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

by Michael Shaara

  There was another officer beside them now, a captain, and he was pointing up to the left, from where Stuart had just come. “General, we have lost contact with McGowan’s flank! We are in the open, sir! It’s too thick to see!”

  Archer spurred his horse, said, “Excuse me, General, I must see to my flank,” and he rode forward, moved quickly through a grove of short trees.

  Stuart watched him. It could be like this all along the line, he thought, hard for them to stay together, to see each other. He dug hard at the horse’s side, rode farther down to the right, toward the end of the line. He could see a long clearing now, then up a large hill, in front of them, and on top the steady flashes of the Federal guns, a high and clear position, a perfect place to throw fire into the oncoming lines of his troops. Stuart heard more guns now, down in front, farther east, and he thought, Lee’s guns. Lee was pressing the attack as well.

  He turned the horse and rode back toward the turnpike, passing between lines of gray troops, all moving east. He came to a small road, was amazed to see a long line of guns, his guns, strung out far down the road, men on wagons and horses, just sitting, waiting. He thought, No, something is wrong. Why are they not in line, firing? He saw an officer, a red cap, and the man rode toward him, saluted, said, “General Stuart, we are ready, sir. We need that ground!”

  Stuart stared at the man, then recognized him, it was Porter Alexander.

  “Colonel, why are these guns not in position? They should be answering those batteries up on that hill!”

  “General, that is exactly where we’re going . . . that hill. All I’m waiting for is your troops to clear those batteries away. We will advance as soon as we can.”

  Stuart looked toward the hill, could see only smoke, and the musket fire below was a strong and steady roar.

  “Colonel Alexander . . . you are assuming—”

  “Yes, General, I am. We will push them back, and clear that hill. That is the objective, isn’t it, sir?”

  Stuart nodded, yes, of course. The infantry must move against the hill, push on up. He thought of the cavalry, the plan . . . go around, ride in quick and surprise them from the rear, but this was not cavalry, and he had no one to send except the foot soldiers. He was beginning to appreciate the infantry commanders. There was nowhere else to go but right there, straight ahead.

  “Colonel, prepare your men to move! I will give you that hill!”

  Stuart turned the horse, rode along the small road, followed the sounds of the muskets. Now there was a new sound, high and loud, and he saw men all around him, yelling, some beginning to run. He stopped, saw a long bare pile of dirt, and men flowing across, down into the trenches beyond. They had reached the first entrenchments, had pushed the Federal soldiers out and away, and many of his men were still going, pushing forward, disappearing into the smoke.

  He rode behind them, felt the ground rising, knew they were on the big hill, and he stopped, tried to hear. There were more muskets farther to the left, some back behind, and he had a sudden burst of cold in his gut, thought, We are not together, there are no lines. The fight is . . . everywhere. He turned now, rode along the base of the hill, suddenly saw a clearing and a line of blue troops, firing into the brush beyond. He jerked the horse, rode farther to the rear. He saw lines of his own men now, moving toward the Federal troops, and they were not watching him now, did not focus on the men on horses, were driving forward, staring in one direction. Men were stopping, firing, and others falling, dropping down in solid heaps or flying back, arms wild, heads back. He pulled the horse again, fought more vines, more brush, and now he was in the clear and back on the turnpike.

  The shelling was coming from the north now, and from the east, from Chancellorsville. The trenches dug by the Federal troops the night before were behind them, and he could see ahead, to the next line of trenches. His men were moving that way, shrouded by the smoke.

  Colston’s lines were advancing past the first entrenchments now, and they moved by him. Many hats went up and they began to yell. Stuart sat still, beside the road, suddenly stood in the stirrups and waved his hat in a wide circle, began to yell himself. They felt it, began to run, pushed through the woods in a new wave. Now, in front of them, where the muskets met across small spaces, and men stared into the faces of their enemy, the gray wall pressed and pressed. The men in blue pulled out, left the second entrenchments, swallowed by the screaming wave of gray.

  It was no longer the stampede of raw panic, and the gray wave began to slow. There were more muskets in front of them now, heavier, solid blue lines. He rode into a small clearing, saw his men moving out beyond the second trenches, and now straight in front the trees exploded with one mighty flame, and canister tore through the brush and through the lines of his men. He stared, could see nothing through the new wall of white smoke, turned, and the horse would not run, was suddenly limping. He looked down, saw a flow of red, thought, No, not here, I must get to the road. The horse began to move, stepping awkwardly. He guided the animal past mangled bodies, heaps of men, reached the road and dismounted. It was a bright gash, a deep and deadly wound. The horse dropped its head, one knee buckled, and he patted the soft neck, stepped back, took off his hat, pulled out his pistol and ended it.

  Men were running back along the road now, the wave had turned, and the shells began to fly past, heavy shot and the hot whistle of canister. He ran down into the trees, began to yell, “Stop . . . turn and fight!” He could not see, did not know what was happening, but could not move on the road. It was the one clear line of sight for the Federal gunners, and they were sweeping the road with steady firing.

  He moved back, reached the first line of trenches, saw they were filled now with his men, most with heads down, shielded from the vicious firing.

  “Up, you men. Up! You must keep moving forward! On your feet!” Men were looking at him. Some began to rise, officers appearing, and he watched one man, grabbing at the men around him, pulling them up, and he yelled, “Yes! Stonewall would be proud! Do it for Jackson!”

  Now more were moving, forming a solid line, and they began to move out of the trench. In the trees a blast of muskets rolled over them, an advancing line of blue troops, and the men melted back, down into the trench. The firing went both ways now, blue soldiers behind trees, moving forward in small groups, and the men in the trenches, and Stuart knew this was not where he should be. . . .

  He reached the edge of the road again, past the bodies of many men, had stepped across solid layers of men. Bodies were scattered in a thin layer all across the road. He saw a group of officers and ran toward them. They watched him come, stared at him, and there were loud shouts, commands, and suddenly he was handed the reins to a horse.

  “Do you have orders, sir?” It was Rodes.

  He steadied himself on the horse, sat straight in the saddle, said, “General Rodes, we must advance with all our strength. We are being driven back. We do not have the numbers, the defenses are too strong. Are your men ready?”

  Rodes looked behind him, saw officers riding along the edge of the woods, pointing, shouting orders, and he said, “We are ready on your command, sir.”

  “Then, advance your men. Fast. Press them hard. If we do not push them back they may counterattack.”

  “Sir, for General Jackson.” He saluted, turned to the officers behind him.

  Stuart spurred the new horse, pulled him back toward the roar of the muskets, said under his breath, “Yes, for General Jackson.”

  ARCHER’S BRIGADE continued to press up the long rise, toward the top of the wide hill known as Hazel Grove. Beside him McGowan’s brigade did the same, but it was two separate attacks, a fight by two units who could not stay connected to each other. Gradually, the lines of Federal soldiers withdrew all along the hill. Sickles had asked for help, to strengthen that part of the defense, but his lines were well below the main strength of Hooker’s trenches, and Hooker was more inclined to pull Sickles back, tightening the circle around Chancellorsvill
e. As Archer’s men reached the top of Hazel Grove, they saw Sickles leaving, the heavy guns pulling away, the shallow gun pits empty and waiting for Porter Alexander to climb the hill.

  “HERE! SIR!”

  Stuart heard the voice, saw the wave, rode toward the man in the red cap. Around him the guns were unlimbering, men scrambling down from caissons and wagons, and Stuart saw Alexander pointing, holding his arm out straight. Now Stuart saw, pulled up the horse, stared across the green thickets below them, toward the northeast: a short mile away, toward the next rise, another hill, open, a wide clearing, and one large and imposing mansion: Chancellorsville.

  “My God . . .”

  “Yes, sir. As I said, sir. We will begin firing very soon now. This should take the pressure off the infantry, quite a bit, I’d say, sir.”

  Below them, down in the trees, the musket fire was steady and spread all around them. Stuart rode forward, did not feel like a commander. There was no control to this battle . . . it was being fought by small groups of men, regiments, led by low-level officers. He had tried to find many of the commanders himself, found small units that did not know who was leading them. So many of the officers were down, so many of the names he knew were either separated from their units, lost themselves, or dead. Companies were being led by sergeants, regiments by captains. Frank Paxton, the only general that Colston had under him, the man picked by Jackson to lead the Stonewall Brigade, was dead. Stuart stared out across the sounds, to the grand old house, thought, This must end soon. We are running out of men.

  The order was yelled, there was a shot from a pistol, and the batteries began to fire, thundering across the wide hill. Stuart moved back, stood beside Alexander, raised his field glasses and saw the first puffs, the small flashes of light. He nodded. Yes, Joe Hooker, he thought, we have found your headquarters. Quickly, the house was covered with smoke, and he could see small fires, knew the house would not last long. It was, of course, the first target for men who had been waiting for a target.

  Now all the batteries were firing, and the ground was shaking under him. He steadied the horse, tried to see. The wide fields around the house were alive with the impact of the shells, and smoke covered most of the hill. Federal batteries began to answer, from new positions beyond the house, and around them a few shells were beginning to land. He turned to Alexander, said, “Colonel, this is your hill. You know what to do.”

  Alexander was smiling, said, “If you happen to see General Hooker, please thank him for this wonderful gift.”

  Stuart nodded, smiled, began to move the horse, would move back up to the north, toward the turnpike. He thought, I must try to form them . . . some kind of line, press them forward. Then he saw riders coming from the east, moving out of the woods, into the clearing. They were officers, men in gray. He stopped, waited, then spurred the horse, rode hard toward them, waved the hat high.

  “General Lee!”

  He pulled up, jumped from the horse, made the low bow, and Lee said, “Well, I did not expect to find you up here. Very well, General. It seems we have joined the two corps. Anderson’s division is below us now, and I believe they have located General Heth’s flank. How is the fight here, General?”

  Lee was not smiling, and Stuart stood at attention, said, “Sir, we have pressed the enemy hard. We have beaten him back from his defenses, but . . . we are outmanned, sir. They have pushed us back.”

  “We are always outmanned, General. We need to press on.” He stopped, saw now the focus of the guns, saw Alexander riding up.

  “This is a fine position, Colonel. Your guns will do good work from here.”

  Alexander saluted, was still smiling. “We will do our best, General.”

  Lee looked down at Stuart, who reached for the horse, pulled himself up, said, “General, perhaps I should return to my . . . to General Jackson’s troops.”

  Lee nodded. “That would be a wise decision, General. Press them. Press them hard.”

  Stuart saluted and moved the horse away, back down the wide hill, where the guns continued to fire in a steady rhythm.

  Lee watched him, thought of Jackson now. The mention of his name sent a hard, dull pain through his chest. We have lost many . . . so many, he thought, and God does not judge one man better than the next. But I cannot help it. Dear God, You must save General Jackson. This army has no better man.

  Lee put it from his mind, would not see the face, the sharp blue eyes, stared out in the direction of the cannon fire. He raised his field glasses, saw the house, burning now, tall flames and black smoke, and he thought, General Hooker has lost his headquarters, and so he must move, and when he moves, he will take the army with him.

  52. HANCOCK

  May 3, 1863. Late morning.

  THEY HAD been pressed since first light, heavier waves coming out of the woods to the east, and it was clear that no one had retreated from in front of his division.

  The fight was coming now all along their lines, down, across the front of Slocum’s position, then in a wide arc to the right, in a wide U-shaped front, and from the crest of the ridge he commanded he could hear the worst of it back behind him, toward the west.

  He had put the young Colonel Miles in command of the first lines, had given him enough troops to spread out in a heavy skirmish line all along his front, dug into their muddy trenches. Lee’s troops had pushed and charged and sent volley after volley against them, and Miles did not break. This part of the line will hold, Hancock thought.

  He rode along the crest, down toward his flank and the junction with Slocum, heard more steady musket fire and a few big guns. He saw Slocum, who moved toward him, waving, his staff riding at full speed to keep up. Slocum slowed the horse, yelled, “General, we are running out of ammunition! Have you any reserves?”

  Hancock looked at him, saw no smile now, only the dirty sweat of the battle. “We are holding our lines . . . but . . . no, I have received no supplies. The wagons are up above the mansion. Have you sent back to headquarters?”

  Slocum waved his arms, seemed frantic. “Of course I’ve sent to headquarters! There is no support there! Hooker will not send any aid . . . says we are fighting for our lives!”

  Hancock saw the look, a man who believed they were done, a commander who would infect his men.

  “General Slocum, we are not giving way! There are not enough rebel soldiers to drive us from this ground! Can you hold your position?”

  Slocum stared now down toward his lines, then turned to Hancock with a new look, a dull sadness. “We will hold out as long as we can. If Sedgwick does not come to our aid . . . it cannot last.”

  Hancock thought, Sedgwick? Why do we need Sedgwick? Is he still on the river, below Fredericksburg? He was feeling the old anger again, the heat rising in his chest.

  “General Slocum, I must tend to my division. I am sorry that headquarters is not cooperating with you. I will try to find General Couch. He may have some help to give.”

  He pulled the horse away, left Slocum sitting, rode back toward the turnpike, toward headquarters, the Chancellor house.

  There were guns now, long lines, wagons and caissons, moving up into the wide clearing, coming from the south and the west. They moved up past the house, to the north, began to unlimber, officers screaming orders, gunners pulling their cannon into position. He reined the horse, thought, Why are they back here . . . and suddenly, in front of him, a bright flash, a hard slap of wind, and the air came alive, bright red streaks, blinding explosions. Now he understood: We have pulled back, the lines are closing in.

  He pushed the horse, could see the house, saw a shell hit directly into the walls, shattered brick blown high in the air, a stone chimney collapsing. Men were running, scattering, riderless horses were galloping toward him. He tried to keep going, the house now hidden by smoke, and he heard men yelling, approaching, saw flags now, officers. He waited, thought, Keep moving, but no, there will be no one there now, and that whole damned clearing is a target. He heard his name then, a hoa
rse voice. He turned toward the sound, saw men on horses, Couch. Other officers were trailing behind him, and they were moving fast, away from the house, toward the east, moving closer now, toward the turnpike. He pulled the horse around, met them on the road.

  Couch said, “Are your lines holding, General?”

  “Yes, we have not withdrawn from our original positions. Where are the rebel guns firing—”

  “From Hazel Grove. We have pulled back. Our commander has decided we are too weak, and so we are concentrating the lines. We are too goddamned weak!”

  He saw Couch’s face, red rage, knew that it was all falling apart, and Couch said aloud, as more men gathered around them, “General Hooker has been injured. It is not serious . . . he seems to be stunned. He was at the house when the shelling began and was struck . . . quite possibly by the hand of God.” There were nods, small laughs from the men, and Hancock saw that Couch was not smiling.

  “The general has transferred command of the field to me. His last orders were . . . that the army be withdrawn . . . that we seek the safety of the river. It is the commanding general’s feeling that this army has been beaten on this ground. I do not agree with that assessment . . . but the order has been given. I have sent word to Sickles and to Slocum to begin pulling back from contact with the enemy.”

  Hancock stared down to the south, toward Slocum’s lines. He could see wagons moving, men filling the road. Behind them, around the burning house, shells continued to fall, and the Federal guns there were now answering. From the far side of the clearing, from where the stampede of the Eleventh Corps had come the day before, columns of troops were marching toward them, Sickles’s men. Couch watched silently, and the men around him did not move, waited. Hancock looked at Couch, thought, He wants to turn them around, to fight . . . he cannot just leave.

  Couch turned, said, “Gentlemen, let us move to a safer place. We will soon be the front lines.”

  He spurred the horse, and Hancock looked east, toward his troops, could hear nothing, sounds drowned out by the fierce chorus of blasts from the clearing.