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

by Jeff Shaara

  They reached the road, and now more soldiers were around them, the lines of his men. Hill was suddenly moving quickly, saw an officer, a captain, the man questioning, and Hill said, “Tell your men nothing. It is a wounded Confederate officer.” The man looked past him, tried to see, and Hill heard horses, the ambulance, and he pushed the man aside.

  The man went over to the litter, looked down into the face of Jackson, suddenly dropped to his knees, said, “No, oh dear God, no...”

  Jackson heard the man, but his mind was now moving far away, and he turned his head, could see beyond the trees, the rising red glow of the fast-moving fires. He looked to the man again, tried to see, but the face was framed by the wall of red, and Jackson stared hard, eyes wide, saw the flames now moving toward him, laughing and dancing, and he looked back to the face, wanted to say . . . to ask . . . would talk . . . must talk to God, but now the face went away, and there was only the fire, the pain burning him from inside, and he was too weak to stop it, to fight it, and his mind finally gave in, and he drifted further away now, beyond the fire, felt the strong hands lifting him again, and he slept, believing that it was God’s hands, and He was lifting him toward Heaven.

  THE LITTER was up and in the ambulance, and Hill looked at Smith, said, “Where will you—”

  “Dr. McGuire is at Dowdall’s. We have sent word. I will keep you informed, General.”

  Hill nodded, turned, saw his aides and moved toward his horse. He knew it was his responsibility now, that this army was in confusion, that daylight would bring a dangerous fight from a huge number of Federal troops, troops that were digging in hard in front of them. He sat in the saddle, looked past the trees in front of him, then pulled the horse, moved down across the turnpike. Beyond, there was more scattered shooting, and he dismounted again, waved a courier forward, thought, I must find Colston and Rodes, get word to Stuart . . . and Lee. He began to put words together, forming the messages, and the courier followed. Hill looked up to the trees, the moon, tried to pinpoint the sounds of the guns, to get some bearing.

  Now the heavy roar of the cannon filled the woods around him. Suddenly, there was a ripping pain in his legs. His knees gave way and he rolled forward, made a sharp cry. His men were quickly down, holding him, and he tried to feel the wound, touched the backs of his legs, felt the blood, nothing deep. He looked up at the faces, said, “No, it’s all right . . . just my legs, it’s all right.” They tried to lift him up, and his legs would not hold him, he could not stand, and he fell back down, fell forward onto his hands, stared into the dark, thought, I am in command . . . I must . . . I am in command. . . .

  He tried to stand again, and there was no feeling in his legs. He rolled to the side, sat, thought, So, God is with Stonewall after all. If he cannot command, then it is not to be me. He looked at the faces around him, said, “The command of the Second Corps should pass now to General Rodes. But General Lee would not place him in that position, he does not have the experience. Captain Adams . . .”

  The man bent over, said, “Yes, sir, what can I do, sir?”

  “Take a message to General Stuart, he is up at Ely’s Ford, I believe. Tell him of our situation, and request that he ride here as quickly as possible. He must take command of the corps. And send a message to General Lee, for his approval. I do not see what other choice we have, but General Lee might disagree.”

  “Sir . . . right away!”

  There was a flurry of motion, and horses began to move away.

  He put his hands around the wounds on his legs, tried to feel. . . . He reached into his pocket, held up a gold watch, tried to catch the moonlight, saw . . . nearly three A.M.

  “Well, we will soon learn if Joe Hooker is still running.”

  DR. MCGUIRE was talking to him. “We’ll get this tightened up first.” And he felt a tugging in his shoulder. McGuire looked at him, saw the sharp blue eyes. “Well, General, welcome back. Can you hear me? How are you feeling?”

  Jackson tried to see the shoulder, and a sharp pain stopped him. He opened his mouth, made a sound, “Ummghh.” His tongue felt like cotton.

  McGuire reached out, brought a cup up to his mouth. “Here, this may help. . . .”

  It was cool and wonderful, and he tried to swallow, felt his throat harden into a knot, and the water spilled down the sides of his face. McGuire lifted the cup, and Jackson shook his head, tried to lift up.

  McGuire said, “All right, here, try again.”

  This time he swallowed, just a bit, then more, and now he laid his head back, moved his tongue, said, “I . . . am I not dead?”

  McGuire laughed. “Certainly not! I may take offense at that, General. You are in my hands now.”

  Jackson tried to smile, then saw other faces, more men, and the faces were dark and serious. He suddenly realized he was on a bed. “Where am I, Doctor?”

  “Field hospital. For tonight, anyway. Tomorrow, we’ll move you away from the . . . fighting.”

  McGuire was not smiling now, knew the word would have an effect. Jackson suddenly tried to sit, to pull himself up. He reached for the edge of the bed, saw his right hand was bandaged.

  “What . . . I’m shot. . . .”

  “General, the hand is minor. The ball lodged under the skin. It is the other wounds. . . .” He paused, looked up at the other men, and Jackson heard the sound of a table being moved, saw the faces closer now. “General, you were wounded twice in your left arm. The artery in your upper arm has been severed, the bone is broken. You were very fortunate you did not bleed to death. In cases such as this, the removal of the arm is . . . required.” McGuire paused, waited for a reaction. The other men were around the top of the bed now.

  Jackson said, “Doctor, I have absolute faith in your abilities. You must do what is necessary.”

  McGuire nodded slowly, said, “We have chloroform . . . it will make this much easier for you.” Jackson shook his head, and McGuire said, “No argument this time, General. You will not please God if you endure pain needlessly. This is not a test of courage.”

  Jackson smiled, knew that McGuire understood him well. He closed his eyes, a brief prayer, Forgive me . . . but I must follow orders. He looked again at McGuire, and now the smiles were gone. McGuire said something to one of the other men, and there was a hand above him, and a white cloth, and Jackson closed his eyes, felt the soft cotton against his face, took a long, deep breath.

  His mind began to spin, a swirl of light, and above him, far away, he heard music, faint, soft. Then it grew, swelled into a loud and glorious march, deep and rhythmic, the smooth and regular cadence of soldiers on the move, men who could do anything. . . .

  51. STUART

  Sunday, May 3, 1863

  HE SAW Rodes first, rode up quickly toward the larger tent. Then the others came, Colston, Harry Heth, and more, men he did not know.

  He had ridden alone, left his men up at Ely’s Ford, a crossing that was now dangerous because it offered the Federal Army a clear route behind their new position, the ground they had won by the collapse of the Federal flank. Late in the day, Jackson had sent him up to prevent anyone from coming that way, if there was a Federal commander who recognized the opportunity. They were surprised to find the ford already occupied by a large force of Federal cavalry, Averill’s brigade, and Stuart knew he did not have the manpower to drive them away. But this night, there was much edginess, and it would only take a good, solid surprise to hold them back, keep them nervously dug into one spot.

  But the attack had begun without him. A. P. Hill’s courier had reached him with the message, and he did not wait, gave Von Borcke the job: strike fast, retreat, then strike once more.

  He had pushed the horse hard, reached the turnpike at a fast gallop, pulled up now at the new headquarters, near Dowdall’s, close to the former center of Howard’s position, but now well behind their own lines.

  He did not bow, did not sweep the ground with the ridiculous hat, looked hard at the men waiting for him, saw the eyes of confi
dent soldiers who know they need direction.

  There were salutes, and they let him pass by, followed him into the tent. It was warm, from the dull heat of an oil lamp. He saw a small table, a wood chair, sat and motioned to small seats spread around the tent. They followed, quiet now, looking at him, waiting.

  “Do we know if General Jackson is alive?”

  Rodes looked at the others, spoke up. “He is seriously wounded, his arm . . . not sure where he is now, but we have not heard more since he was taken from the field.”

  “General Hill was with him.” Heth stood now, tall, nervous. “General Hill was wounded shortly after . . . not seriously, but he cannot walk. He has appointed me. . . . As senior brigade commander, I have assumed command of his division. If you do not object, sir.”

  Stuart motioned. “Please, General Heth, please sit. This is a difficult time for us all. We must pause, say a prayer for General Jackson, and keep our heads cool. Yes, I quite agree with General Hill. Unless General Lee requests otherwise, you are now in command of Hill’s division.”

  Heth sat down again, all knees and elbows, stared at the ground, said, “General, have you been informed who it was . . . how General Jackson was wounded?”

  “Is it important? Our concern is with his recovery and his return to the field. Revenge cannot be—”

  “Sir, it was our own troops. General Lane . . . it was the Eighteenth North Carolina.”

  Stuart stared at him, absorbed, said, “My God . . . are you certain?”

  Heth nodded, still looked down. After a long moment Heth said, “They are aware . . . it was dark and they were close to the enemy. It was a dangerous place for the general to be.”

  “The Eighteenth North Carolina . . .” Stuart felt sick, took a long, deep breath. “They will carry this with them for the rest of their lives.”

  Heth looked up with sad, tired eyes. “We all will, sir.”

  Colston cleared his throat, said, “General, we have all been praying for General Jackson. The whole army . . . word has spread, it could not be helped. I suppose that even the Yankees know by now. We may be in serious trouble.”

  Stuart did not know Colston well, knew only that he was new to command and had risen through the ranks of Jackson’s own men, the division that Jackson himself organized two years earlier: the heartbeat of the entire corps, the Stonewall Brigade.

  “General Colston, the sun will rise very soon on a field where the enemy has been beaten badly and is of a mind to withdraw. The advantages are all ours.”

  Colston seemed unsure, looked at Rodes, and Rodes said, “General Stuart, we welcome your authority to command this corps. We will do what you order us to do, sir. But these men . . . my division is scattered all over these woods, sir. I don’t even know how many men I can put into line. General Colston has the same situation. The only fresh troops we have, men who have even had something to eat . . . are Hill’s . . . General Heth’s division. The Federals are digging in, building heavy defensive lines. They are expecting us to advance against them at daylight. I’m not sure we have much to send against them.”

  Stuart looked at Heth, said, “General, is your division in place? Can you press forward an organized attack?”

  “Yes, sir. The men were not heavily engaged yesterday. They will be strong.”

  “Good. Then they will lead the attack. Gentlemen, I do not believe General Jackson would have had us sitting here moaning about our problems. He would have one word, for all of us: attack. That is what we must do. Once we can see . . . once we can determine what the enemy has done to prepare for us . . . then we will find his weaknesses, and move against him.”

  There were nods, and he stood, led them back out of the tent. Riders were coming into the camp. He looked at faces, and saw his own men, reports of the success at Ely’s, and then he saw Sandie Pendleton, Jackson’s chief of staff. Pendleton climbed from the horse slowly, and Stuart watched him, was suddenly very afraid, waited.

  Pendleton said, “General Stuart, I come from General Jackson’s bedside. I reached the general just after he awoke from surgery. Dr. McGuire has amputated his left arm. . . .” He paused, choked on the words.

  Behind Stuart, Colston said in a soft whisper, “Good God.”

  Stuart stepped forward, raised a hand, some comfort, and Pendleton straightened, felt the hand on his shoulder, continued.

  “Sir, General Jackson has been informed of General Hill’s wounds, and of your taking command, sir. The general has every confidence in your abilities.”

  “Can you tell me, Major . . . does the general have any orders?”

  “He said only for you to do what you think is best, General. It is your command.”

  Stuart turned to the others, and they waited. He thought, No, Stonewall is still in command, they will do it for him, they will do what he would want. I must remember that.

  “Gentlemen, this has been a difficult . . . a long day. I suggest we tend to our troops, try to get them fed, and find some breakfast for ourselves.”

  They looked past him now, to another rider. He turned and saw Jed Hotchkiss, Jackson’s mapmaker. Hotchkiss limped from the horse, moved tenderly, held out a paper, said, “General Stuart, I have a message for you, sir, from General Lee. Please forgive me....” He slumped, fell to one knee, and Pendleton was down beside him.

  “All right, Hotchkiss, all right. Does Lee know . . . ?”

  “Yes, yes, he had been informed by Wilbourn when I got there. I had to ride down a long way.” He stood, steadied himself on Pendleton’s arm, and Stuart unfolded the paper, read quietly, then turned to the others, read aloud.

  “ ‘It is necessary that the glorious victory thus far achieved be prosecuted with the utmost vigor, and the enemy given no time to rally. As soon as it is possible, they must be pressed, so that we may unite the two wings of the army. Endeavor, therefore, to dispossess them of Chancellorsville.’ ”

  He stopped, there was a silent moment, and he said, “The plan is clear, gentlemen. We will form in lines to press hard to the east, toward Chancellorsville, and by doing so, we can move our right flank around to the southeast and link up with General Lee’s lines. The enemy has already demonstrated a great willingness to leave this field. We will do what we can to speed them along.”

  The meeting was over, and men and horses began to move away. Hotchkiss sat down beside a small fire. Pendleton watched him, lowered his voice, said to Stuart, “It has been difficult for us all. Captain Smith is with the general now . . . I had best get back as well. I will keep you informed.”

  Stuart nodded, patted the young man’s shoulder again, said, “Tell General Jackson that we will finish the work. This day too will be ours.”

  Pendleton tried to smile, nodded, moved slowly toward the horse. Now both men turned, saw it together, the first white glow of the dawn.

  HE HAD ridden out first to the south, to the right flank of their lines, followed the advance as it pushed forward, smashing with full fury into the first of the Federal positions. The right flank was little more than a mile from Lee’s left, but in between, Sickles’s corps had dug in, well below the turnpike, and so Stuart could not reach Lee without first confronting the deep lines of the Third Corps.

  Heth’s lines were nearly two miles wide, and they swept forward in a continuation of the assault the day before, straight down the turnpike, toward Chancellorsville. Colston’s lines were moving up behind, and in the rear, Rodes was organizing what was left of his division. Stuart knew that he could count on barely twenty-five thousand exhausted and underfed troops, and in front of him was an army of nearly ninety thousand men, many of whom—the men under Reynolds and Meade—had yet to see any action at all.

  To the north, Reynolds’s First Corps and Meade’s Fifth had worked all night, dug a long solid line, blocking any advance toward the river, the advance that Jackson would have pressed the day before had he not run out of daylight. Around Chancellorsville, Couch and Slocum were entrenched in a near circle, Sloc
um facing south and west,

  and Couch facing east. Between his headquarters and the Confederate lines, Hooker had dug four solid lines of entrenchments.

  Stuart rode close behind the first line, as Jackson had the day before. He waved his sword, yelled, “Remember Jackson,” and they watched him, shouted back. They all knew it was not yet a victory, that the long day ahead of them would prove whether the great, bold plan, the sheer audacity of Lee and Jackson, would be enough after all.

  They could see the abatis now, the great piles of thick brush, cut trees, spread high in front of the first entrenchments. The lines kept moving, pushed ahead through smaller thickets, short clearings. He pulled the horse along, stepping over the unburied dead, tried to pick his way through the roar of musket fire. Behind him, he could not see the next line, hidden in the thick brush, and he turned the horse, called out and waited. Then came the great rumble, from the batteries far in front, and low screams, the high whistling shrieks, and the brush began to fly apart around him. Great blasts of splinters blew by him, and he turned again, ducked low on the horse, saw the backs of his men pushing forward, yelled, “Keep moving, forward!”

  He rode back to the south, toward the right flank, looked for officers, horses. The orders were plain, Lee had sent another message: link their two armies together, move around below the Federal lines. He pushed the horse into a thick mass of vines. The horse stopped, and he yelled, “Move!”

  A shell tore through the brush behind them, a sharp spray of dirt hitting him in the back, and suddenly the horse lurched, tore through the last of the thicket, and he was in the open. I know, he thought, this is not what cavalry horses do. He laughed now, patted the horse’s neck, moved farther. Smoke was filling the clearings. He saw a man on a horse and rode that way. The man was directing his men through the thickets, and now the troops in front of him were gone, out of sight in the dense brush.