by Jeff Shaara
The wound still bothered him, nearly every day. It had come the third day at Gettysburg, facing the last great assault from Lee’s army. The musket ball struck his saddle, shattered the wood and exploded it underneath him, punching splinters and fragments up inside of him. The doctors thought they had removed all the fragments, but the pains were still there, and the wound still festered and burned, and if the doctors didn’t know, he did. There were more fragments inside of him yet. He would need surgery again.
There was not much about that day he could recall. He had watched them come, a great wave of men, Pickett and Pettigrew, nearly fifteen thousand soldiers, pushing straight at his defenses. When he saw it was Pickett, he also knew it was Armistead.
Lewis Armistead commanded one of Pickett’s brigades, and Armistead had been as close to Hancock as anyone before the war, a friendship that grew from the early days, Mexico, Kansas, the Seminole Wars in Florida. They had parted ways in Los Angeles, when news of Fort Sumter reached the West Coast. Much of the army simply dissolved, so many resigning, going south. He knew they would meet eventually, that there were too many in this war who were facing their friends, their brothers, across the deadly space. He had not allowed himself to feel the sadness of that. It was, after all, Armistead’s choice.
He still didn’t understand that, how the good men, the honorable men, could betray their oath as officers, betray their country. He had asked himself, tormented himself with the question: When this is over, will we still be friends? Will I be able to look him in the eye and not see a traitor?
Pickett’s great assault had brought Armistead and his men straight into Hancock’s guns, and unlike most of the shattered gray wave, Armistead’s men reached the Federal lines, actually broke through, pushed across the low stone wall in one last desperate surge. But they were too few, and the men in blue too many, and Armistead fell just inside Hancock’s own lines.
Hancock never saw him that day, had already gone down with his own wound. Now there would be no answers. He would never know if Armistead could still have been his friend. It all seemed so very long ago.
He moved the horse again, heard more scattered musket fire from the right, thought, Burnside. You’re in there, somewhere. It would be nice if you would tell me where, or what the hell you’re doing.
The field across the road was quiet now, the last of his men safely behind the log wall. There was a steady flow of black smoke down to the left, a brushfire moving with the breeze, rolling slowly toward the road, toward the pine of the wall. He moved that way, saw the smoke drifting across his men, a thick cloud. Men began to move out of the way, waving their arms. Some were laughing, and he heard a man say, “You boys keep a lookout. Them rebs could be hidin’ in the smoke!”
He looked across the field, toward the trees, and suddenly there was a new sound, a ripple of musket fire, the high shriek of lead, dull smacks in the wall. Then the rebels were there, moving forward, and now there came the sound, the awful scream he had heard before. It was the rebel yell.
His men began to fire at the gray line, and he watched, thought, How many … how strong? The rebels moved closer, but the charge didn’t come. They simply stopped, knelt, were trading volleys with his men behind the wall. Now the fire from his own men began to take effect, and the rebel line was falling apart. He stared, thought, This is insane. They can’t just … stand there. It will be a slaughter.
He saw a staff officer moving along the road, coming toward him. The man reined up his horse, saluted, said, “General Hancock, we have word from General Burnside. He is moving into position on our right front. General Burnside reports he will try to assault the rebel flank, if we can only hold them in place, sir!”
Hancock stared at the man, felt a burst of anger. “If we can hold them … why? So he can watch? Where the hell has he been all day? Now, we don’t need him, we are behind a big damned wall. The enemy is coming right at us!”
Suddenly there was a great burst of sound, across the field in the far trees. Hancock turned, saw a new wave, a heavier line of infantry emerging from the trees. The sounds of the muskets rolled all around him, the road filling with gray smoke, the hot smell of powder. Now it was a fight.
The staff was gathering behind him now, and he could hear the shouts, the men yelling at him. He jerked the horse, moved away from the wall, behind the road, thought, No, this is not the place for you to be. He moved back into tall trees, followed by the staff, saw more officers waiting for him, looks of pained relief. Well, hell, he thought. If I can’t see it for myself, how am I to know what’s going on?
Now a man rode quickly up behind him, a staff officer, the man ducking low. Hancock turned the horse, and the man yelled, “Sir … we have a gap in the lines! General Ward reports the enemy is advancing into our center, sir!”
Hancock stared at the man, watched him wilt under the hot gaze. “Yes, Captain, I can see where the enemy is assaulting! A gap? Where? Where is General Ward?”
“Uh … I don’t know sir. When I left him, he was moving to the rear … with his men.”
Hancock looked toward the road, thought, His men? Ward has broken? He’s the center of the line. How could they have given way? He spun the horse, and now the black smoke was boiling past him. It wasn’t a brushfire anymore. It had reached the sticks and timbers of the wall, and now a great roaring bonfire began to spread out on both sides, sheets of flame towering above the road. Blue troops with blackened faces were streaming toward him, men with burnt clothes, a new panic from an enemy you could not hold away.
He saw officers now, yelled, “Dammit! Get these men back in line!” They were moving in a rush all around him, shouts and curses, and now he could hear the sounds of the muskets, the hot lead cutting the air around him.
He turned, yelled to his staff, “Get word to all units … send support to the center! Order up the reserves, to the middle of the line! Tell the officers … follow the smoke! Go toward the smoke!”
Now there was a new burst of musket fire, all along the wall, and he tried to see, thought, Yes, hold them back. Suddenly there was a great chorus of screams, and he saw a burst of men leaping through the flames. The rebels had reached the logs, were rushing forward through the wall of flames. They began to flow out from the wall, and he could see them pointing, quick aim, scattered shots. They were looking for targets, began now to fire up and down the road, where the men in blue still huddled at the wall, where the flames had not yet spread.
Hancock could see the faces now, men with singed hair, blackened clothes. He spurred the horse, and the staff followed, moved farther back into the trees. The smoke was everywhere, from the fight, from the growing fire. He moved into an open clearing, took a deep breath of blessed air. On the trails behind him a column of his men was moving forward, the reserve, and he pointed, yelled to an officer, “There, double quick! They have broken through!”
The fresh troops moved toward the fire, the great crackling roar now blending with the sounds of the fight. From both directions, the Federal troops were moving toward the breakthrough, a tightening arc, containing the surge of rebels. The fight became hand-to-hand, the men in blue growing in number, too many for the rebels to push through. The break in the lines was shrinking, the rebels pushed back to the wall, to the great horror of the flames. Many gave up the fight, began to run, to climb through the fire, and those who escaped had to make the deadly retreat across the open ground. Many of the wounded tried to pull away as well, but they could not move quickly through the sheets of fire, and many could not climb the wall. As the surge of blue pushed them tighter together, those who would not surrender battled with whatever they carried in their hands, backed closer to the wall, closer to the flames that finally consumed them.
THERE WERE SCATTERED SHOTS, A FEW REBEL SKIRMISHERS, AND then the jumbled firing from the woods far out to the right, the fight Burnside was trying to make.
Hancock moved into the road, past the men who were gathering near the smoldering wall, sta
ring quietly at what remained. The flames were mostly gone now, but small plumes of black smoke still rose from the ashes of the great logs.
Many of the burnt timbers were not timbers at all, but the bodies of the rebels. There were bodies all along the wall, beyond the place where the fire had roared through. Many were just draped across, some in grotesque shapes. But the men focused on the smoldering ashes, that part of the wall that still held the heat, the smoke. There were many twisted and blackened figures, hands reaching up, frozen in death, reaching out, still trying to escape the fire. Some were caught in the act of climbing up, seeking the escape, their breath swept away while they struggled to reach the safety of the woods beyond. Some had been wounded, men who crawled toward the wall, only to have the flames roll over them. The clothes were mostly gone, burned away, and the men in blue stayed back, did not yet have the stomach for pulling the dead away, not like this, not when there was nothing to hold, to touch, but the burnt flesh, the charred bones.
There was a gentle shift in the breeze, and Hancock caught the awful smell, could see some of his men backing away now, some beginning to be sick. Hancock pulled his mind away, turned the horse off the road, thought, No, not here, you cannot let them see you … you cannot be affected by this. He pushed the horrible sights from his mind, moved the horse past more men who were gathering on the road. He turned, saw staff officers moving to catch up with him, and he thought, Tell them, keep them ready, pass the word. But he said nothing, realized the rebels were through here. This fight was over. No one over there would ask them to do this again, to charge this line. We are too strong, he thought. Nothing can be gained. He reined the horse, looked back to the road. No, they will not come again, not here. The soldiers have seen something new, a new horror, a new way to die. They have seen the face of hell.
15. LEE
LATE AFTERNOON, MAY 6, 1864
THEY WERE SPREAD OUT ON BOTH SIDES OF THE ROAD, A LONG LINE of trenches and piled debris, the men sitting low behind their cover. Lee saw motion down along the line, the red battle flags of each regiment, a slight wave in the fading breeze. The sun was beginning to set and long shadows spread across the road. He dismounted, still looked eastward, saw the dark smoke from the Brock Road, from that awful place where his men lay scattered, the smoke from the breastworks still rising, and Hancock’s people safely behind their wall.
Faces were watching him, men were turning about, pointing at him. There were some shouts, but the men were brutally tired, and many were already sleeping. He walked off the edge of the road, into the darker shade, but there was no cool relief.
The staff waited out on the road, and Taylor followed him, moved quietly. Now even the affectionate salutes of the men faded out, and the woods were quiet. Taylor stayed a few steps back, and Lee sat on a long dead tree, punctured by many holes, colored by blood. Lee looked at the stain on the soft wood, put his hand on it, felt the wood crumble, slid his hand along, felt the rotting wood roll into small pieces under his fingers. He looked down beside the tree, to the thick mat of old leaves, saw another stain and, half buried, a man’s shoe, old black leather. He reached down, freed it from the dirt, held it up in his hand, saw a hole, the sole worn through, the heel long gone. He thought, There are not many shoes in this army. This one … was lucky.
He did not often think of that, did not even use the word. What was luck, after all, but the will of God? He tossed the shoe aside, then looked at it again, thought, No, I should find him, he will want it. It was an odd feeling, that he must have known this man, must find him.…
He looked at the dark stain again, realized there might be no need. He tried to clear his mind, pull himself away, thought, You cannot do this, you cannot see them like this … one at a time. He stood, brushed the dead wood from his pants, thought, You can never be this close. You cannot be absorbed in the fate of each man. But you are closer. This terrible fight has done that, the war has done that, slowly, over time, taken the good men, the good leaders. There is something in this … a lesson, God has shown you that you must not forget that each of these men has his own pain, dies in his own blood, has his own soul. The line is so thin, the strong line between the commander and these men, the men who lead the charge, the men who face the guns.
He had kept Longstreet’s image away until now, his mind holding instead to the faces of the men he did not know, the men who left their shoes behind. But if he did not show it to his staff, he could not keep it away from himself for very long, and so the image came to him. Longstreet’s wound was thought to be fatal, but the doctors reached him quickly and the bleeding was stopped. I was not there, Lee thought, I don’t know how I could have endured that. He had not seen Jackson after the arm was amputated, had been grateful for that, would not remember him as anything but the magnificent fighter, would see the man as he’d always been, not as he’d died. And now he thought of Longstreet, fought the image of the big man choking on his own blood. The staff had put Longstreet’s hat over his face, to shield him from the sun, and so the men who gathered around thought he was already dead. Longstreet had heard the talk, heard them crying, lifted the hat off his face himself, and waved it at them. Taylor had been there and seen it, heard what the soldiers were saying, that it was a miracle, Longstreet back from the dead. Lee shook his head. No, he will die in his own time, in his own way. He is too stubborn to leave it in God’s hands.
He looked around, the shadows filling the spaces, thought again of Jackson, and now Longstreet, both shot by their own men. He was so pleased that the fight would be here, this awful place, and he remembered he’d felt the same way a year ago, when Hooker had drawn himself up into these woods. But there was a difference now. Lee knew that Jackson had gone down as a price to be paid, a balance, that God would not give Lee such a great victory without something in return. This time the victory was not complete. Grant was not rushing away toward the river, as Hooker had. And so Longstreet would not die, not yet. Lee felt certain of that, the justice … God would be fair.
Taylor was watching him, and Lee saw him now, saw a sadness in the young man’s face. He appeared pale, weakened.
“Colonel, have you any word? Anything I have not already been told?”
Taylor said, “You mean about General Longstreet, sir? No, sir, just what the surgeons said. He should survive. It is a terrible wound. When I left him about an hour ago, he was awake, but … his neck. I cannot think of it without feeling sick. I’m sorry, sir.”
Lee nodded, said, “It is a ghastly thing … that we do here, that we do to each other. We are not supposed to think on that … it is part of the duty, of the tragedy. And there are so many …”
Taylor moved closer, said, “At least, sir, the general will survive. He will be back. He told me that himself.”
Lee looked out past the distant line of men, looked to the gray light, fading in the small dark spaces, felt the anger rise, said, “That is what we were told about General Jackson.” He pushed it away. No … do not question, there must be no bitterness. Forgive me, Lord. I am weakened … I will not question Your will.
He turned now, began to walk back toward the road. Taylor moved out in front, went to the horse, took the reins from an aide, held them out. Lee stopped, looked up at the others, saw Marshall, the young man staring at him through small wire glasses.
“Colonel Marshall, have we received anything yet from General Ewell?”
Marshall sat up straight in the saddle, always responded to Lee with nervousness, something Lee did not understand.
“Um … no sir. Just that he expects his attack to begin about … now, sir.” Marshall looked at a small pocket watch. “Yes … about now.”
Lee climbed the horse, moved to the center of the road, looked to the north, stared at the spreading darkness. There was no sound.
The meeting had come at Lee’s request, early that afternoon, to find out exactly what was happening in Ewell’s front. He thought of Ewell’s explanations, still felt the small fury that had
swirled inside of him, an anger he would never reveal. Ewell had done little all day, except hold the Federals in front of him tight in their lines. Both sides were aware of the other’s strength, and so, as Hancock’s flank was being rolled up by Sorrel’s surprise from the railroad cut, and later, as the attack against the Federal defenses on the Brock Road had threatened Hancock’s position, neither Warren nor Sedgwick could risk weakening their defenses in front of Ewell. But if there had been no Federal advance there, nothing to lend support to Hancock’s hard thrust early that morning, Ewell had done nothing as well, content to enjoy his strong defensive lines, while Hill, and then Longstreet, made the fight to the south.
Lee could understand a stalemate, both sides wary of making a mistake against strong defenses of the enemy, but what had stirred his anger was the final detail of Ewell’s report. He had mentioned a possible plan, an idea that had come from John Gordon.
Gordon’s brigade lay now on Ewell’s far north flank, the left flank of Lee’s entire position. Gordon had scouted out around the Federals in front of him and found that Sedgwick’s lines simply … ended. There was no protection beyond the Federal right, no great mass of cavalry, no skirmish line extending up toward the river. Sedgwick’s people had not even dug trenches. The night before, Gordon had seen it for himself, slipped quietly east, well behind Sedgwick’s lines, and watched men in blue preparing their evening meal, with no preparation against anything that might come at them from above, from the direction of the river.