Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [172]
Suddenly, the hills in front of them began to speak, small flashes and puffs of white. There was a silent pause, a frozen moment, the men turning, waiting, and now came the sounds, the high screams, the whistles and shrieks. The shells began to fall, shaking the ground, blowing quick holes in the neat blue lines. French’s men moved forward, wavering slightly from the impact of the explosions. Gaps had already opened in the line, men dying before they could even begin the attack. Hancock saw Couch riding back toward the town, the order given, the assault under way.
Hancock moved the horse up through his own lines. Sam Zook, one of his brigade commanders, another Pennsylvanian, was waving at French’s men, leading a cheer, watching them move away. Then he saw Hancock. “You’re the first line, Sam. Clear the way.”
Zook was smiling broadly, ready for the fight, and he yelled out, over the sounds of the incoming shells, “General, you best tell old French to hurry it up, or move out of the way! We’re headin’ for the top of the hill!”
Hancock forced a smile, nodded, pulled his horse back and faced the front of his second line, the Irish Brigade—Meagher’s men. He looked down the line, saw that the men had put green . . . things in their hats, pieces of anything they could find. Above them the green flags of the regiments moved slowly. They will be easy to follow, he thought. He saw Meagher now, standing, fragile, his staff helping him up onto a horse, and he rode that way. Meagher saw him coming, straightened himself up on the horse, glanced down at his leg. Hancock saw a wide cloth, a thick bandage.
Meagher was holding a salute as Hancock pulled up, and Hancock said, “General, are you fit?”
Meagher tried to smile, and Hancock saw he was pale, weary. He had taken a minor wound at Antietam, a small piece of shrapnel in his knee. It had been no cause for concern, but it hadn’t healed, and the knee was bad now, the leg in trouble.
“General Hancock, I will lead me brigade. We are a-headin’ up that there hill, and I will personally spit in the eye of old Bobby Lee. Sir.”
Hancock nodded, looked at the bandage, and Meagher saluted again, said, “General, I will be leadin’ this here brigade. Have no doubt about that, sir. We will do the old Emerald Isle proud this day, that we will.”
“I have no doubt about that, General.” He returned the salute, spurred the horse, rode through the men toward his third line, Caldwell’s brigade. John Caldwell was waiting for him, impatient, did not like being the last in line.
“General Hancock, sir, we are ready.”
“General Caldwell, do not advance until the Irish Brigade has moved out two hundred steps. Count them if you have to, General.” Caldwell was not smiling, and Hancock knew he could be a bit reckless, too much in a hurry, but still, he could move his men, could be counted on to bring up a strong line. Caldwell nodded, was already watching the lines to his front, waiting.
It was done. He rode out along the edge of the formation, watched through his glasses as French’s men reached the first of the fences, the lines slowing, men pulling down the wooden rails. The shelling was following them out, like a violent storm that moves with you, the gunners adjusting the range, hurling their solid shot through French’s lines with vicious effect. Hancock saw a great black mass hit the ground, splattering dirt and men, and the black ball still coming, rolling and bouncing across the patches of snow and grass, then burrowing into the lines of his own men. He moved his horse forward, looked down the rows of his lead brigade and saw Zook riding out in front, waving his sword. Now the whole thick line, the First Brigade, began to move, and Hancock moved forward with them.
Up ahead French’s men were still holding their formation, but the fences were slowing them down. Zook’s brigade began to close the gap between them, the artillery taking