The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure

by Michael Shaara

  “Sumner has been ordered to remain in his headquarters. He will not accompany his Grand Division in the fight.”

  Hancock stared up at the far mansion, thought of the old man, said, “Burnside ordered him to stay back?”

  “I think General Burnside feels that General Sumner is at risk today, might do something . . . dangerous. General Sumner is not pleased with the order.”

  “No, I would imagine he is not pleased at all.” Hancock waited, expected something further from Couch, but Couch said nothing, looked downriver toward the sounds of the fading battle. Hancock followed the look, said, “It did not go well, I expect. Jackson held his lines.”

  Couch took off his hat, held it up, blocking out the sun. “They did not expect General Jackson to put up much of a fight. They tried to drive him back, break his defense with two divisions, two of Reynolds’s divisions. They left the bulk of Franklin’s forces idle. General Smith’s corps was ordered to guard the bridgeheads . . . his entire corps. Guarding them . . . from what?” Couch lowered the hat, slapped it against his leg, said, “Burnside’s order said to keep the lines of retreat open. Have you ever received an order like that? Your commander emphasizing your need for retreat?”

  Hancock stared away, thought of Reynolds, a good man, a general who knew how to command a field, all his fight taken away by a weak commander. How could they not expect Jackson to put up a fight? He shook his head, said, “Was it bad?”

  “Don’t know. Heard Meade made a good advance, but Franklin didn’t support him. Had Hooker sitting across the river with thirty thousand reserves and didn’t use them. Now, they’re our reserves. Likely, by tonight, they’ll still be over there.”

  Hancock looked toward the hill and Lee’s army, said, “We’ll try, though. It’s all we can do.”

  Couch looked at him, turned to his staff and waved them forward. “General Hancock,” he said, “return to your division. I will give General French the order to advance, and you will allow him to move out approximately two hundred yards, then you will move your men in line behind him. The orders you received this morning still apply. You will advance in brigade front, spacing your brigades that same distance. Your objective will be the stone wall at the base of the hill. You will drive the enemy from his position and move up the hill.” He stopped, stared away, back across the river. “Do you understand, General?”

  Hancock nodded. “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  Couch turned toward him and his expression changed. Hancock saw something, concern, a soft look in the eyes, and Couch suddenly put out a hand, said, “Take care, Win.”

  He took the hand, embarrassed; the staff was watching, lines of marching troops were passing by. He released the hand, snapped a salute, said, “General . . . we will see you this evening . . . up on that hill.”

  Couch nodded, said nothing, and Hancock turned and rode through the streets toward his men.

  He moved the horse carefully, and the men in the street gave way, moved respectfully to the side. There was some yelling, a few catcalls, nervous comments from the men who would do the bloody work. He did not look at them, did not know them—they were Howard’s men. He could see his own lines now, the formation nearly complete, and he rode out among them, into the open field. Beyond the end of his lines he saw Couch, riding quickly through the last row of houses, moving forward, toward French’s lines.

  Suddenly, the hills in front of them began to speak, small flashes and puffs of white. There was a silent pause, a frozen moment, the men turning, waiting, and now came the sounds, the high screams, the whistles and shrieks. The shells began to fall, shaking the ground, blowing quick holes in the neat blue lines. French’s men moved forward, wavering slightly from the impact of the explosions. Gaps had already opened in the line, men dying before they could even begin the attack. Hancock saw Couch riding back toward the town, the order given, the assault under way.

  Hancock moved the horse up through his own lines. Sam Zook, one of his brigade commanders, another Pennsylvanian, was waving at French’s men, leading a cheer, watching them move away. Then he saw Hancock. “You’re the first line, Sam. Clear the way.”

  Zook was smiling broadly, ready for the fight, and he yelled out, over the sounds of the incoming shells, “General, you best tell old French to hurry it up, or move out of the way! We’re headin’ for the top of the hill!”

  Hancock forced a smile, nodded, pulled his horse back and faced the front of his second line, the Irish Brigade—Meagher’s men. He looked down the line, saw that the men had put green . . . things in their hats, pieces of anything they could find. Above them the green flags of the regiments moved slowly. They will be easy to follow, he thought. He saw Meagher now, standing, fragile, his staff helping him up onto a horse, and he rode that way. Meagher saw him coming, straightened himself up on the horse, glanced down at his leg. Hancock saw a wide cloth, a thick bandage.

  Meagher was holding a salute as Hancock pulled up, and Hancock said, “General, are you fit?”

  Meagher tried to smile, and Hancock saw he was pale, weary. He had taken a minor wound at Antietam, a small piece of shrapnel in his knee. It had been no cause for concern, but it hadn’t healed, and the knee was bad now, the leg in trouble.

  “General Hancock, I will lead me brigade. We are a-headin’ up that there hill, and I will personally spit in the eye of old Bobby Lee. Sir.”

  Hancock nodded, looked at the bandage, and Meagher saluted again, said, “General, I will be leadin’ this here brigade. Have no doubt about that, sir. We will do the old Emerald Isle proud this day, that we will.”

  “I have no doubt about that, General.” He returned the salute, spurred the horse, rode through the men toward his third line, Caldwell’s brigade. John Caldwell was waiting for him, impatient, did not like being the last in line.

  “General Hancock, sir, we are ready.”

  “General Caldwell, do not advance until the Irish Brigade has moved out two hundred steps. Count them if you have to, General.” Caldwell was not smiling, and Hancock knew he could be a bit reckless, too much in a hurry, but still, he could move his men, could be counted on to bring up a strong line. Caldwell nodded, was already watching the lines to his front, waiting.

  It was done. He rode out along the edge of the formation, watched through his glasses as French’s men reached the first of the fences, the lines slowing, men pulling down the wooden rails. The shelling was following them out, like a violent storm that moves with you, the gunners adjusting the range, hurling their solid shot through French’s lines with vicious effect. Hancock saw a great black mass hit the ground, splattering dirt and men, and the black ball still coming, rolling and bouncing across the patches of snow and grass, then burrowing into the lines of his own men. He moved his horse forward, looked down the rows of his lead brigade and saw Zook riding out in front, waving his sword. Now the whole thick line, the First Brigade, began to move, and Hancock moved forward with them.

  Up ahead French’s men were still holding their formation, but the fences were slowing them down. Zook’s brigade began to close the gap between them, the artillery taking a heavier toll, the blasts and rolling shot cutting through the bunched-up lines. The smoke began to hide the hill, and Hancock could see French himself, riding down through his men, waving and yelling, and now he understood. They had reached the canal.

  Men began to drop down, out of sight, then Hancock saw them coming back up, climbing a short embankment. There were small bridges, thin rails, and the rebels had removed the planking, so the men could only cross single file. The gunners on the hill had been prepared for that, had the range and were close enough for the smaller shot, the grape and canister. Men began to fall into the canal, blown apart by the unseen swarms of hot metal.

  The smoke was thicker still as Hancock reached the canal. He could not see French’s lines at all, wondered if there were any lines left. His men began to jump down into the freezing water, nearly waist deep, splashing through the thin ice. Do
wn the line he saw Zook, raising his sword at a small group of men who were moving back, pulling away from the canal, and Zook turned them around and over they went, pushed along now by the second line, closing the gap again. He thought, No, this is not good, wait, and he saw the green flags, saw men moving toward him with the green in their hats. He looked for Meagher, other officers, saw one man leading a company, rode to him through the clouds of smoke.

  “Wait . . . hold them up, slow the line!” Hancock shouted. “You’re moving up too fast!”

  The man looked at him, stunned, did not understand, and Hancock saw: a lieutenant with the face of a scared child. He looked up, tried to see farther down the line, saw Meagher now, riding toward him, and Meagher was yelling, telling his men to wait, let the front clear out. Hancock watched him, admired him until a shell hit the ground between them, a blinding flash. A mound of dirt blew straight up in the air, and he could not see. He thought, Keep moving, General.

  Some of his men had found makeshift planking for the bridges, had laid it across the rails, and now the men were quicker. Many of them did not have to jump down into the frozen icy stream. Hancock dismounted, moved with the men over the bridge, holding his horse. Once across he could see through the smoke, a ragged line out in front. French was still advancing, was moving past a small farmhouse, and Hancock rode quickly to the front of Zook’s men, saw the lines straightening, the last of the barriers cleared. It will be faster now, he thought. We are getting close. He turned toward the hill, looked up the long slope, saw the mouths of the big guns pointing down at his men, the gaps still blowing through the lines, and felt a new rush of blind fury. He yelled out . . . something . . . not words, turned and saw Zook leading them on, laughing madly, wild eyes, and now they moved past him, toward the face of the hill.

  Behind him, he watched for Meagher, saw the specks of green coming on, saw horsemen, the officers, bright flags in the wall of smoke, and then he saw Meagher, rode quickly toward him.

  Meagher waved, had his sword high, yelled above the steady roar, “There she be, General. We’re a-gettin’ close. It’s a hot one, that’s for sure!”

  Hancock did not speak, looked toward the hill, at another small farmhouse, the last of the structures. Then he could see the base of the hill and French’s men out in the open, moving faster now. Some men began to run toward the hill. He saw a short stone wall, a long line running along the base of the hill. There was movement from the wall, and suddenly the entire front of the hill was a sheet of flame, a single crushing blast of massed musket fire. French’s lines simply collapsed, melted away in the shower of lead. Smoke flowed across the open ground from the face of the hill. Hancock could not see, but he heard the sound again, another volley, and the balls were reaching his men now. Men were going down, small cries and grunts, the horrible slap and crack of the balls against flesh and bone, and he could begin to hear the wounded, sharp screams, and there was another volley, and around him his men were dropping down, some firing blindly toward the hill, some beginning to run away from the terrible flashes.

  From the smoke in front of him, men were moving back toward him, the survivors of French’s lines, lines that were completely gone. Across the field, through small clearings in the smoke, Hancock could see bodies everywhere. He looked behind him, saw his own lines still holding together, still advancing, and he yelled out, waved them on. The men saw him, still cheered him, raised their hats and held their muskets high. They moved steadily toward the great mass of guns that waited behind the stone wall. They began to pass French’s men, the men who had survived by lying flat on the ground, trying to hide from the rifles. They had found a slight depression in the ground—the last hundred yards to the stone wall was up and over a small rise, and the men had found blessed cover.

  Hancock saw that this was a good place to reform the lines, bring them together for the last push. He rode forward, could see over the rise to the wall, thought, Not too close, remembering Meagher’s words: “A general’s not much good to anyone if he gets himself killed.” Zook’s men were gathering below the rise now, and some of French’s men were regrouping, standing with them. He saw Zook calling to them, and they began to move again, up the hill. They reached the crest and now stood within fifty yards of the wall.

  Many of the men were stopping to fire, their first chance to see the clear face of the enemy, and then they were wiped away, whole groups falling at once. Hancock watched from below the rise, yelled, “No, do not stop!” but there was no one to hear him.

  Behind him, dropping now into the depression, came the Irish Brigade, and he saw Meagher waving the men on, and then Meagher was falling, awkwardly, from the horse, and Hancock rushed that way and dismounted.

  Meagher was surrounded by his men, the men in the green hats, and he waved them away. “No, go on, I’m all right!” He saw Hancock, pointed at the knee, the dirty bandage, and Hancock saw a neat black hole. Meagher said, “I’ll be a-takin’ this leg off, that’s for sure. Damned thing keeps drawin’ fire.”

  Hancock leaned over him, and Meagher looked around, began waving at his men. “Go on, move! You’re almost up the hill! Go!”

  He’s all right, Hancock thought, and joined the line of Irishmen moving forward on foot.

  They went to the crest, saw the wall, and the men kept going, broke into a run, did not stop to shoot. He watched them close in, saw the faces of the men behind the wall, many, many faces, and there was another volley, and then another, and again he could not see, and now behind him it was Caldwell’s brigade. He did not see Caldwell, but still screamed at the men, and they obeyed, climbed up, moved forward with the rest. Now he had no one else to send, tried to see through the smoke, through eyes watering from the thick smell of burning powder.

  He expected to see the blue coats, his men, climbing the stone wall, moving over the top, pushing the rebels out. But the smoke was too thick and the muskets were still firing. He dropped down to his knees, moved up, out into the open, crawled over a body, then another. There was a lull, and the smoke was drifting back, over his head, and now he could see, and the faces were still behind the wall, looking out over the field with the black and hungry stare of men who have not had enough, the ground in front of him spread with a vast carpet of blue.

  36. CHAMBERLAIN

  December 13, 1862. Late afternoon.

  HOOKER’S RESERVES did finally cross the river, marching shakily across the bouncing pontoons and through the burning and shattered town, forming their lines at the edge of the open field. It was late afternoon, and Sumner’s attack had run its course. Steady streams of bloodied and hobbled men now crossed the field toward them, many passing right through the lines without speaking, others cursing their own luck, or warning the fresh troops what awaited them out there, beyond the low rise. Chamberlain did not watch them, kept his eyes to the front, stared out across the smoky plain toward the half-hidden hills, the steady roar of the muskets, the constant pounding of the big guns.

  There had been no official word. No report had come down this far, but they knew the day was not a good one. Before, from across the river, they could not see what was happening in front of the stone wall, but now, as the broken units out in front of them hugged the ground and broken men flowed from the field, Chamberlain understood. His men were the reserves, and they were being sent in.

  The Twentieth Maine was part of the Third Brigade of Griffin’s division, Fifth Corps. Griffin’s other brigades were already moving out, and Chamberlain watched them go, growing smaller and fading into the drifting smoke. Now he heard new bugles, and Ames, down the line, the familiar voice, “Advance . . . the Twentieth!” and the line began to move slowly forward.

  They marched in lines three deep. Chamberlain looked to the side, down the short rows, thought, We are not very many, and this is a big damned field. To his left he saw the other regiments, men from New York, Pennsylvania, Michigan. Men like these, he thought, just farmers and shopkeepers, and now we are soldiers, and now we ar
e about to die. The thought struck him as a certainty, and it shocked him. He did not feel afraid, felt no emotion at all, only the slow rhythm of his steps kicking through the thick grass, small, hard lumps of snow.

  He had been hearing the constant sounds all day, and nothing had changed, and so it did not affect him. The sounds were closer, maybe louder, but they were the same sounds. He became curious, thought, We will see, now, won’t we? We will learn something, what this is like, what it has been like for the men in front of us, the men who were in front of us at Antietam, who have done this before.

  From the brigade in front of him he saw a man break, turn and run back toward him, closer, and he saw the face, the animal eyes, the pure terror. Down the line his men began to yell, taunting, and he suddenly knew that it was his job to do . . . something.

  He felt at his belt, grabbed his pistol, pulled it from the holster and pointed it at the man’s head. The man looked at him, the eyes clearing for a few seconds, and he stopped running, stood a few yards in front of him. Chamberlain was still moving forward, his feet in a rhythm by themselves, and the man stared at the pistol, abruptly turned and began to walk forward again, by himself, out in front of the regiment.

  Chamberlain lowered the pistol, amazed, heard cheering from his men, and he stared ahead at the back of the lone soldier, thought, All right, it’s all right. The instinct is in all of us, to save ourselves. But what happened to that man, what was it that made him suddenly turn?

  He began to feel afraid now, a sudden wave of sickness filling him. What if I run? No, do not do that. You think too much. This is not about thinking, it is about . . . instinct, a different instinct than survival. He tried to think of the cause, yes, focus on that . . . the reason for . . . all of this. He tried to picture it, slavery, the rights of all men. . . . But the men . . . why are they doing this? No, this wasn’t working. His mind was numb, he felt no great fire, no passion for any cause. Where had it gone, the excitement and enthusiasm for doing something that was so . . . necessary, his trip to the capital, to the governor? It was all vague, faint memory . . . and out in front of him the puffs of smoke and the small flashes were all that was real.