House Divided

by Ben Ames Williams

  “Yes sir, Ed Blandy, Lonn Tyler, Tom Shadd. They——”

  But Longstreet, in a fierce impatience, wheeled his horse. “Come along, Currain.” He spurred away.

  They had paused in a deep gorge cut by a trickling little stream; but as they went on, the horses labored up a steep and rocky climb to another crest, then settled back on their haunches and cautiously began the last precipitous descent. When they came to more level ground, the mountain behind them, Longstreet loosed the reins, lifting his mount to a gallop. That great black beast which Currain rode held to a single-foot, yet easily kept pace.

  They passed half a dozen houses, and Longstreet wondered whether this inconsiderable hamlet was Cashtown; but he did not pause to inquire. The road, now almost exactly straight, led eastward across softly undulating farm lands. Ripe wheat in some of the fields had already been cradled and bound; and Longstreet’s eye noted more than one position ideal for defensive battle. Place this army along one of these low ridges overlooking the smooth reaped fields; then the assaulting enemy would have no cover, the guns would have a perfect field of fire. Another Fredericksburg!

  Lee could not take position here till he had extricated Hill from that contention ahead; but to discover this terrain so suited to their plans was reassuring. Longstreet checked Hero to a trot. The heat, even thus late in the day, was oppressive; and certainly there was no need for haste, no necessity to kill their horses. No matter how the battle went today, he could not help till his First Corps reached the field. But as he rode he memorized the countryside; and from each rise of ground he studied the drift of smoke and dust above the battle that was nearer all the time. Presently he saw over intervening groves and low ridges the wooded crest of what seemed to be a lofty hill, somewhat south of the smoke of the guns. Such a hill might play an important part in any battle near its base.

  His attention turned from the terrain to the increasing number of wounded men filing along the road. They were almost universally pale beneath the sweaty grime that covered their faces, nursing a hurt arm, or limping and faltering, or with heads swathed in a soiled rag of bandage, or with open wounds in cheeks and jaws where dust had dulled the raw red of torn flesh. Some, finding themselves too weak to walk, sat by the roadside, or sprawled on the ground; and no matter what cheerful pretense they made, nor what jest they called to passing comrades, their helplessness was plain.

  The wounded men wore an almost identical expression. Their eyes were unnaturally wide open, as though something pulled their eyebrows upward; their nostrils were dilated, their lips drawn away from their teeth, their teeth exposed in a grimace like a snarl, and deep lines curved from nostrils downward to frame mouth-corners. Longstreet had seen on many a battlefield that same characteristic grimace. It was as though each hurt man were listening, his mouth a little open, for some sound that would announce the onset of new agony.

  These were the flesh-and-blood debris of battle, but suddenly to one side he saw material wreckage; a dismounted gun and a wrecked limber. Here, back of a cross road, batteries had been placed to play on the shallow valley ahead, where scattering single trees marked the track of a meandering little brook. Beyond the cross road and nearer the battle, a building on the right seemed to be a tavern. On the left of the pike stood two or three houses, and an orchard ran down to the stream side. Under the apple trees surgeons were at work among the wounded, and Longstreet heard a man scream, and felt his throat fill with pity. But he turned his eyes away. A soldier must ignore such sights and sounds, must never remember that he too might presently lie writhing in torment under the surgeon’s probe, screaming to the rasping grate of saw on bone.

  Along the gentle slope to the right of the road, scattered singly and by twos and threes all the way from the cross road down to the brook, lay lifeless bodies. Theirs was the nondescript garb which with most Confederate soldiers passed for a uniform. Longstreet’s accustomed eye read the story. A Confederate line of battle, formed among some trees a little off the road, had advanced down that slope and across the brook and into tangled woods beyond. A single dead man meant that a bullet had found its mark. Where two or three lay close together, an enemy shell had torn a gap in the advancing ranks. The Confederate advance to strike the enemy had been a costly one; to that the dead could testify.

  As he and Trav crossed the bridge, Longstreet discovered the first blue-clad bodies, almost hidden in bullet-riddled underbrush in the wood that fringed the brook; and up the slope beyond there were more. At one point a broken line of them extended from the road southward past a small house to another patch of woods. The Yankee flank had rested on the road; for here lay many dead, and groaning wounded had propped themselves against the fence posts and with dulled eyes watched the riders pass. They had that same expression, with wide eyes and open mouths and lips drawn upward, like men listening. He saw one, a boy with a mop of curly black hair, who had died as he sat against the fence and slumped to one side.

  A little farther on he checked his horse to look more closely at traces that marked the scene of bitter battle. A Yankee regiment, or perhaps two, had crossed the road to charge what seemed to be a railroad cut, a hundred yards to the north. To do so they had had to climb two fences, one on either side of the road; and the fences were a windrow of blue uniforms. The Confederates in the railroad cut were marksmen, that was clear; for from the road to the cut scores of Yankees, dead or helplessly wounded, lay sprawled in the trampled grass. He saw beyond the railroad cut what looked like a Confederate line of battle, fronting some heavy woods; but these men were lying down, so they too were dead or disabled. A single volley from among the trees had obliterated a regiment of Southerners. Oh, this had been a bloody day.

  He rode up a slight rise past a large orchard on his right and came to shallow defensive works extending right and left of the road: fence rails, logs, cut trees, the sort of works men threw up in haste. Probably the Yankees, driven from the line of the brook back yonder, had tried to rally here. Beyond the works the road dipped gently down, and a little below him a byway lined with trees led up to a grove on his right; but for a moment he paid it no attention.

  For along the pike by which he and Trav had come, he saw the first houses of the town of Gettysburg.

  Sometimes in early spring along a woodland stream the new opening leaves form a semi-transparent screen, destroying perspective so that the eye is unable to explore the depths beyond. Longstreet saw the town through a similarly confusing screen of dust and smoke. But that was always true where men were fighting. Battles were never seen in depth but always flat, as though they were painted on a wall. Dust was heavy and clung to the earth, while the hot smoke rose, so the screen through which now he had to look was of a tawny color at its base, a pale blue where it met the sky.

  Between him and the town, and north of the town, and in the town itself there was fighting; he heard the thump of guns and bursting shells, the clatter of musketry. South of the town, low hills rose a little higher than the spot where he stood; and that nearest the town was marked by the white stones of a cemetery. Blue-clad soldiers were trickling up toward the cemetery, sometimes running, sometimes dodging and crawling, sometimes pausing to take cover and to turn their pieces on the town from which they had been driven. Small smoke puffs showed briefly when they fired; there was smoke along the crest of the slope above them, and below them smoke and dust obscured the town.

  Where Longstreet stood, the sun was behind him. His shadow and the shadows of the men of his staff, pressing close around him, extended down the slope below where he had paused; and the sun added a blood-red tint to the tawny blue of the dust and smoke yonder. He looked at his watch. It was not yet five o’clock. Time enough to push those scampering Yankees out of the cemetery where they were taking refuge, to thrust them toward the lower ground south of that height, to keep them running. Never let them rally. Meade’s army was coming up from the south. Roll these beaten men back into his columns as one rolls a ball into a group of tenpins.
Throw the whole advance into confusion.

  General Lee must be somewhere near. To the right of the road, near a building with a bell tower which might be either a church or a school, a group of officers sat their horses; and Longstreet and his staff, following that line of shallow defensive works, rode through the grove to join them. As they approached, General Lee lifted his hand in absent greeting, then fixed his eyes again upon the battle yonder. General Hill was near Lee, but he moved his horse to meet Longstreet. Longstreet saw that the other was pale, and he remembered that it was Hill who had precipitated this unwanted engagement.

  “Why, General,” he said in ironic sympathy, “you look badly.”

  “I’ve been sick all day.”

  “Well, you’ve opened battle,” Longstreet commented. “That should cure you!” Hill knew as well as he did that to avoid battle had been Lee’s insistent order.

  Hill made an unhappy, defensive gesture. “General Lee assured me yesterday that the enemy was no nearer than Emmitsburg. Today General Heth wished to go into Gettysburg and seize some shoes for his men, and since General Lee was sure no enemy was near, I saw no objection; but I warned Heth not to accept battle.”

  Longstreet grunted. “Well, he accepted it.” Through his glasses he studied the town yonder. “You’ve driven them, I see,” he said, more generously.

  “Yes, finally. They held us at first. Rodes came in on their flank, but he got into trouble, too. Iverson’s men were slaughtered. But then Gordon came up to hit their flank again, and they broke.” He added honestly: “But they fought harder than I’ve ever seen them fight before.”

  General Lee, for a better view, rode south along the low ridge, past that big building with a belfry on top and past a house and across another road and out into a projecting clump of trees whence he could look east and south across the open fields. Longstreet, following him, picturing in his mind the map of the region, judged this was the Hagerstown road which they had crossed. The town was now directly east of them. South of that cemetery where the broken Yankees were rallying, the ground sloped gently downward for almost a mile before pitching steeply up to the wooded peak Longstreet had seen as he came on from Cashtown. With his memory of the map to supplement his sight, Longstreet followed the line of the Emmitsburg pike from the town southwest through the rolling levels between where they stood and that wooded hill. By the map, another road, leading to Taneytown, ran straight south from Gettysburg; and the Baltimore pike angled away southeastward. The Taneytown road must be east of that wooded peak. Meade with the rest of his army would come hurrying up those roads tonight. Unless the Yankees were driven out of that cemetery over yonder before dark, Meade would take position with the hills to anchor his flanks, and think himself well placed.

  And in fact he would be well placed, on high ground and with these intervening fields and meadows neatly squared by fences to give a perfect field of fire for almost a mile in front of him. Across this well-farmed countryside, no force could move to attack him without being seen. In wooded country, or even in a land of rolling hills, a column could frequently surprise the enemy, as Jackson had surprised Hooker’s flank at Chancellorsville; but here no surprise was possible. To attack Meade, once he was in place over yonder, would be an undertaking as hopeless as Burnside’s attack at Fredericksburg.

  So it was vital to seize those heights south of the town tonight. Then Meade would find no natural fortress waiting to give him sanctuary, and they could crush him tomorrow. The tactical necessities of the situation clear in his mind, Longstreet went to join the commanding general.

  Lee was looking toward the town. He said in a troubled tone: “General, I’m like a man with a bandage over his eyes. We seem to have blundered into the whole Federal army. I can’t think what has happened to Stuart.”

  So Stuart, so badly needed here, was off on one of his showy rides. Longstreet held his tone even. “Is there no report from him?”

  “Nothing! Not for a week past! Can he have met with some disaster?”

  Hill, precipitating battle; Ewell, jamming the roads with his trains; Stuart, electing to make a skylarking raid when he should be attending to his business: these men between them had betrayed Lee into a battle he did not wish to fight. Longstreet felt a hard anger, but he spoke reassuringly. “You need not fear for Stuart, General. No doubt he saw some fine opportunity and seized it.”

  “I don’t know what’s in front of us,” Lee confessed. “Prisoners say Meade’s whole army is coming, and that there are at least two corps already here. Of course we’ve hurt them badly; and I’ve sent word to Ewell to seize that hill south of town at once, if practicable.” That was a matter of course, the necessary move to capitalize the day’s success; but the way to carry a position was to carry it, not waste time wondering whether you could. “If practicable.” Had riot Lee used those same words in his orders to Stuart? And where was Stuart? Lee added, thinking aloud: “I hadn’t intended battle here, so far from base; but we can’t forage with those people right in front of us, and we can’t retreat without discouraging the men. They’ve tasted success. Their blood is up. We must fight!”

  This was the hour which Longstreet a month ago in Virginia had foreseen; the hour when in the presence of the enemy General Lee’s valorous heart would urge him into a battle that should not be fought. He spoke as calmly as though he and General Lee were still at Hamilton’s Crossing, planning this campaign. “If Ewell seizes the cemetery, Meade will have no defensible position over yonder. But even if Ewell does not consolidate his gains tonight, the position is a trap for Meade. With his flanks strong, he will think himself secure; but if we move around his left between him and Washington, then he must come and attack us on ground of our choice.”

  Lee made an impatient gesture. “If he’s there tomorrow I will attack him.” General Hill joined them, and Lee repeated: “If Ewell doesn’t move them tonight, we’ll hit them as early as practicable tomorrow.”

  In Virginia a month ago Longstreet had thought Lee completely agreed that their tactics should be to provoke attack, not to deliver it. “If he’s there tomorrow it will be because he wants us to attack him,” he protested.

  General Lee shook his head, watching toward the town, waiting for the clangor of Ewell’s move. Except for that negative gesture he did not reply. Major Taylor returned with word that Ewell’s orders to attack had been delivered; but time passed and still Ewell did not strike. Moxley Sorrel came on a panting horse to report that Hood had begun his march.

  “I waited to see him start,” he said. “He’s closing up on McLaws.”

  “They’ll be needed here tomorrow,” Longstreet told him. “Hill and Ewell have broken the enemy, but that’s only a beginning. Send circular orders to all column commanders to come on as fast as they can without exhausting their men.”

  Sorrel dismounted to draft these orders, and Longstreet rejoined Lee still hopefully waiting for Ewell to attack the hill above the town. Ewell had had his orders now for fully half an hour. By all the Gods of battle, why did he not move? A messenger reported an enemy force near Fairfield, a few miles to their right rear; and Lee directed Hill to send General Anderson to guard that quarter. Carriers came and went, and the sun slipped down the sky. Scattered musketry rattled along the borders of the town where sharpshooters were making steady practice; but Ewell sent no men driving up the hill against the beaten enemy.

  A rider brought Lee a dispatch, and the commanding general read it and uttered an exclamation of relief. “At last!” He spoke to Longstreet. “Here’s word from Stuart,” he said. “He’s at Carlisle.” And to the courier: “Go tell him to make haste. We will need him here tomorrow.”

  The man galloped away, and Longstreet saw again that nervous twitching movement of neck and head which testified to General Lee’s smothered anger. Well, he was rightly angry! Stuart had gone rampaging off none knew where and left them to blunder blindly into this battle; and Hill had against orders permitted Heth to precipitate the fight
; and now Ewell ignored Lee’s orders to seize that hill over there and crown today’s success. Yes, Lee had reason to be angry!

  The precious moments dragged and dragged away. The group of officers sat like statues, their still hopeful eyes fixed on the town, their ears tuned to catch the first murmur of rising battle when Ewell advanced. Their horses with tossing heads won enough slack to reach down for a mouthful of grass. At an occasional sprinkle of shots or the solitary thud of a single gun they lifted their heads, their ears pricked, they were for an instant as attentive as the men. But each time they returned to their grazing, knowing as well as their masters that this casual and spasmodic firing was not battle.

  Longstreet saw sunset shadows reach from the wood behind them across the tilled lands toward the town. The town was still in sunlight, but the shadows touched the houses, moved up their sides, flowed over the rooftops. A church spire like a golden needle held the sun for an instant; then it too was drowned by the rising flood of coming night. Ewell had not moved.

  General Lee at last turned his horse. “It is too late,” he said resignedly. “I must go to Ewell, find out why he did not strike.” He rode back across the Hagerstown road and past the school building and on to where beside the Chambersburg pike his headquarters tents were pitched. Longstreet and the others went with him, and Longstreet swore under his breath in steady rage. As they reached the turnpike, Johnson’s division, coming from Chambersburg, filed off into the fields north of the road. “Perhaps Ewell was waiting for Johnson,” Lee reflected, watching the men pass. “Well, he has waited too long. It will be dark before Johnson is up.”

  With two or three of his staff, he rode toward the town, and Long, street’s eye followed him till in the deepening dusk Lee’s tall form was lost to view. There were hundreds of dead men and hurt men, wreckage of today’s battle, scattered across the meadows; and those whose business this was moved among the wounded men, deciding which ones must be left to die, which must face the ordeal of the knife and saw. Sometimes when clumsy hands touched a sufferer, his scream of pain sounded thinly through the night; and as darkness hushed the last firing, beneath the low hum and tramp and rumble of turning wheels and marching men, there began to sound a droning, moaning undertone made up of faint cries for water, and sobs of pain. Here and there lanterns gleamed like fireflies, moving to and fro.