Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [168]
Now, the shelling began again, still in the trees in front of them. They reached the road and Jackson pulled the horse, moved farther down to the right. He turned again, eased the horse to the left, up off the road, forward through the brush, and came to a shallow trench filled with Hill’s men. Carefully, he jumped the trench, and the men cheered him again. Smith waved at them furiously, quieting them, because now they could be heard by the enemy.
As they reached the edge of the trees, the shelling came in to their right, down the line. Jackson raised his glasses, tried to find the blue line, the advance of the Federal troops.
“I can’t see. Too low. Let’s move forward.” And he spurred the horse out into the clearing, into the tall grass. Smith rode out beside him, then to the front, and Jackson did not notice that Smith was placing himself between him and the enemy lines.
They reached a small rise. Jackson stopped, brought up the glasses again, said aloud, “Over there, they’re coming toward the point of trees.”
The blue lines were barely visible, stretched out for several hundred yards, but they were moving forward again, still a long way off. Behind him there was no sound. The shelling from the Federal guns had stopped and Hill’s guns were not firing, not yet. He turned, looked back to the line of trees, could see nothing, no sign of his men, and he turned toward the advancing enemy, said, “They don’t know where we are. Let them come . . . much closer. We must get back to General Hill, tell him to hold his fire, keep the guns quiet until they are much closer.”
He pulled on his horse, and Smith said, “Look!”
Out to the front, two hundred yards away, a single soldier, a blue uniform, stood in the tall grass. He raised his musket, and they did not hear the shot, but only the whistle of the lead ball. It hissed between them, missed them both by a couple of feet, and the man dropped down again, hidden by the grass.
Jackson calmly said, “Why, Mr. Smith, you had best return to the trees. They’re shooting at you!”
Smith did not smile, looked for the soldier again, knew the man was reloading. Jackson abruptly laughed, pulled on his horse, and the two men rode back into the trees.
They found Hill in the road, more staff around him. Jackson pulled up, said, “General, the enemy is advancing on those trees, that swamp. Order your artillery to hold their fire, allow the enemy to move close. We cannot be seen, and I am certain they do not know our strength, or our position.”
Hill nodded, motioned to the staff officers, and they rode out into the trees, toward the lines and the positions of the guns. Jackson turned quickly away, moved forward again, rode through the woods until he found an open space, a small rise behind Hill’s lines. The enemy was visible now, blue coats moving toward them through the snow and the grass. He watched them through his glasses, sat straight and high on the horse, raised one arm high in the air, the palm upturned, held it there for a few seconds, then reached down, into his pocket, and pulled out a lemon.
The advancing troops were those of Meade’s division, of Reynolds’s First Corps. Jackson watched them close on the trees, saw the flags through his glasses, and then from behind him and from down the lines on both sides the cannon opened, the thunderous sounds of dozens of big guns. The blue lines became obscured, bathed in the thick deadly smoke, and Jackson stood up in the stirrups, tried to see, caught a glimpse of the lines reforming, trying to hold their position. He could see behind them now, a gap in the smoke, more lines moving up in support, and knew it was a full division, several thousand men.
They had slowed under the first volley from the cannon, but now they came on, still pressed forward. He scanned to the front of them, in the direction they were moving, and could see the mass of trees