by Jeff Shaara
The man saluted, began to move along the crest of the ridge.
“Go on back to your line, Colonel,” Hancock said. “I’m sending you some Irishmen this time.”
Miles raised a dirty hand, saluted, and Hancock turned his horse and rode to the south, toward the sounds of the last assault. He could see the turnpike now, saw a long, deep line of blue, the trenches of the Twelfth Corps, and riding up the ridge toward him, a flag, a small parade. It was Slocum.
“General Hancock, greetings. How are things up this way?”
It was a rhetorical question. Hancock had not known Slocum long, had never received a good impression, but Slocum had impressed someone in Washington enough to secure command of a corps, and seemed to enjoy the show of it, the long trail of staff under the flutter of flags. He was a small, wiry man, with a short clump of beard perched below a long, thin face, and he smiled pleasantly, waiting for Hancock’s rhetorical answer.
“We’re looking at the same thing you are, General. They’re just bumping into us every so often.”
Slocum still smiled, waved an arm slowly, toward the east. “Ah, but it would have been glorious. It could have happened right here, right on this spot. We could have ended it all.”
Hancock watched him, sat quietly. Did Slocum really believe Lee would throw himself against this position? he wondered.
“So now, tomorrow, we have to start chasing them . . . all the way to Richmond, I imagine.”
Hancock said, “What? What do you mean?”
Slocum looked at him, smiled again, said, “Why, they’re gone, in full retreat. Have you not heard?”
“No, I haven’t. I’ve been attending to this fight in front of me.”
“General, I’m surprised. I received word from General Hooker’s headquarters hours ago. The Confederate Army is in full retreat, toward Gordonsville. They’ve been marching west all day. I thought you knew.”
“No, I have not heard that. Is this . . . certain?”
“Definitely, General, I heard from my own lookouts early this morning, and Sickles moved some units down to harass their supply trains, and ended up capturing an entire regiment of Georgians. He was too late to disrupt the retreat further, they were already by him. My latest orders are to prepare to pursue in the morning. As I said, General, it’s a shame we couldn’t fight them right here, from this wonderful position.”
Hancock looked to the east, down toward the woods where Miles was strengthening his lines.
“General, if Lee is in retreat, who is it that keeps charging my lines?”
Slocum rubbed his chin, said, “Well, to tell you the truth, that question had occurred to me. Not like Lee to leave anybody behind.”
Hancock thought, Lee has never had to leave anybody behind. “Excuse me, General, I must return to my division. And it seems clear that I must find General Couch.”
Slocum watched him go, still smiled, and down below, in the trees, there was another high yell, and the trees came alive again with the rattle of the muskets and the sounds of a new charge.
COUCH HAD ridden along the lines earlier, shortly after the tour by Hooker. Hancock thought, It’s not like him to keep me in the dark. Why had he not sent word?
Hancock rode toward the orange glow of the sun, lowered the brim of his hat, let the horse keep herself in the road. Behind him there were more shells bursting, a new artillery barrage, and he thought, If Lee is gone . . . would he leave his guns behind? He began to feel a small rumble in his gut, a small clench, thought of Slocum’s words, then suddenly reined up the horse, stopping in the middle of the road. He looked down, toward the south, recalled the map, the roads that led away, then ran parallel, far out to the west. There were more shells falling now, all along the ridge where his troops waited, a steady roar from a heavier assault, heavier than he had heard all day, and he thought, This could be it, I should go back. He rode hard back to the crest of the hill, pulled up, listened, and the shells slowed, stopped, and now the sounds of the skirmish came again, exactly as before, all along Miles’s line. He waited, expected to hear much more, but in a few minutes it was over again.
He stared down the hill, watched the white smoke gradually clearing, and the rumble in his gut began again, and a familiar word suddenly flowed into his brain, a word from the textbooks, from old lessons. Suddenly, he felt utterly stupid, knew they had all listened to Hooker, had accepted instinctively, blindly, what the commander told them, and even if they did not truly believe it would happen, that Lee would hurl his army against a solid wall, they still waited, firmly in their trenches, inflexible and mindless. The word came into his brain again: demonstration. Now he understood why the attacks were regular and brief, with just enough muscle to hold his division in their trenches. Now he understood what Lee had done.
He spurred the horse hard, jerked the reins, and began to gallop into the deep glow of the sun, toward the Chancellor mansion where the generals waited. It was a short ride, and he pulled into the yard, jumped down hard, stumbled, and men were watching him, some were laughing. He stood, felt a sharp pain in his knee, looked up toward the porch, saw, sitting at a small table, holding a teacup, Joe Hooker.
“General, try to maintain a bit of dignity. There are enlisted men present.”
There was laughter, and Hancock saw the faces of the others. Officers and their aides spilled out onto the porch, drawn by the commotion, and he saw Couch now, coming out of the house. Couch saw the look on his face and did not laugh. On the road behind him there was a sound, the clatter of wheels, and he turned, followed the gaze of the others, saw a horse, a fast gallop, pulling an empty wagon, and there was no driver. He watched the wagon move past, heard more laughter, looked back to Couch, would talk to him, find out what was happening, the truth. On the porch, one man looked past Hancock, looked toward the last of the sunlight, through the trail of dust from the single wagon, said, “Good God . . . here they come!”
Hancock turned, saw on the road, across the clearing on both sides, a ragged mass of troops, no coats, no hats, without guns. There was the rattle of another wagon, then many more, still without drivers, terrified horses, pulled along by a growing tide of running men.
On the porch Hooker yelled out, and men began to move. Above the house, in a wide clearing, there was a line of resting troops, a reserve division of Sickles’s corps, and now orders were flying, the men scrambling into formation. Hooker shouted from the porch, “Move into line, move around, move into line! Give them the bayonet!”
Hancock grabbed his horse, jumped up and spurred the big animal out into the road, saw now that this was not the enemy, these were men in blue. Our men, he thought, and felt the great weight of the wave. If they keep going, they will run right over the backs of my men.
He could hear guns now, well to the west, scattered cannon, but mostly muskets, the vast flow of sound finally reaching the clearing. There were more wagons, men on horses, and the mad stampede was moving past the mansion. Hancock looked for officers, someone in control, saw the line of Sickles’s fresh troops swinging around, moving toward the road, trying to stop the panicked mob. From the thicket below the road more men appeared, torn uniforms, still running, and he raised his sword, swung it down hard, hit a man flat across the shoulder, knocking him down. The man looked at him with raw terror.
Hancock shouted, “Get up! Stop running!” and the man was back on his feet, seemed to understand. But then another rush, and the man was caught up and gone again. Hancock turned the horse, rode quickly down the road, fought his way with the tide, moved past, tried to get out in front, to reach his trenches before the tide swept over.
He crested the hill, turned back, saw fewer men running now. Many had simply collapsed with exhaustion. But others came on, and now they reached his own troops. His men were turning, standing, surprised, and muskets were raised, but they saw it was blue troops, not the enemy, and did not shoot. The first of the wave poured away, down the hill, into the woods, across the stream where Miles’
s men waited, and many still ran, farther, plunging through the vines and the brush and into the arms of Lee’s astonished troops.
50. JACKSON
May 2, 1863. Evening.
THE VOLLEYS were slowing now. The big guns still threw shell and canister toward him, but the dark was spilling heavily over the ground, had filled the thick woods, and even the open clearings were growing dim. He saw Colston, and rode that way. Colston was yelling at an officer, directing the man to form his company, saw Jackson and stared with wild eyes.
“We have stopped, sir! Can’t see! The lines are tangled . . . we’re mixed in with Rodes’s men. It’s confusion, sir! We need Hill to come up . . . Hill’s men can move on by us!”
Jackson turned, looked to the rear, tried to see past the dark thickets. He heard the sound of troops, fresh troops, said, “Yes, General. Try to form your men. I will tell General Hill to push on! We must not stop! They are running. They will keep running if we press them!”
He turned the horse, rode back toward the oncoming lines, now saw A. P. Hill leading his staff. Hill saluted, unsmiling, and Jackson stared hard into the thin face. “Keep them moving, General,” he said. “Keep the pressure up. We have broken their flank. We can crush them now, cut them off. We must not give them time to organize. Take your division forward, then press on to the north, toward the river. Move toward United States Ford . . . they must not escape!”
Hill stared at him, said, “General . . . it is dark. I don’t know the ground.”
Jackson turned around, looked, saw his own staff beginning to come together, saw Captain Boswell, the engineer, and yelled out, “Boswell, report to General Hill. Find a way through the woods . . . to the northeast. Find the rear of the enemy’s position. We will cut them off!”
Boswell moved up, saluted Jackson, and Hill looked at him, knew there would be no argument.
Jackson turned away now, his orders clear, and he rode forward down the dark road. In front of him a sudden burst of shelling was answered from both sides, the woods cut down by aimless blasts of metal. He rode farther, listening, looked up into the black, wanted to ask God to please let them keep on . . . but he did not, thought, You have given us much today. To the south, away from the turnpike, he could see a red glow, and then another. Now, the staff eased up closer behind him.
A voice said, “Fire . . . the woods are burning,” and they waited, watched.
Another man said, “Oh my God . . . the wounded . . .” Jackson held up his hand, waved them back, pushed the horse forward, listened. The shelling had stopped now. Scattered musket fire echoed through the trees, and he watched the fire, could hear it, fueled by the dry and dense brush.
He wanted to ride forward, to the confused tangle of Rodes’s and Colston’s lines, to tell them not to stop, to keep going, move forward . . . but he felt the sudden deadweight of hopelessness, could not see anything at all in front of him, knew they could not as well, that a night attack rarely made sense, not in a place like this. He looked up, said another prayer, Thank You for our success, and through the tops of far trees, saw a white light, the great brightness of the rising full moon. Around him the light was cutting through the shadows, and now he could see the shapes, the wide path of the road. Yes, he thought, God is still showing us the way!
He turned, and the staff came up again. He saw the boy, the young man who knew these woods so well, and Jackson said, “Is there a road . . . that way, toward the United States Ford?”
“No, sir, not here. There’s some old trails, but farther up, there’s the Bullock Road. Some trails off that . . .”
Jackson nodded impatiently. “Show me! Now . . . we must not waste time!”
The boy moved forward, Jackson followed, and the staff trailed behind.
They turned down a small road, moving slowly in the growing moonlight, and Jackson strained to hear, stopped the horse, heard troops out in front of him, digging in. There was the clear sound of axes, the chopping of trees, and so they would be Federal troops. Still, he thought, sound carries far at night, they might not be as close as the sounds, there must still be a way. The boy was watching him. He motioned, and they began to move along the trail again.
Behind them there was the deafening blast of a big gun, one of Hill’s, a pointless blind shot toward the Federal lines. Then came the answer, several bright flashes, and around them limbs shattered, dirt flew up, and both sides turned quiet, nervous fingers wrapped on tight triggers, waiting for some movement, some telltale sound.
Jackson felt the chill of the night, the damp sweat in his uniform, reached behind the saddle for the black rubber overcoat, pulled it quietly over his shoulders, and they kept moving, into solid dark broken by small pieces of moonlight. Behind him the staff drew up, closer. A burst of fire came from the Federal troops, a short volley from a line of muskets exploded in the woods from the right, then he heard a low voice behind him, and a hand touched his shoulder.
It was Lieutenant Morrison, Anna’s younger brother. Morrison said, in an anxious whisper, “Sir . . . we are beyond our lines. This is no place for you, sir.”
Jackson stopped the horse, raised his hand, halting the group. He understood now, it could not go the way he had hoped. It would have to be in the morning.
“You are correct. We will return to the road.”
He turned the horse, began to move quickly now, and the others followed. Now, below them, close in the thick brush, a man’s voice. “Halt! Who is that?” and another voice, a sharp command, “It’s cavalry! Fire!”
There was a quick sheet of flame, and behind him, Jackson heard the cry of horses and men falling.
One of the aides rode toward the troops, shouted, “No, stop firing . . . you’re firing on your own men!”
Then came a strong hard voice, the voice of a veteran who has seen cunning and deceit, and who understands that his men are the front of the line, and that before them is only the enemy. “It is a lie! Pour it to them!”
The second volley was better aimed, the moonlight silhouetting the men on horseback. Jackson spun around, tried to reach the shelter of trees beyond the trail, and he felt a hard tug at his hand, a hard, hot punch in his shoulder. The horse lunged, terrified, began to run away from the noise, jumped and jerked, and now it was Morrison, beside him, grabbing the reins that Jackson had dropped. He felt himself sliding, tried to reach for the saddle, could not grab with his hand, slid down the side of the horse and fell hard to the cold ground.
There was more yelling now. Horsemen were coming toward them on the trail. It was Hill and his staff, and Hill yelled toward his lines, said, “Hold your fire. These are your men here!”
His staff rode quickly toward the line of rifles. Hill came forward, saw the bodies scattered beside dying horses, and he dropped down from the horse, moved through the dark, said, “Oh God . . . what have they done?”
He saw one more man on the ground, and another man kneeling and Hill said, “Who is this?” He saw the face of young Morrison then, and Morrison was crying.
Hill moved around. A small piece of moonlight crossed Jackson’s face. “Oh . . . God . . . General . . . are you hurt?”
“I am afraid so, I am hit in the shoulder . . . and . . . here.” He raised his right hand, turned it in the faint light, tried to see it, to see where the pain began.
Now there were more shots, from above the trail. The Federal lines were moving forward, and Hill turned to one of the aides, said, “Get an ambulance . . . a litter! We need a litter!”
The aide hesitated, stared at the blood flowing from Jackson’s shoulder, soaking into his uniform, said, “Oh my God . . .”
“Move!”
The aide looked at Hill, then turned and was gone.
“We must leave here, General. Can you walk?”
Others had gathered, and a tourniquet was wrapped high around his left arm. He bent his knees, tried to stand, and there were hands around him, pulling him up.
They began to move quickly down the trai
l. He tried to run, felt the hands holding him up, saw others coming up the trail toward them, carrying a litter.
He stared at the soft, dirty cloth, thought, No, I will walk, heard a familiar voice, Captain Smith, and tried to see the young man’s face. But the hands pulled him down, laid him down, and now he was on his back.
Smith leaned close to his face, said, “General, are you in pain? Can I give you something? Here . . . take this, it will help.”
He put a small bottle to Jackson’s mouth, and Jackson thought, No, I don’t need anything. The liquid wet his tongue, burned his throat, and he wanted to say no, but the liquid burned down deep, the warmth spreading through him. Then Smith took the bottle away, and Jackson smiled at him.
“Mr. Smith, I should have a word with you about this. . . .” He felt himself rising, lifted up, could not see Smith’s face now, only the tops of the trees, the moonlight, small specks of light, the stars. He tried to feel the pain, could not, knew it was not just the whiskey, thought, Thank You. He tried to lift his head, but the litter was bouncing, and he remembered . . . Hill . . . fresh troops. We should not have stopped.
There was a sudden roar of fire, a new burst of light. Federal cannons were firing blindly into the rebel positions, and now the men dropped down, lay flat. Overhead, limbs and small branches flew into pieces, wood and dirt rained over them. A body was suddenly across his, and now he saw Smith’s face, close, shielding him from the debris. He wanted to speak, to say something to the young man, tell him thank you, but there was no voice, and he knew he was now very very weak. I will die here, tonight, he thought. He tried to see God, to ask why . . . this place? But his mind was foggy, swimming, he could no longer see the trees.
The shelling stopped, and they rose in unison, picked up the litter, and four men held the corners as they again moved toward the road. Now, musket fire, more Federal troops, and there was a small, sharp crack, lead against bone, and one of the men suddenly grunted and crumpled, dropping the litter. Jackson rolled off to the side, landed hard, felt a sharp pain in his side, slicing through him. He was suddenly alert again, tried to twist, to roll off the pain, his mind screaming inside, Make it stop, and the hands were on him again, and he was mercifully on his back and they were moving again.
