Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [171]
He saw a flag, quick riders: Couch. Hancock moved that way, and Couch saw him, halted the group, motioned for him to ride forward, leaving the staff behind.
“General,” Couch said. “Your division about set?”
“They are. French is ready as well. Howard should be able to move out once we start forward.”
“Good.”
Hancock saw the face, tight and grim, said, “Any further word . . . from over there?” He motioned back across the river.
“Sumner has been ordered to remain in his headquarters. He will not accompany his Grand Division in the fight.”
Hancock stared up at the far mansion, thought of the old man, said, “Burnside ordered him to stay back?”
“I think General Burnside feels that General Sumner is at risk today, might do something . . . dangerous. General Sumner is not pleased with the order.”
“No, I would imagine he is not pleased at all.” Hancock waited, expected something further from Couch, but Couch said nothing, looked downriver toward the sounds of the fading battle. Hancock followed the look, said, “It did not go well, I expect. Jackson held his lines.”
Couch took off his hat, held it up, blocking out the sun. “They did not expect General Jackson to put up much of a fight. They tried to drive him back, break his defense with two divisions, two of Reynolds’s divisions. They left the bulk of Franklin’s forces idle. General Smith’s corps was ordered to guard the bridgeheads . . . his entire corps. Guarding them . . . from what?” Couch lowered the hat, slapped it against his leg, said, “Burnside’s order said to keep the lines of retreat open. Have you ever received an order like that? Your commander emphasizing your need for retreat?”
Hancock stared away, thought of Reynolds, a good man, a general who knew how to command a field, all his fight taken away by a weak commander. How could they not expect Jackson to put up a fight? He shook his head, said, “Was it bad?”
“Don’t know. Heard Meade made a good advance, but Franklin didn’t support him. Had Hooker sitting across the river with thirty thousand reserves and didn’t use them. Now, they’re our reserves. Likely, by tonight, they’ll still be over there.”
Hancock looked toward the hill and Lee’s army, said, “We’ll try, though. It’s all we can do.”
Couch looked at him, turned to his staff and waved them forward. “General Hancock,” he said, “return to your division. I will give General French the order to advance, and you will allow him to move out approximately two hundred yards, then you will move your men in line behind him. The orders you received this morning still apply. You will advance in brigade front, spacing your brigades that same distance. Your objective will be the stone wall at the base of the hill. You will drive the enemy from his position and move up the hill.” He stopped, stared away, back across the river. “Do you understand, General?”
Hancock nodded. “Yes, sir, I understand.”
Couch turned toward him and his expression changed. Hancock saw something, concern, a soft look in the eyes, and Couch suddenly put out a hand, said, “Take care, Win.”
He took the hand, embarrassed; the staff was watching, lines of marching troops were passing by. He released the hand, snapped a salute, said, “General . . . we will see you this evening . . . up on that hill.”
Couch nodded, said nothing, and Hancock turned and rode through the streets toward his men.
He moved the horse carefully, and the men in the street gave way, moved respectfully to the side. There was some yelling, a few catcalls, nervous comments from the men who would do the bloody work. He did not look at them, did not know them—they were Howard’s men. He could see his own lines now, the formation nearly complete, and