by Jeff Shaara
Late in the afternoon, Ewell had pushed out again, striking at the jumbled mass of blue troops in front of him, but the order had to come from Lee. Ewell was still tightly behind his makeshift wall, but Lee could not allow the fight to swing southward with all the power Grant could bring, and so he prodded Ewell to do … something, create some opportunity. Grant had shown no willingness to move away, to leave the Wilderness, and the long lines of march were now tightened into thick lines of battle. The dangerous gap between Lee’s two corps had already invited Grant to push through, and it was only the ground itself that kept the blue troops from splitting Lee’s forces in half.
If Lee were to turn the tide in his favor, he would have to take every chance to strike at confusion, at disorganized regiments, at the chaos that the attacking troops had stumbled into. But Ewell had hesitated, and asked for clarification, the couriers moving back and forth between the two parts of the army in a mad rush, often passing each other on the rugged trails. Lee was seeing it more clearly than ever, that if Ewell were to do anything at all, make any decision that would show the old spirit, the orders would have to come from him. But even then Ewell pressed forward only as far as his own men could make a coordinated attack, and soon the coordination collapsed in the dense woods. Finally Ewell pulled his men back to their entrenchments, content to let the night darken the bloody ground where so many had fallen.
THERE HAD BEEN NO PAUSE, NO BREAK FOR FOOD OR REST. LEE HAD been on Traveller for most of the day, and he could feel the wet hide of the tired animal, his pants soaked by thick foam. He had kept close to the steady fight in front of Hill’s men, but there would be nothing to see, no sign of the enemy’s strength except for the sounds of their muskets, and there had been many muskets. Lee counted seven separate assaults, each one a vast wave rolling toward them from the east, and each time there were more blue troops, new units, the prisoners coming now from every division, every brigade of Hancock’s enormous corps. Lee had watched Hill carefully, saw clearly that if Hill had never shown the talent for commanding an entire corps, he was still the best man the army had at leading a division. In this place, where there was no coordination and no way to even know where a corps would begin and end, where the placement of a single regiment could turn the tide of the attack, Hill had been brilliant. Lee tried to stay with him, but in the chaos, Hill had never stopped moving, guiding the smaller units back and forth through the brush, down the small trails, shifting the troops into place against the blind heavy punches of Hancock’s great numbers. With Wilcox’s help, Heth had held his ground, and as the light began to fade, the darkness filling the small spaces in the gloomy woods, Hancock finally pulled away, his men now flowing back behind his own fortifications, thrown up quickly along the Brock Road.
Lee was still focused toward the front, could hear the shouts of men, the sounds echoing on all sides, the same sounds that had filled these woods all day. There was a rhythm to it, the voices rolling into one long sound just before each new assault, another wave of Hancock’s men striking hard at Hill’s weakening lines. Only then would the voices be pushed away, drowned out by the roar of the guns, the steady chatter of musket fire. Lee expected it again, waited for it, moved the horse onto the road itself, a dangerous place, listened hard, thought, Hancock will come again, he will not stop. He’s the best they have.
He felt himself shaking, gripping the leather straps hard, his chest pounding. There were scattered sharp cracks, single shots, and he strained to see, stared out toward the wide path through the trees. The smoke was clearing away, and the road was filling with blessed darkness. Now the sound of the muskets was gone, and he heard cheering, faint and hollow, but it was not a celebration of victory, but of relief, and there was no strength behind the voices, no energy, and now they began to fade away as well.
Men were moving down the road toward him, slowly, many wounded, and he saw the stretcher bearers now, and slowly the road began to fill with new sounds, faint cries, the rattle of ambulance wagons. A wagon rolled by him, moving forward, and he stared at it, breathing heavily. Looking behind him, he saw more wagons, more wounded. He tried to focus, took one long breath, let it out slowly, tried to calm the hard thumps in his chest, thought, It’s … over.
There were more horses now, and he heard a voice, turned, saw Taylor, covered with dirt, his horse soaked with muddy sweat. Taylor said, “General Hill is over this way, sir. He is ill. He asked me to … inform you, sir.”
Lee said nothing, pulled at the horse, moved slowly into the field, looked across through the last faint daylight, glanced at the far edge of the woods, where the blue soldiers had appeared that morning. Now he saw Hill’s staff gathering, saw the headquarters flag. There was a tent, the dirty white canvas straightening as the tent poles were pulled tight. Hill was sitting on the ground, leaning back against a log. He was bareheaded, his dark red hair matted flat, his face black with dirt. Lee dismounted, touched the ground with stiff legs and was suddenly light-headed, unbalanced. He held the saddle for a moment, steadied himself. He felt a hand under his arm, was startled at the touch, saw it was Taylor.
“You … all right, sir?”
There was something tender in Taylor’s voice, and Lee felt himself suddenly giving way, touched by the young man’s care. He wanted to say something, to thank him. He felt his legs now, pulled himself up straight, and Taylor backed away, and Lee saw embarrassment.
Taylor said, under his breath, “I’m sorry, sir. Please excuse me.”
Lee tried to smile, made a small nod. Taylor had responded with instinct, a helpful hand, and it was an awkward moment. There was no one in the army closer to Lee, and still there was a distance, a boundary clearly understood by both of them. Of course, he thought, we must not show weakness, not in front of the men. Lee turned slightly, away from Hill and the staffs, said quietly, “It’s all right, Colonel. I have been in the saddle … my legs were a bit stiff. Do not be troubled by it. This has been a long day for all of us.”
He looked at Hill now, who did not try to stand, but looked up at him with black eyes, the thin face drawn and hollow.
“General Hill, are you well enough to speak with me?” Lee moved close, leaned over. Behind him, Taylor motioned to the others, and the staffs backed away.
Hill looked at Lee, said, “General Lee, my men … have honored themselves. This was a day for all of them to remember.”
Lee looked at the pale sickness in the man’s face, thought, It has been a long time … there has not been much to be proud of in this command. He said, “General Hill, you have honored your men.”
Hill sat up straight, shifted his legs, his face showing a sharp twist of pain. “Sir, I regret I am not well tonight. I am surprised … all day there was no problem, nothing kept me from my men. But when the fighting began to slow, it came all at once … like … a wave.”
Lee straightened, said, “General Hill, you will again be of good service to this army. Rest now.” He turned, said aloud, “We should all rest now. Those people will be back tomorrow, I am certain of it. We must make preparations.”
He looked down at Hill again, and Hill said, “Sir, my men … they must be relieved. I do not see how they can hold out for another day like today.”
Lee lowered his voice. “Don’t worry, General. They will be relieved. General Longstreet will be here by morning. We will face General Grant with a fresh corps, fresh guns.” He looked around, motioned to Taylor, and Traveller was led forward. Lee moved to the big horse, climbed up slowly, made a small groan as he sat, shifted his weight.
He turned the horse, his staff gathered behind, and he looked at Hill again, said, “General Hill, this army has many things to be thankful for. But we must make preparations. When General Longstreet arrives, your men will shift to the north, locate and anchor against General Ewell’s flank. I will prepare the orders. We will close that open space, and we will meet those people as one solid line. Rest now, General. The Almighty has shown us we are not to be beaten,
not here, not on our own ground.”
Hill saluted weakly, and Lee spurred the horse, moved back to the road, past the wagons, the sounds of the wounded, past rows of big guns, crews watching him move by, hats in the air. He stared out down the road, away to the west, thought, Godspeed, General Longstreet.
THEY SLEPT WHERE THEY HAD FOUGHT, LYING FLAT ON WET leaves, on soft mud, behind a cover of old logs or the bodies of the dead. There were few shots now, most of the Yankees were gone, back to their camps, their fires, their food. But there were still skirmishers, stragglers, men who had not yet found their units, had not heard the orders to pull back. They held their muskets at the ready, would shoot at anything that moved, any sign of the enemy, and so you did not raise your head, you did not make a sound. Now, all along the lines, or what was left of lines, the blanket of darkness brought safety, and the men began to sleep, most still gripping their muskets, some holding to a new musket, taken from the man beside him who would not need it in the morning. Some crawled slowly, moving from body to body, searching for unused cartridges, maybe a piece of hardtack, a full canteen.
There were no orders. Many of the men had already found the bodies of the officers who led them, and many other officers crouched low beside these men who had done the fighting. Word had come when the shooting had stopped, passed slowly to the men who could be found: “We held the ground, we are done, and in the morning, they will pull us out.” For now they were to stay put, stay in place, and if there was no order to dig in, to throw up a heavy defense, it would not matter because they would be replaced.
The commanders did not share the tired confidence of the men. Heth had gone to Hill, had told him the lines were in no shape for a new fight, there was no organization, but Hill was deep into the illness, sent Heth back to his camp with a sharp reminder that it was Lee himself who had told them that by dawn Longstreet would be there, and Heth’s men would not have to fight. As much as Heth worried about his defenses, he understood what kind of fight his men had given this day, and so, if his commanders were confident, he would let his men rest where they were.
In front of the scattered groups of men, brushfires had begun to spread, small flickers set off by the flashes of so many muskets, and then, pushed by a small breeze, the rising crackle of the flames. Some men called it the Devil’s laughter, but worse than the sounds came the thick black smoke, carrying the smells, wet cloth and burning bodies.
It had been like this before, a year ago, almost to the day, that horrible day Jackson went down. The brush and leaves had caught fire then too, and many of these men could still hear the terrible cries of the wounded, the men trapped out front, where there could be no help.
The darkness was lit now by the fires rolling through the brush in front of them, and many did not sleep, had seen this before and so could not keep their eyes away. The veterans did not fear death from the quick deadly stab of the lead ball as much as what they now saw. They prayed they would not be caught watching the slow hand, the fiery beast moving toward them, clawing along the floor of this awful ground until it swept past, burning the breath out of the men whose wounds would not let them escape.
Down the lines, one man saw motion, the shape of a head, heard the cry, crept out behind his small piece of cover, crawled slowly down a low rise, could see the boy clearly now, the face familiar, maybe a friend. Beyond the low wall of flame there was a sharp crack, but the enemy’s aim was poor, the man heard the ball strike beside him, a dull punch in the soft dirt. He pulled himself around quickly, slid back to his shelter. He peeked over the rise, cursed the enemy he could not see, but the boy’s face was looking back at him, and the face was reflecting the hard light of the fire, the eyes staring wildly at him, filled with the terror. The man tried not to see, lowered his head, knew it would not take long, soon would come the last sound, the boy’s scream. He tried to put himself far away, think of other days, then the boy’s name came to him, a sudden nightmare of memories, of marching and fighting, sharing the bad food, and now he could not look away. He eased his head up over the cover, and the boy was still looking at him, the eyes saying all he could say. There were more shots, thudding against the small mound in front of him, one ball whizzing close to his ear. He dropped down, his face in the dirt, then slowly eased his head up again, saw now the flames were jumping ahead, began to reach the boy’s clothes, and the man stared with horror, could see the wounds now, the blood on the boy’s pant leg. Suddenly the boy waved, yelled something. His eyes were darting around, a madness lit by the flames now beginning to swallow him, and once more he looked back at the man, begged him one last time. The man slowly slid his musket forward, lowered the barrel, sighted the small metal bead to the eyes of the boy. The boy closed his eyes, waited, and the man steadied a shaking hand, blinked away a hard tear, and pulled the trigger.
EARLY MORNING, MAY 6, 1864
LEE HAD NOT BEEN TOLD ABOUT THE CONDITION OF HILL’S DEfenses. Heth and Wilcox both knew that if Longstreet did not come, that if the morning broke over these woods, Hancock was stronger yet, and there would be no way to hold back another strong assault. But Hill would not allow them to adjust the lines, sort through the tangle of units, the confusion of command. He was insistent that these men not be disturbed, that there would be no fight for them in the morning. Frustrated, Wilcox had even gone to Lee directly, but Lee had put him at ease, shown him the latest message from Anderson, Longstreet’s first division already very close now, and the rest of the corps was not far behind. Lee’s confidence was contagious, and Wilcox had not pressed the point of the sad condition of their defenses, had gone back to his camp to finally get some sleep of his own.
LEE WAS AWAKE EARLY, LAY ON THE SMALL COT AND TRIED TO HEAR the sounds, and there was only the quiet. He sat up, put his feet out on the floor of the tent, felt the sharp jab in his knee, the stiffness of the day before. He stood, pushed his shoulders back, took a deep breath, felt his chest, put his hand on the slow rhythmic thump. The pains had not come back, not since the weather had warmed, and he was grateful for that, said a short prayer, One more day … Thank You…
He buttoned his coat, moved out into soft mist. There was a small fire, a coffeepot, and he was surprised to see Stuart, standing alone, staring down into the fire. Lee smiled, moved closer to the fire, and Stuart did not see him, still stared into the flames. Lee glanced around, saw no one moving, looked toward the staff tents, knew Taylor would be up soon, was always up early. Lee said quietly, “Good morning, General.”
Stuart turned his head, nodded, said nothing. Lee waited, expected something more, the enthusiasm, the bright greeting. Lee was suddenly concerned, said, “General Stuart, are you well?”
Stuart seemed to focus, suddenly came alive, abruptly saluted, said, “Oh, General Lee, yes, quite well, sir. Forgive me … I was … sleeping. The fire … there is something in the fire.…” He paused, looking back down into the low flames. “Something peaceful, as though God is holding something open to you, some small bit of Himself. It is comforting.”
Lee nodded, did not know what to say. He had heard that Stuart could sleep anywhere, anyplace at all, but had not thought it possible to sleep standing up.
“Yes, General, the Almighty is all around us. In everything that touches us …”
Stuart shook his head. “No … well, yes, of course, sir. But lately I have had the feeling that something has changed. It is difficult to explain.”
Lee nodded, said, “Perhaps, General, since Gettysburg … I have seen it in some of the men, I have seen it in myself. We must not expect God to win our fight for us. This is not His struggle. He will comfort us as long as we do what is right. And everything we do cannot be right. We must remember that.”
Stuart looked at him, and Lee saw something in the eyes he had never seen, a dark concern. Stuart nodded, did not seem to hear what he’d said. Stuart looked out into the deep darkness, then up at the clear sky, flecked with stars.
“They have gotten better.” He looked
at Lee again. “The horsemen, the enemy is getting better. There was never any doubt. We were superior, we had better riders, better commanders. If we met them head on, there was no doubt we would take the field. Something has changed.”
Lee saw motion from the staff tents, the aides beginning to emerge. He leaned closer to Stuart, said, “General, you are still the finest …” He paused, was beginning to feel embarrassed. “You have grown better as well. You are of great service to this army, and will continue to be. Did you not confront those people yesterday, and did they not leave you the ground?”
Stuart nodded, a small smile, said, “Yes, it was tough for a while. Wilson’s division. I heard Sheridan himself was there for a while. I hear he’s quite a horseman.”
Taylor moved up behind Lee, and Lee turned, saw coffee cups, and Taylor hesitated, would not interrupt. Lee waved him forward, was feeling awake now, cheerful, said, “Good morning, Colonel. We’re all up a little early this morning.”
Taylor saluted Lee, then Stuart, and said, “Yes, good morning, sir. Allow me to pour some coffee, sir.”
Lee moved aside and Taylor leaned toward the coffeepot. Stuart moved away from the fire, stared out into the dark again, said, “General Lee, if you will excuse me, I should get my men into the saddle. They may try our flank again.”
Taylor held a cup of coffee out to Lee, and Lee said, “General Stuart, some coffee before you go?”
Stuart moved to his horse, climbed up, said, “Thank you, but no, sir. I suspect General Sheridan is waiting for us somewhere out there.” He grinned now, suddenly reached for the gray hat, swept it down in a low bow.
“Mon general,” and he spurred the horse, made a quick yelp, and moved away toward the road. Lee watched him until he disappeared in the dark, could still hear the hoofbeats on the hard road, fading away.
