Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [167]
Stuart was still yelling, and the men around them, the gun crews, began to cheer as well. The Federal lines were still well away from Jackson’s position, but were being delayed and disrupted by the one man, John Pelham, one gunner from Stuart’s command. Now Stuart grew quieter, said, “All right, pull out . . . that’s enough . . . save the gun. You’ve done enough.”
Lee could still see the lone gun firing, shells impacting around it, close, and Pelham moving again, still firing. He turned to Stuart, said, “General, you had best return to your troops. I don’t want that gallant young man to fight this battle by himself.”
Stuart was smiling, saluted. “At your service, mon Général.” Then he reached for his horse, climbed up, and with a wave of his tall hat rode away toward the battle.
Longstreet was glassing down toward the town, saw little movement, said, “It’s all down that way . . . nothing is happening in front of us. It’s Antietam again. One piece at a time.”
Lee looked toward the town, glassed the buildings, saw masses of blue in the streets, knew Longstreet was right. The fight was not here, but down there, on the right, and Burnside would wait and see what happened there first. Lee shook his head, turned toward the sounds, searched again through his glasses for the lone cannon, the heroic gunner. “It is well this is so terrible,” he said. “We should grow too fond of it.”
34. JACKSON
December 13, 1862. Early morning.
HE SAW the red shirt from a distance, rode that way. Shells were still falling in the woods to his left, out toward the front of the line and the edge of the wide plain. Military Road, which the soldiers had built through the thick trees, was clear, open; the shells had not reached that far back. He rode quickly, kept looking toward the sounds of the explosions, felt the earth bouncing under the horse, the horse not flinching at all.
Jackson reached the group of men, the man in the red shirt, A. P. Hill, directing the rest, and he pulled the horse up. He tried to hear what was being said, and they turned to him, Hill saluting. But the sound of the artillery barrage drowned out the voices. Hill was pointing toward the front, said something to Jackson he could not hear, and Jackson motioned to him: move back, behind the road, away from the shelling.
Hill mounted his horse and followed Jackson back into the trees. They passed over lines of crouching men, Taliaferro’s lines, and the men saw him, began to cheer, waving hats. Jackson tried not to notice them, and Hill looked self-conscious, usually heard the same thing from his own men, but not from the rest, and it was clear they were cheering Jackson, not him.
When they reached a small clearing, two of Jackson’s staff, Pendleton and Smith, rode up quickly from behind. Both men were sweating in the cold air, and Jackson reined his horse and waited.
Pendleton said, “General, we were told you had returned. Sir, we have a gap in the line, you need to see this. . . .”
Jackson looked at Hill, who said, “Yes, yes, it’s that swamp, the thick trees. Do not worry, General, no sizable force can move through that ground. It’s a wide creek bed, the ground is a muddy swamp. I spoke with a local farmer. He told me he never uses that land. With respect to your staff, General, my lines are sound.”
Jackson said nothing, reached for the piece of paper offered by Pendleton, a small, crude map showing the units, the woods. He studied it, and there was a long, quiet moment, a lull in the shelling. “I must ride out,” Jackson said. “I must see what is happening. Mr. Pendleton, you will stay with General Hill. You may find me on this road, or forward, at the edge of the trees. Captain Smith, please accompany me.”
Jackson spurred