Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [158]
31. HANCOCK
December 11, 1862
THEY WERE tight together, a sea of men standing together by regiment, muskets pointing high, and they could not move.
They had begun to form along the edge of the river at mid-morning, moving through the thinning fog. The engineers had started earlier, and the bridges now reached well out into the river. All morning the musket fire from the far side had whistled past them, blindly piercing the clustered masses of men who waited on the bank. The officers kept them together, and they all knew there was nowhere to hide, no cover, that if the small lead ball was meant for you it would find you, and they flinched and ducked and held their position.
Hancock had watched it all, had been out early with the engineers. The order to begin laying the pontoons came the night before, passed through his hands, and it seemed something positive was happening at last, and he saw they would finally have their chance, and thought it might work. Then, as he stared into the fog, watching the workmen falling into the ice, the angry shelling of the town that drove no one from their holes, his excitement faded and he began to feel angry, a boiling fire of fury.
He looked back, over the heads of his own men, up the hill to the mansion, said aloud, “You won’t move them out with guns!” and his men heard and cheered him, an outburst that betrayed their mood.
He saw Sumner now, riding down the hill, below the firing of the guns, thought, Fine, come see for yourself. The general’s staff followed close behind, made an elegant procession. Hancock pulled his horse through the crowd of men, slowly, carefully, moved to meet him. Couch came down the hill as well, from another direction, and now Hancock saw Oliver Howard, another of Couch’s division commanders, making his way to the spot where they would meet.
Now there was a pause in the shelling, and behind him the engineers tried again, more visible now to the riflemen on the other side. Hancock did not watch, stared ahead to the gathering commanders.
Sumner was in a new uniform, sat tall in his saddle, his back straight, the thin face set square and firm, and Hancock suddenly knew that this would be all for him, the last fight. He knows that this will not work, Hancock thought, but he has no choice. He suddenly felt pity, watched the old man’s face with a great sadness.
Sumner looked at him, showed nothing, no emotion, said, “General, are your men ready to move across?”
“Quite ready, General.”
Sumner turned to Howard, who was trying to steady his horse, said, “And you, General? I want you to be the first. Move your division through the town, spread them out on the streets, protected from those far heights. Keep them inside the line of buildings.”
Howard said, “Yes, sir, we await the order to move, sir.”
Hancock looked at Couch, who was staring down toward the river. “They’re coming back again.”
They all turned, and Hancock saw the men running along the wobbling pontoons, toward the safety of the near shore. Now, from above, the shelling began again. The ground rumbled, and across the river they could see the flashes of light, black smoke rising through thinning fog.
Hancock looked at Sumner, wanted to say . . . something, thought again of suggesting the crossing upriver, coming into the town from above, clearing out the sharpshooters from behind. Sumner stared at the river, and Hancock said nothing, let it go.
A rider yelled out, the man pushing his horse through the crowded troops. There were shouts, indignation, and the man kept moving, forced his way closer.
“General