Gone for Soldiers

by Jeff Shaara

  “Got you, Pete. You just lie down there, easy now.”

  He rocked back, sat, felt more hands behind him, supporting him, felt the flagstaff slip from his hand, saw the flag tilting, beginning to fall. He tried to grab it, missed, and then it was straight again, and he saw the hand, saw … Pickett.

  “George … damn … they shot me.”

  “Don’t you worry, Pete. You’ll be all right. You rest a bit. We’ll be back for you.”

  Pickett turned away, and Longstreet saw the flag go with him. Pickett jumped down into the ditch, then up the other side. The men moved aside, letting him through to the ladder.

  He felt more hands on him, something hard wrapping his leg, a voice saying something, Lie back, rest. He would not listen, not yet, kept his eyes focused on the ladder. He had to see, yes, there, the flag moving up the ladder, and Pickett, full of fire, raising the flag high, going over the wall.

  30. JACKSON

  SEPTEMBER THIRTEENTH, MID-MORNING

  THE SOUNDS FROM THE FIGHT IN THE GREAT FORTRESS WERE fading, and on the north side of Chapultepec a fresh column of troops was already in line, waiting for the order to advance.

  In front, Magruder’s battery was assigned to push forward, clearing the way, supporting the march of two regiments from the combined mass of Pillow’s and Worth’s divisions. The mission was simple at first: move beyond the walls of the great fort, cut off any escape route for the Mexican defenders. But now, as the defense of Chapultepec collapsed and a mass of prisoners was gathered by the men who had swarmed over the wall, there was no escape, no great surge of Mexican troops either toward or away from the fortress. The road was open, and farther to the east it made a turn northward, then back again to the east, a path that led straight to the gate of San Cosme, and a direct route into the heart of the city.

  Jackson had been with the guns, watched the sunrise while he sat on a spoked wheel of his six-pounder, the light field piece he had rolled into several fights now. While the rest of the army had moved, the infantry massing into the heavy lines, the officers scrambling to pull the slowest men to formation, Jackson watched, waiting impatiently, wiping the dampness of the dawn from the barrel of the gun with his hand.

  Magruder had sent him the word early—Lieutenant Jackson and his two guns would ride in front, would lead the support wherever Colonel Trousdale required it. The assignment was an honor, and Jackson would not believe it was for him, not a result of anything he had done. It was for these two pieces of artillery, a reward for the good work they could do, the accuracy they had already shown. Jackson had begun to feel an odd connection to both guns, as though, when the fight began, when the crews were working in good rhythm, he could feel the energy of the powder, and the sharp blast of shot would come from him, sent to the target by his hand. It gave him a raw spirit for the fight, a frightening enthusiasm that brought him a hesitant respect from his crews and outright admiration from Magruder.

  At Cerro Gordo the enemy had run too quickly, not allowing enough time for the field artillery to find the range. And Jackson had still been under the command of Francis Taylor, and Taylor would not let him pursue. He had great respect for Taylor, admired the man’s decency, the strength of his religious faith, and he knew that Taylor relied on the hand of God for guidance. Jackson had been curious about that, had sat beside many campfires while Taylor explained the fascinating complexity of God’s work, the destiny that had been given to all of them. To Jackson it had been a revelation. He had never considered that God would pay any attention at all to him, to one young officer from the hills of Virginia. It always seemed that God had greater priorities, managing the heavens, sending floods and plagues to punish the guilty, all the obvious jobs that God should have. But Taylor had a talent for clarity, for the profound explanation, and Jackson had begun to look skyward, seeking some hint, some evidence to support the growing feeling that Francis Taylor was right, that God was indeed watching him.

  When the army had spent long weeks at Puebla, his curiosity pushed him to investigate even further, seek some guidance beyond Captain Taylor. He had agonized over the language, spent hours in camp coaching himself, practicing Spanish. He was never very good at expressing himself, even in English, but the few words of Spanish became sentences, and then conversation, enough to seek out the priests, to find out what they might offer him, to explain just what it was God expected him to do.

  There had been no answers, but he began to feel uncomfortable with Taylor, impatient that something was missing. There was opportunity in this war, a chance to explore some piece of himself that always seemed to be … out there, somewhere. Taylor was his friend, his teacher. But Jackson was beginning to see that Taylor was not the best commander.

  When the vacancy opened in Magruder’s battery, Jackson leapt at it, had expected resistance from Taylor, but Taylor understood, allowed Jackson to move to the command of the man they all said would find the hottest part of any fight.

  At Padierna, Magruder led Jackson and his guns across the big ravine, and just as they had seen at Cerro Gordo, the Mexicans were running again. But they were not as fast this time, and there had even been a defense, Mexican gunners trying to hold a weak line against the strong American tide. Jackson had burst into the fight with a fire that amazed even Magruder, had driven his crews straight at the Mexican defenses, and the defenses did not hold. If the senior commanders did not yet see what Jackson carried to the fight, the soldiers around him, the swarms of Americans who swept over Padierna, had seen it clearly. There was something strange, something oddly dangerous, about this quiet young lieutenant. After Padierna, Magruder knew it as well. And when the fight was over and the guns were quiet, Jackson had stayed close to the hard brass, the exhausted crews watching him from a respectful distance as he sighted down the barrel, moving around the gun, still absorbed in some private fight of his own.

  Even Magruder did not understand what was driving him, but the hard energy of the fight, the smoke and the sounds, the faces of the enemy, had opened something in Jackson, had given him answers that Taylor and the priests could not. In the quiet of the darkness, as the army came together and the camps were loud with talk of victory, Jackson still sat quietly alone, still carried the powder on his face, in his clothes. He had come to understand what God expected him to do.

  * * *

  HE LED THE GUNS FORWARD, TRAILING MAGRUDER AND OTHER officers, but stayed close to his crews, thought, If he needs me, he’ll give me … that look. Those are infantry officers, probably Colonel Trousdale. He could see a flag now, a gold II, nodded, knew the Eleventh Regiment was one of the units the guns would support.

  Magruder looked at him now, the black fire in his eyes, the look that intimidated even the superior officers, but Jackson knew the meaning, turned, said to the crews, “Hold here.”

  He rode forward, saw the other officers watching him, but he ignored them, looked straight into the grim stare of Magruder, who said, “Time for work, Lieutenant. Pull your guns up this road. We will take a position on the right flank of the column. Your job is to eliminate anything that might get in their way.”

  Jackson saluted, saw the other officers still looking at him, and he said to Magruder, “Is there … anything else, sir?”

  Magruder glanced at the others, saw their expression. “Colonel Trousdale has heard about your fine work.”

  One of the officers moved his horse closer to Jackson. “We have not had the pleasure, Lieutenant. Colonel William Trousdale. Your captain tells me we can expect more than adequate support from those two field pieces of yours. I look forward to seeing your men in action.”

  Embarrassed, Jackson nodded and saluted Trousdale. “Um … yes, thank you, sir.”

  He looked at Magruder again, who said, “Lieutenant Tom Jackson is not a man for polite conversation, Colonel.”

  Trousdale said, “I have no intention of being polite myself, Lieutenant. Let’s move, shall we?”

  The officers rode back to the colum
n of troops, the men cheering for their commander. Magruder leaned close to Jackson. “Bring up the guns. We need to move out a ways, find a good location. You ready, Lieutenant?”

  Jackson nodded, surprised at the question. “Certainly, sir.” His men were watching him, waiting for the silent signal, and now he turned, motioned with an arm, and immediately the guns came forward. Behind him a bugle sounded, and the column of infantry began to move. Magruder spurred his horse, and Jackson moved alongside. “Once the column moves past the castle, Mr. Jackson, I expect we’ll run into some kind of resistance. That’s your job, bust ’em up. Clear the road. I’ll be moving out to the left, protecting the column from the north. Until we see what’s waiting for us, the battery will be spread out.”

  Jackson did not respond, knew that Magruder’s orders did not require any input from a lieutenant. He looked to the right toward the thick grove of cypress trees, still holding the gray smoke of the first assault. There were faint pops now, scattered musket fire from inside the fortress itself. He could see the ladders, most still up against the thick walls, a few men still climbing up. He watched as small pieces of blue disappeared over the top of the wall, thought, Climbing up into the face of the enemy … that close, close enough to see the look in their eyes, to see their fear. That would be … magnificent.

  He stood staring at the specks of blue high along the wall, until he heard a cheer behind him. Turning toward the sound, he saw an officer pointing, looked again, caught the motion, the Mexican flag suddenly dropping, sliding down the flagstaff high in the center of the fort. The column had halted, and now all eyes were on the flagpole. He saw the first flicker of motion, could hear the roar building in the men behind him, heard Magruder say something, watched now as the Stars and Stripes was pulled up the pole. The cheering echoed all down the road, answered by the cheers and waves of the men up on the wall. Jackson moved the horse again, suddenly impatient, looked back to his gun crews, who were cheering as well. But when they saw his look, their brief cheer grew quiet and they moved forward again. He moved away from Magruder, led them farther out on the road, said quietly, “We are not yet done.”

  HE WAS BEYOND THE WALLS OF CHAPULTEPEC NOW, COULD SEE the intersection to the east, and beyond, the low walls of the city. Gripping the reins tightly, he focused on motion near the intersection, a low mound of brown, a long row of cut trees spreading to one side. He was alone with his gun crews now, the infantry spreading out into battle lines far behind him. His men were holding his guns at the side of the road, glancing out over the open ground, anticipating, looking for the good placement. Out front he could see the advance skirmishers pushing out ahead of the infantry in a wide thin line, and he thought, We should move up there, get closer. If they’re not shooting at anything, I should be able to move at least that far. He turned, motioned for the guns to advance, heard a strange sound, louder now, ripping the air in front of him. A bright streak whistled overhead. The shell hit behind his guns, a dull blast of dirt and rock, and he stared out to the front, saw the small cloud of smoke rising from the low mound. He saw the flash, another shell streaking over him, exploding back close to the column of infantry, and he saw men swept down by the shattered metal, could hear their shouts, the first screams. He pushed the sounds out of his mind, turned, looked again at the small rising cloud, felt the blade of the knife rising in his chest, the cold steel of the fight beginning to grow inside of him.

  Magruder rode up beside him. “Protect your guns, Lieutenant!”

  “Sir. There is one gun directly in our front, in that defensive position.” He pointed, and the gun fired again. Magruder watched with him as the shell streaked toward them, then dropped low, impacting to the side of the road, a quick blast of fire blossoming in the dry brush.

  Jackson said, “Sir, we need to remove that gun.”

  “Hold here, Lieutenant. I have to check with Colonel Trousdale, see how he wants to advance his troops.”

  Still looking toward the Mexican works, Jackson said, “Sir, we must take that gun out before the infantry moves up.”

  Magruder’s voice rose into his familiar growl. “Lieutenant, that’s not our decision. Our orders are to move up in support of the infantry. When you wear the stars, you can do what you damned well please. But this time you follow orders.”

  Jackson stared hard at the Mexican gun, saw another burst of smoke, felt the knife blade slowly turning in his chest. The shell arced toward them, dropping quickly. It landed close behind them, shattering into pieces on the surface of the road. They both looked back, and Jackson could hear the sputtering of the fuse, the broken pieces of copper bouncing away, and now Magruder’s horse surged and he fought the reins.

  “Whoa, dammit!” The horse calmed a bit, still turned slow circles in the road, and Magruder cursed again.

  “Sir, they have found the range.” He waited for the next shell, thought, If we stay here, we are a fine target. The knife blade was turning hard now, working down through his whole body, and he felt the burn beginning in his brain. He looked at Magruder again, stared at him with cold blue fire, said, “Captain, it is time to go.”

  Magruder held his gaze. A brief quiet moment passed between them. “Lieutenant, I’m going to ask Colonel Trousdale if he plans to join us today. Why don’t you see if you can do something about that damned gun?”

  Jackson heard another shell pass overhead, followed by the blast close behind, but he did not see it, was staring at the cloud of smoke far in front of him. The smell of the explosion drifted past him now, and the knife blade made one quick twist in his chest, and he turned to the men at his guns and shouted, “Forward!”

  With a single surge, wagons and horses and the two small guns were in motion. He spurred his horse, led them straight down the road. Another shell streaked overhead, but he did not look back. He moved at the familiar speed, knew the crews were close behind. He stared at the Mexican works, still too far for him to detect movement, but another puff of smoke drifted skyward. He looked for the blue arc, but the sound came straight toward him, a sharp whine. The shell burst close beside him, throwing him in the air, clear of the horse. He hit the hard dirt in a roll, on his back, then over, on his knees. He saw the horse lying next to him, jerking violently, kicking at the air. Jackson stood, saw the deep gash in the horse’s neck, felt the pain in his ankle. He flexed it, thought, No time for that now. He leaned close to the horse, wanted to shout, Get up, but the blood still poured from the neck of the quivering animal. He felt suddenly helpless, angry, but he saw one of his men pulling another horse forward. He grabbed the reins, pulled himself up, the wounded animal already gone from his mind. He did not look at the crews behind him, spurred the fresh horse forward.

  He still focused on the low mound, could see a flicker of motion, a small flag, thought, Almost … almost close enough. There was a new sound now, a different kind of shell, smaller pieces ripping the air above him. He heard the splatter of impact and the sound of a wagon coming apart. He slowed the horse, turned to see one of the caissons rolling into pieces in the road, men falling, shattered by the blast. He shouted, “Keep moving! Forward!”

  The men on the ground scrambled to the horses, some climbing up on the second caisson. He saw two men still on the ground, felt a burst of anger, wanted to shout at them, Up, let’s go … but now the blood was spreading on the hard ground, and he turned away, would not look at it, spurred the horse again. He glanced back to check on the guns, saw them both moving with him. He looked to the side for cover, a small hill, some good place to position the guns. There was another blast, right behind the horse, and he felt a shower of rock hitting his back, knocking him forward. He pulled the reins tightly, the horse pitching wildly, carrying him off the road. His mind screamed at him, Jump, and he swung a leg over and hit the ground hard, felt the pain in the ankle again, looked back at his men, pulling another horse toward him.

  He looked out off the road, saw a small rise, shouted, “There! Move there!”

 
The crews moved off the road, the guns bouncing awkwardly. He grabbed for the horse, but there was another blast, more dirt and fire. He felt the hot wind knocking him back, saw the red streaks above him, the shower of canister, the horses going down, men falling, bloody horror, the second wagon shattered into pieces. He tried to run, saw the guns still rolling toward the small rise, thought, Yes, move to cover, go! He ran past them, pointing.

  Suddenly he was falling, tumbling, dirt and dust in his mouth. He came to a stop and sat coughing, blowing dust from his mouth. He wiped his eyes, tried to see, thought, A ditch, we’re in a ditch. He looked along the flat bottom, said aloud, “Dry … thank God.”

  He saw the guns, both lying on their sides, his men still following him into the blessed cover. They began to line up, holding low to the side closest to the Mexican position, and he looked for the horses.

  “Where are the mounts? We must position the guns!” The men were looking at him in wide-eyed shock. He ignored them, crawled close to the brass six-pounder, said, “Get this gun up! Pull it up! Prepare to fire!”

  He stood straight and peered up over the edge of the ditch. He could see the small flag clearly, thought, They will come. They will take these guns! He looked at the faces watching him, shouted, “Do you want to die by the bayonet?”

  No one moved, the men holding tight to the safe ground. He looked up toward the Mexican works again, then back at the small brass gun, grabbed the wheel, shouted, “Help me roll this up! Move! We must fire!”