, Ewell had done nothing as well, content to enjoy his strong defensive lines, while Hill, and then Longstreet, made the fight to the south.
Lee could understand a stalemate, both sides wary of making a mistake against strong defenses of the enemy, but what had stirred his anger was the final detail of Ewell's report. He had mentioned a possible plan, an idea that had come from John Gordon.
Gordon's brigade lay now on Ewell's far north flank, the left flank of Lee's entire position. Gordon had scouted out around the Federals in front of him and found that Sedgwick's lines simply... ended. There was no protection beyond the Federal right, no great mass of cavalry, no skirmish line extending up toward the river. Sedgwick's people had not even dug trenches. The night before, Gordon had seen it for himself, slipped quietly east, well behind Sedgwick's lines, and watched men in blue preparing their evening meal, with no preparation against anything that might come at them from above, from the direction of the river.
Gordon's brigade belonged to Jubal Early's division, and Early would hear none of Gordon's plan, did not believe that a quick sweep up and around the Federal flank would accomplish anything, and might in fact be disastrous. There had still been the question of Burnside's whereabouts, and Lee's cavalry had no answers to that. Stuart was focused well below, far beyond the right flank. But now, with Burnside suddenly appearing down near the Plank Road, that mystery had been solved.
Lee had stared at Ewell in disbelief. All day long they had known of an extraordinary opportunity, and nothing was done about it. He thought of Ewell, standing in front of him like some awkward flapping bird, explaining all sides of the issue. The staff often joked about that, but Lee had no use for it, would not judge. He tried hard, would see only a man who had given up a piece of himself to this service, had lost a leg on the battlefield, had earned the respect. But... he is not the same man, he thought. He will not take the initiative. The order approving Gordon's attack had come directly from Lee.
He did not know John Gordon well, except that he was not a professional soldier. He had come to the army from Georgia, an educated man who advanced through the ranks by leading infantry with solid, quiet competence. Lee thought of Jubal Early and Early's distrust of the plan. Early would distrust any plan that he did not conceive, could intimidate everyone around him, and since Gettysburg, Lee had known that Ewell was capable of allowing Early to influence him more than was appropriate. Lee was growing weary of that. Early was vocal and openly hostile about so many things, had even made a point of protesting the presence of Gordon's wife, who had been close to her husband through many of the fights. Lee did not object to the wives being near, as long as their husbands performed their duty. Gordon had shown no sign of a problem in that area, certainly had shown nothing of the oppressive influence that Ewell's wife had brought to his headquarters.
He hadn't noticed the small clouds in the west, painted with the red glow from a setting sun; there was no time for the small moment of beauty, the quiet serenity. The sharp colors faded away now, the sun well below the distant trees, and what light remained was fading quickly into a gray haze. He tried to feel some optimism, that this could still work, it might be an excellent plan. If Sedgwick could be panicked, Grant might have no choice but to pull back to the east, toward Fredericksburg. With the river behind him, there might be no escape. The risk, of course, was that Gordon was wrong, that there were more blue troops behind Sedgwick, and that Gordon might be flanked himself.
Lee stared out through the dull light, thought, It has to be in our favor. Men will panic quickly in a night assault, when they cannot see their attackers. The problem is that it would be very difficult to follow up any breakthrough, to move Ewell's other forces forward in the dark. But we must take every chance. Lee clenched his fist, still stared at the silence, waiting, thought, I wish General Ewell understood that. If Gordon is wrong, at least let him be wrong moving forward....
16. GRANT
EVENING, MAY 6, 1864 HE STILL WORKED THE KNIFE, SLOWLY, SHORT
DELIBERATE strokes, the wood shavings scattered into a thick pile around his feet. The fires were growing around him now. He glanced up, saw the staff lining up with small cups, a fresh pot of coffee. He saw Porter looking at him, holding two cups, and Grant shook his head, no.
He carved the last stick into a sharp point, sharp enough for a toothpick, tossed it aside, heard a sound, a small laugh, looked beyond his tent and saw a cluster of bright colors, brass buttons, and gold braid. He was used to foreign visitors. There was always some prince or dignitary, some old soldier from the great European wars. One old Frenchman told stories of his close friendship with Napoleon, another had fought against him in some frozen field in Russia. They were usually the guests of some congressman, someone looking to show off his influence.
Their first impression of headquarters was often disappointing. Many expected their presence to be the most significant event of the day, as though there should be some elaborate ceremony. Then they would hear the guns, a sound like, nothing heard in Europe, not even in the days of Napoleon, and then the wounded would flow past, wagons and ambulances filled with the screams and faint cries of the men who endured the horror of this most modern war. When that experience had passed, the visitors did not venture far from the tents, there was not quite as much boasting of their own heroics and how much more civilized war had once been. Even those from the most remote lands knew they were seeing the new face of war, and when they left, there was something different about them, something subdued.
Grant had no objection to the visits, but was not as cordial or open as many expected. He had little time for the ceremony of it, and often he would offend them by his lack of attention. He tried to be polite, but many spoke very little English, and if they did, and the accents were strong, he had a hard time understanding them, and it embarrassed them. Even when they were direct, a formal request for information, he'd seen their attraction to the reporters, and so there was very little he would tell them about what was happening. To them, he was just this odd quiet man, and none thought he had the flare, the great ceremonial presence, of the real commander. They would speak among themselves, talking about Lincoln, and smile knowingly, of course, the two men so similar, so symbolic of this young, crude country.
The group began to move away, stifled the smiles, and Grant looked down at his hands, the small knife, the dirty gloves with the fingers torn away.
Rawlins said, "They have no graciousness! They should be grateful we allow them here."<
br />
Grant looked up, saw Rawlins sipping the hot coffee from his tin cup, and said, "They don't hurt anything. As long as they stay out of the way, they add a little color to the place."
Rawlins sniffed.
"But, they're so... rude! Talking about you that way, I overheard them, I know what they're talking about. It's the... the knife. Your habit."
Grant rolled the knife over in his hand, said, "You mean the whittling? "
"They think all of us... their papers describe Americans as some kind of savages, as though we have no culture, no dignity. I saw a cartoon, you, the President, and a caricature of Uncle Sam, sitting around a campfire with whittling sticks!"
Grant thought, So, that's why the laughter. I fit the image. The Europeans had moved away, down the hill toward Meade's camp. Rawlins said, "I had better... keep an eye on them. They're heading toward General Meade's tent. You know how he is. He seems to offend them every time he speaks." Rawlins hustled away, and Grant watched him move down the hill, catching up to the bright uniforms, the elegant caped suits, Rawlins all smiles and short bows. Grant shook his head, smiled, thought, Old friend, you have a great future after this war. You're a natural diplomat.
