by Jeff Shaara
The orders were to follow the lead of Sheridan's cavalry, move out to the west, well beyond the distant spires of Petersburg. The Second Corps would follow the Fifth, and the word had spread, as it always did, the instinct of the veteran, that this move was something new, a powerful advance by a powerful army, commanded by a fiery little man who would lead them straight into a fight.
The flag bearer rode beside him quietly, a small thin man, clean shaven, boyish. Chamberlain could not remember his name. He was a sergeant, and Chamberlain wondered about that, if the enlisted men really thought of the rank as a privilege, the promotion as something to be valued. He'd known too many sergeants, had watched too many of them die, and so something in his mind kept him away from this new man, hid the man's name in some safe place. He tried not to think on that, told himself, No, there is no plan here, the man with the flag is not necessarily doomed. He glanced to the side now, and the man looked at him with an excited smile. Chamberlain looked away, thought, He is new, has not ridden up here, at the front of the column. He still thinks it's some kind of honor. I hope he's right.
The low rise began to flatten out, and he could see thick trees on both sides of the road, the sound of a small creek. The blessed smoothness now ended, giving way to more logs, and he sat up straight, lifted himself slightly off the saddle. Out to the side he saw skirmishers falling back toward the front of the column, men pressing and forcing their way through vines and deep mud. Now men came into the road in front of him, emerging in dirty blue from the' thick woods.
There was another sergeant, a dark man caked with wet mud up to his waist, and he saluted Chamberlain, said, "Sir, we're moving out into the road. The men can't push through this stuff. If you wish, Sir, give us a minute, and we'll move out in front a bit further."
Chamberlain said, "Fine, Sergeant. We'll hold the column for a minute. Have your men advance. Any sign of a... problem?"
"Oh, no, Sir. Nothing. The rebs are up that away for sure, to the north. Nobody down in this infernal place. This is Arthur's Swamp. We scouted it out once before. Mosquitoes as big as birds. Even the rebs stay clear. We'll move up a ways, dry ground up ahead, then spread into line again, with your permission, Sir."
Chamberlain was impressed, said, "By all means, Sergeant. Proceed." The man saluted, and now more of the skirmishers flooded into the road, moved quickly ahead, some stumbling on the roadbed. Chamberlain turned, motioned to the bugler, and the man gave a short blast on the horn, the call to halt. Chamberlain watched the skirmishers move farther away, well In front of the main column, the men who would be the first to see the enemy. He thought of their sergeant, thought, It's easy to forget that, sometimes. We are a very good army, men who have done this before, who know how to do their Job, and maybe the most important of all, who know what's up there, in front of them.
Behind him there were small voices, men used to waiting. He watched the skirmishers disappear, moving off the road again, saw the sergeant look back, raise his arm, a quiet signal. Chamberlain looked at the bugler again, nodded, waved his arm forward, and there was another blast from the horn, the men beginning to move.
The horse stepped carefully, but the saddle bounced In one hard )Olt, punched him from below, a shock of pain piercing up through him. He was not often bothered by the wound, But no, he thought, it won't let me forget. He tried to hold himself aloft again, a small cushion of space between him and the saddle.
Beside him the flag-bearing sergeant said, "I wonder who Arthur is? " Chamberlain saw the man gazing into the dense woods, and he flinched from another stab of pain, said, "What?"
The man looked at him, almost apologetic, said, "I meant, Sir, he said it was called Arthur's Swamp. I wonder why."
Chamberlain stared at the man, said nothing, the man turning away, not expecting an answer. Chamberlain looked into the woods, thought, A good question. Why would someone want a swamp named after him? Maybe Arthur owned the place. He pondered the possibilities. Maybe someone named Arthur came to some interesting end in this place, a piece of local folklore. He glanced at the man, began to feel a small irritation. Now I will have to find out. Can't let a question like that just pass unanswered. He could see the road ahead smoothing out again, prodded the horse slightly, a silent command, Move forward, please. He glanced at the young man, the flag slapped by a small breeze. Chamberlain said, "What's your name again, Sergeant?"
The man looked at him, said, "Arthur, Sir."
T WAS THE FIRST CLOUD OF DUST HE'D SEEN, THE ROADS UP AHEAD drying out under a high warm sun. The horses moved quickly, came straight toward him, and now he saw the flags, pulled his horse to the side, out of the road, waited, then saluted. It was Griffin.
The horses reined up, and Griffin was sweating, said, "All right, General. We have a job for you. There's a road around this curve, goes up to the right, called the Quaker Road. Take your brigade up that way, keep a sharp lookout. The enemy's flank is north of this position, and we need to know what he's up to. Keep moving north until you find him. You'll come to a creek... wait." Griffin pulled out a map.
A man behind him said, "It's Gravelly Run, Sir." Griffin looked at the map, said, "Yes, Gravelly Run. Take good care, General. Keep your pickets close in."
Chamberlain felt his heart thump, looked at the map as though there were some answer there, something Griffin had not told him. He nodded, said, "What do we do if we... find them, Sir?"
Griffin smiled, pointed at the column moving past them now, said, "How many men reported for duty in your command this morning.
Chamberlain knew what was coming, felt suddenly ridiculous for asking the question.
"Seventeen hundred, Sir. just under."
"Well then, General, you can have yourself one very large dance party. Or you can drive the rebels back as far as they'll agree to go. But advise me first. Lee is likely shifting his weight, knows we're down here. You may run into half the rebel army, and even your seventeen hundred men might not be enough. The rest of the division will move up behind and cover your flanks. Keep me informed."
Griffin was not smiling now, and Chamberlain saluted, said, "Yes, Sir. We will make contact, and keep you advised, Sir."
There was a roll of low sound now, dull thunder off to the west. Chamberlain looked past Griffin, and all heads turned that way.
Griffin said, "Sheridan. The cavalry." He glanced at the map again.
"Sounds like he's... maybe up here, above Dinwiddie Courthouse." He looked at Chamberlain.
"Let's find the enemy, General! We need to know what's up that road."
Griffin spurred the horse, the staff moving away in a thunder of hoofbeats. The troops still marching in the road were watching him. Some had heard Griffin's words.
One man said, "Where they at, General? We close to the rebs?" He spurred the horse alongside the column, glanced at the voice, all the faces now focused hard on him. He said aloud, "Eyes to the front, gentlemen. It seems... we're going to make a fight."
HEY HAD APPROACHED GRAVELLY RUN IN A WIDE LINE, AND there was already a scattering of musket fire from the other side, a rebel skirmish line along the creek itself, men hidden by thick brush, some firing from the thickets of small trees that lined the creek bed. He was still in the road, raised his field glasses, looked up beyond the water, thought, If their pickets are on the creek, the rest of them have to be close behind. He could hear the musket balls zipping past him, felt himself ducking, still stared hard through the glasses, laughed, thought now of Kilrain, something the Irishman always said: You won't hear the one that gets you. He lowered the glasses, could see the small flashes of fire, thought, No, not the best place for me to be. Pulling the horse around, he moved back to Arthur, the man with the colors, and the rest of his staff.
Down the line he saw his own skirmishers easing forward, low to the ground, protected by anything they could find. Now the firing went both ways, and he thought, Good, yes, push them back, give us some room. He rode to a small rise, wondered if they should cross t
he creek. Raising the glasses again, he watched for the thin line of the enemy to pull away, giving up the ground in the face of his great strength. He looked up beyond the creek again, saw a reflection, the flickering motion of bayonets, then a man on a horse. Now he could see fresh fallen trees, logs, dirt, a wide solid line. He scanned along the far side of the creek, down to the right, and saw more men, flags and the reflection of many bayonets. He felt his heart shoot into his throat, thought, This is more than a skirmish line. Yes, we have found the enemy... we have found a lot of the enemy.
He lowered the glasses, and there was a hush of silence all down the line, the troops dressing the formation, men lining up close to the men beside them.
He could hear horses, turned and saw Griffin, moving quickly. Chamberlain saluted, waited for Griffin to rein up the horse, then pointed out across the creek, said, "General Griffin, as you requested, Sir... the enemy."
Now there were small shouts along his lines, his men reacting to the small pops of musket fire, the single shots coming from the rebel pickets along the creek. His staff began to gather close to him, the couriers waiting, the horses moving in small Jerking motions.
Griffin stared through his field glasses, then smiled at Chamberlain, said, "Well, General, it seems they don't want us to cross this creek. You know what that means?"
Chamberlain absorbed the question, could still hear the sounds of Sheridan's fight off to the west. He looked toward the enemy line, then toward the scattered musket fire of the pickets.
"Yes, Sir. It means we should cross that creek."
HE BRIGADE WAS SPREAD INTO LINE ON BOTH SIDES OF THE road. Reaching the creek, wide and muddy, the men began to splash across. The left flank moved first, and Chamberlain rode close behind, could hear the great roar of muskets from the right flank, the volleys aimed across the road, a covering fire for the left flank to cross the creek. Behind the low works, the rebels were returning fire, thick smoke pouring down toward the creek in great waves. He pushed the horse through the water, then up out of the creek, moved through small patches of thick brush, could smell the choking sulfur of the smoke, tried to see in front of him, steadied the horse. His men were moving forward, beyond the creek, now reaching the rebel works. He pushed the horse forward, saw the blue wave streaming over the low wall, and beyond, saw the rebels pulling quickly away.
He broke into a clearing, a straight path toward the open field beyond, could see down the line now, his men still pressing forward, the lines wavering but strong. The rebels were stopping to fire, and he could see men falling, could hear the screams now, saw one man drop close to him, clutching his throat, rolling slowly in the grass. Chamberlain stared at the man for a brief moment, saw another man break out of line, move toward him and kneel down. Then the man's sergeant grabbed him by the shoulder, yelled something profane, pulled the man back into line. Another job for the sergeants, Chamberlain thought.
He moved the horse, rode to the left, a gap in the log wall, jumped over the shallow trench, could see more horsemen now, the regimental commanders, swords up, pointing forward. His men were ic retreat, no formation, pulling Sti in motion, the rebels in chaoti away on their own. The smoke was clearing, a breeze behind him pushing the white fog out before the blue wave, and he reined the horse and just watched, could hear the sounds of his men, the low cheer of soldiers who know they are winning.
Smoke now filled the patches of woods in front of them, each volley sending a blinding cloud toward the enemy. A break, a piece of luck, he thought, the wind is behind us.
He scanned the open ground, could see the wounded, the dead of both sides, some moving slowly, some not moving at all. Suddenly the name came to him, Griffin's orders... the Quaker Road. He shook his head, thought, No Quakers here on this day. They would definitely not approve.
Out of the thick fog he saw a cluster of men emerging, a slow march across the field, enemy troops moving straight toward him. Chamberlain's heart pounded and he pulled at his pistol, but then saw his own men, the muskets raised, saw that the ragged soldiers were not armed, were being herded to the rear, back toward the creek. They were prisoners. He laughed nervously, thought, Lawrence, have a little faith. As they moved by him, his own men saluted wildly, great toothy smiles. Chamberlain looked at the prisoners, saw bare feet, gaunt faces. They did not look up at him as they moved slowly by, and he thought, They do not look like soldiers, like an army. His own men -were shouting out, the pride of the capture, but Chamberlain did not hear them, continued to stare at the prisoners, recalled the great long march toward Antietam, when he'd seen prisoners for the first time. They were ragged then too, torn clothes, the uniforms barely evident. But you could still see the spirit. They had marched past him then with a defiance that said, "We are your enemy, and we will still fight you." Now the faces stared at the ground, silent, and he thought, These men look like... ghosts.
The fight was moving away from him, his men still pushing forward. He spurred the horse, moved past a line of small trees, saw a wide field, farmland, could see a house now, small white buildings. He moved forward, saw a huge sawdust pile, an old sawmill. His men were in line, kneeling, firing into the thick smoke, rebels holding a line around the sawdust.
He thought, Move forward, get closer, and recalled something Griffin had said long ago, quoting the instructions, laughing, something from some military manual. The brigade commander shall remain one hundred fifty yards be bind the line.
He could hear the musket balls of the enemy whizzing past him, high, wild shots, men blinded by the smoke, by the pressure, the strong advance of the blue line. He saw officers riding toward him, watching him, and he knew the look, men waiting for the command, making sure. He looked toward the sawdust pile, saw the enemy pulling away, yelled, "Forward! Keep pushing them!" The horsemen moved away, and Chamberlain looked behind him again, then far off to the right, thought, Yes, maybe... more strength, coming up on our flank. But he could only see his own men, far down the open field, the line thinning, the men slowing, holding their position.
He looked past the sawdust pile, and then the wind began to shift, the smoke flowing away, across the field. The rebels were still moving away, but he could see woods now, and along the edge, men climbing up and over a wide wall, a thick mass of logs and dirt. Suddenly, the I wall erupted in a solid blast of flame, dense smoke pouring forward, and the air around him was alive with the horrible sounds, the piercing whine of the hall of lead. His men were falling all down the line now, there was no cover, no safe place, and the line began to fall apart, men slowly moving back.
The officers were screaming orders, "Hold the line,"
"Stay together," but the men saw what was in front of them now, what lay beyond the open field. Chamberlain saw the faces of his men, some beginning to run, close to him now, not looking at him, and he pulled out his sword, waved it over his head, felt the hot anger, yelled at one man, a sergeant, "Stop! Pull them together!"
The man looked up at him, and Chamberlain wanted to yell at him again, red rage, but he knew the face, said only, "You..."
It was the man in the swamp, the man in charge of the pickets. He looked up at Chamberlain, and Chamberlain saw his face change, the wild panic erased now by an angry black light. The man said nothing, but turned, grabbed a man who was running by him, pulled the man around hard and shouted into his face. Now others began to stop, to fall together, forming a new line, close to Chamberlain, some looking at him. He yelled to them, not words, some sound, thought, Hold them, keep them here, but his voice faded into hoarseness.
The men were bringing themselves into order, the line strengthening. The officers began to gather, and Chamberlain waved the sword, the silent signal. The officers moved out, still pulling the line together. Some men began to fire back toward the heavy rebel line, and Chamberlain thought, No, wait... too far. He could hear the officers shouting the orders to hold fire, and the firing stopped, the sounds now only the voices of the men, the brigade finding itself again, the
flags spreadIng out, men moving to their place in line.
He watched, felt the sudden burst, the energy of pride, Yes, you will not brush us away! Now, from the rebel works, there was a new sound, and he stared, had heard it before, that awful scream, and men began to pour over the top of the works, the furious scream rolling forward, the line of rebels coming at them. Chamberlain felt his heart thump in hard cold beats, yelled weakly, "Hold on!"
But the blue line began to roll backward, some men breaking out, running toward the rear, wild eyes, driven hard by the panic, chased by the sounds. Some still held their position, and the orders were shouted, and Chamberlain saw his line explode into one long fire, a massive volley, a sharp blast into the rush of rebels. The rebel yell began to fade, and Chamberlain's men fired again, all along the wavering line. Now the smoke drifted away again and he could see the rebels backing away withdrawing to their heavy defenses. He yelled, a hoarse sound, a cheer, and his men looked at him, began to understand that they had held, had beaten back the assault.
