by Jeff Shaara
Many of them were on foot, the horses shot away, moving desperately to stay together, some kneeling to shoot, others lying flat in the shallow depressions, trying to load wet powder, their carbines useless in the downpour.
Stuart kept the horse In motion, directed men into line, whatever men he could rally, kept them moving to the front, to the awful confusion of the fight. He had counted the enemy flags, knew it had been only one division, Merritt's, the tough brigades of Custer, Devin, and Gibbs. Stuart held the good ground, kept the fight from pushing them too far in disorder. But there was no pause, Sheridan kept coming, moving Wilson's division into the fight, and slowly, order broke down, and over every rise, in every small depression, men found themselves in the face of the enemy, and then, short yards away, a blessed line of friends.
It lasted all morning, then into the afternoon. Stuart rode along a fence line, stopped, saw a group of his men trying to form a line, and he pointed out over a low rise, yelled, "There, advance there!"
The men saw him, one officer waving a sword, and they moved up and over the rise. On the far side a small cluster of blue soldiers were turning that way, to meet the new threat, and now smoke flowed up toward Stuart, the sounds of the volley mixed with the steady hiss of the rain.
He held the horse against the fence line, saw men moving up beside him, using the fence for protection, firing now at glimpses of blue. He glanced down, saw bodies along the far side of the fence, faces staring up, washed clean by the rain. All around him, bodies of both sides were scattered along every fence, at the edge of every rise, against every tree. But he would not look at that, yelled to the men around him, "Give it to them... there, over there! For your country... ! For the glory of God... I" The men were looking toward him, more now moving up along the fence, and the wind howled around him, the cape billowing out, the red lining flashing at the enemy, a red shadow wrapping around him. He saw blue now, men stopping to aim, and around him, his men answered with a blast of fire.
He looked across the field, saw another fence, small trees, could see his men lining up behind, scattered pops of firing, small flashes in the dark rain, the men who could keep their powder dry. He saw a scattering of blue, soldiers caught in a small trap, men falling, then more blue, moving toward the fence. There was a burst of smoke, the blue mass dissolving, and Stuart raised the hat, let out a yell. Around him, faces looked up, and he saw the fire, the victory. He kept the hat high, and the men began to yell with him.
in the field before them, down a wide slope, men were streaming back toward the road, men in blue, scattered and broken, and Stuart pointed, yelled again, and there was musket fire from the fence beside him. Farther up the fence line a new wave of blue came over the rise, but it was not a line of battle. The men were running, the faces staring straight ahead, looking for the safety of their own lines. He raised his pistol, pointed it at a group of blue, only yards away, fired the pistol, fired until it was empty, felt the rage building, felt the horse move beneath him, thought, Yes, we will charge them... God is with us... God has seen the glory of our fight!
He glanced to each side, looked for officers, looked again to the front, saw men in blue moving past in a wave of blind retreat. Now one man turned, and Stuart saw the man's face, older, a face that did not have the panic of the men around him. The man's eyes focused on him now, and the man stopped moving, stared at Stuart with a black calm, the eyes cold and hard. Stuart felt a chill, could not turn away from the man's stare, the noise around him quieting, fading into the hard whisper of the rain, and it was just the two of them, alone in the swirling black of the storm.
The man slowly raised his arm, held a pistol, pointed it with a steady hand, and Stuart sat up straight in the saddle, now saw the bright flash, felt the hard punch in his stomach, his breath sucked away. The man lowered the pistol, still looked at him with the cold eyes, then turned, walked away, disappeared into the black rain.
20. LEE
MAY 11, 1864 THE RAIN FELL ALL THROUGH THE AFTERNOON, THE MEN huddled in the deepening mud of the trenches. The high mound of dirt and timber in front of them was a solid wall of protection, and the enemy had not come back. Many were beginning to believe that he would not come back at all, that this ground, the massive strength of these entrenchments, would push Grant into motion. The fight would be somewhere else.
The engineers had designed the line, spread along the high brow of ridges that wound through the swamps and open fields. The line extended forward in the center, pushed out around a ridge, formed an inverted U, and the engineers knew it was not the best way to design a defense, that the U itself was vulnerable. But if the line had been straight, the high ground would have been out front, in the enemy's hands, and artillery could have used the hill to cause serious problems for Lee's entire position. The soldiers called it the "mule shoe," and the men who settled into the works in front kept a careful eye toward the gentle roll of the open ground in front of them and to the solid line of woods beyond. But the day had passed with only the scattered firing of the skirmishers, the occasional glimpse of the enemy by the vigilance of the sharpshooter. The great mass of men just sat in place, wet and chilled and miserable.
The dark came early, flowed across the woods and fields under the heavy weight of the clouds. They had seen this before, knew by now that when the rain settled upon them like this, there would be no relief. This was a Virginia spring, and the streams and swamps fed off the storm, and the men knew the left flank was safe for now. Where Hancock had tried to press around them, it was nearly impassable, the creek beds roaring, pouring new water into the boggy lowlands, which now became muddy lakes.
There had been one piece of bright light, the word passed all through the men in the field. Even the men farthest from the dry tents of the commander took it with a smile, had made their own quiet salute toward Lee's camp. His son, Rooney, had come back to the army, released from the Federal hands, recovered now from the wounds. In the camp itself there had been cheering, the glad hugs and enthusiastic handshakes, but Lee had greeted his son more with relief than happiness. The homecoming was not all joy, and Rooney had brought that as well, the sadness, the grief. Charlotte had not survived the winter, could not regain her frail health, consumed by the worry for her husband. But there was no time for consolation, for the comfort of father to son, something Lee had always had difficulty showing. They all knew, with Stuart off toward Richmond, in pursuit of Sheridan's raid, Rooney would have to take command of what cavalry Lee still had close to the army.
Now word was coming to headquarters, Grant might be moving, pulling to the east. Wagons were moving on the roads to Fredericksburg, and Lee could not know if it was just a flow of wounded or the beginning of a full-scale withdrawal.
Lee would not order any movement, not yet, not until he was certain Grant was moving more than wagons. But speed would be essential, and so he had ordered the slowest part of the army, the cannon that lined the mule shoe, to pull back and make ready to move fast at the first confirmation that Grant was on the march. Along the great curving line, the men closest to the enemy, who still huddled behind the tall works, were bent low under dripping shelters made from anything they could find, choking on the thick smoke from sputtering fires. They watched in nervous disbelief as the great power of their artillery limbered up, the horses pulling the guns through the thick mud of the faint trails, taking them away, to the roads far behind the lines.
There would be little to eat, the fires could not stay lit long enough to cook the raw bacon, and so the men gnawed and chewed on what they had. There was one blessing: the rain could soften the hardtack, wash down the taste of the stale flour. As the dark had spread over them, heads would peek over the wall, staring quietly into the blackness, at the strange noises from the far woods. As the night wore on, the noises continued, the sound of music.
Their own bands had no enthusiasm for joining in, the playful competition across the lines, each side trying to outdo the other. And so the men list
ened curiously, could even make out the tunes drifting across the field. Some laughed, joked about the Yankee commanders, ordering their men to play lullabies so the Yankees could sleep, some wondering about the cruelty of making the bands play in the driving rain. But the men farther out, the pickets, began to send word back to their officers, there were other sounds as well. The music would pause, small silent gaps between songs, and the new sounds would emerge, the sound of men talking, of movement, the occasional clinking of a tin cup, the stacking of muskets, a hushed order, a curse. The sounds were growing, spreading, a great mass of men marching close, gathering together. Now the music was not enough to disguise what was happening in the woods, and the men began to understand why the music had played, why it continued to play, late into the miserable night.
MAY 12, 1864 LEE HAD STAYED CLOSE TO HIS OWN CAMP, FEELING THE WEATHER
in his bones, the stiffness, a dull ache in every step. He had waited for the old illness to return, almost expected it, knew he was very tired. But the pains had not come that way, the hot pinch in his throat, the cold stab in his chest. He had prayed for that, Please... and now he made a new prayer, thankful, blessed relief from the problems with his heart.
He sat alone, shuffled through damp papers. It is certainly this dismal weather, and nothing more, he thought. God has given us a rest, will cleanse the fields, and neither side will do much until it clears away. He stared out through the opening in the tent, saw water pouring in a stream off one side of a raised tent flap, had a sudden flash of memory, the first autumn of the war.
He'd been sent into the field for the first time, before Davis had given him command of this army. McClellan had pushed a Federal army south through the rugged mountains of western Virginia, and Davis sent Lee out to manage a bad situation, two, southern commanders, Wise and Floyd, fighting for turf, for authority, and neither one able to stop squabbling long enough to fight McClellan. The place was called Cheat Mountain, Lee's first fight of the war, and it had been a failure. There was poor coordination, miserable communications, a plan that was washed away by days of weather like this, the already poor roads pulling the men down into a deep sea of mud. Lee had no experience in the difficult terrain, had devised a plan of surprise that simply didn't work, falling apart in the hands of inexperienced men in terrible conditions. There had been harsh judgment in the papers. Lee's first campaign could have condemned him to a post firmly behind the doors of his Richmond office. He did not search for excuses, kept the experience alive, would always remember the lesson: Know the ground, know the men in your command. But he had forgotten about the weather, how a good army could be held down, the morale of the men, the fighting spirit, chilled by the cold wet hand of God.
He saw movement, a horseman, heard the man calling out. He stood, felt the stiffness in his knees, saw Taylor moving toward the man, heard the voice, unfamiliar. He waited, saw Taylor turn, look at him, and Lee stepped out under the tent flap. Now more horsemen began to ride in, mud splattering on the gathering staff, and Taylor moved close, water running off his hat.
"Sir, we have reports from the Second Corps, from the mule shoe... the picket line reports the enemy is gathering in force to their front."
Lee saw Marshall now, speaking to another courier, and Marshall moved quickly toward him, wiping at his glasses.
"Sir, we have word from General Ewell. He requests with some urgency, Sir, that the artillery be returned to his front. He says the command there reports the enemy is massing for an assault!"
Lee absorbed the words, thought of the reports earlier, Grant's wagons moving east. He felt a cold turn in his gut, looked at Taylor, said, "You see what this weather can do? I have reports Grant is moving away, now he is coming right at our center."
He stepped back into the tent, found a blank piece of paper, thought, All right, the guns should be moved back. He wrote the order, handed it to Taylor, and the young man rushed out, tripped over the tent stake, the flap shutting closed, dumping water down in a mass. Lee stood in the dark, heard the commotion, horses moving, quick shouts. It will be light soon, he thought, and we will see what General Grant has done. He felt angry, shook his head. I wanted to believe... he would be gone. It made sense, the strong defenses. They came at us all down the line, couldn't make us move, could only leave their dead in front of our guns. He would not do it again... not with the weather so bad.
He thought of the men out front, huddled in shallow pits, skirmishers, thought, They are uncomfortable, they are hearing the sounds of the enemy in motion, and they fear the worst. It makes sense. But surely, Grant has had enough... those people have had enough. What more must we do?
The flap opened and Taylor leaned in, "water dripping from his face, his hand.
"Sir... sorry, Sir. I'll fix the tent."
Lee could see past him, a faint gray light, the trees around the camp thick with fog.
"No, Colonel, it's time to begin the day. I'll be along in a moment.
Taylor backed away, and the flap dropped back down. Lee reached for his coat, stretched his back, felt a pain surge through his stomach, a small wave of nausea. Maybe, he thought, another day of rest, another break. If the rain lasts, nothing will happen. and The flap jerked open and Taylor was wide-eyed, pointing, now Lee could hear it, beyond the trees, toward the front of the line, a solid wave of sound, rolling through the fog and the rain. He stepped out into the gray mist, and the sound was louder, the low hard growl of some great beast, growing now, into a violent roar. He felt his chest pound, saw the quick motion of men around him, horses and shouts. He stared blindly at the sound, the center of the line, beyond the small trees, toward the curving rise they called the mule shoe.
THEY WERE THE FIRST VIRGINIA BRIGADE, HAD FORMED IN THE first weeks of the war, the first call for volunteers. Most came from the rich farmlands of the Shenandoah, and they learned how to march, to fight, to become a small piece of this great army, under the grim command of a strange professor from VMI. From the beginning, Thomas Jackson showed them something about themselves, that they could do the impossible, the outrageous, and that it was already there, inside each of them. They began to believe that, after the hard fight at First Manassas, the fight that gave Jackson the name all would know him by, but he would not keep that to himself, had always insisted the name belonged to the men. Now, with Jackson gone, each man carried the pride, the memories. He was still with them, still pushed them, marched them a little faster, kept them on the roads a little longer, pushed them into each fight with Just a bit more of the fire. They fought under Ewell now, the Second Corps, but around them there was no mistake. These men would always be the Stonewall Brigade.
As the misery of the black rainy night gave way to the dull glow from the east, they began to come awake, moving slowly with stiff aching bones, bare feet frozen by the dirty rainwater of the trenches. The Stonewall Brigade lined the western face of the salient, could see out toward the open ground in front of Laurel Hill, could still see the small dark mounds, the bodies of the enemy, unreachable by the burial parties, spread over the wide hill that was still the most dangerous place on the field. To their right was the tip of the salient, the sharp angle at the point of the mule shoe. They had suffered through the wet misery of the night as the entire line had suffered, brief fires that swallowed them in smoke, nowhere to find some small dry place. Most had Just sat still, resigned to the mud, to the wet clothes, hats pulled low over bearded faces. They would simply endure, knowing that eventually the rains would stop. Then they would bake under the torture of the bright sun, the stifling heat turning dried mud into choking clouds of dust. They had been through it all before, it was the quiet part of the war, and sometimes the silent monotony was worse than the fight, the weather showing no mercy, and these men would sit quietly, dreaming about the cool green hills of the Shenandoah Valley.
They could see the first light now, but the trees beyond the open ground were hidden, a thick fog flowed past them, a light breeze, and any man who sto
od, who tried to stretch the pain out of his back and legs, would feel the sudden chill, drop back down into a shivering mass.
They had heard the noises across the way, the invisible sounds of motion, of men talking, even the whispers carried across the black space. As the light began to find them, there were some who braved the cold rain, tried to see out into the field, to find some gap in the fog. Along the line there were voices now, and the men who sat huddled behind the wall heard new sounds, and they began to stand as well. There were small sharp cracks, the musket fire from the pickets out front. There was nothing unusual about that, the skirmishers always Waited for the first piece of daylight, always looked for the small blue motion across the way, each wanting to fire the first shot of the day. But there was another sound, and suddenly the pickets were at the wall, climbing over in a rush, and now the officers began to shout, men grabbed their muskets, lay them along the top of the wall, pointed out through the openings in the wooden barricade, still not knowing what was happening.
Now there were hard shouts, some could see into the fog, and the sounds flowed down the line, the eyes sharp now, awake, staring through the rain. They still could not see the far trees, but they did not have to. Across the open ground a dark mass rolled toward them, a solid line, coming slowly, silent and ghostly. There were no shouts, no bands played, and no guns fired. The wave rolled steadily, closer to the barricade. They could begin to see faces now, small pieces of color, the brass of the officers, the small flutter of flags. Pieces of the wave dropped out of sight, moving down into the small depressions in front of the wall, then appeared again, closer, climbing the low hills, and finally there was sound, the orders screamed out along the line. The muskets all pointed out from the wall now, and the order echoed in the trenches: "Fire!"
