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

by Michael Shaara

  Longstreet saluted, said, “General, with your permission …”

  Lee returned the salute, and Longstreet spurred the horse, moved across the road, the staff following him down into the deadly brush.

  HANCOCK’S FORWARD THRUST HAD BEEN BOGGED DOWN NOT JUST by Poague’s guns, or the thin defense of Hill’s unprepared men, but by the ground, by the men’s own motion. As the lines went forward, they lost their connection to units beside them, there was little they could do but fire their muskets at what they believed to be the enemy in front of them. Some were able to advance faster than others, some ground was better, some had to climb down and wade through muddy swamps, and others moved around the small fires that still swept through the brush.

  By the time Longstreet’s men picked their way forward, Hancock’s momentum had been lost. But there was no time for the Federal lines to re-form, for the officers to pull their men together. Longstreet’s riflemen began to punch small holes in the confused blue masses, the men fighting on their own, one at a time, slipping carefully through the blindness to find the thick mass of blue targets. As more of Longstreet’s troops found their targets, Hancock’s lines began to pull back, finding their own cover, picking out targets as well. Longstreet’s troops began to mass together, and the blind thickets and uncertain ground to their front slowed them as well. As the midday sun warmed the ground around them, both sides slowed their fire, dug in and kept a careful watch on the woods to their front, satisfied now to wait for something to shoot at.

  HIS NAME WAS MARTIN LUTHER SMITH, AND LONGSTREET REmembered him well from West Point. They had graduated the same year, 1842, but Smith had ranked far ahead in the class, and so while Longstreet had little to say about his choice of assignments, the men at the head of the class could choose the more prestigious posts. Smith had gone on to become a fine engineer, had eventually designed the great works around Vicksburg, the works that had kept Grant’s army away for so long.

  Lee had spent most of his career in the old army as an engineer as well, had performed in that role as well as anyone ever had, both in peacetime and in Mexico. There, it was Winfield Scott who had recognized the value of Lee’s skills and brought him to the general staff. It was a lesson Lee remembered, and so, as Smith’s reputation grew, Lee would understand his value as well, and bring this man close to him.

  Smith’s horse was small and dark, and Smith slumped in the saddle. Longstreet rode beside him, towered above him. The men moved aside, some began to cheer, but Longstreet did not notice. He was focused on the small man beside him.

  “Right through here, General. There …” Smith said.

  Longstreet moved forward, saw the ground suddenly drop away, clearing in both directions. He moved the horse carefully, dropped down into the cut, saw out in both directions.

  Smith stayed up above, said, “There you are, General. This runs all the way … well I expect they intended eventually to run it all the way to Fredericksburg. For our purposes, it runs east far enough.”

  There was no boast in Smith’s voice, and Longstreet stared east, down the long straight ditch, an unfinished railroad cut. He moved the horse back up the rise, and his staff was watching him, knew the look, waited for what would come. He looked at Moxley Sorrel, said, “Major, you see what we have here? This is an opportunity … a bloody fine opportunity. Send word … pull the three closest brigades. We will move through this railroad cut until we are directly south of the enemy’s flank. Then …” He paused, rubbed his beard, looked hard at Sorrel. “Then, Major, you will lead them. When they are in place, you will advance them out of the cut and attack the flank.”

  Sorrel’s eyes were wide. “Me? You want me …?” He smiled now, a wide beaming smile, looked around, saw the stunned faces of the others, looked back at Longstreet, who did not smile.

  Longstreet said, “You have earned this, Major. Now, speed is critical. Move!”

  Sorrel pointed to two of the couriers, and with a quick shout was gone into the brush.

  Longstreet looked at Smith, said, “General Lee would say this is a gift from God. I would never disagree with the commanding general.” He looked back toward the cut, shook his head, looked again at Smith, said, “Allow me, sir … to thank you.”

  The three brigades, under Wofford, Mahone, and Tige Anderson, had slipped along the cut exactly as Longstreet had foreseen. The firing along the front lines was scattered, neither side making a serious push toward the other. Longstreet waited in the woods below the Plank Road, slapped one hand against the saddle, a slow nervous rhythm. The woods around him were mostly quiet, a few sharp cracks of musket fire echoing far in front. He began to move the horse forward, slowly stepping through a thick tangle of vines, then farther, across a thick carpet of small trees, cut down by the fight that had roared through these woods. He looked up at the sun, now nearly overhead, thought, We have the time, we have plenty of time. But he was not patient, did not know what was happening, if Sorrel was close, if they had been found out. He listened hard, thought, No, the enemy does not know, there would be firing, we would hear it.

  The staff stayed back, and no one spoke, and he pounded his fist into the saddle again, said, “Let’s go …!” and suddenly he heard it, the high screams, the rebel yell rolling through the woods in front of him in a terrible wave, and he spurred the horse hard, jumped it through the brush, could hear the guns now, the first wave of firing. To the left, near the road, there was another yell, and the men there began to move forward as well, clawing their way up and out of their low cover into the solid lines of blue. The attack was growing now, the woods alive with the new sounds.

  Hancock’s solid line was now caught in a trap, a deep V, Longstreet’s men coming at him hard from two directions. Longstreet moved forward again, closer, the fire of the Yankees now cutting the leaves and brush around him. But there were not many, the musket fire was his own. Hancock’s men were running, the flank collapsing completely, the panic of the surprise assault spreading along their lines. The blue troops began to flow in one great wave toward the road, each company, each regiment, carried along by the ones alongside.

  Longstreet still moved forward, tried to see, thought, The road, I should send word … if Sorrel keeps advancing, he will cross in front of the troops along the road. He pushed the horse through the thickets, rode down suddenly into deep mud, the horse pulling itself free slowly. The staff was behind him now, and all around him men were moving toward the sound of the firing, his firing. The horse climbed out of the mire, and he could hear the sounds of Sorrel’s advance now, closer to the road, and the firing began to slow. There were more horses, officers.

  Micah Jenkins waved, rode toward him, yelled, “Did you see it, sir? Did you see it? They’re gone, we pushed ’em clean out of the woods!”

  Longstreet said nothing, was listening to the fading battle. He turned to Jenkins, said, “We have a problem, General! We must get these men into line, keep the assault moving forward. We’re tripping all over ourselves out there!”

  Jenkins stared at him, began to understand. One flank had overrun the other, the attack might have been too successful.

  There were more horses, and Longstreet saw Smith. The engineer was breathing heavily, had lost his hat, said to Longstreet, “Sir, we can still push east … all the way past the Brock Road! The enemy’s flank is exposed.”

  Longstreet said, “Push with what, Mr. Smith? Our people are crowding all over themselves. It will take too much time to sort them out.”

  Jenkins said, “Sir, my brigade is close by, we’re in good shape … it won’t take long. Let me pull them together, sir!”

  Longstreet nodded, said, “Yes, go! General Smith, guide us to the best route. Waste no time! Let’s move!”

  Smith pointed, said, “This way, there’s a road, a trail. We can put the troops in column up ahead, it’s a short distance.…”

  Smith moved the small horse, Longstreet followed, and now Jenkins moved up beside him. The orders had gone out,
and Jenkins’s men began to appear out of the woods. They formed quickly, the orders were clear. From below, more troops came forward.

  Longstreet saw Joe Kershaw, shouted, “General, bring your people in line here! Whatever strength you can! Support General Jenkins!”

  Kershaw saluted, shouted orders back to his aides, then turned, moved up beside Longstreet. He looked behind them, saw Jenkins’s troops filling the open space, moving forward, a strong column, strong enough to turn anyone’s open flank. Kershaw said, “General … these are Jenkins’s troops? They’re wearing … black.”

  Jenkins laughed, said, “Makes ’em hard to see in this place. They fade right into the shadows.”

  Kershaw shook his head. “Not sure about that … makes ’em look like Yankees.”

  Longstreet was moving ahead, ignored the talk behind him. He thought again of Pickett, the laughing face, thought, You would have enjoyed this, George. This is not like Gettysburg.

  He thought of Grant now, had kept that away as long as he could. It had been a sickening surprise that Grant came east. Longstreet had made his move on Knoxville when Grant took command at Chattanooga, and so they had never faced each other. He had not spoken of that, how he had hoped they would not meet, not like this. They were close in the old days, and Longstreet thought often of Grant’s wedding, Julia the radiant bride.

  Longstreet laughed suddenly, and faces turned toward him. He ignored the men around him, thought now of Grant putting on the dress, grumbling. At Jefferson Barracks, back in St. Louis, the soldiers would perform plays, usually Shakespeare. Grant’s shortness made him a natural for the female roles, and it was a distinction Grant hated. Grant as Desdemona, Grant as Ophelia. He laughed again, thought, There was always great humor at Sam’s expense. And no one there would ever have believed he would command an army.

  We were very young, and we didn’t know much about anything. We sure didn’t know much about war. Now … we know a great deal.

  He looked back, saw the line was moving well, quickly advancing. He stopped the horse, the others rode up close beside him, the faces watched him, waiting. He said, “Gentlemen, we have upset General Hancock once today, let’s see if we can do it again.”

  They moved forward, broke into the clear. He saw the opening, a wide trail, led the column that way. The shooting had nearly stopped, the woods suddenly quiet around him. The only sound came from the rear, the sounds of cracking brush, of men moving with deliberate steps, the grim silence of soldiers who know they are part of something important.

  In front of them Longstreet saw motion, a small opening in thick brush, a glimpse of a flag, and he thought, Yes, good, more troops, saw the flag clearly now, held high by a man in gray. Suddenly the troops turned, there were shouts, and he saw flashes, small puffs of smoke. The sounds whizzed by, and he heard grunts, the cry of a horse, and then he felt the sharp pull, felt himself in the air, pulled up off the horse, then set down hard in the saddle. He heard a voice.

  Kershaw was yelling frantically, “Friends! We are friends!”

  There were more shouts, and men began to fill the road in front of them. He tried to see, but felt his head rock forward, saw the blood now, stared at the flow of red down his shirt, felt the wetness, the warmth, watched it spread slowly down his chest, thought, It does not … hurt.

  The horse was moving still, and Longstreet began to rock in the saddle, and now there were hands on the horse, someone grabbed the reins, and he felt himself slide down, hands holding him. He was turned to one side, saw bodies, one face, saw it was Jenkins, sprawled flat on the ground, a bloody stain spreading out under his head, the face staring out at him with lifeless eyes. He tried to yell, but there was no sound, and he thought, No … God no.

  They set him down on his back, and he was looking into the bright sun, closed his eyes, tried to breathe. The air would not come, and he fought for it, felt himself choking, the blood filling his throat, and he coughed, took a small breath, thought of the men behind him, the great opportunity, thought, Do not stop … keep them moving … tell General Lee … keep them moving.…

  14. HANCOCK

  LATE AFTERNOON, MAY 6, 1864

  THE ATTACK ON HIS FLANK HAD EXHAUSTED ITSELF, AS ALL THE ATtacks had done in the thickets of the woods. Now his men were moving back to the Brock Road, to the safety of the strong defenses. He sat on the big horse, watched them come, saw not panic, but the slow dragging movements of men punched by a hard defeat. They were climbing up and over the great walls of logs, and all down the Brock Road his troops were pulling themselves together, recovering from the shocking assault. The defenses grew stronger.

  It had been hours now, and there had been no attack, not even a strong skirmish. He kept his eyes to the woods to the front, thought, They will come. It’s as hard for them as it is for us … moving in that damned place. But they surprised us, rolled us back completely. They will not just let us sit now, licking our wounds. They will come.

  He had secured the flank, and back behind his left, a mass of artillery waited for targets, guns that had been silent all day. Out in front there was nothing to shoot at but the sounds, and the sounds could be your own men. Down on the left, the big guns were now in position, and if the rebels came that way, tried to make the sweep far around the flank, they would have to cross in front of the guns. No, he thought, they will see that as clearly as we do. Out in the brush, our flank was vulnerable. Back here, the flank is secure.

  To the right, the woods were a mass of sounds, but they were not the sounds he’d expected to hear. Burnside had been ordered to move into the gap between the roads, to push hard into Hill’s left, but there had been nothing from Burnside, no word, no sign of his men. There were sounds of a fight, but it was not strength, no massed assaults. Burnside was out there, he thought, somewhere, half his men looking for the other half, probably shooting at each other. But the woods will keep Lee from moving that way as well. Damn this place!

  He moved the horse slowly along the road, still peered out toward the woods. He thought of ordering his own men forward, but no, even headquarters understood that little would be gained. He had done that already, at dawn, driven the enemy back in complete chaos, but the chaos spread to his own advance, commanders losing their own men in the thickets. By the time Longstreet suddenly appeared in front of them, the chaos was complete. Hancock’s assault had become a stalemate, then a retreat, men fighting their way backward. He looked down the road, saw more men filing up and over the logs, the defense stronger still. Our advantage is here, he thought. Now it is time to wait.

  Two days before, he had marched the Second Corps right past the ruins of the Chancellor mansion, the place where he’d held the rebels away a year ago. It was a memory he carried into every fight, the collapse of command, Joe Hooker suddenly losing his nerve. Hancock had been the rear guard, had held Lee at bay while the rest of the army backed away, northward, to the safety of the river. The Battle of Chancellorsville had been a complete disaster, but the defeat was not inflicted by Lee or by the rebels. Hancock’s men, and the others, the great power and spirit of the Federal army, had been beaten by their own commander.

  He had tried not to dwell on that, moved quickly past the ruins of the mansion, stared to the front, toward the dense woods, but those sights brought a different horror. In the small clearings, patches of burned brush, he could see the bones, men and horses, the sickening remains of the fight a year ago. The men saw it too, and many remembered this awful place, marched quietly, no one hoping for another fight on this ground. Many others, the replacements, stared at the bones and the wreckage in stunned silence, some only now understanding that the next fight could do the same to them.

  The wound still bothered him, nearly every day. It had come the third day at Gettysburg, facing the last great assault from Lee’s army. The musket ball struck his saddle, shattered the wood and exploded it underneath him, punching splinters and fragments up inside of him. The doctors thought they had removed all the fragm
ents, but the pains were still there, and the wound still festered and burned, and if the doctors didn’t know, he did. There were more fragments inside of him yet. He would need surgery again.

  There was not much about that day he could recall. He had watched them come, a great wave of men, Pickett and Pettigrew, nearly fifteen thousand soldiers, pushing straight at his defenses. When he saw it was Pickett, he also knew it was Armistead.

  Lewis Armistead commanded one of Pickett’s brigades, and Armistead had been as close to Hancock as anyone before the war, a friendship that grew from the early days, Mexico, Kansas, the Seminole Wars in Florida. They had parted ways in Los Angeles, when news of Fort Sumter reached the West Coast. Much of the army simply dissolved, so many resigning, going south. He knew they would meet eventually, that there were too many in this war who were facing their friends, their brothers, across the deadly space. He had not allowed himself to feel the sadness of that. It was, after all, Armistead’s choice.

  He still didn’t understand that, how the good men, the honorable men, could betray their oath as officers, betray their country. He had asked himself, tormented himself with the question: When this is over, will we still be friends? Will I be able to look him in the eye and not see a traitor?

  Pickett’s great assault had brought Armistead and his men straight into Hancock’s guns, and unlike most of the shattered gray wave, Armistead’s men reached the Federal lines, actually broke through, pushed across the low stone wall in one last desperate surge. But they were too few, and the men in blue too many, and Armistead fell just inside Hancock’s own lines.

  Hancock never saw him that day, had already gone down with his own wound. Now there would be no answers. He would never know if Armistead could still have been his friend. It all seemed so very long ago.

  He moved the horse again, heard more scattered musket fire from the right, thought, Burnside. You’re in there, somewhere. It would be nice if you would tell me where, or what the hell you’re doing.