Chickamauga and Other Civil War Stories

by Shelby Foote

  With wounds that time might heal for a little while

  Or never heal till the breath was out of the flesh.

  The First Corps lost half its number in killed and wounded.

  The pale-faced women, huddled behind drawn blinds

  Back in the town, or in apple-cellars, hiding,

  Thought it the end of the world, no doubt. And yet,

  As the books remark, it was only a minor battle.

  There were only two corps engaged on the Union side,

  Longstreet had not yet come up, nor Ewell’s whole force,

  Hill’s corps lacked a division till evening fell.

  It was only a minor battle. When the first shot

  Clanged out, it was fired from a clump of Union vedettes

  Holding a farm in the woods beyond the town.

  The farmer was there to hear it—and then to see

  The troopers scramble back on their restless horses

  And go off, firing, as a grey mass came on.

  He must have been a peaceable man, that farmer.

  It is said that he died of what he had heard and seen

  In that one brief moment, although no bullet came near him

  And the storm passed by and did not burst on his farm.

  No doubt he was easily frightened. He should have reflected

  That even minor battles are hardly the place

  For peaceable men—but he died instead, it is said.

  There were other deaths that day, as of Smiths and Clancys,

  Otises, Boyds, Virginia and Pennsylvania,

  New York, Carolina, Wisconsin, the gathered West,

  The tattered Southern marchers dead on the wheat- shocks.

  Among these deaths a few famous. Reynolds is dead,

  The model soldier, gallant and courteous,

  Shot from his saddle in the first of the fight.

  He was Doubleday’s friend, but Doubleday has no time

  To grieve him, the Union right being driven in

  And Heth’s Confederates pressing on toward the town.

  He holds the onrush back till Howard comes up

  And takes command for a while. The fighting is grim.

  Meade has heard the news. He sends Hancock up to the field.

  Hancock takes command in mid-combat. The grey comes on.

  Five color-bearers are killed at one Union color,

  The last man, dying, still holds up the sagging flag.

  The pale-faced women creeping out of their houses,

  Plead with retreating bluecoats, “Don’t leave us, boys,

  Stay with us—hold the town.” Their faces are thin,

  Their words come tumbling out of a frightened mouth.

  In a field, far off, a peaceable farmer puts

  His hands to his ears, still hearing that one sharp shot

  That he will hear and hear till he dies of it.

  It is Hill and Ewell now against Hancock and Howard

  And a confused, wild clamor—and the high keen

  Of the Rebel yell—and the shrill-edged bullet song

  Beating down men and grain, while the sweaty fight ers

  Grunt as they ram their charges with blackened hands.

  Till Hancock and Howard are beaten away at last,

  Outnumbered and outflanked, clean out of the town,

  Retreating as best they can to a fish-hook ridge,

  And the clamor dies and the sun is going down

  And the tired men think about food. The dust-bitten staff

  Of Ewell, riding along through the captured streets,

  Hear the thud of a bullet striking their general.

  Flesh or bone? Death-wound or rub of the game?

  “The general’s hurt!” They gasp and volley their questions.

  Ewell turns his head like a bird, “No, I’m not hurt, sir,

  But, supposing the ball had struck you, General Gordon,

  We’d have the trouble of carrying you from the field.

  You can see how much better fixed for a fight I am.

  It don’t hurt a mite to be shot in your wooden leg.”

  So it ends. Lee comes on the field in time to see

  The village taken, the Union wave in retreat.

  Meade will not reach the ground till one the next morning.

  So it ends, this lesser battle of the first day,

  Starkly disputed and piecemeal won and lost

  By corps-commanders who carried no magic plans

  Stowed in their sleeves, but fought and held as they could.

  It is past. The board is staked for the greater game

  Which is to follow—The beaten Union brigades

  Recoil from the cross-roads town that they tried to hold,

  And so recoiling, rest on a destined ground.

  Who chose that ground? There are claimants enough in the books.

  Howard thanked by Congress for choosing it

  As doubtless, they would have thanked him as well had he

  Chosen another, once the battle was won,

  And there are a dozen ifs on the Southern side,

  How, in that first day’s evening, if one had known,

  If Lee had been there in time, if Jackson had lived,

  The heights that cost so much blood in the vain at tempt

  To take days later, could have been taken then.

  And the ifs and the thanks and the rest are all true enough

  But we can only say, when we look at the board,

  “There it happened. There is the way of the land.

  There was the fate, and there the blind swords were crossed.”

  5

  Draw a clumsy fish-hook now on a piece of paper,

  To the left of the shank, by the bend of the curving hook,

  Draw a Maltese cross with the top block cut away.

  The cross is the town. Nine roads star out from it

  East, West, South, North. And now, still more to the left

  Of the lopped-off cross, on the other side of the town,

  Draw a long, slightly-wavy line of ridges and hills

  Roughly parallel to the fish-hook shank.

  (The hook of the fish-hook is turned away from the cross

  And the wavy line.) There your ground and your ridges lie.

  The fish-hook is Cemetery Ridge and the North

  Waiting to be assaulted—the wavy line

  Seminary Ridge whence the Southern assault will come.

  The valley between is more than a mile in breadth.

  It is some three miles from the lowest jut of the cross

  To the button at the far end of the fish-hook shank,

  Big Round Top, with Little Round Top not far away.

  Both ridges are strong and rocky, well made for war.

  But the Northern one is the stronger shorter one.

  Lee’s army must spread out like an uncoiled snake

  Lying along a fence-rail, while Meade’s can coil

  Or halfway coil, like a snake part clung to a stone.

  Meade has the more men and the easier shifts to make,

  Lee the old prestige of triumph and his tried skill.

  His task is—to coil his snake round the other snake

  Halfway clung to the stone, and shatter it so,

  Or to break some point in the shank of the fish-hook line

  And so cut the snake in two. Meade’s task is to hold.

  That is the chess and the scheme of the wooden blocks

  Set down on the contour map. Having learned so much,

  Forget it now, while the ripple lines of the map

  Arise into bouldered ridges, tree-grown, bird-visited,

  Where the gnats buzz, and the wren builds a hollow nest

  And the rocks are grey in the sun and black in the rain,

  And the jacks-in-the-pulpit grow in the cool, damp hollows.

  See no names of leaders painted upon the blocks

  Such as “Hill,” or “Hancock,�
�� or “Pender”— but see instead

  Three miles of living men—three long double miles

  Of men and guns and horses and fires and wagons,

  Teamsters, surgeons, generals, orderlies,

  A hundred and sixty thousand living men

  Asleep or eating or thinking or writing brief

  Notes in the thought of death, shooting dice or swear ing,

  Groaning in hospital wagons, standing guard

  While the slow stars walk through heaven in silver mail,

  Hearing a stream or a joke or a horse cropping grass

  Or hearing nothing, being too tired to hear.

  All night till the round sun comes and the morning breaks,

  Three double miles of live men.

  Listen to them, their breath goes up through the night

  In a great chord of life, in the sighing murmur

  Of wind-stirred wheat. A hundred and sixty thousand

  Breathing men, at night, on two hostile ridges set down.

  6

  The firing began that morning at nine o’clock,

  But it was three before the attacks were launched

  There were two attacks, one a drive on the Union left

  To take the Round Tops, the other one on the right.

  Lee had planned them to strike together and, striking so,

  Cut the Union snake in three pieces. It did not happen.

  On the left, Dutch Longstreet, slow, pugnacious and stubborn,

  Hard to beat and just as hard to convince,

  Has his own ideas of the battle and does not move

  For hours after the hour that Lee had planned,

  Though, when he does, he moves with pugnacious strength.

  Facing him, in the valley before the Round Tops,

  Sickles thrusts out blue troops in a weak right angle,

  Some distance from the Ridge, by the Emmettsburg pike.

  There is a peach orchard there, a field of ripe wheat

  And other peaceable things soon not to be peaceful.

  They say the bluecoats, marching through the ripe wheat,

  Made a blue-and-yellow picture that men remember

  Even now in their age, in their crack-voiced age.

  They say the noise was incessant as the sound

  Of all wolves howling, when that attack came on.

  They say, when the guns all spoke, that the solid ground

  Of the rocky ridges trembled like a sick child.

  We have made the sick earth tremble with other shakings

  In our time, in our time, in our time, but it has not taught us

  To leave the grain in the field. So the storm came on

  Yelling against the angle. The men who fought there

  Were the tired fighters, the hammered, the weather- beaten,

  The very hard-dying men. They came and died

  And came again and died and stood there and died,

  Till at last the angle was crumpled and broken in,

  Sickles shot down, Willard, Barlow and Semmes shot down,

  Wheatfield and orchard bloody and trampled and taken,

  And Hood’s tall Texans sweeping on toward the Round Tops

  As Hood fell wounded. On Little Round Top’s height

  Stands a lonely figure, seeing that rush come on—

  Greek-mouthed Warren, Meade’s chief of engineers.

  —Sometimes, and in battle even, a moment comes

  When a man with eyes can see a dip in the scales

  And, so seeing, reverse a fortune. Warren has eyes

  And such a moment comes to him now. He turns

  —In a clear flash seeing the crests of the Round Tops taken,

  The grey artillery there and the battle lost—

  And rides off hell-for-leather to gather troops

  And bring them up in the very nick of time,

  While the grey rush still advances, keening its cry.

  The crest is three times taken and then retaken

  In fierce wolf-flurries of combat, in gasping Iliads

  Too rapid to note or remember, too obscure to freeze in a song.

  But at last, when the round sun drops, when the nun- footed night,

  Dark-veiled walker, holding the first weak stars

  Like children against her breast, spreads her pure cloths there,

  The Union still holds the Round Tops and the two hard keys of war.

  Night falls. The blood drips on the rocks of the Devil’s Den.

  The murmur begins to rise from the thirsty ground

  Where the twenty thousand dead and wounded lie.

  Such was Longstreet’s war, and such was the Union defence,

  The deaths and the woundings, the victory and defeat

  At the end of the fish-hook shank. And so Longstreet failed

  Ere Ewell and Early struck the fish-hook itself

  At Culp’s Hill and the Ridge and at Cemetery Hill,

  With better fortune, though not with fortune enough

  To plant hard triumph deep on the sharp-edged rocks

  And break the scales of the snake.…

  Thus ended the second day of the locked bull-horns

  And the wounding or slaying of the twenty thousand.

  And thus night came to cover it. So the field

  Was alive all night with whispers and words and sighs,

  So the slow blood dripped in the rocks of the Devil’s Den.

  Lincoln, back in his White House, asks for news.

  The War Department has little. There are reports

  Of heavy firing near Gettysburg—that is all.

  Davis, in Richmond, knows as little as he.

  In hollow Vicksburg, the shells come down and come down

  And the end is but two days off. On the field itself

  Meade calls a council and considers retreat.

  His left has held and the Round Tops still are his.

  But his right has been shaken, his centre pierced for a time,

  The enemy holds part of his works on Culp’s Hill,

  His losses have been most stark. He thinks of these things

  And decides at last to fight it out where he stands.

  7

  Another clear dawn breaks over Gettysburg,

  Promising heat and fair weather—and with the dawn

  The guns are crashing again. It is the third day.

  The morning wears with a stubborn fight at Culp’s Hill

  That ends at last in Confederate repulse

  And that barb-end of the fish-hook cleared of the grey.

  Lee has tried his strokes on the right and left of the line.

  The centre remains—that centre yesterday pierced

  For a brief, wild moment in Wilcox’s attack,

  But since then trenched, reinforced and alive with guns.

  It is a chance. All war is a chance like that.

  Lee considers the chance and the force he has left to spend

  And states his will. Dutch Longstreet, the independent,

  Demurs, as he has demurred since the fight began.

  He had disapproved of this battle from the first

  And that disapproval had added and is to add

  Another weight in the balance against the grey.

  It is not our task to try him for sense or folly,

  Such men are the men they are—but an hour comes

  Sometimes, to fix such men in most fateful parts,

  As now with Longstreet who, if he had his orders

  As they were given, neither obeyed them quite

  Nor quite refused them, but acted as he thought best,

  So did the half-thing, failed as he thought he would,

  Felt justified and wrote all of his reasons down Later in controversy. We do not need

  Such controversies to see that pugnacious man

  Talking to Lee, a stubborn line in his brow

  And that unseen fate between them. Lee hears him out

 
Unmoved, unchanging. “The enemy is there

  And I am going to strike him,” says Lee, inflexibly.

  8

  At one o’clock the first signal-gun was fired

  And the solid ground began to be sick anew.

  For two hours then that sickness, the unhushed roar

  Of two hundred and fifty cannon firing like one.

  By Philadelphia, eighty-odd miles away,

  An old man stooped and put his ear to the ground

  And heard that roar, it is said, like the vague sea- clash

  In a hollow conch-shell, there, in his flowerbeds.

  He had planted trumpet-flowers for fifteen years

  But now the flowers were blowing an iron noise

  Through earth itself. He wiped his face on his sleeve

  And tottered back to his house with fear in his eyes.

  The caissons began to blow up in the Union batteries.…

  The cannonade fell still. All along the fish-hook line,

  The tired men stared at the smoke and waited for it to clear;

  The men in the centre waited, their rifles gripped in their hands,

  By the trees of the riding fate, and the low stone wall, and the guns.

  These were Hancock’s men, the men of the Second Corps,

  Eleven States were mixed there, where Minnesota stood

  In battle-order with Maine, and Rhode Island beside New York,

  The metals of all the North, cooled into an axe of war.

  The strong sticks of the North, bound into a fasces- shape,

  The hard winters of snow, the wind with the cutting edge,

  And against them came that summer that does not die with the year,

  Magnolia and honeysuckle and the blue Virginia flag.

  Tall Pickett went up to Longstreet—his handsome face was drawn.

  George Pickett, old friend of Lincoln’s in days gone by with the blast,

  When he was a courteous youth and Lincoln the strange shawled man

  Who would talk in a Springfield street with a boy who dreamt of a sword.

  Dreamt of a martial sword, as swords are martial in dreams,

  And the courtesy to use it, in the old bright way of the tales.

  Those days are gone with the blast. He has his sword in his hand.

  And he will use it today, and remember that using long.

  He came to Longstreet for orders, but Longstreet would not speak.