Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [155]
Hancock felt the cold numbing his hands and feet, began to move slightly, nervously. “Is there no way to change his mind? We should have crossed upriver, at the shallow fords.”
“Oh, certainly that has been suggested, General. Try to imagine President Lincoln’s response if General Burnside said to him, ‘Sir, if you don’t mind, we’re turning the army around, going back up where we just came from and starting over.’ ” He chuckled, rubbed his chin with the handkerchief. “I’d like to be there for that . . . ought to be a good one.”
Hancock nodded, tried to smile. Sumner turned, began to move back toward the wide doors of the house. He paused, kicked softly at the snow, turned up something with his foot, and Hancock saw color, bright yellow, red, a child’s toy. Sumner bent over, picked it up, shook off the snow and held it for a long moment. He said nothing, and Hancock waited, then moved closer to the old man, saw his face, saw red anger, hard red eyes, and Sumner tossed the toy out of the garden, over the low brick wall.
“General, we will be moving across the river very soon. There has been too much talk . . . too much loose talk. I want it shut off, stopped. Any further criticism of General Burnside’s plan of attack will be considered insubordination and will be dealt with severely. Am I clear?”
Hancock stiffened, felt the old man’s anger, said crisply, “Yes, sir. Very clear, sir.”
“Good. Now, return to your division, General. The engineers will be receiving their orders very soon. Be ready.” He climbed up the short steps, reached for the door, did not look back, and Hancock watched him disappear inside. He stood still for a minute, absorbing what Sumner had said, thought, Of course, he has no choice, it is all he has ever been. The rest of us . . . we have the luxury of youth, of better education, of better choices after all this is over. He’s just an old soldier, and his time is up. And he will go out doing his duty.
He turned toward the river again, to the far hills, felt a shiver flow across his body, pulled his coat tighter. He walked over to the low wall again, looked down the hill, saw the deep scars in the snow where the toy had rolled, saw broken pieces, the remnants, and he thought of Pennsylvania, and going home to the families of his men.
30. BARKSDALE
December 11, 1862
IT HAD been a steady stream, a solid sad line moving slowly, by foot, by cart, out and away from the town. They were old and young, women and children and their grandparents, the sick and infirm. Some were veterans of earlier fights, men who carried their wounds. Some were fit to be soldiers but had escaped, by politics or by money, but now they were all part of the same tragedy, moving together, and they all understood, they were giving up their homes, leaving behind them all that they could not carry, because the great destruction of the great war had finally come to crush their town, and the two armies, who squatted on the hills around them, could not offer them safety, but only ensure them that if they stayed, they would suffer the most.
He had kept his men by the side of the road, allowing the long line to pass, making room for squeaking carts and richly upholstered carriages, and the people looked at him as they went by, some saluting the uniform, but few said anything, there was no cheering, no mindless patriotism.
The civilians had grown used to seeing the war through the newspapers,