by Jeff Shaara
The fire from Heth’s front was slowing. His troops were not moving. Lee could see many wounded, wagons under trees, clusters of men drifting back through a field to the right. Aides began coming up with messages. Taylor had gone to look for Heth. Lee was thinking: how do we disengage? how do we fall back? where do we hold until Longstreet comes up?
He sent a message to Ewell to advance with all possible speed. He sent a note to Longstreet telling him that the Union infantry had arrived in force. But he knew Longstreet could do nothing; there were two divisions in his way. Lee looked at his watch: well after two o’clock. Darkness a long way away. No way of knowing where the rest of Meade’s army was. Possibly moving to the south, to get between Lee and Washington.
And here, at last, was Harry Heth.
He rode up spattering dust, jerking at the horse with unnatural motions, a square-faced man, a gentle face. He blinked, saluting, wiping sweat from his eyes. He had never been impulsive, like Hill; there was even at this moment something grave and perplexed about him, a studious bewilderment. He had been the old army’s leading authority on the rifle; he had written a manual. But he had gotten into a fight against orders and there was a blankness in his eyes, vacancy and shame. Lee thought: He does not know what’s happening.
Heth coughed. “Sir, beg to report.”
“Yes.”
“Very strange, sir. Situation very confused.”
“What happened?”
Lee’s eyes were wide and very dark. Heth said painfully, “Sir. I moved in this morning as directed. I thought it was only a few militia. But it was dismounted cavalry. John Buford. Well, there weren’t all that many and it was only cavalry, so I just decided to push on it. The boys wouldn’t hold back. I thought we shouldn’t ought to be stopped by a few dismounted cavalry. But they made a good fight. I didn’t expect … They really put up a scrap.”
“Yes.” Lee was watching his eyes.
Heth grimaced, blowing. “Well, sir, they wouldn’t leave. My boys got the dander up. We deployed the whole division and went after them. We just about had them running and then all of a sudden I see us moving in on infantry. They got infantry support up from the south. The boys got pushed back. Then we reformed and tried again, couldn’t stop there, sir, but there’s more infantry now, I don’t know how many. But I don’t know what else we could have done. Sir, I’m sorry. But it started out as a minor scrap with a few militia and the next thing I know I’m tangling with half the Union Army.”
“Who are they?”
“Sir?”
Lee was watching the fight, which was now relatively quiet. The smoke was clearing, blowing toward the north. He could see blue troops moving in the trees on the Union right, moving out on the flank. He looked north, but he could see nothing beyond the ridge. The blue troops seemed to be pulling back that way, retreating, reforming. Strange. The battery up by the cupola had stopped firing. Riding up through the haze: Dorsey Pender. Letter from a pious wife.
To Heth Lee said, “What units have you engaged?”
“The cavalry was Buford, sir. Two brigades. They really fought. Then there was the First Corps, the Black Hats, John Reynolds’ old corps. Then there was another corps, but we still haven’t got it identified.”
At Lee’s shoulder, Taylor said quietly, insistently, “General, you are in range of the enemy batteries.”
Lee said, “It’s quiet now.” He looked once more at Heth; his anger died. No time for blame. But there must be information.
Taylor insisted, “You gentlemen are standing together. May I suggest that you move at least to the shelter of the trees?”
There was a sudden fire on the left, a burst in the north. Lee felt an acute spasm of real anger. He clutched his chest. I know nothing.
Heth said, “I’d better look to my flank.” He moved away. A rider came up—a courier from Rodes.
“General Rodes’ compliments, sir. I have the honor to inform you that the General has joined the engagement with his entire division and is attacking the Union right. He begs me to inform you that General Early is behind him and will be on the field within the hour. Do you have any instructions, sir?”
Lee felt a thrill of delight, mixed with alarm. Rodes had come in right on the Union flank; the blue troops were turning to meet a new threat. And Early was close behind. A flank assault, already begun. Lee sat staring north. No way to tell. He could order forward the entire army. Heth was here and Pender. Rodes’ attack might almost have been planned.
But he did not know how many Federals were ahead. Rodes might be attacking half the Union Army. Another Sharpsburg. And yet, and yet, I cannot call him back; he is already committed. Lee said, “Nothing for now. Wait here.”
He turned to Taylor. “I want all possible knowledge of the enemy strength. Ride forward yourself and observe. And be careful.”
Taylor saluted formally and rode off, the grin breaking across his face just as he turned. Lee turned and began heading back toward the road. Now Heth was back.
“Sir, Rodes is heavily engaged. Shall I attack?”
Lee shook his head, then said loudly, “No.” He rode on, then he said over his shoulder, “We are not yet prepared for a full engagement. Longstreet is not up.”
Heth said, “There aren’t that many of the enemy, sir.”
“What are your casualties?”
“Moderate, sir. There’s been some fighting. But Pender is in position. Together, sir, we could sweep them.”
Lee waited. It did not feel right. There was something heavy and dark and tight about the day, riding stiffly in the broad barren field, in harsh sunlight. The firing in the north was mounting. Batteries of artillery had opened up.
“Who is commanding there?” Lee pointed to the hills beyond the town.
Heth blinked, suddenly remembering. “Sir, I’d forgotten. We have word that General Reynolds was killed.”
Lee turned. “John Reynolds?”
“Yes, sir. Prisoners state he was killed this morning. I believe Doubleday has succeeded him.”
“Are you sure?”
“The news seems reliable.”
“I’m sorry,” Lee said. His mind flashed a vision of Reynolds. A neat trim man. A gentleman, a friend. Lee shook his head. It was queer to be so strange and tight in the mind. He seemed unable to think clearly. Reynolds dead. Gone. Doubleday behind him. Doubleday an unknown quantity, but certainly nothing spectacular. But Reynolds’ First Corps was solid. What to do?
“I can support Rodes, sir,” Heth said.
Lee looked at him. He knows he has brought this on; he wants to fight now to retrieve it. His answer is to fight, not to think; to fight, pure and simple. Lee rode slowly forward, nearing the trees ahead alongside the road. You can depend on the troops, but can you count on the generals? Why has Rodes attacked? Will Hill fight well, or Rodes either? What I need is Longstreet and he is not here. A mistake to bring him up last.
Another courier. “General Early has arrived, begs to report that he is attacking to the north of General Rodes.”
Lee stopped, looked north. It was working almost like a plan. It was possible to see Intention in it. The Union formed to face him and fought well and now was being flanked from the north, simply because Lee’s men had orders to come to Gettysburg, and they were coming in almost behind the Union defenses. Lee felt a sharpness in the air. His blood was rising. He had tried to be discreet, but it was all happening without him, without one decision; it was all in God’s hands. And yet he could leave it alone himself no longer. Rodes and Early were attacking; Heth and Pender were waiting here in front of him. Lee’s instinct sensed opportunity. Let us all go in together, as God has decreed a fight here.
He swung to Heth. “General, you may attack.”
To Pender he said the same. He gave no further directions. The generals would know what to do now. With that word it was out of his hands. It had never really been in his hands at all. And yet his was the responsibility.
He rode forward to the rise ahead,
across the small creek. Now he had a clearer view. Pender’s division was on the move; he heard the great scream of the massed Rebel yells. Now batteries were in position behind him, beginning to open up on the woods near the cupola. Lee ducked his head as the shot whickered over him. He did not like to stand in front of artillery. Some of the artillery was moving forward. Rifle fire was breaking out. The wind shifted; he was enveloped in smoke. Marshall’s face appeared, an incoherent message. Lee tried to find some place to watch the assault. Pender’s whole force was streaming forward across the fields, into the woods. Lee saw flags floating through white smoke, disembodied, like walking sticks. Shell bursts were appearing in the air, white flakes, round puffs. One blossomed near. There was Marshall again. Lee heard fragments split the air near him. He moved into a grove of trees: oak, chestnut. There was a white house nearby, a white rail fence, a dead horse lying in a black mound in the sun.
He waited in the grove, listening to the enormous sound of war. Eventually he sat, resting himself against the bole of a tree. It was dark and cool back in here out of the sun. Men were dying up ahead. He took off his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, felt his life beating in his chest. The fight went on. Lee thought for the first time that day of his son, Rooney, wounded, lying not far from here. He closed his eyes, prayed for his boy, for all of them. He put his hand down on black dirt, was reminded: Pennsylvania. I am the invader.
Once more the Rebel yell—inhuman screaming of the onrushing dead. Another unit was going. He rose and went forward, trying to see, but no point in that. There was too much smoke. Yet it might help if he was seen. He moved up out of the grove of trees, onto the road. The road ahead was crowded with wounded. There were men lying under wagons, out of the sun, most of them semi-naked, covered with bandages, blood. He saw another dead horse, a splintered wagon; the severed forefoot of a horse lay near him in gray dust. Smoke was pouring down the road as from a great furnace. He moved forward; his staff followed him. Here was A. P. Hill.
Hill said, white-faced, “Very hard going. Heth is down.”
Lee looked at him, waiting.
“Wounded in the head. I don’t know how serious. But the division is moving. Pender is on the flank. But the Yankees are fighting well. I don’t recall them fighting this well before.”
Hill seemed peculiarly calm, vacant, as if he was not wholly present. He was a handsome man who had a great deal of money but was not “society” and was overly aware of it and very touchy about it.
Lee said, “Let me know General Heth’s condition as soon as possible.”
Lee sat down against a rail fence. A band came by, playing an incoherent song, fifes and bugles. The sky was overcast with blowing white smoke, the smell of hot guns, of blasted earth, the sweet smell of splintery trees. Lee was in the way, in the road; men were gathering around him, calling to him. He saw a house, an empty front porch. He moved toward that way and stared down toward the smoke. Firing was intense. He sent couriers to Early and Rodes to advise them of his new headquarters and to ask for progress. He had no idea of the whereabouts of Ewell, who was supposed to be in command over there and who probably knew less of what was happening than Lee did. Longstreet was right: command was too loose. But no time for that now.
A courier from Early: The enemy was falling back. Lee could hear an officer near him erupt in a high scream. “They’re runnin’, Great God Amighty, they’re runnin’!”
Lee looked down the smoky street, saw a man helping another man along the road, saw masses of men moving vaguely through a field, saw flashes of artillery. The fire seemed to be slowing down. There were many men yelling. A lieutenant came down the road, pointing back toward the smoke, yelling wildly that someone was hurt.
A. P. Hill said, at Lee’s elbow, “General Heth’s surgeon has examined him, sir. He says he ought to be all right, but he will be out of action for a while.”
“Where is he?”
“In a house over this way.” Hill pointed.
“You will take good care of him, of course. And, General, see to yourself. You can do no more good now. I want you to rest.”
Hill said softly, calmly, vacantly, “I’m fine, General, just fine.”
But he looked as if he were about to faint. Lee was thinking: if Longstreet were only here. How many in the Union Army? If the First Corps is here and the Eleventh, the rest must not be far behind. He heard more men yelling. In the street he saw officers waving their hats, grinning enormous grins. Victory? A rider came up, from Pender. A young man with a marvelous wide mustache said, “General Pender begs to report the enemy is falling back.” Officers threw hats in the air. Lee smiled, could not be heard. One man touched him, another patted his back. He raised his glasses and looked to the clearing smoke.
He turned to Marshall. “I’ll go forward.”
Traveler was at the rail outside. Lee mounted and rode. Men were cheering him now, touching the horse as he went by. He tried to control his face. The wounded were everywhere. Some of them were Union boys, looking at him insensibly as he went by. A courier from Early: a rout on the left flank. The Union Eleventh Corps was running. More cheers. Lee closed his eyes once briefly. God’s will. My trust in Thee. Oh Lord, bless You and thank You.
He moved forward to the rise ahead, across a small creek. Taylor said, “This must be Willoughby Run.” Lee halted at the crest. Now he could see; the land lay before him wreathed in smoky ridges. Half a mile away lay the town, white board buildings, dirt roads. Beyond it was a high hill that rose above a series of ridges running off to the east. Blue troops were pouring back through the town, moving up the sides of the hill. The couriers were right: they were retreating. Victory. Lee put his glasses to his eyes, felt his hands tremble, focused, saw: Union artillery forming on the high hill, men digging. The fight was not over. Must not let those men occupy the high ground. Lee turned. To Taylor he said, “Find Hill’s chief of artillery, tell him I want fire placed on that hill. I don’t want it occupied. What word do you have from Ewell? And send General Hill to me.”
Taylor moved off. Lee was thinking: we must continue the assault. The blue troops are on the move; now we must keep them moving. But Heth is down. He looked for Pender’s courier, informed him to tell General Pender to continue the assault. But Early and Rodes were closer, on the left. If they only kept moving. The guns on the high hill were beginning to fire.
Here was Powell Hill, looking worse. He said, “The men have done all they can do. Heth’s division is exhausted. Pender says he has had the hardest fighting of the war.”
Lee studied him, looked away, back to the hill above Gettysburg. Hill may be sick but Pender was trustworthy. If Pender had doubts …
Taylor arrived. “General Ewell is with General Early, sir. We are in communication.”
“Good,” Lee said. “Deliver this message in person. Tell General Ewell the Federal troops are retreating in confusion. It is only necessary to push those people to get possession of those heights. Of course, I do not know his situation, and I do not want him to engage a superior force, but I do want him to take that hill, if he thinks practicable, as soon as possible. Remind him that Longstreet is not yet up.”
Taylor repeated the message, rode off. Beyond that hill Lee could begin to feel the weight of the Union Army, the massive blue force pouring his way. What kind of a soldier would Meade turn out to be? We must not give him the high ground. Lee looked southeast, saw two rounded hills. We might swing around that way. They have marched quicker than I expected. Thank the Lord for Longstreet’s spy.
He heard more cheering, to the rear, looked, saw Longstreet. Moving forward slowly, calmly, like a black rock, grinning hungrily through the black beard. Lee flushed with pleasure. Longstreet dismounted, extended a hand.
“Congratulations, General. Wish I could have been here.”
Lee took the hand warmly. “Come here, I want you to see this.” He waved toward the field ahead, the hill beyond Gettysburg.
An officer near him said
, “General Lee, it’s Second Manassas all over again!”
“Not quite,” Lee said cheerily, “not quite.” He was delighted to have Longstreet here. Now through the streets Johnson’s division was moving, Longstreet’s people could not be far behind. With every step of a soldier, with every tick of the clock, the army was gaining safety, closer to victory, closer to the dream of independence.
Longstreet studied the field. After a moment he said, “We were lucky.”
“It couldn’t have worked better if we had planned it.”
Longstreet nodded. Lee explained the position that Ewell had orders to move to the left and take that hill. Longstreet studied the hill* while Lee spoke. After a moment he said, “Fine. But this is fine. This is almost perfect.” He turned to Lee. “They’re right where we want them. All we have to do is swing around that way—” he pointed toward Washington “—and get between them and Lincoln and find some good high ground, and they’ll have to hit us, they’ll have to, and we’ll have them, General, we’ll have them!”
His eyes were flashing; he was as excited as Lee had ever seen him. Lee said, amazed, “You mean you want me to disengage?”
“Of course.” Longstreet seemed surprised. “You certainly don’t mean—Sir, I have been under the impression that it would be our strategy to conduct a defensive campaign, wherever possible, in order to keep this army intact.”
“Granted. But the situation has changed.”
“In what way?”
“We cannot disengage. We have already pushed them back. How can we move off in the face of the enemy?”
Longstreet pointed. “Very simply. Around to the right. He will occupy those heights and wait to see what we are going to do. He always has. Meade is new to the command. He will not move quickly.”
Lee put his hand to his face. He looked toward the hill and saw the broken Union corps falling back up the slope. He felt only one urge: to press on and get it done. He said nothing, turning away. There was a messenger from General Ewell. Lee recognized the man, Captain James Power Smith, Ewell’s aide. The captain was delighted to see the Commanding General.