by Jeff Shaara
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“Yes, we have not withdrawn from our original positions.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 that the army be withdrawn .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.
He yelled toward Couch, rode quickly to catch up, and Couch slowed, looked at him. Hancock saw the face of a man who had had enough, the anger now fading, replaced by deep sadness. Couch said, “You will protect our flanks.... We will pull back to the north, toward the river. Reynolds will cover the west flank, you will cover the south and east.”
Reynolds? he thought. “Sir, did the First Corps give way? I did not know they had engaged—”
“The First Corps did not have the chance to give way. They have not yet seen action. General Reynolds is dug in above the turnpike, and will withdraw toward the fords above him.”
Hancock stared blankly at Couch. Reynolds . . . the First Corps, maybe the best they had . . . was not even engaged.
Up the road leading toward the river, riders appeared, came through the smoke, turned, moved toward them. Hancock saw the flag of the Fifth Corps, the Maltese cross. It was Meade, and with him, John Reynolds.
The aides stayed back, and Couch moved forward. The three men began to speak, and Hancock waited, could hear nothing. Then Couch turned, motioned to him, and he pushed the horse closer. Meade was staring away, toward the sound of the guns, and Reynolds was looking at him, hard, cold.
Couch said, “General Hancock, do you understand your orders?”
“Yes, sir. I am to protect the withdrawal of the army.”
Reynolds was still staring at him, said quietly, “The withdrawal of the army . . . gentlemen, this is pure madness. General Hooker is not in control. Couch, you can override him, you are in command of the field. I can advance my men in line to the south, flank the enemy to the west. It is not too late to save this!”
Meade was still looking away, watching the lines of troops moving up the road, away from the sound of the guns. “We did not even have a fight.” He turned, stared at Couch. “We did not even have a fight! Most of them . . . my men never even saw the enemy!”
Couch nodded, spoke with slow, careful words. “Gentlemen, General Hooker’s last order was clear. The general made his decision because . . . General Sedgwick did not pursue the enemy with vigor. General Hooker feels that had Sedgwick come in behind Lee’s lines, we would not be forced to withdraw. But we have already begun the withdrawal. It is now . . . the only course left to us.”
Reynolds leaned forward, glared at Couch. “Sedgwick? So . . . that’s to be it, eh? Sedgwick is the cause? We will blame one corps?”
“Gentlemen . . .” Couch raised his hand. “You may all prepare your own reports of this battle. But we have our orders. They will be carried out. General Hancock . . .” He turned, and Hancock looked again into the sad eyes. “You may return to your division.”
THEY HELD the line until the troops behind them had passed, moving quickly now, the retreat pushed hard by the panic of defeat, the spreading disease of fear—that the enemy was coming, right behind them, that if they did not move quickly, the massive army would be crushed. On the roads the columns had little order, and the guns, from Hazel Grove, from the main roads in both directions, poured a steady stream of solid shot and exploding shells into the ranks. Many of the units lost all order. Men began running into the thick brush, away from the deadly open roads, knew that if they just kept moving north, they would find the river.
Those who did not share the panic, the corps and division commanders, were now coming to understand that this tragic and expensive defeat had not come from the weakness of the troops, but from the collapse of one man.
Hancock stayed on the turnpike, watched the stream of blue move over the wide fields, past their own guns, still firing, punching holes in the advancing lines of Lee’s army, slowing the pursuit. To the south one division was holding a solid line, a rear guard, withdrawing more slowly than the others. It was Geary, of Slocum’s corps, and now he was being flanked. The lines had broken, and they came out of the brush in a run, guided by the high column of smoke from the big house. Hancock knew it was time to pull his own people in, back along the ridge, wrap their lines across the wide field, hold the advancing rebels away until the army could reform itself behind him, protect the crossings at the river.
Below him, along the creek, Miles was still holding out. There had been no breakthrough there, but he had sent the word down: withdraw, move up to the trenches on the ridge.
He waited, watched the trees below, and they were not coming. He looked for a courier, the staff following him closely now, yelled out, “Go down there, repeat my order to withdraw! No delays . . . they could be cut off!”
The man saluted, a young lieutenant, began to gallop down the rise. Then Hancock saw horses, and a blue line emerging from the trees, and behind the horses, men were carrying a litter. The lieutenant reached them, turned, waved back at Hancock, and he spurred the horse and moved down. Shells began to fall around him, up behind, along the trenches, and he knew Lee’s guns were closing in.
Hancock reached the horses, did not think, just followed the man’s wave, pointing, and he saw officers, a captain, and the man saluted him, ran up to the horse.
“General, Colonel Miles is wounded, sir. . . .”
He jumped from the horse, moved to the litter. Miles was black with mud, his face barely recognizable, and he saw Hancock now.
“General . . . why are we pulling out, sir? The line is strong. . . .” He turned his head away, and Hancock saw the blood, the front of his uniform, a dark stain flowing down onto the litter. Hancock looked to the captain, saw no answers. They were waiting for him to say something, and he looked below, into the trees, saw Miles’s men coming, moving slowly up the hill.
He said to his lieutenant, still on the horse, “Find the surgeon! Now! Tend to the colonel!” The man pulled the horse away, galloped up toward the crest of the hill. Now Hancock looked at the others, saw another officer, a familiar face, and men were stopping around him. They had heard that Miles was down, most had not seen him until now.
“Gentlemen, we must not delay. Keep the units in line, rejoin the division. We are the rear guard. We are covering the retreat.” He paused, saw muddy faces and no expressions, and he could not let it go, had to tell them.
“You men p
erformed as well as any army ever has. Officers . . . tell your men, make sure they all know this. You did not lose this fight! The soldiers . . . in this division, in other divisions . . . you did not lose this fight! I am honored to command you.” Miles raised an arm, and Hancock stared down, surprised, did not know he was still conscious. And Miles put a dirty hand to his forehead, made a weak salute. Hancock turned, suddenly could not look at him. There was nothing he could say. He climbed onto the horse, spurred it hard, moved quickly up the hill.
BLUE TROOPS were still coming up from the south, and there was little order, men running alone and in small groups. Now the musket fire was growing, and men were falling. Hancock could not yet see, but knew from the sounds that Lee’s advance was closing in, a tightening circle in the thick brush. He stayed on his horse, moved behind the new lines, could see the last of the flames from the mansion below him, now out in front of the lines. The guns were pulling away behind him, could no longer support his troops, the fight was coming in too close. He watched the muskets, bayonets pointing out, all down the line. They were not firing, no targets yet, and then he saw horses, officers, a fast gallop toward his lines, more men in blue. There was shouting, and his men were standing, gathering. He rode in that direction, heard the frantic, screaming voice.
“Charge, you cowards! Charge! They’re right behind us!”
It was John Geary. Hancock moved closer, and Geary kept yelling, was turning back, looking toward the thickets and the last of his own retreating men. They moved by, passed through Hancock’s line, many with wounds, moving slowly, and Geary yelled again, at Hancock’s troops.
“Charge them, you cowards!”
Soldiers were closing around the horse, and Hancock saw a musket raised, pointed at Geary. A soldier said, “There are no cowards in this line!” and others began to yell at Geary as well, angry taunts. Geary was staring at the musket, the point of a bayonet.
Hancock moved up, said, “General Geary, I am in command here. You will not give orders to my men. These men have had their fill of watching this army retreat. I would suggest you retire to the rear with your troops.”
Geary stared at Hancock, mouth open, and Hancock turned the horse away, had nothing else to say, knew he could not pour out his anger on this one man, a man who after all was doing what he was told.
He heard hoots, yelling behind him, knew it was directed at Geary, the men calling after him as he rode back, away from the fight. Now there were new voices, men calling out, and he felt a sudden rush of hot wind, a high zip of a musket ball, then more, rushing past him on all sides and below, down past the last dying flames of the mansion, they came from out of the brush, a row of muskets, bayonets, and the ragged lines of the enemy.
The long lines on either side of him erupted instantly, a quick and heavy volley, and a thick blast of smoke rolled across the wide field. Now the answer came back, and he began to move, looking for the commanders. He had not seen Meagher for a while, and Caldwell was up ahead somewhere. He rode quickly, and the smoke stayed out in front of them, like fog rolling down a hill, so the firing from below was blind, balls whizzing over him, high and wild. He saw Caldwell on his horse, moving down the line, and Hancock motioned, back, away from the lines, and Caldwell turned and moved with him toward a small grove of trees. Hancock turned the horse, tried to see, and felt a quick shiver from the horse. The horse was searching the ground, plucking slowly at the green grass. Hancock jumped down, saw a steady trickle of blood, a clean shot through the head. He stood back, watched the animal, grazing, thought of the talk of the wounded, men who are dying, who fade slowly away, drifting back to some other place, some peaceful memory, and he thought, You too, old girl, and the front legs quivered, then buckled, and the horse fell over on its side and did not move.
Behind him, Caldwell’s aide had grabbed another horse, led it to him. Hancock stared at the animal, much smaller than his, and climbed up, his boots nearly brushing the ground.
Caldwell was staring back at his own lines, the smoke drifting toward them, and he said, “General, we cannot hold out against a strong assault. Where are the reserves?”
Hancock pulled the horse around, said, “You will hold your lines until I tell you to withdraw. There are no reserves, the rest of the army is withdrawing to the river.”
Caldwell stared, wanted to ask, saw the hot glare in Hancock’s eyes and nodded. “I understand, sir.”
Hancock spurred the horse, and it moved toward the smoke. He was suddenly engulfed in a thick cloud of sulfur and ash. He tried to turn, to move off to the left, but was swallowed now, felt himself choking. He moved farther, kicked the horse hard, and saw a clearing and his other lines, facing east, and below, a new volley, a fresh wave of the enemy coming from the woods where Miles had held them away. Then it was Meagher’s lines, and he rode forward, saw the green flag and Meagher pointing, shouting. There was a long, single explosion of muskets, and quickly, another. He moved up behind the line, could see down, a thick mass of men pouring out of the heavy trees, coming toward them. They were stopping to shoot, then running again, and he heard it now, the high, terrible scream of the rebel yell.
He rode back toward the black skeleton of the mansion, could see the gray troops moving in one long mass up that side of the rise, and now he knew it was done, his men could not stay here, were being pressed from both sides. He moved quickly, waved to the couriers trailing behind and yelled, “Go to the commanders! Pull back, to the north. Retreat in line, keep firing!”
The men were away, and he rode up the road toward the north, where the rest of the army was crowding the banks of the river, digging in, a quick defensive line protecting the withdrawal from the rushing tide of Lee’s tightening ring.
He turned, saw his men falling back on both sides of him, the lines backing toward each other, the distance between them closing rapidly, the deadly fire from the rebel muskets now striking his men from behind, some shots flying farther, reaching out and dropping men far across the field, in the lines of their own advancing troops.
The smoke came toward him again, and he pulled the horse away, slowly, stayed on the road. His men were still moving back, a good solid line, no break, no panicking flood. He halted the horse, sat still now, and suddenly the light wind shifted again, cleared the smoke away, and now he could see it all, his men moving backward. He felt himself shake, an icy stab in his chest, that this was some kind of absurd, horrible joke. He kept staring at them, watched them come closer, backing toward him, and now he felt a sudden release, the small hard place inside him that he could not open, could not touch months before, on the muddy banks of the Rappahannock. But now it came, an unstoppable flow of grief, the weight inside him pouring out, and it was not for the dead, for the men who would hurt no more, but for these, the living, the men in front of him now, men no different from him; soldiers who would carry this with them for the rest of their lives, who would always know that they ran in the face of the enemy they should have beaten, not because they were cowards, or because there was weakness in their hearts. They ran because they were told to.
53. LEE
May 3, 1863. Midday.
HE HELD the horse beside the road, allowed the guns to pass, the sweating mules and creaking wagons. He saw the clearing now, rode farther, his staff behind, climbed the short rise and could see across the wide-open ground. The remains of the grand house were a smoldering mass of twisted black. He moved that way.
His army was already ahead of him, had pushed beyond the clearings, concentrating on the withdrawal of the Federal troops. Now, guns from Hazel Grove, from the batteries to the west, were moving up, repositioning. It was barely past noon, and he watched them, thought, We can still do it today, there is plenty of time.
He dismounted, walked by himself toward the ruins of the house, stopped close to the edge of the smoldering ash. He tried to feel some joy, the familiar thrill, the wild pursuit of a routed enemy, the glory of victory. It would not come. Men were passing around hi
m, keeping a respectful distance. He heard the shouts.
“We whipped ’em good!”
“The bluebellies are still runnin’, General. . . .”
He looked toward the voices, men waving at him, hats and muskets high, and he waved back, weakly, stared down again into the ashes.
Taylor kept the rest of the staff back, on their horses, and moved forward slowly, walked the horse up behind Lee and stopped. Lee did not look up. Taylor said, “Doesn’t seem right that General Jackson isn’t here to see this.”
Lee shook his head, said, “No, Major. It doesn’t seem right at all. But it is the will of God.”
Lee tried to pull himself away, thought about the army, Jackson’s troops coming together, reorganizing, the regiments and companies reuniting now after the massive confusion, the headlong rush through the thick woods. He had seen the face often, peering out from under the old cap, and Lee had to keep telling himself, He is all right, he just lost an arm. Lee had even sent a message, tried to be lighthearted: “Rejoin us on the field, won’t you, General?” But it was not sincere, there could be no joy, and then he had said, “You have lost your left arm, I have lost my right. . . .” And he knew somewhere deep inside, that was the truth, that no matter what happened now, Jackson would not return, would not be here to carry the fight.
And there was still a fight. Sedgwick had finally pushed hard into Early’s forces, moving up into Fredericksburg and then out, across the same ground where Burnside’s army had marched into a massacre. But this time Early was too few, and Sedgwick understood that if the men kept running, did not stop in front of the stone wall, did not try to shoot their way across, the wall could be reached and overrun. So now Early was pushed back, withdrawn safely down to the southwest, below the hills, and Sedgwick controlled the heights and was moving out this way.