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 thought of the men out front, huddled in shallow pits, the skirmishers, thought, They are uncomfortable, they are hearing the sounds of the enemy in motion, and they fear the worst. It makes sense. But surely, Grant has had enough … those people have had enough. What more must we do?

  The flap opened and Taylor leaned in, water dripping from his face, his hand. “Sir … sorry, sir. I’ll fix the tent.”

  Lee could see past him, a faint gray light, the trees around the camp thick with fog. “No, Colonel, it’s time to begin the day. I’ll be along in a moment.”

  Taylor backed away, and the flap dropped back down. Lee reached for his coat, stretched his back, felt a pain surge through his stomach, a small wave of nausea. Maybe, he thought, another day of rest, another break. If the rain lasts, nothing will happen.…

  The flap jerked open and Taylor was wide-eyed, pointing, and now Lee could hear it, beyond the trees, toward the front of the line, a solid wave of sound, rolling through the fog and the rain. He stepped out into the gray mist, and the sound was louder, the low hard growl of some great beast, growing now, into a violent roar. He felt his chest pound, saw the quick motion of men around him, horses and shouts. He stared blindly at the sound, the center of the line, beyond the small trees, toward the curving rise they called the mule shoe.

  THEY WERE THE FIRST VIRGINIA BRIGADE, HAD FORMED IN THE first weeks of the war, the first call for volunteers. Most came from the rich farmlands of the Shenandoah, and they learned how to march, to fight, to become a small piece of this great army, under the grim command of a strange professor from VMI. From the beginning, Thomas Jackson showed them something about themselves, that they could do the impossible, the outrageous, and that it was already there, inside each of them. They began to believe that, after the hard fight at First Manassas, the fight that gave Jackson the name all would know him by, but he would not keep that to himself, had always insisted the name belonged to the men. Now, with Jackson gone, each man carried the pride, the memories. He was still with them, still pushed them, marched them a little faster, kept them on the roads a little longer, pushed them into each fight with just a bit more of the fire. They fought under Ewell now, the Second Corps, but around them there was no mistake. These men would always be the Stonewall Brigade.

  As the misery of the black rainy night gave way to the dull glow from the east, they began to come awake, moving slowly with stiff aching bones, bare feet frozen by the dirty rainwater of the trenches. The Stonewall Brigade lined the western face of the salient, could see out toward the open ground in front of Laurel Hill, could still see the small dark mounds, the bodies of the enemy, unreachable by the burial parties, spread over the wide hill that was still the most dangerous place on the field. To their right was the tip of the salient, the sharp angle at the point of the mule shoe. They had suffered through the wet misery of the night as the entire line had suffered, brief fires that swallowed them in smoke, nowhere to find some small dry place. Most had just sat still, resigned to the mud, to the wet clothes, hats pulled low over bearded faces. They would simply endure, knowing that eventually the rains would stop. Then they would bake under the torture of the bright sun, the stifling heat turning dried mud into choking clouds of dust. They had been through it all before, it was the quiet part of the war, and sometimes the silent monotony was worse than the fight, the weather showing no mercy, and these men would sit quietly, dreaming about the cool green hills of the Shenandoah Valley.

  They could see the first light now, but the trees beyond the open ground were hidden, a thick fog flowed past them, a light breeze, and any man who stood, who tried to stretch the pain out of his back and legs, would feel the sudden chill, drop back down into a shivering mass.

  They had heard the noises across the way, the invisible sounds of motion, of men talking, even the whispers carried across the black space. As the light began to find them, there were some who braved the cold rain, tried to see out into the field, to find some gap in the fog. Along the line there were voices now, and the men who sat huddled behind the wall heard new sounds, and they began to stand as well. There were small sharp cracks, the musket fire from the pickets out front. There was nothing unusual about that, the skirmishers always waited for the first piece of daylight, always looked for the small blue motion across the way, each wanting to fire the first shot of the day. But there was another sound, and suddenly the pickets were at the wall, climbing over in a rush, and now the officers began to shout, men grabbed their muskets, lay them along the top of the wall, pointed out through the openings in the wooden barricade, still not knowing what was happening.

  Now there were hard shouts, some could see into the fog, and the sounds flowed down the line, the eyes sharp now, awake, staring through the rain. They still could not see the far trees, but they did not have to. Across the open ground a dark mass rolled toward them, a solid line, coming slowly, silent and ghostly. There were no shouts, no bands played, and no guns fired. The wave rolled steadily, closer to the barricade. They could begin to see faces now, small pieces of color, the brass of the officers, the small flutter of flags. Pieces of the wave dropped out of sight, moving down into the small depressions in front of the wall, then appeared again, closer, climbing the low hills, and finally there was sound, the orders screamed out along the line. The muskets all pointed out from the wall now, and the order echoed in the trenches: “Fire!”

  There were scattered sounds, small pieces of gunfire. Heads began to turn, men staring in shock, most of the sounds from the vast rows of guns coming as small pops, the light crack of the percussion cap. Frantically, men put new caps on their guns, a quick aim, and again the guns did not fire. Even the most careful man had not been able to keep his musket completely dry. The thick wetness of the night had found its way into even the most secure place, and so the guns would not fire. The powder was wet.

  Now the great dark wave began to make its own sounds, the neat blue mass coming apart, men running toward the wide ditch and the barriers that lay out in front of the wall. They clawed their way past the pointed sticks, others jumped up, pushed the brush down with the weight of their bodies. Men stepped on the shoulders of their friends, and now the shooting finally began, a hot rush of sound all along the line, and it came from the men in blue, men standing high on top of the wall, pointing the muskets down into the faces of the enemy. There were new shouts, a vast chorus rising along the wall, the blue wave beginning to pour over in one surge of motion. When the first volley had been fired, they did not stop to reload, but used the bayonet, and when the enemy was too close even for that, the guns became clubs, and the men stood face-to-face, punched and grabbed, wrestled and grappled. The officers emptied their pistols close to the chests of the men in front of them, the swords flew, flashes of steel cut through the damp mist all along the line. Now the shouts, the manic screaming of the attackers blended in with the new sound, the pain and panic of the wounded. The wave kept coming, and the men in gray, who had thought the wall invincible, now began to pull away, crawling and leaping through trenches, the works that spread out in all directions behind the wall. Some still tried to fight, to hold back the crushing wave, but far out beyond the wall the wave was long and deep, still moving forward, and when the rebel guns finally began to fire, and the men in blue began to fall across the bodies of their enemy, the wave did not stop, and soon the trenches behind the wall were a solid mass of blue. The gray defenders began pulling back farther, many of them no longer in the fight, men screaming in utter panic, stumbling past the men who still tried to stop the tide. But the brave were soon swallowed, surrounded. Men dropped their muskets, hands in the air, staring at the muzzles pointing at their chests, feeling the sharp point of the bayonet, staring into the black eyes of their enemy.

  LEE HAD TRIED TO REACH THE FRONT, BUT THE SALIENT WAS IN FEDeral hands. He knew it had been Hancock, and it was not some weak thrust, a poorly coordinated attack like the one from Upton, but well timed, focused, nearly twenty thou
sand men pouring into the mule shoe like a great unstoppable tide. The surprise had been complete and deadly, and Lee’s men, those who survived, had no choice but to pull back.

  He had looked for the big guns, the great firepower he’d ordered away. Out behind the trenches he saw a few of them, but they were not there in time, could not be unlimbered fast enough. Some had even been captured, and Lee thought, It was a mistake … an awful mistake.

  He moved the horse behind a small clump of trees, saw many men now, some still running away, some slowing, gathering, finding the strength. Hancock’s men were still moving forward, deep into Lee’s center, but it was disorganized. Hancock’s assault had been too successful, the men moving farther and faster than their officers could control.

  Lee moved up into the trees, tried to see, guided by the hard sounds, stared into the mist, the low wet fog. He could see small flashes of light, the musket fire, could hear the sounds, men shouting, the wounded, the panic. He clenched his fists, thought, It is the Wilderness again … we cannot see.

  There was a new burst of firing to the right, and he looked that way, stared into the rain, could see nothing. But the new sounds were not in front, and he thought, They are still advancing … they are cutting us in half.

  He felt a twist of cold in his gut, pulled the horse around, and now saw Marshall, wiping at his glasses, and Lee motioned to the rear, said, “Let’s move, Colonel! We must do something about this!”

  They splashed through deep mud, dropped down into a small trench, then up, and suddenly they were surrounded by a scattered mass of men, some running, some with the stagger of the wounded or men who have lost the fight. He stopped the horse, saw one man running, without a musket, coming straight toward him. Lee shouted, “Stop! Turn around! What unit are you? Who is in command?”

  He saw the man’s face, and it was not a man, but very young, a boy. The boy would not stop, ran right past him, never looked at him, and Lee could only watch him go, thought, He is so young. God help us. We are fighting with children.

  The sounds echoed all around, there was no front line anymore, no one place where help could be sent. More men ran past him, and he fought the anger, felt the raw fury rising, and he raised the hat, shouted, screamed, “Stop! Turn and fight!”

  Even the men who saw him, who heard him, did not stop. Lee felt his voice fade, held his hat in his hand, watched the men move by, chased by the terror, and he felt the rage ball up inside him, felt the helpless frustration. He shouted again, and some men slowed, heard the force in his voice, but then the terror would return, brought by others moving by, or the sound of the musket ball. They would not look at him then, would run again, and there was nothing he could say, they ran from demons he could not control.

  He spurred Traveller past a small clump of trees, could see out to the open ground now, up toward the salient, could see the long wall, the fog now thick with the smoke of the guns. He saw a small block of men, a dull gray line moving forward from the left, rushing into the fight, and he yelled again, “Yes! Push them …!” But the line dissolved into the smoke, and now there was only a cluster of blue, emerging, dropping down into a low trench, then coming up, moving right toward him. He jerked the horse to the side, moved back through the trees. There was a wide field, an old house, and now he saw men behind him, officers in tattered gray, advancing, fresh troops. He felt a stab in his chest, saw it was a brigade, maybe more, a line of men stretching far into the trees, neat lines slowly stepping forward.

  He shouted again, “Forward, move forward!” and this time there were cheers, the men hearing him. He turned the horse, moved out in front of them, pulled Traveller around, faced the sounds of the fight, began to move slowly forward, joining the line.

  Now there were men on horses, a flag, and he saw the sharp uniform, a young man moving close, ramrod straight, and the man saluted, said, “General Lee, do you intend to lead my men into battle?”

  Lee saw the young face, the man watching him with a curious grin. It was John Gordon. Lee said nothing, looked at the troops again, felt his chest pound, small ripples of pain, the tightness spreading all through him.

  Gordon eased his horse in front of him, blocking his way, said, “General Lee, forgive me, sir, but you will not lead my men in this charge. That, sir, is my job. These men have never failed you, and they will not fail you now. This is not the place for you, sir.”

  Lee stared at the handsome face, and Gordon was not smiling now. He looked at the others, the staff, officers watching him, the line of men stepping past him. Now the men began to shout, waving hats, he could see the faces watching him, the voices surrounding him in one chorus:

  “Lee to the rear … Lee to the rear …!”

  A man moved his horse close to Gordon, and Lee felt Traveller turn, the man holding the bridle. He looked at the man, a quick burst of anger, How dare you … but the eyes were hard, the man’s face grim and determined. Lee felt the breathing slow, felt suddenly deflated, empty, said to Gordon, “You are quite correct, General. The duty is yours.” He pointed toward the salient, to the sounds of the fight. “We must push those people away, General.”

  The men were cheering again, and he pulled Traveller around, moved through Gordon’s men, then turned, watched the lines move forward, the smoke now flowing across, the muskets coming off the shoulders, bayonets pointing forward. Now the sounds of the fight, the scattered bursts, began to grow, spreading out in front of him into one long chorus, the musket fire blending with the high terrifying scream of the rebel yell.

  THE MORNING PASSED, AND THE HEAVY MIST AND FOG AGAIN GAVE way to steady rain. Gordon’s men had sealed the breach, and with their momentum taken away, Hancock’s men withdrew back to the high wall, the thick protection of the dirt and logs. Early had kept Burnside back, strengthened the right of the salient, and as the afternoon wore on, the two armies faced each other only a few feet apart, face-to-face on either side of the great long barricade.

  * * *

  THEY WERE SOAKED WITH THE RAIN, WITH THE SWEAT OF THE fight, and now they were back up to the wall. The numbers were very small, but they could see that, did not take time to look for familiar faces, to ask who was in command. Those who had returned, who had stayed close to the fight, knew what they had done, that the enemy had broken through, poured over their strong defense, but now they’d come back, had cleared the mule shoe of Yankees. But the enemy was not gone, was still very close, right there, on the other side of the wall.

  What was left of the Stonewall Brigade blended together with men from other units, and the officers did not know the men around them, had given up trying to sort the companies, to find familiar faces. When they reached the barricade, they had seen the blue coats scrambling away, climbing back over the wall, and the sounds of the fight had become a roar of voices, deafening shouts. Some climbed up onto the wall, thought they would see the enemy flooding away, pouring across the field, back to the far trees. But the men in blue were still there, and if the curious man stared too long, he would be pulled over, and if he survived, he was a prisoner. As the men realized they were so close, the voices, the shouts, had risen to a frenzy. Some heard the voices from inside themselves, the boiling panic that tells you, Run, move from this deadly place. The sounds came from beyond the wall as well, screaming confusion. Some did run, backed away, left their muskets, splashed out of the trenches, had never been so close to the enemy, and did not have it in them to be that close now. Others responded with rage, climbed the wall, would strike out, could not stand to huddle low in the face of the men they had hated for so long. Some just crouched low, could hear the voices of the enemy, began to hear men like themselves, curious. Some yelled to the man on the other side of the logs, would call out to him, taunts, curses. But the sounds were still flowing over them, and it did not matter if that man was like you, if he was as afraid as you. If he showed himself, you would try to kill him with every part of your being. If the musket was empty, you would put the bayonet through his h
eart, or smash in his skull with the butt of the gun. And you knew, if you gave him the chance, if you were careless, he would do the same to you. Instinct took over, and there was only survival, the mindless anger.

  There were holes in the log wall, small gaps, and men were loading muskets, passing them up to others, to the men who would wait calmly, patiently sighting down the long barrel into the opening, waiting for some flash of blue, a piece of the enemy. The musket would fire, and a fist would punch the air, success, the men below cheering. Some believed the enemy was beaten, hugged the other side of the wall in helpless panic, and if a man thought himself a hero, he would lead a new charge, would jump up on the wall, shoot into the faces of the men on the other side, throw the musket down, reach back for another, screaming in mindless rage, expecting the enemy to flee from the show of bravado. But the enemy was waiting as well, some chance to strike out at the rebels who had taken their success away, and so the man who would be heroic would be swept from the wall in a hail of lead.

  The gaps in the logs held another danger. A man would lean too close, get careless, distracted perhaps, reaching for a new musket, and suddenly there would be the dull grunt, and the man would stare down, the red stain would spread, and the bayonet would be pulled back, disappear through the gap in the logs.

  The bodies were spread everywhere, but in the trenches it was worse, because beneath your feet, in the mud that had now come over your knees, you did not feel them, you did not know what you were standing on. Some were only wounded, men who could still have been saved, would have survived if they had escaped the mud, had not been trampled, pressed down by the feet of the men who still fought.

  As the night finally came over them, the men began to collapse with exhaustion, and when they finally sat, staring at the dark, they would make the sickening discovery, would feel something in the deep mud, would catch a glimpse, a small piece of uniform, or might touch something, a hand, a cold face. But there was no shock, no turning away, the emotions, the compassion, had been taken away, was drained from them. The fight had never let up, and when the darkness came, few noticed. The fight did not change because the sounds were still there, and the men were fighting something larger than the enemy they could see. On both sides of the wall the mass of men became something different, something beyond human. Even the hate began to fade, as did the duty, the need to fight that came from reason, from command, from intelligence. The sounds and the violence drove them further, soldiers possessed by something automatic, the darkest side of man. Those who saw it, who kept some piece of sanity, of conscience, tried to pray, to beg that this horror, this unspeakable slaughter, be stopped. But even the most devout began to feel the raw emptiness, the presence of the Beast, that God had done this, had brought these armies to this awful place, had let these men create their own hell, while He closed His eyes and turned away.