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

by Jeff Shaara

  Lee had turned McLaws around, marched him out the turnpike to meet Sedgwick’s advance head-on. They still held Bank’s Ford, on the river just northwest of the town held by Cadmus Wilcox’s brigade. McLaws would now spread south, in a heavy line, a long, high ridge that ran beside a small brick building, Salem Church. Sedgwick would find that he was not advancing against the vulnerable and unsuspecting rear of Lee’s position, but was moving instead into the teeth of a division full of the good fight, men who had learned that no matter what the enemy sent them, they would turn him around.

  Wilcox had used his men to delay Sedgwick as long as he could, withdrawing slowly back toward the church, and Sedgwick found himself strung out in long lines of march, could not organize in the face of Wilcox’s tormenting skirmishers. When McLaws showed himself and the volleys began, Sedgwick’s lead units were run piecemeal into the fight.

  Lee could hear the sounds of battle now, from the east. He turned and stared out. Taylor said, “McLaws . . .”

  Lee was moving, went quickly toward his horse, climbed up, said, “Major, send a courier to find General Anderson. I do not want General McLaws overrun.”

  Taylor moved toward the waiting staff, and a man was quickly out, moving back down the rise. There were more riders now, from the south, a small flag, and they rode toward Taylor and stopped. There were salutes and low voices. Taylor turned, moved toward Lee.

  “General, it is Captain Hodges, sir, a message from General Early. He has reformed his division, sir, behind the Fredericksburg hills, and he requests—”

  Lee raised his hand, stopped him. “Captain Hodges, you may come closer. Please tell me what you have observed, what General Early has on his front.”

  Hodges removed his hat, seemed hesitant, said, “General Lee, sir, the Yankees . . . the enemy has pulled most of its force to the northwest of the heights . . . up near the river. General Early believes, sir, that they are moving now toward . . . here.” He looked around, saw no entrenchments, no defensive lines.

  “Captain, you may return to General Early and tell him this: McLaws’s division is in contact with the enemy, between here and the heights, at Salem Church. I am sending reinforcements to assist his efforts. Please request that General Early move northward with all speed. I believe, Captain, that General Early will discover that he has a great advantage in front of him. He may find he can close on the enemy from their flank and rear.”

  Hodges looked toward the new sounds of battle, nodded, said, “Thank you, General, it will be done, sir.” He threw up a salute, made a short bow, and led the group of riders away in a gallop.

  Taylor was laughing, said, “Pardon me, sir. He rode up here and started whispering, said he didn’t want to disturb you, sir.”

  Lee watched the small flag disappear on the road, said nothing. He looked toward the low thunder in the east, growing, spreading, and now he saw Anderson, more riders, and Anderson was moving slowly, a calm procession moving up the turnpike. Lee stared, thought, Was I not clear? There is a fight growing behind you. . . .

  He heard a loud whoop from the other direction, turned and saw Stuart, another staff and more flags. Stuart reached him first, stayed on the horse.

  “Greetings, mon Général! It is a fine day, sir! We have done Old Stonewall proud!”

  Lee felt a rush of anger, his hands clenched on the reins of the horse, and Anderson was close now, lifting his hat to the men around them, basking in his own glow. Lee felt his jaw tighten, said, “Gentlemen, if you please. This day is not over. We have a fight on our right flank. Sedgwick’s corps is on the move, has pushed General Early from the hills and is moving to join forces with General Hooker. And, gentlemen, before we engage in celebration, let us be reminded that just north of our position here, we are attempting to contain an army that outnumbers us by three to one.”

  Stuart lowered his head, again the scolded child, said, “General Lee, the Second Corps is reforming in a tight arc, sir, and will move against Hooker’s forces at your command, sir!”

  “No, General, rest them for now. They cannot continue to press the attack without some replenishment. This is not the cavalry, General, we must make time. Get the smaller units together, determine who is in command. We have lost a great many fine officers.” He paused, took a deep breath.

  “It is our objective to drive General Hooker against the river. If we bring a strong line against his forces, we may cause them considerable discomfort. They can no longer withdraw in a slow methodical retreat. They will be very limited in how quickly they can cross the river, and then we will have them. We have an opportunity to destroy them, gentlemen, with their backs to the river. General Anderson, you must take your division back to the east, toward Salem Church, and strengthen General McLaws’s lines. Early’s division will be advancing from the south. If we can tie up Sedgwick until General Early arrives, we may be able to press him hard against the river as well.” He was suddenly very excited, putting it into words. He realized now the magnitude of the opportunity in front of them. Anderson saluted, backed the horse away, and Lee stared out to the north, where the Federal Army was digging in to their last line of defense.

  He heard Stuart move up closer, beside him, and Lee said, “God has given us an opportunity. It is very clear now. There is a much greater prize, we can do so much more than merely claim this field. If we can crush the enemy right here, against the river . . . we may force him to surrender. We have paid the price . . . what God has taken . . . is General Jackson. It is a message. He is saying, ‘Here is your opportunity, and here . . . is the cost.’ ” He looked at Stuart, and Stuart was watching him with wide, round eyes, the eyes of a small boy absorbing the words of his father.

  “Remember that, General, there is always a price.”

  EARLY DID not reach Sedgwick’s position until very late in the day, and Anderson’s lines were slow in spreading, and so by dark Sedgwick had concentrated his forces, made a strong defensive line

  backed up against Bank’s Ford. In front of Stuart, Hooker’s army was tightly in place, a sharp U, with its back toward the United States Ford.

  All the next day, McLaws, Anderson, and Early pounded hard against Sedgwick’s position, but it was difficult ground, and the numbers were nearly even. Sedgwick was pushed harder into his defensive line, but could not be moved. Around Hooker, the divisions of Jackson’s corps harassed and threw light punches all day. Hooker could have pushed out of his own defenses at any time, but Lee had guessed correctly that Hooker would not attack, that still he was waiting for Sedgwick, had pinned all hopes of any Federal victory on one small separate piece of his army.

  The next day, Tuesday, May 5, it began to rain, a hard, soaking storm, and so both armies lay down hard in their muddy positions, waiting. Lee could feel his greatest opportunity to end the war flowing away, like the fresh streams of mud that poured away into the river. That night, with Hooker himself already across, the Federal Army made its way over the rocking pontoons. Lee had his men fed and their guns ready, and in the first light of the new day he sent out the fresh and rested troops, the final crushing blow, and they would push out hard and fast and find only empty trenches.

  54. JACKSON

  Wednesday, May 6, 1863

  DAYS BEFORE . . . he had lain awake, listening to the steady roar, the thunder of the big guns in the woods beyond the field hospital, and then muskets, waves of shooting, and sometimes, he thought, It had been very close. McGuire gave him something . . . he had wanted to ask, but his mind would cloud, thick fog, and the pain would be stopped. He could see McGuire’s face, calm, confident, and so he would not object, would accept the medication, the prick of the needle. It had been Sunday . . . the Sabbath. We should not have to do that . . . to fight on His day, he thought, but now he lay quietly, did not know what day it was . . . how long it had been.

  The fog had cleared, gradually. He could see the room, saw something new, a white ceiling, remembered, We are no longer in the field. . . . His eyes follow
ed a small crack in the plaster, a long curving line, and he stared at it for a long time. The voices and the men were around him, and then it was quiet. He did not know if he was awake or asleep, but then the thin line would grow, move closer, heavier . . . and he saw now it was a snake, blue and fat, and he watched it move and twist, injured, wounded, rolling madly, convulsing, and he saw men, soldiers, bayonets, and the snake would not die, kept twisting . . . and then he knew he was awake, because now the snake was gone, was just a long, thin crack in the plaster.

  The hospital had been a dangerous place. The shifting flow of the battle had put it close to the shelling, and McGuire and Smith had made arrangements for him to be moved. Jed Hotchkiss and the engineers had led the way, cleared the small road of the refuse of the fighting, shattered trees and sharp holes, and the steady flow of men and wagons had stood to the side, men with hats in their hands, sad salutes and soft crying as the ambulance had passed.

  McGuire had received permission directly from Lee to accompany Jackson away from the field. He had hesitated to ask, knew of the common practice of men of high rank, who often treated their army’s doctors as their personal physicians, the foolish exercise of privilege that left wounded soldiers unattended. But Lee had no hesitation, had ordered the move, knew that if Jackson was to recover, there was no one better than McGuire to guide him through it.

  The Chandler house lay along the railroad line, below Fredericksburg, at Guiney’s Station. The war had made Guiney’s a busy place, and the Chandler plantation had suffered, as did all the rich farmlands of central Virginia. But for now it was safe and comfortable, and Jackson had agreed, remembered many kind invitations to make their home his headquarters. Now it would be his hospital.

  They had brought him to a small building below the main house, a simple, square two-story structure, two rooms down and two up, and in one of the lower rooms, a bed had been placed, with fresh linens. He was carried there, could see out a tall, narrow window to the trees beyond and the bright warmth of the sun.

  He was beginning to feel stronger, was awake more, less drugged sleep. McGuire set up the other downstairs room for his medical office, bandages and dressings, and he was completing his examination of Jackson’s wound, the surgery.

  “Hmm . . . yes, General, very good. It is healing nicely. Is there any pain . . . here?”

  Jackson felt the probe, the pressure in the shoulder. “No. No pain.”

  McGuire stood, nodded. “All right, then, we’ll dress that again, and I’ll check it in the morning. How’s the hand?”

  Jackson raised the clump of bandages, turned it, moved the fingers. “It seems fine, Doctor.”

  “It was not bad, should heal completely . . . sore for a while, but you’ll have full movement in a week or two.”

  Outside, there were horses, voices, and the outer door opened, boots on the wood floor, and Jackson heard a quiet voice.

  “Is it all right, Doctor?”

  McGuire moved away from the bed, said, “Certainly, Captain Smith, please come in. The general is doing quite well today.”

  Smith moved toward the bed, bent down to one knee, said, “General? You feeling better?”

  Jackson looked at the young face, the sad eyes, said, “Don’t concern yourself about me, Mr. Smith. I am in God’s care now. But . . . tell me . . . how are we faring . . . ?”

  “The fight? Oh, General, the enemy is gone, across the river. We’ve secured the high ground around Chancellorsville . . . and along the river. General Stuart did well by you, sir. And the Stonewall Brigade . . . right in the middle of it, sir. They were fighting for Stonewall, I heard that all day.”

  Jackson nodded, smiled, thought, Why must they do that? “Captain, I would appreciate it if you would not refer to me that way. There is too much of the self-seeking . . . the name Stonewall belongs to the men who earned it, the men who fought at Manassas. God would not be pleased if I carried a label I do not deserve.”

  Smith looked down, stared at the floor, smiled to himself. This man would never be known as anything but Stonewall.

  “Sir, the men . . . they honored you . . . a good fight. They all think of you, sir.”

  “The men . . . Captain, many years from now those men will be able to recall this war with the unique pride of the soldier, something no one will ever take away. They will be proud to say they served in the Stonewall Brigade. But they did not serve me . . . they served God.”

  Smith nodded. “Yes, sir.” There was a silent pause, and Smith stood up, said, “General, I have the ball. Dr. McGuire allowed me to keep the musket ball he took from your hand, sir. It is a round smoothbore, sir. It has to be one of ours.”

  Jackson nodded. “Yes. I heard . . . they thought I was asleep. Pendleton . . . I heard them talking. It could not be helped. There is no blame in war. God understands, we must all forgive.”

  “Yes, sir . . . it was the Eighteenth North Carolina—”

  Jackson lifted the bandaged hand. “No . . . it was the war. We will not place blame. Tell them . . . do not be sad . . . they were doing their duty.”

  He began to feel weak, the alertness fading, and he turned, stared at the blank wall. Smith watched him, said, “Sir . . . ? Are you all right?” He stepped back, went to the door, called across to the other room, “Doctor? The general—”

  McGuire moved past him, went to the bed, said, “General? Are you getting tired? We can leave you now. You should be resting . . . let the strength return.”

  Jackson looked at him, saw the dark heavy eyes, said, “I’m fine, Doctor. Tired. I should rest now. Tell me, Doctor, when was the last time you slept?”

  McGuire smiled. “I’m not certain. We should all be concerned with . . . less duty and more care for ourselves. Captain, would you mind leaving us for a while?”

  “Not at all, sir.” Smith bent down again, one knee on the floor. “I’m right outside, General.”

  Jackson looked at him, tried to focus, but the fog was flowing through his brain again, and now the strength was gone, and he felt himself rising, drifting out . . .

  . . . he heard the shots, the fresh volley, heard the hard slap of lead, splitting the skull of the man beside him, and the man crumpled, dropped in a solid mass, and the litter turned, spilling him, and he hit the ground hard, on his side, and the pain tore through him, burning, the hot hard stab of the bayonet, and now he was staring up into the dark, could not see the treetops . . . and now saw the shadows, the window, thought, I’m still in the bed, the clean white room. But the searing blast of pain did not fade, was still there. He reached over, tried to feel it with his left arm, the hand not bandaged, felt the hand move across his body. He tried to touch the hurt and could not, tried to probe with the fingers, could feel them moving, and he held the hand up to his face, but there was nothing there, no dark shape. Now he was awake, his mind clearing, and he knew there was no hand . . . no arm. But . . . he had felt it . . . the fingers . . . and he tried to feel it again, but . . . the pain would not stop. Now he moved the other hand, the heavy bandages, touched the side, pressing, but the pain was deep inside, a burning hole in his lung. He lay still, tried to breathe, deeply, a slow rhythm, calm, heard now other breathing, tried to see, the foot of the bed . . . McGuire was there . . . sleeping on a small, hard couch. He relaxed again, thought, No, do not wake him. It will pass. He stared up at the dark, prayed, God, please give comfort to them all. They care for me . . . the men are concerned . . . too much. It must not turn them away from their duty.

  The pain began to ease, and he kept his thoughts focused away, the men . . . General Lee. There is more for me to do. God does not want me yet. The enemy is still there . . . waiting. . . .

  . . . the field . . . the thick brush, the dense tangles. His heart was racing, and he thought . . . the high ground, we must place the guns. He saw the lines now, his men, rolling forward, the enemy falling back, the edge of the river, falling, jumping in, panic, and his men were there, at the edge of the water . . . the river chu
rning hot and red, and he could hear the yells, the screams of the enemy, and now they began to move across, his troops, marching across the river, above the bodies of the enemy, pressing on, into the tall trees on the other side. . . .

  Thursday, May 7, 1863

  SHE HELD the baby, stepped down from the train, helped now by men in dirty uniforms. They stood aside, made a clear path for her. There was a carriage, and a man held the door. She nodded, tried to smile.

  Her brother was behind her, held a large cloth bag, motioned up to the top of the carriage, and other bags were lifted, tossed up. He climbed in, sat beside her. They did not talk, and the carriage began to move.

  He knew it was his responsibility to bring the news, to bring her here. They both knew that Jackson had allowed him to serve on his staff because of her. She did not want him near the fight. This way he could still be a soldier, and, even if Jackson took his own fight close to the front of the lines, something she tried not to think about, his staff, and her brother, would be safe.

  It had taken him two days to reach her, the delay caused by Stoneman’s cavalry raid. The train that brought them was heavily armed, would fight their way through if necessary, but finally the tracks from Richmond had been cleared, and now they had reached Guiney’s Station.

  There were troops in the yard, small groups, dirty, ragged, and officers, some familiar. She saw women now, coming out on the porch of the big house, waiting for her. She was led, a gentle arm, soft words and sad faces. She watched her brother moving away toward the small cottage, and men saluted, and she thought, I should see him now, but they were pulling her away. She looked into the faces now, saw the concern, the deep sadness, and knew something was happening, something her brother had not told her, and she tried to turn, said, “I must see my husband. . . .”