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

by Jeff Shaara

  Guns began to fire now, far down the line, Jackson’s guns, but not many. Lee knew it was reckless, would be stopped quickly, and from the far heights the Federal guns answered, and he could see it all, the bright specks of light streaking across the river, landing in the woods. The great blue masses began to move forward, thinning out, shaping into long lines, and the Federal guns opened again, more of them, a massed artillery barrage on the woods where Jackson’s men crouched. Lee turned, saw Jackson looking through field glasses, said, “General, it seems that your men will open the day.”

  Jackson turned, put down the glasses, and Lee saw the look, the blue fire, the raw, silent screaming in the eyes. Jackson did not speak, gave a short salute, and Taylor was there, had his horse. Jackson climbed up and pulled his hat down low on his head, hiding his face.

  Longstreet said, smiling, “General, there’s an awful lot of them out there. Don’t they scare you just a bit?”

  Jackson tilted back his head, glared at him, said, “We will see if now I will scare them.” He turned the horse, and with a quick flash from his eyes, a last glance at Lee, he was gone down the hill, toward the growing thunder filling the trees.

  Lee turned back to the blue troops, to the steady sound of the Federal cannon. Far out, beyond the lines, down where Stuart’s troops were holding the flank, he saw something, movement, a small team of horses, then another, wheeling two guns out into the open field. He put his glasses up to his eyes, heard Stuart say, “My God, those are our guns . . . it’s Pelham. Those are Pelham’s guns.”

  Lee strained to see. The guns were firing now, small dots of men scrambling around them, then firing again. The first wave of blue was advancing toward Jackson’s woods, moving out through the open fields, and now puffs of smoke came from their lines, the impact of Pelham’s shelling, the firing right into their flanks, right down the long blue lines.

  Stuart began to cheer. “Hoooeeeee, that’s Pelham all right. Hoooeeeeee!”

  Lee focused on the two small guns, saw a great ball of smoke and fire near them, a Federal gun directing its fire in their direction. Quickly, the horses were hitched and the guns moved a short distance. Then their crews were back on them and both guns began to fire again. Lee looked closer, toward the Federal lines, saw gaps opening, the line wavering, and still Pelham’s guns kept firing. Now more Federal guns were pointing that way, trying to find the range. Once again the horses were hitched and the guns shifted. Lee saw one explosion, a bright flash of light, and one of the guns was in pieces, and he thought, Well, it’s over, but it was a good effort. Now the smoke cleared and he was amazed. He saw the other gun, still moving, and now firing again, and the Federal line was breaking up, pulling back. Lee focused on the blue mass, saw the lines behind through the smoke, trying to advance, bogging down, stopped by the shattering of the line in front.

  Stuart was still yelling, and the men around them, the gun crews, began to cheer as well. The Federal lines were still well away from Jackson’s position, but were being delayed and disrupted by the one man, John Pelham, one gunner from Stuart’s command. Now Stuart grew quieter, said, “All right, pull out . . . that’s enough . . . save the gun. You’ve done enough.”

  Lee could still see the lone gun firing, shells impacting around it, close, and Pelham moving again, still firing. He turned to Stuart, said, “General, you had best return to your troops. I don’t want that gallant young man to fight this battle by himself.”

  Stuart was smiling, saluted. “At your service, mon Général.” Then he reached for his horse, climbed up, and with a wave of his tall hat rode away toward the battle.

  Longstreet was glassing down toward the town, saw little movement, said, “It’s all down that way . . . nothing is happening in front of us. It’s Antietam again. One piece at a time.”

  Lee looked toward the town, glassed the buildings, saw masses of blue in the streets, knew Longstreet was right. The fight was not here, but down there, on the right, and Burnside would wait and see what happened there first. Lee shook his head, turned toward the sounds, searched again through his glasses for the lone cannon, the heroic gunner. “It is well this is so terrible,” he said. “We should grow too fond of it.”

  34. JACKSON

  December 13, 1862. Early morning.

  HE SAW the red shirt from a distance, rode that way. Shells were still falling in the woods to his left, out toward the front of the line and the edge of the wide plain. Military Road, which the soldiers had built through the thick trees, was clear, open; the shells had not reached that far back. He rode quickly, kept looking toward the sounds of the explosions, felt the earth bouncing under the horse, the horse not flinching at all.

  Jackson reached the group of men, the man in the red shirt, A. P. Hill, directing the rest, and he pulled the horse up. He tried to hear what was being said, and they turned to him, Hill saluting. But the sound of the artillery barrage drowned out the voices. Hill was pointing toward the front, said something to Jackson he could not hear, and Jackson motioned to him: move back, behind the road, away from the shelling.

  Hill mounted his horse and followed Jackson back into the trees. They passed over lines of crouching men, Taliaferro’s lines, and the men saw him, began to cheer, waving hats. Jackson tried not to notice them, and Hill looked self-conscious, usually heard the same thing from his own men, but not from the rest, and it was clear they were cheering Jackson, not him.

  When they reached a small clearing, two of Jackson’s staff, Pendleton and Smith, rode up quickly from behind. Both men were sweating in the cold air, and Jackson reined his horse and waited.

  Pendleton said, “General, we were told you had returned. Sir, we have a gap in the line, you need to see this. . . .”

  Jackson looked at Hill, who said, “Yes, yes, it’s that swamp, the thick trees. Do not worry, General, no sizable force can move through that ground. It’s a wide creek bed, the ground is a muddy swamp. I spoke with a local farmer. He told me he never uses that land. With respect to your staff, General, my lines are sound.”

  Jackson said nothing, reached for the piece of paper offered by Pendleton, a small, crude map showing the units, the woods. He studied it, and there was a long, quiet moment, a lull in the shelling. “I must ride out,” Jackson said. “I must see what is happening. Mr. Pendleton, you will stay with General Hill. You may find me on this road, or forward, at the edge of the trees. Captain Smith, please accompany me.”

  Jackson spurred his horse and Smith followed. They were quickly beyond the clearing, moving toward the front. Hill still offered a salute, which Jackson did not see, then dropped his hand with a sarcastic flourish.

  Now, the shelling began again, still in the trees in front of them. They reached the road and Jackson pulled the horse, moved farther down to the right. He turned again, eased the horse to the left, up off the road, forward through the brush, and came to a shallow trench filled with Hill’s men. Carefully, he jumped the trench, and the men cheered him again. Smith waved at them furiously, quieting them, because now they could be heard by the enemy.

  As they reached the edge of the trees, the shelling came in to their right, down the line. Jackson raised his glasses, tried to find the blue line, the advance of the Federal troops.

  “I can’t see. Too low. Let’s move forward.” And he spurred the horse out into the clearing, into the tall grass. Smith rode out beside him, then to the front, and Jackson did not notice that Smith was placing himself between him and the enemy lines.

  They reached a small rise. Jackson stopped, brought up the glasses again, said aloud, “Over there, they’re coming toward the point of trees.”

  The blue lines were barely visible, stretched out for several hundred yards, but they were moving forward again, still a long way off. Behind him there was no sound. The shelling from the Federal guns had stopped and Hill’s guns were not firing, not yet. He turned, looked back to the line of trees, could see nothing, no sign of his men, and he turned toward the advancing en
emy, said, “They don’t know where we are. Let them come . . . much closer. We must get back to General Hill, tell him to hold his fire, keep the guns quiet until they are much closer.”

  He pulled on his horse, and Smith said, “Look!”

  Out to the front, two hundred yards away, a single soldier, a blue uniform, stood in the tall grass. He raised his musket, and they did not hear the shot, but only the whistle of the lead ball. It hissed between them, missed them both by a couple of feet, and the man dropped down again, hidden by the grass.

  Jackson calmly said, “Why, Mr. Smith, you had best return to the trees. They’re shooting at you!”

  Smith did not smile, looked for the soldier again, knew the man was reloading. Jackson abruptly laughed, pulled on his horse, and the two men rode back into the trees.

  They found Hill in the road, more staff around him. Jackson pulled up, said, “General, the enemy is advancing on those trees, that swamp. Order your artillery to hold their fire, allow the enemy to move close. We cannot be seen, and I am certain they do not know our strength, or our position.”

  Hill nodded, motioned to the staff officers, and they rode out into the trees, toward the lines and the positions of the guns. Jackson turned quickly away, moved forward again, rode through the woods until he found an open space, a small rise behind Hill’s lines. The enemy was visible now, blue coats moving toward them through the snow and the grass. He watched them through his glasses, sat straight and high on the horse, raised one arm high in the air, the palm upturned, held it there for a few seconds, then reached down, into his pocket, and pulled out a lemon.

  The advancing troops were those of Meade’s division, of Reynolds’s First Corps. Jackson watched them close on the trees, saw the flags through his glasses, and then from behind him and from down the lines on both sides the cannon opened, the thunderous sounds of dozens of big guns. The blue lines became obscured, bathed in the thick deadly smoke, and Jackson stood up in the stirrups, tried to see, caught a glimpse of the lines reforming, trying to hold their position. He could see behind them now, a gap in the smoke, more lines moving up in support, and knew it was a full division, several thousand men.

  They had slowed under the first volley from the cannon, but now they came on, still pressed forward. He scanned to the front of them, in the direction they were moving, and could see the mass of trees to Hill’s front, the swamp Hill had so confidently dismissed. Jackson knew Hill had been wrong, they were going into the woods at that position, it offered the best cover, was the first safe place they could reach after surviving the murderous fire in the open fields. And it was winter. The swamp, the soft muddy ground, would be frozen hard. He snatched his hat off his head and yelled out a furious sound. Behind him Pendleton moved forward, looked at him, waiting for instructions, but Jackson continued to stare ahead at the long point of trees that split Hill’s lines.

  From each side Hill’s muskets began to fire, squeezing the blue lines together, pressing them with the deadly fire, and so they would reach the trees even more compactly, moving where the fire was the least, where Hill had no muskets. Jackson saw it happening, saw the gap in Hill’s lines suddenly filling with a strong flow of blue. They began to move into the swamp, pushing forward, driving a wedge between Hill’s brigades.

  Jackson pulled on the horse, began to move back toward the road. Smoke was drifting across now, and he could see very little. The sounds of muskets filled the woods, and he did not see Hill. He moved down the road, toward the point where the blue advance would come, saw General Maxcy Gregg and the troops that lay behind the swamp, that would next feel the thrust of Meade’s advance.

  “General, prepare for the assault. The enemy is cutting our lines . . . they are pushing through the swamp, between the brigades of Archer and Lane.”

  Gregg nodded. “Yes, General, we have seen them coming. Can we expect some support?”

  Jackson turned, saw his two aides following up close behind him. “Captain Pendleton,” he said, “go to General Early. Tell him to advance his men here, toward these woods. He may direct himself by the sounds of the battle. Captain Smith . . . go to General Taliaferro, tell him to advance his men here as well.” He turned back to Gregg, who saluted and was quickly gone.

  The battle was closer now, the minié balls clipping leaves and small branches around him, high shots from lines of men who knew they were breaking through the enemy, men who would not stop unless you made them stop. He looked down the road in both directions, still did not see Hill, and now in the road in front of him, not a hundred yards away, smoke boiled out of the trees, a fresh volley from moving troops. He saw a cluster of blue, the men pouring out into the road like the flow from a great blue wound, lining up against Gregg’s troops, who were moving up from the woods in the rear.

  Suddenly, he was blinded by a swirling cloud of smoke, the hot sulfur smell. Jackson turned the horse, rode back into the woods, tried to find a clear spot, someplace he could see. In front of him and to the side new smoke poured from the lines of muskets, and he could hear nothing but the steady crack of the rifles, the enemy yells, and the screams of his shattered troops.

  He rode farther back, tried to escape the smoke, to find someone, Early. We have the reserves, he thought, we are strong. They never should have pushed this far, cut through our lines. He thought of Hill, felt a violent twinge, saw the man’s small figure, the ragged beard, the red shirt that he now saw as obnoxious, foolish bravado, and he wanted to kill him, grab him with his fists and squeeze the life from him.

  He jerked the horse through the trees, ducked under low branches. He rode up onto a small ridge, could see out through the woods, thinner trees, the dense clouds of smoke hanging in the branches. The sounds kept moving, a steady flow, pushing his men back, and he knew this was bad. If they send in more strength at the gap, he thought, they can turn our lines completely, cutting behind the bigger hills, surrounding Longstreet’s position. He faced the sounds, tried to determine the direction, glanced up at the sun, now high in the sky, and gauged the direction. No, they had not turned yet, were still coming straight through, straight across the road.

  The firing began to slow now, the men deep into dense woods, seeking out a target. For a short few minutes the Federal troops had no organized lines in front of them, no enemy they could see. Jackson heard the shouting, officers calling to their men, trying to bring them back together, forming the companies into some organized shape. From his right he heard a new sound, a piercing shrillness, a long, high wail that he had not heard since Manassas. He moved the horse, prodded it along the ridge, toward the sound. Taking off his hat, holding it high, he stared at the sound with the blue fire in his eyes. . . . It was the rebel yell.

  From back behind the heavy trees a new force was advancing into the confused positions of Meade’s men. It was Early’s division, and they flowed into the woods, strong, heavy lines of fresh troops. Now the muskets began again, and Jackson felt it, felt the surge. Yes, push them back. Close in front of him he heard new sounds, of the wounded and dying, and of blind panic, and the sounds began to shift back toward the road. Meade’s men were falling back.

  EARLY’S DIVISION pushed the Federal advance completely back out of the trees, and then the Confederate position was strengthened, units moved out into the frozen swamp. The gap was sealed, the reserves brought forward, and the Federal forces wilted under the steady barrage of cannon and muskets. Alongside Meade, Gibbon’s division, which had pushed up against the brunt of Jackson’s defense, could only hold its ground in front of the line of trees, and now was pulling back as well. It had not been pressed as hard, but Gibbon had expected help, support from the vast number of troops behind him.

  For most of the morning the rest of Franklin’s Grand Division, the rest of the sixty thousand men who had crossed the river, stood in formation, ready to follow Meade across the plain, into the woods. The plan had been for Meade to push through and break the lines, but when he tumbled back out of the woods, flo
wing back out into the plain with broken lines and panicked troops, Franklin watched without responding, and did not order a new advance. The call went instead across the river, to Burnside, a request for new instructions, and from high up on Stafford Heights, from the man who still believed in his own plan, no orders came. If Franklin’s troops could not carry the day, could not push through Jackson’s woods, then it would be Sumner and the troops in the town.

  Outside Burnside’s headquarters, while Franklin’s courier waited for instructions, the commander stared through his glasses toward the hills beyond the town, where Sumner’s troops would make the final push, a glorious assault that Burnside knew would sweep Lee’s army from the hills in one broad stroke.

  35. HANCOCK

  December 13, 1862. Midday.

  THEY MOVED through the streets, began to form on the edge of town, out past the last of the houses. They could still hear the guns down to the left, the destruction of Meade’s division, but their attention was focused on the hill a half-mile across the open ground in front of them.

  Hancock rode through the forming lines, stared out at the field, could see fences, rows of posts and rails that would slow and therefore devastate his lines when crossed. Farther, he could now clearly make out the canal, crossing the field at a slight angle, the canal that Burnside said did not exist.