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

by Michael Shaara

  One man said, “Where they at, General? We close to the rebs?”

  He spurred the horse alongside the column, glanced at the voice, all the faces now focused hard on him. He said aloud, “Eyes to the front, gentlemen. It seems … we’re going to make a fight.”

  THEY HAD APPROACHED GRAVELLY RUN IN A WIDE LINE, AND there was already a scattering of musket fire from the other side, a rebel skirmish line along the creek itself, men hidden by thick brush, some firing from the thickets of small trees that lined the creek bed. He was still in the road, raised his field glasses, looked up beyond the water, thought, If their pickets are on the creek, the rest of them have to be close behind. He could hear the musket balls zipping past him, felt himself ducking, still stared hard through the glasses, laughed, thought now of Kilrain, something the Irishman always said: You won’t hear the one that gets you. He lowered the glasses, could see the small flashes of fire, thought, No, not the best place for me to be. Pulling the horse around, he moved back to Arthur, the man with the colors, and the rest of his staff.

  Down the line he saw his own skirmishers easing forward, low to the ground, protected by anything they could find. Now the firing went both ways, and he thought, Good, yes, push them back, give us some room. He rode to a small rise, wondered if they should cross the creek. Raising the glasses again, he watched for the thin line of the enemy to pull away, giving up the ground in the face of his great strength. He looked up beyond the creek again, saw a reflection, the flickering motion of bayonets, then a man on a horse. Now he could see fresh fallen trees, logs, dirt, a wide solid line. He scanned along the far side of the creek, down to the right, and saw more men, flags and the reflection of many bayonets. He felt his heart shoot into his throat, thought, This is more than a skirmish line. Yes, we have found the enemy … we have found a lot of the enemy.

  He lowered the glasses, and there was a hush of silence all down the line, the troops dressing the formation, men lining up close to the men beside them.

  He could hear horses, turned and saw Griffin, moving quickly. Chamberlain saluted, waited for Griffin to rein up the horse, then pointed out across the creek, said, “General Griffin, as you requested, sir … the enemy.”

  Now there were small shouts along his lines, his men reacting to the small pops of musket fire, the single shots coming from the rebel pickets along the creek. His staff began to gather close to him, the couriers waiting, the horses moving in small jerking motions.

  Griffin stared through his field glasses, then smiled at Chamberlain, said, “Well, General, it seems they don’t want us to cross this creek. You know what that means?”

  Chamberlain absorbed the question, could still hear the sounds of Sheridan’s fight off to the west. He looked toward the enemy line, then toward the scattered musket fire of the pickets. “Yes, sir. It means we should cross that creek.”

  THE BRIGADE WAS SPREAD INTO LINE ON BOTH SIDES OF THE ROAD. Reaching the creek, wide and muddy, the men began to splash across. The left flank moved first, and Chamberlain rode close behind, could hear the great roar of muskets from the right flank, the volleys aimed across the road, a covering fire for the left flank to cross the creek. Behind the low works, the rebels were returning fire, thick smoke pouring down toward the creek in great waves. He pushed the horse through the water, then up out of the creek, moved through small patches of thick brush, could smell the choking sulfur of the smoke, tried to see in front of him, steadied the horse. His men were moving forward, beyond the creek, now reaching the rebel works. He pushed the horse forward, saw the blue wave streaming over the low wall, and beyond, saw the rebels pulling quickly away.

  He broke into a clearing, a straight path toward the open field beyond, could see down the line now, his men still pressing forward, the lines wavering but strong. The rebels were stopping to fire, and he could see men falling, could hear the screams now, saw one man drop close to him, clutching his throat, rolling slowly in the grass. Chamberlain stared at the man for a brief moment, saw another man break out of line, move toward him and kneel down. Then the man’s sergeant grabbed him by the shoulder, yelled something profane, pulled the man back into line. Another job for the sergeants, Chamberlain thought.

  He moved the horse, rode to the left, a gap in the log wall, jumped over the shallow trench, could see more horsemen now, the regimental commanders, swords up, pointing forward. His men were still in motion, the rebels in chaotic retreat, no formation, pulling away on their own. The smoke was clearing, a breeze behind him pushing the white fog out before the blue wave, and he reined the horse and just watched, could hear the sounds of his men, the low cheer of soldiers who know they are winning.

  Smoke now filled the patches of woods in front of them, each volley sending a blinding cloud toward the enemy. A break, a piece of luck, he thought, the wind is behind us.

  He scanned the open ground, could see the wounded, the dead of both sides, some moving slowly, some not moving at all. Suddenly the name came to him, Griffin’s orders … the Quaker Road. He shook his head, thought, No Quakers here on this day. They would definitely not approve.

  Out of the thick fog he saw a cluster of men emerging, a slow march across the field, enemy troops moving straight toward him. Chamberlain’s heart pounded and he pulled at his pistol, but then saw his own men, the muskets raised, saw that the ragged soldiers were not armed, were being herded to the rear, back toward the creek. They were prisoners. He laughed nervously, thought, Lawrence, have a little faith. As they moved by him, his own men saluted wildly, great toothy smiles. Chamberlain looked at the prisoners, saw bare feet, gaunt faces. They did not look up at him as they moved slowly by, and he thought, They do not look like soldiers, like an army. His own men were shouting out, the pride of the capture, but Chamberlain did not hear them, continued to stare at the prisoners, recalled the great long march toward Antietam, when he’d seen prisoners for the first time. They were ragged then too, torn clothes, the uniforms barely evident. But you could still see the spirit. They had marched past him then with a defiance that said, “We are your enemy, and we will still fight you.” Now the faces stared at the ground, silent, and he thought, These men look like … ghosts.

  The fight was moving away from him, his men still pushing forward. He spurred the horse, moved past a line of small trees, saw a wide field, farmland, could see a house now, small white buildings. He moved forward, saw a huge sawdust pile, an old sawmill. His men were in line, kneeling, firing into the thick smoke, rebels holding a line around the sawdust.

  He thought, Move forward, get closer, and recalled something Griffin had said long ago, quoting the instructions, laughing, something from some military manual. The brigade commander shall remain one hundred fifty yards behind the line.

  He could hear the musket balls of the enemy whizzing past him, high, wild shots, men blinded by the smoke, by the pressure, the strong advance of the blue line. He saw officers riding toward him, watching him, and he knew the look, men waiting for the command, making sure. He looked toward the sawdust pile, saw the enemy pulling away, yelled, “Forward! Keep pushing them!” The horsemen moved away, and Chamberlain looked behind him again, then far off to the right, thought, Yes, maybe … more strength, coming up on our flank. But he could only see his own men, far down the open field, the line thinning, the men slowing, holding their position.

  He looked past the sawdust pile, and then the wind began to shift, the smoke flowing away, across the field. The rebels were still moving away, but he could see woods now, and along the edge, men climbing up and over a wide wall, a thick mass of logs and dirt. Suddenly, the wall erupted in a solid blast of flame, dense smoke pouring forward, and the air around him was alive with the horrible sounds, the piercing whine of the hail of lead. His men were falling all down the line now, there was no cover, no safe place, and the line began to fall apart, men slowly moving back.

  The officers were screaming orders, “Hold the line,” “Stay together,” but the men saw what was
in front of them now, what lay beyond the open field. Chamberlain saw the faces of his men, some beginning to run, close to him now, not looking at him, and he pulled out his sword, waved it over his head, felt the hot anger, yelled at one man, a sergeant, “Stop! Pull them together!”

  The man looked up at him, and Chamberlain wanted to yell at him again, red rage, but he knew the face, said only, “You …”

  It was the man in the swamp, the man in charge of the pickets. He looked up at Chamberlain, and Chamberlain saw his face change, the wild panic erased now by an angry black light. The man said nothing, but turned, grabbed a man who was running by him, pulled the man around hard and shouted into his face. Now others began to stop, to fall together, forming a new line, close to Chamberlain, some looking at him. He yelled to them, not words, some sound, thought, Hold them, keep them here, but his voice faded into hoarseness.

  The men were bringing themselves into order, the line strengthening. The officers began to gather, and Chamberlain waved the sword, the silent signal. The officers moved out, still pulling the line together. Some men began to fire back toward the heavy rebel line, and Chamberlain thought, No, wait … too far. He could hear the officers shouting the orders to hold fire, and the firing stopped, the sounds now only the voices of the men, the brigade finding itself again, the flags spreading out, men moving to their place in line.

  He watched, felt the sudden burst, the energy of pride, Yes, you will not brush us away! Now, from the rebel works, there was a new sound, and he stared, had heard it before, that awful scream, and men began to pour over the top of the works, the furious scream rolling forward, the line of rebels coming at them. Chamberlain felt his heart thump in hard cold beats, yelled weakly, “Hold on!”

  But the blue line began to roll backward, some men breaking out, running toward the rear, wild eyes, driven hard by the panic, chased by the sounds. Some still held their position, and the orders were shouted, and Chamberlain saw his line explode into one long fire, a massive volley, a sharp blast into the rush of rebels. The rebel yell began to fade, and Chamberlain’s men fired again, all along the wavering line. Now the smoke drifted away again and he could see the rebels backing away, withdrawing to their heavy defenses. He yelled, a hoarse sound, a cheer, and his men looked at him, began to understand that they had held, had beaten back the assault.

  Chamberlain looked in the direction of the creek, the wide, empty ground, began to feel the heat, the raw fury, thought, We cannot hold here all day. Where are you?

  He rode a short way toward the creek, the field scattered with his men, many wounded, some men bending low over still bodies. He glanced at the rebel line, saw men moving out in a low crouch, moving toward their own wounded, dragging men back to the works. He took a deep breath, and for one moment there was silence, a complete calm, the smoke gone, and he looked out over the open ground, could see fresh dirt, furrows in the ground. Of course, he thought, it is planting time, but that will have to wait for now. He glanced at the scattered bodies, the dead. If we bury them here, he thought, what then? Is this still a farm? Will you go on as if nothing had happened? He looked at the farmhouse, was suddenly curious, wondered about the people, thought, Probably a woman, maybe children. There would be no man, no able-bodied farmer. He would be gone, maybe dead himself, or maybe … right over there, behind those works. Maybe he’s fighting on his own property. How odd, you could never have expected this, what must it feel like? Does it make you a better soldier?

  No, stop this, he thought, trying to clear his mind. Your brain again, you still think too much. He looked down the line of blue, saw men still falling in, the quiet, the lull, now drawing them up from behind. He looked back toward Gravelly Run, thought, There are still men there, there always are some, hiding, men paralyzed by the panic. He saw troops moving near the water, the provosts, the awful duty, finding the ones who ran, and if they did not return to the line, to arrest them, haul them to the stockade. He shook his head, thought, It is always like that, in every fight. Some men will suddenly come apart, something inside of them suddenly opens up, breaks out in a blinding madness. He recalled the firing squad, the execution of the deserters, the image always there, somewhere deep in his mind. No, we will not do that, not in this brigade, not if I can help it. But if they leave this field, if they run far enough and are caught … then I cannot help it.

  He saw horsemen now, flags, Griffin, let out a breath, Finally. Behind the horsemen came a column of troops, men moving double-time. Chamberlain tried to see the numbers, the strength as Griffin reined up, said, “That’s a strong line over there, General. We have prisoners from Anderson’s division. They say more are coming, a lot more. No surprise, Lee has to move out this way, can’t allow us to keep pushing north.”

  Chamberlain was watching Griffin’s face, thought, We did not do … what we were supposed to do. We were repulsed.

  Griffin was scanning the rebel lines, said, “Behind those woods … the White Oak Road. Very important, it’s their main artery from this area back to Petersburg. The Southside Railroad is just above. If we can take the road … they have no choice but to pull back, protect the railroad.”

  Chamberlain absorbed the words as Griffin pulled out a map. Chamberlain thought, He doesn’t seem to be too upset that we were pushed back. He felt a sudden wave of relief.

  Griffin was already moving beyond what had just happened, looked again at the rebel line, said, “General Chamberlain, we need those works. If you can move the enemy out of there by nightfall, we will be in strength here. The rest of the corps is behind us, and the Second is moving up on our right. We must hold here, keep Lee from pushing us back below the creek.” Griffin’s voice was calm, matter-of-fact.

  Chamberlain watched Griffin still scanning the map, thought, We tried once, but … Anderson’s whole division? That means we’re up against … maybe four, five thousand men.

  Now Griffin looked at him, said, “Are you not clear about something, General?”

  Chamberlain cleared his throat, said, “Sir, how close is the rest of the corps? May we expect … support?”

  Griffin looked out toward Chamberlain’s men, said, “If you can move the enemy out of those works, and hold that line for a while, you’ll get all the support you need. There is no time to lose, General. General Sheridan has his hands full. We need to hold on here, keep Lee from moving any farther west.”

  Griffin was looking at the map again, said something to a staff officer. Chamberlain looked across the open ground, past the farmhouse, the sawdust pile. He raised his field glasses, took in the rebel line, saw flags spread all along the wall, knew each one meant numbers, strength. He thought of Gettysburg then, of that rocky hill, those men from Alabama who had come at him, trying time after time to take that hill. Now that’s … us. At least here … it’s not uphill.

  He put the glasses down, and Griffin patted him on the shoulder, said, “Now, General!”

  THEY ADVANCED WITHOUT FIRING, THE LINE FIRM AGAIN, MOVING forward quickly. Behind the works, the rebels met them with one solid volley, cutting holes in the blue line, but then Chamberlain’s men were up, climbing over the cut trees, men firing their muskets right into the faces of the enemy.

  Chamberlain was just beyond the sawdust pile, saw his men still pouring fire straight into the enemy’s position, could hear the horrible sounds, the musket fire now replaced by the bayonet and the sword, the clash of steel, the grunts and shouts of men grabbing each other, clubbing with empty muskets, the hollow screams of men driven by the power of the beast, men ripped down by fists and feet, knives and boots.

  He moved the horse up closer, pulled his pistol, tried to find a target in the swarming mass of men around him, aimed, then held up, the chaos now complete, the targets swirling together into one mass of confusion. He raised the pistol again, saw a man swinging down hard on a blue soldier with the butt of a musket, a huge man with a bearded face, eyes now looking up at him, staring at Chamberlain with the bloody fire of some ter
rible demon. The man smiled, staring right at him, and Chamberlain aimed the pistol, pulled the trigger, his hand jumping with the blast. There was smoke, then he saw the man still staring at him, but the eyes were different now, the demon gone, and the man slowly dropped to his knees and fell forward.

  Chamberlain heard his name, saw an officer, yelling, waving him away, heard the man say something, then again, now heard the words, “Sir! Get back! Move back!”

  He looked into the mass of the fight again, thought, One hundred fifty yards behind the line…

  Men were swarming out on both sides of him, all along the log wall, the fight now all around him. He turned the horse, thought, You damned fool, get out of here. He spurred the horse, crouched low, saw a rebel officer suddenly right in front of him, the face of a boy, a long sword in the man’s hand, and the sword went up, the man aiming for the legs of the horse. Chamberlain raised the pistol again, fired into the man’s chest, moved quickly past him, did not look back, thought, Keep moving, go!

  He saw staff officers now, Sergeant Arthur with the flag, and he turned, could still see the fight across the enemy’s works. Men were shouting all around him, officers giving orders, some with wounds. Others now moved back, away from the fight, with bloody faces, torn clothes.

  He moved the horse again, could see the woods beyond the wall, men up in the trees, sharpshooters taking slow, careful aim. Then he saw more men moving forward, coming out of the woods, more flags, rebel troops moving right into the fight, fresh muskets, and he could hear more of that horrible sound, a rising chorus of rebel yells.

  His men began to climb back out of the rebel works, some crouching low, reloading muskets, some without weapons at all, some snatching up muskets from the arms of the dead. He could still see beyond the wall, a cluster of blue moving across the road, straight into the oncoming rush of the enemy. He felt a thrill, thought, Yes, move ahead. Then he saw the rebels around them and stared in horror, recalling the men who had come by him before, near the creek, and he thought, My God … prisoners … my men.