Jeff Shaara and Michael Shaara: Three Novels of the Civil War: Gods and Generals, the Killer Angels, the Last Full Measure

by Jeff Shaara

  He stayed on his horse, saw now across the road, on the left, vast numbers of troops, lines disappearing into a distant grove of trees, and the men not moving, keeping their formations. He rode out the other way, to the right, into the grass, saw more troops farther out that way, a great field of blue, waiting. He looked to his own men, saw the companies staying in their formations, coming off the road, and he rode up to the head of one column, saw Captain Spear of Company G, a small, sharp man who had also been a teacher. He had a narrow, thick beard, sat on a horse, watched Chamberlain approach, puffed on a large round pipe.

  “Well, Colonel, do you think we will get our chance?”

  Chamberlain looked back to the crest of the hill, could still not see through the smoke, and another volley thundered out, shaking the ground, startling his horse again.

  “Whoa, easy . . . We’ll see, Captain. Right now we must be ready . . . be ready to move forward on command!” He felt a little foolish, a vague order, felt again as if he were left out, didn’t know what was happening. The battle sounds had continued to the northwest, and he wondered, Are they moving away, around us? He glanced at Spears, said, “I’ll be right back . . . just going up the crest a ways, take a look maybe.”

  “We’re right here, Colonel.”

  He turned the horse, then decided to dismount instead. This wasn’t a parade. He jumped down, felt his belt, his pistol, began to walk toward the thick cloud of smoke.

  The guns continued to fire, every minute or so, and he wondered, How far away is the enemy? There had been no explosions, no incoming shells, none of the sounds he’d been told about, coached about, by Ames, just the deadening thunder of their own big guns.

  The smoke began to envelop him, and he kept moving. Suddenly he could not breathe, felt suffocated by the thick smell of burnt powder. He stopped, coughing hard, tried to see, caught a glimpse of one gun, saw men moving around it like ghosts, and then, abruptly, they all moved away and the gun fired, jerking backward with the recoil. He felt his ears deaden, shattered by the sound of the blast. He went farther, was moving up between the guns now, and suddenly the smoke cleared in front of him, a light breeze sweeping up the far side of the rise, blowing the smoke away to the rear. Down below he saw the wide, flat plain, farms and roads and trees, cornfields and small distant buildings. And to the right, far across the curving lines of the creek, there was more smoke, great, flat clouds of white and gray. The sounds of the battle were steady and loud now, and on either side of him the big guns boomed again, the shock knocking him off his feet.

  He lay on soft grass, thought, I’m hit . . . then, No, but I’m damned near deaf. He raised his head, could still see down, the fields and woods. Now, from the sounds of the battle, he saw his first troops, thick lines of blue, uneven and ragged formations, moving toward a cornfield, and then smoke, solid lines of gray, and in a few seconds the sound reached him, the chattering musket fire, and the blue lines were in pieces, men moving back, some still advancing, some not moving at all. He saw more lines now, solid blocks of blue spreading wide, advancing, and more smoke, and more sounds, and then, farther away, a glimpse through the smoke, other lines of men, some moving, some firing, quick flashes of white and yellow, and the big guns beside him firing again.

  He saw down to the left the arch of a stone bridge, crossing the creek to the south. Down in front of him, where the creek swung closer to the base of the hill, he could see the Middle Bridge, saw troops moving across, a steady advance, and then he saw the rebels on the far side, moving into position, and he understood: the attack is moving, shifting this way, we will begin now, here. He turned to watch the men working the cannon, and was startled to see more men, his men, watching the battle, lying on the ground, creating a neat blue patch on the hill. He had not thought anyone else would be up here, should not have been up here; he should not be up here, but he knew they could not just wait, could not sit behind some big hill and hear it all and not see.

  Chamberlain stood up, began to wave his arms, fast and high, motioning to the men, and another blast came from the guns. He braced himself, did not fall, kept waving, back, move back, wondered if they saw him or were ignoring him. He moved along the hillside, tried to yell, but the sound of the guns took his voice away, and suddenly he heard a high, distant scream, louder now, whistling toward him, dropping down on him from behind. He turned, saw nothing, but the sound pierced his ears, and the ground suddenly flew high around him, dirt spraying him, knocking him down, and he lay still, shook his head . . . checked, all right, but . . . a bad day for the ears. Then another scream, overhead, and behind the hill, down where the rest of his men sat waiting, there was another explosion, and he tried to see, but it was beyond the crest.

  Suddenly, someone had him under the arms, lifting him, and he said, “No, I’m all right,” and he saw the face of an officer, a man with black crust under his eyes, around his mouth and nose, glaring at him with eyes of cold steel.

  “You are bloody well not all right, you damned fool! Get these men back off this hill. You’re drawing fire to my guns!”

  Chamberlain saw the uniform, a captain, realized suddenly he had done a supremely stupid thing, and the man turned away, was gone through a new cloud of smoke.

  Chamberlain crouched down, ran along the hill, yelling at the men, “Back, get back, we’re giving the enemy a target!”

  They were watching him, understood, and moved fast and low, back over the hill and away from the guns.

  He slowed as he came down out of the smoke, saw his men moving back in their lines, where most of the others, the ones who did not have to see, were down on the ground, resting. He saw the still smoking earth, the round fresh hole from the enemy shell, and he thanked God it had not gone farther, had not gone into the rows of men.

  Captain Spear was standing, talking to another officer, and they looked at him, questioned silently, saw the dirt, the black grime that covered him, and he said, “The battle may be moving our way. Keep them ready!”

  They nodded, looked at him without expression, and he wondered if they knew what he had done, that he had stood up high on a hill, out in front of his own carefully placed cannon, and waved his arms like some idiotic fire-breathing evangelist.

  He moved away, felt thirsty, looked for his horse, his canteen, and saw a sergeant, the short and sturdy Irishman, Kilrain, standing, leaning on the barrel of his musket.

  “Well, now, Colonel, did you get a fine look at what we’re facin’?”

  Chamberlain wiped at the dirt on his face, said, “Quite a sight . . . right over that hill, it’s a few hundred yards, all of it.”

  “Impressive, ain’t it, Colonel? Watchin’ them line up and walk right into the fire.”

  “Yes . . . impressive.” He stared back up the hill, the big guns quiet now, the smoke clearing, and he could see them again, lining the crest of the hill. The cannon are hidden, of course, he realized, hard to get the range on them that way. I will damned well remember that.

  “The word is, Colonel . . .” Kilrain said, and Chamberlain turned, looked into the heavy face. “The word is, we’ll be sittin’ here all day. The boys reckon we been left behind. I been tellin’ em, don’t be in such a damned hurry . . . the time will come.”

  “I’m not sure. It looks like the battle might swing back this way. We had better be ready.” He had said it again, felt foolish again. Telling them to be ready won’t make them ready.

  Kilrain looked up toward the hill, said, “It’s already in front of us, Colonel, there.”

  Chamberlain listened, realized the noises to the right had faded, replaced now by a wave of new sounds, over the hill and out in front of where he had been. And now the cannon fired again and did not pause, and the smoke began to flow down the hill toward them and above them, darkening the sky. He heard the scream again, the whine of the incoming shell, and up on the hill the shell burst, a new thunder, and he felt the ground shake under his feet. More shells came high overhead, and behind him the men
began to move nervously, some standing, some crouching, and the officers were shouting, keeping them in line—there was no other place to go.

  The sounds were much closer now. He stared at the hill, wondered if this would be the place, if suddenly the rebels would pour over the hill, rush past the cannon and down. Easy, he thought . . . there’s a whole army out there . . . we’re in back, behind them all.

  The cannon kept up the waves of firing, and the enemy’s shells continued falling around them, but only a few, and not aimed at them . . . just chance . . . the shells that were missing their targets. He sat down now, and the men who had stood, expecting . . . something, sat as well, and there was nothing to do but wait.

  It was now past noon, and out on the road men and wagons were moving back, away from the fight. The troops stared at the long procession, the solid line of wounded, heard the sounds, the wails and screams, and some would not look, turned their faces away, and others stared hard. Chamberlain had stood at first, a show of respect, but this too was not a parade, and he sat again and listened to the battle work its way along the creek far out in front of them. Now there was fire down to the left, toward the stone bridge, and it seemed to grow more quiet in front of him, and he had the strange feeling that the battle had been like some great, horrible wheel, rolling slowly from right to left, right in front of them, right past them.

  It is not coming after all, he thought. This is what the reserves do, they sit back behind it all and hear the sounds, and wait for an attack that does not come. He realized then that he felt disappointment. He looked down along the lines, saw the faces that had been watching the hill, that like him had been expecting something and who now began to look elsewhere. There were a few fires, coffee being made, more laughing.

  Well, then, it must be going well, he thought. They don’t need us. He began to move toward the new smells, was suddenly very hungry. He brushed dirt from his pants, stepped around a small crater, then another. The men were letting go now, the tension releasing, and there was more laughter, a big sergeant teasing a small man with glasses.

  Chamberlain did not feel like laughing, felt something dead, hollow in his gut. The hunger had become something else, more painful now. He stopped at a fence post, cupped his hand over the top, suddenly pulled hard on the post, pulled it down, the base uprooting from the soft dirt. He stood back, looked around, felt embarrassed, but more, he felt angry, denied. He turned toward the hill, looked up to the guns, silent now, the fight drifting, too far away.

  24. HANCOCK

  September 17, 1862. Early afternoon.

  THE BATTLE had moved away, off to the left. He had been up front, in the center of the entire Federal line, for only an hour or so, and he expected a fight, a good fight. He could still see the gray lines spread out on the far side of the field, but they did not come.

  He did not know Israel Richardson, knew only that the man was down, presumed dead by now, a terrible wound. It had happened just after noon, when the fighting was heaviest in front of where Hancock now stood. Richardson was the commander of the First Division, Second Corps, and McClellan had come immediately to Hancock, had brought the promotion as if asking a question, in that respectful way he spoke to those whom he trusted. Hancock had accepted with a thin veil over his eagerness. He did not forget that the position was vacant because a man had just been killed. His own brigade had not been engaged, had been placed by Baldy Smith around the division’s batteries, who had tried to lend support to the first attack on the far right. Hancock had time for brief good-byes, had taken his staff with him, and now was in command of his own division, right in the middle of it all.

  He had ridden his horse quickly to the front lines, had met the brigadiers in a hasty greeting, had passed along a message from McClellan, an embarrassing note that Hancock read flatly and without comment: “We will push them into the river, before the sun sets.” But in front of him, across the narrow field, no one was running, and he had already sent a courier back, asking for instructions, had expected the word to come down the line, push ahead, advance. The Confederate lines were badly bruised, had withstood an assault by overwhelming numbers all morning, but the attacks were never coordinated, were fought piecemeal, and it was clear that Lee had been able to shuffle his units back and forth, meeting the greatest point of attack.

  Now, the only serious fight was down to the left. He looked that way, heard big guns and muskets, thought, It has to be Burnside, trying to cross that damned bridge. He could not see it from where he stood, but he knew the location, knew Burnside’s orders, and could only listen as one more small piece of McClellan’s massive army was sent against Lee’s thin lines.

  He climbed back up on his horse, could see more clearly the lines across from him, and a musket ball whizzed by, above his head, then another, and he thought, Best not sit in one spot. Spurring the horse, he rode back over a small rise and dropped out of sight of the Confederate lines.

  He dismounted, his small staff following him, and saw an officer, trailing aides, one holding aloft a bright green brigade flag. It was General Meagher, Thomas Meagher, of the Irish Brigade.

  “General Hancock, sir, are we to be movin’ forward now? The men . . . they’re waitin for a fight.”

  Hancock stared behind, back toward headquarters, saw no one coming, no courier. “General Meagher, I have no orders to advance. The last word I received from General McClellan himself was that we were to hold this position against an assault by the enemy. General, have you seen any signs that the enemy is preparing to assault?”

  “Not hardly, General. There’s a pretty thin line out there in front of my men. Unless Bobby Lee’s got a herd of ghosts backin’ them up . . . I believe we have a good chance of bustin’ right through.”

  Hancock looked again at the empty ground behind him, removed his hat, rubbed a hand across his head, felt a throb, the birth of a headache, the back of his neck tightening, squeezing up and over the top of his skull. He said aloud toward the empty field, “Dammit!”

  Meagher watched him, understood, said, “General, I’ll be gettin’ back to my men. I will wait for word, General. We’ll be sittin’ tight.”

  Meagher spurred his horse and rode off, leading his aides, and Hancock watched him leave, saw the green flag in a quick flutter as it dropped away over the rise. He began to feel truly angry, once more the frustration of the commander who has the men, the strong position, and must wait while someone else sits in a fog. He turned, looked at the faces of his staff, saw Lieutenant Hughes, knew he was the best horseman, would move quickly.

  “Lieutenant, go to General Sumner’s headquarters. Maybe they decided to attack and forgot to tell us.”

  Hughes moved his horse closer. “Sir, might I word that differently? General Sumner is—”

  “Lieutenant, please pay our respects to General Sumner, or General McClellan, or whoever else might be in charge of this damned army, and request some instructions. Tell them that we can hear General Burnside’s activity on our left and are wondering if we should go to his aid. Please inform them that the lines in front of us can be pressed without much difficulty, if we are so ordered. You more comfortable with that, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir.” Hughes jerked the horse, moved away over the open field, and Hancock pulled his horse the other way, eased up the rise until he could see the Confederate lines again. There was no movement.

  MCCLELLAN’S ORDERS were repeated: “Hold position, and prepare to receive an assault.” Burnside’s forces finally broke through and crossed Antietam Creek late in the afternoon, only to have their strong advance routed by the sudden arrival of the troops of A. P. Hill, the last of Jackson’s forces to rejoin the army after the capture of Harper’s Ferry.

  Sumner, who commanded the Second Corps, had seen his divisions punished at the center of the Confederate position, at a place known as the Bloody Lane, but he had managed to push through, until Lee’s more mobile units strengthened the position. Now, neither side had moved the
other from the field, and the aging commander convinced himself that this amounted to a success. McClellan seemed to accept that logic, absorbed it himself, and so once Burnside was halted and the daylight began to fade, McClellan’s preference was to wait and see if perhaps Lee would give them a better opportunity tomorrow.

  25. CHAMBERLAIN

  September 17, 1862. Late afternoon.

  THE SUN was dropping toward the crest of the hill when Ames rode up and dismounted.

  Chamberlain stood, and Ames said, “We won’t be needed today, Colonel.”

  Chamberlain looked at him, waited for more, and Ames turned, stared up the hill to the guns. Other officers began to gather, and Ames turned back to them, said, “The Fifth Corps was not needed today, gentlemen, not in the judgment of the commanding general. The battle has been extremely costly. The enemy has been pushed back, at great loss to both sides, and from what we can observe so far, we have gained little. It is possible that tomorrow the fight will resume.” Ames stopped, looked slowly at the officers.

  “I have been ordered to announce to you that the commanding general feels that this battle has been a great victory. Certainly I would not presume to dispute or contradict the words of General McClellan. I would only caution you to prepare your men for tomorrow, for what may yet follow.” He moved away, began to walk out into the field, looking over the sight.

  The company commanders spread out to their men, and the order was given to stack arms and make camp. Chamberlain watched the men unload the wagons, watched the camp form, the tents and new fires. Beyond the hill there were still faint sounds of the battle, scattered firing, and he had to see, to walk back up. He stepped through the thick grass, up toward the positions of the guns, and saw now they were being moved, their crews hitching them to the caissons and the horses pulling them away from their shallow pits. He looked for the captain, the man who had ordered him off the hill, to apologize, to tell him it was his mistake, but he could not see the faces. The teams were beginning to move away, toward the road and down closer to the battle.