Jeff Shaara and Michael Shaara: Three Novels of the Civil War: Gods and Generals, the Killer Angels, the Last Full Measure

by Jeff Shaara

  The man hurried away, mounted his horse, and galloped down the road, then slowed, rode the horse at a trot, knew that when he reached Howard’s headquarters he would hear the same reproach, would receive the wrath of the annoyed commander: that these observers, the men who watch the enemy, are always jumpy, always exaggerate, and that the commander certainly understood the situation—it was his job to know what was going on.

  48. JACKSON

  May 2, 1863. Late afternoon.

  HE STEPPED quietly through a cluster of small bushes, thick and green, and the ground suddenly dropped away, down a long flat hill, and there, along a wide road, was the Federal line.

  He had never been this close, felt like giggling, a wild adventure. His guide, the man who had brought him to this spot, was beside him: Lee’s nephew, Stuart’s brigade commander, Fitz Lee.

  “There they be, General. The whole lot of ’em.”

  They were sitting around small fires. Some were reading, playing cards, and back, behind them, a small herd of cattle was being lined up, the preparation for tonight’s dinner. Jackson rubbed his hands together, wiped them on his pants leg. This was an incredible sight.

  Lee backed away, through the bushes. Jackson didn’t want to leave, but knew he had to get back, to move the column farther to the west. This was the point where they had thought the flank could be assaulted, but there were too many blue troops, and the line ran farther west, along the road. So the march would continue, until his men were far around the last of the Federal lines.

  He followed the young Lee back to the horses, said nothing. Lee climbed up, smiling, waited for the compliment, the acknowledgment of a fine piece of scouting. He was well taught in the Stuart school of soldiering, appreciated the glamour of the cavalry; they all basked in the bright light of Stuart’s reputation. But Jackson had climbed up on the horse, was already far away, and Lee frowned, would have to find the pat on the back elsewhere.

  They moved quickly back to the road. A squad of cavalry was waiting, and Jackson looked past them, pulled the horse around, began to move alongside the marching column of troops, toward the front of the line.

  He reached an intersection, the last leg that would take the men up to the turnpike, and saw Robert Rodes and the young boy who had guided them. Rodes’s division was now crossing the intersection, and Jackson rode close beside the men, said, “Keep it up, move up.”

  They looked up at him. Most were smiling, and he did not notice the hollow eyes, a toll from the warm day and the lack of food. There had been few rations for the march, and those men who had not eaten early that morning had likely not eaten since the morning before. Despite Jackson’s enthusiasm, and the constant pressure from the officers, the march was taking far longer than he had expected.

  He pushed through the line of troops and moved up beside Rodes. Raleigh Colston came quickly along the road, followed by a small staff, and Jackson waited. When Colston reined up, Jackson said, “Very soon now. General Rodes, you will begin to deploy your men on either side of the turnpike, brigade front. General Colston, how soon will your men be up?”

  “We’re right behind, General.”

  Jackson nodded, was now seeing beyond the men, out past the thick tangle of woods, already watching what was yet to come.

  Colston and Rodes had both been instructors at VMI, and both were well acquainted with Jackson’s manner and his moods. Neither man spoke, and they glanced at each other as Jackson stared quietly beyond the road. Suddenly, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small pencil, a rough piece of crumpled paper, held the paper flat against his saddle and wrote a brief message.

  “. . . I hope as soon as practicable to attack. I trust that an ever kind Providence will bless us with great success . . .” He concluded the note, stared at it, and behind him Pendleton moved closer, anticipated the order. Jackson started writing again, a small postscript. Pendleton had motioned for a courier, and the man was up quickly, held out his hand when Jackson turned with the note. Jackson stared at him, thought he should know the man’s name. He had forgotten it, stared for a long minute, tried to recall. The man glanced at Pendleton, uncomfortable, and Jackson abruptly handed him the paper, said, “Take this to General Lee.”

  Pendleton said something to the man, precautionary instructions that Jackson did not hear, and then the courier was quickly moving, leading the horse back along the edge of the road.

  There were more horses now, Fitz Lee’s squadron of cavalry moving past, alongside the road, and Jackson turned and watched them. Lee slowed, waved the men on, and Jackson looked at him from under the cap, said, “Take your men up past the turnpike. You must observe the roads that go to the river, protect our flank.”

  Lee saluted, smiled. “Already on our way, General.”

  Jackson watched the cavalry move away, sat back in his saddle and smiled. He looked at the two men, said, “The Virginia Military Institute will be heard from today!”

  Rodes smiled, glanced at Colston. Both men had wondered often if Jackson even recalled their former relationship.

  The column reached the turnpike, and Rodes quickly led a line of skirmishers out, down the turnpike to the east, toward the farthest point of the Federal position. The men filed out into the brush, began to feel their way through. Jackson sat high in the middle of the road and watched. Now he could hear the guns, from far out in front of him, a roll of low thunder. He gauged the distance, knew it was Anderson, McLaws, and Lee on the far side of the Federal position, and he nodded, thought, Good, they are still engaged, still in place. He felt the thrill again, the excitement of knowing the entire Federal Army was right in front of him, between him and Lee, right there. Others were beside him now, his own staff, and now Rodes was back, and his division was filling the road, spreading out in thick battle lines into the woods.

  Jackson began to rock in the saddle, a small rhythm, back and forth, pushing the men into position. With each forward movement he said to himself, Go, move forward. The men were having some difficulty, it was slow going, and he wanted to yell, tell them to hurry, but there could be no noise, and so he prodded them from inside his head, leaned out over the horse’s head, then back in the saddle. It was getting late, but he would not look at the sun, far behind them now, dropping quickly toward the distant trees. He saw his own shadow on the road, long and dark, and closed his eyes, would not see it, kept pushing them, rocking.

  It was Colston now, and the second division moved into lines behind Rodes, the men swarming past Jackson’s horse. Most did not look up now, knew it was soon. Then Colston was beside him, wanted to say something. He was nervous, had not led a division into battle before, and still Jackson rocked, his eyes closed. Colston watched him, let it go, turned to his troops again.

  Jackson suddenly stopped moving, looked sharply behind him, saw Pendleton and said, “Where is Hill?”

  Pendleton was startled, moved closer. “General Hill will be up with his lead brigade very soon,” he said. “He is not more than a mile behind. His last two brigades are well back, sir. They have not been able to make up for the lost time, for the fight with the Yankees.”

  Jackson turned, closed his eyes again, was suddenly furious, felt a stab of pain in his side. His chest tightened and he tried to breathe, opened his mouth, and the tightness gave way. Hill again. It was good Hill was last in line. They could move without him if they had to.

  Rodes was still close by, heard the brief conversation, felt defensive about Hill, said, “Sir, General Hill was pressed by a large force of Federals. I am certain he is bringing his men up as quickly as he can.”

  Jackson stared at him, a withering glare, and Rodes looked away, had crossed a dangerous line with his commander. Jackson closed his eyes and slowly began to rock again. Colston’s lines were almost in place now, and Jackson spurred his horse, moving down the road toward the back of Rodes’s troops, with Rodes moving quickly to catch up with him. Jackson reached the line of men, leaned over and tried to see out into the th
ick brush. The line disappeared in both directions, the men slowly moving forward with small noises, the officers keeping them in line. Jackson heard curses and nervous laughter, could hear the sounds of the brush, the men stepping through the tangle. He looked down the road, lifted his field glasses, stared ahead and saw two small black eyes, the silent stare of Howard’s cannon. Lowering the glasses, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gold watch: five-fifteen. They would have two hours of daylight.

  Rodes said nothing, waited, and Jackson now looked at him, hard, tried to see into the man’s soul, measure the strength of his heart. Rodes still waited, felt the power of Jackson’s cold blue stare.

  Jackson said, “Are you ready, General Rodes?”

  “Yes, sir.” Rodes did not pause.

  “You can go forward, sir.”

  Rodes turned, and there was a quick shout and a bugle sounded, and out in front the first line began to crush through the tangle of briars and thickets. From far out in both directions came the sound, the high, screaming wail, of ten thousand men; a solid line a mile wide pushing and clawing through the brush in one great mass of motion. The terrible sound echoed far in front of them, carried forward by the wind, and before them, beyond the brush, in the wide clearings along the road, heads began to turn, and plates of hot food were spilled, and the men in blue coats stood, staring at the impossible, the impenetrable thicket, stared as the deer and the rabbits and the birds ran and darted and flushed out before the great wave. Before the first man was seen, or the first musket aimed, the men in blue were swallowed by the sound, by the raw terror, and they began to run.

  HE RODE close behind the first heavy line, pushed out into the first clearing. His men stopped, raised their rifles in one sweeping motion, and there was a long blast, the echo filling the space. In front of them the flight of many soldiers was cut down. They ran on again, passed untouched stands of muskets, campfires and tents and wagons. They could see the enemy in a desperate scramble to get away, and, like the hound who finally sees the prey, they quickened their pursuit.

  Devens’s division was in total chaos, stampeded past the trenches of Schurz’s division, the next in line. Schurz’s men turned, formed a line of fire, and a volley came at the front of the gray wave, but it was the poor aim of panic, and the tide quickly rolled over them, driving those who could run into the escaping mob.

  There were more trenches now, earthworks dug by men who had expected a fight, and they were quickly covered by the swarm. Jackson rode up, pushed the horse onto a long mound of dirt, could see his troops far in front, continuing to press on. Men were coming up behind him, Colston’s first line.

  Jackson turned, yelled, “Press on! Forward!”

  They looked at him, and he saw the fire in their faces, his fire, and they went over the embankment, fighting their way through felled trees. Shots whistled past him now, return fire from small pockets of men in blue, the few who stood to fight. But even the most determined, those who would never run, soon realized that the line washing over them was too wide and too many, and if they did not finally move out, join the great wave, they would be quickly captured.

  He pushed on, rode through the earthworks, saw beyond to the next obstructions, and there was more solid fire now, coming through the thick brush, splintering branches and limbs. His men slowed, the lines ragged now, and there were new shouts from officers. Jackson yelled to them all, “Form the lines! Keep it up!”

  Now there were more volleys, from both sides, and he saw men falling, right in front of him, Rodes’s men—his men. He rode past them, toward a building, glanced at the sign, DOWDALL’S, and reined the horse. Across the road he caught a glimpse of blue, hidden by the brush, and a roar of muskets blew into the line behind him. He turned back, saw a dozen men, a neat straight line, still pointing their muskets forward, and the men were all down, had fallen together. Now there was another sharp blast, farther behind him, toward the brush, screams, and men stumbled out toward the road, blue coats and new stains of red, and his line moved on by, kept going. He looked at the fallen men, men from both sides, a few feet apart, and raised his hand, held it high, the palm up, a silent prayer. Colston’s second line was passing by him now, watching him, and suddenly there was a cheer, echoing down through the roar of the guns and the rising smoke. It spread, grew into a high scream, rolled into a new chorus of the rebel yell, and he watched them now, shouted out again, “Keep it up! Move forward! Stay together!”

  The smoke was heavier now, shells ripping the air, bursting in the road, tearing through the brush. Federal batteries were turning, meeting the wave, and his lines began to shatter. He turned to the side, rode along a thick patch of the dense woods, saw a small group of men standing, unsure, and an officer. He yelled to the man, “Get them together, press them on!”

  The man looked at him, appeared stunned, and Jackson yelled again, “Get them into line!”

  There was a hot rush of air, and the brush in front of him was suddenly swept away; then a bright flash, a deafening, horrible sound, and the officer and men were gone. He had started to yell again, his mouth open, the words forming, and he stopped, turned, would not see, would still push them on.

  Jackson jerked at the horse, moved back into the clearing, to the road, began to follow the line again. Now the firing was more to the front. They were still pushing the Federal troops back. He looked behind him, to the tavern, saw a farmhouse and knew they had come two, maybe three miles. He spurred the horse, moved up quickly, did not look at what lay around him, the vast spread of debris, shattered guns and wagons, and the broken bodies of men. He moved out toward a grove of trees, saw there were blue soldiers, crouching, aiming, and a volley ripped by him, struck men moving up behind. He saw a line, Colston’s men, moving into the grove, and there was another volley, in both directions, a thick mass of smoke spreading out right in front of him. He strained to see, raised his pistol, ready, then saw the blue bodies, swept from their cover. Colston’s men moved forward, and now Jackson saw one man, with the face of a boy, still standing, facing the oncoming line. He was trying to reload, and now Colston’s men were on him, and the boy was trying to raise the rifle, and there was a flash of steel, the quick rip of the bayonet, and the boy was down. Jackson turned away, the image hard in his mind, thought, We must kill the brave ones, we must kill them all.

  Far in front of him, beyond the heavy lines of smoke, one man sat high on his horse, held a billowing flag, the Stars and Stripes, taken in a rush from his headquarters. He clamped it tight against his body with the stump of his arm, the empty sleeve waving wildly, held his pistol high with the other hand, yelled, screamed, pleaded with the men who ran by him, “Stop, for God’s sake . . . turn and fight!”

  They did not stop, would not look into the face of their commander, knew only that behind them was the certain terror of hell on earth, and somewhere, if they kept going, they would find the river, would get back across, to where it was safe; that maybe they would fight again, become an army again, but not today.

  49. HANCOCK

  May 2, 1863. Late afternoon.

  “COLONEL MILES, they’re coming again!”

  The young man followed the extended arm, saw movement deep in the brush, the wave of brown and gray, and raised his pistol. All along the skirmish line the other officers yelled out the order, and now the line exploded into a single blast, a careful volley that stopped the advance cold, and the gray lines melted back into the dense brush.

  They were beside a long, narrow creek bed, had spent the night digging shallow trench lines, clearing the woods to their front for a clean line of fire. Behind them, back up the rise, the main body of Hancock’s division was dug in as well, waiting for the grand assault by Lee’s army.

  Hooker had ridden by earlier in the day, full of pomp and compliments. Hancock had been polite and formal, endured the inspection as a soldier had to endure inspection, but Hooker’s predictions had not come true, there was not yet a heavy attack, just this co
nstant skirmishing, wave after small wave, against the strong lines that had so pleased Hooker, the lines that would butcher Lee’s army.

  Hancock heard the new assault, the brief volleys, saw the thin line of smoke rising, again, from the trees below. He saw an officer moving in a run up the rise, and the man stopped, the young face smeared with mud and the gray stain of battle. He spoke through heavy breaths, saying, “General, it’s nothing but . . . more of the same. They’ve been beating us up all day with a single line of skirmishers. It doesn’t make sense, sir.”

  Hancock stared across the wide depression, past the trees that covered the creek bed, toward the position of Lee’s unseen troops, and now, to the south, in front of the Twelfth Corps, a new burst of artillery, shells bursting in the air, shattering trees, and far down in the woods there was a rebel yell and a clash of muskets, and both men watched, waited, and then it stopped.

  Hancock looked down at the dirty face, found the clear eyes. “Colonel Miles, I will send you a bit more strength, beef up the line again. But I don’t believe you will be pushed very hard. Not now . . . it’s too late in the day.”

  Miles looked back down the hill, said, “Doesn’t make sense. You can’t get anything done with a skirmish line.”

  Hancock looked across the crest of the ridge, the trenches and heavy lines of troops, his division, still waiting, rifles still pointing toward the trees below, rifles that had been quiet most of the day. They had not moved, had kept the sharp eye to the east, where Lee’s army had moved in close the night before. All day, Lee had just . . . played with them.

  He waved an arm, and an aide moved closer. Hancock said, “Go tell General Meagher to pick out another squad, have their commander report to Colonel Miles, down below.”