Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [173]
Men began to drop down, out of sight, then Hancock saw them coming back up, climbing a short embankment. There were small bridges, thin rails, and the rebels had removed the planking, so the men could only cross single file. The gunners on the hill had been prepared for that, had the range and were close enough for the smaller shot, the grape and canister. Men began to fall into the canal, blown apart by the unseen swarms of hot metal.
The smoke was thicker still as Hancock reached the canal. He could not see French’s lines at all, wondered if there were any lines left. His men began to jump down into the freezing water, nearly waist deep, splashing through the thin ice. Down the line he saw Zook, raising his sword at a small group of men who were moving back, pulling away from the canal, and Zook turned them around and over they went, pushed along now by the second line, closing the gap again. He thought, No, this is not good, wait, and he saw the green flags, saw men moving toward him with the green in their hats. He looked for Meagher, other officers, saw one man leading a company, rode to him through the clouds of smoke.
“Wait . . . hold them up, slow the line!” Hancock shouted. “You’re moving up too fast!”
The man looked at him, stunned, did not understand, and Hancock saw: a lieutenant with the face of a scared child. He looked up, tried to see farther down the line, saw Meagher now, riding toward him, and Meagher was yelling, telling his men to wait, let the front clear out. Hancock watched him, admired him until a shell hit the ground between them, a blinding flash. A mound of dirt blew straight up in the air, and he could not see. He thought, Keep moving, General.
Some of his men had found makeshift planking for the bridges, had laid it across the rails, and now the men were quicker. Many of them did not have to jump down into the frozen icy stream. Hancock dismounted, moved with the men over the bridge, holding his horse. Once across he could see through the smoke, a ragged line out in front. French was still advancing, was moving past a small farmhouse, and Hancock rode quickly to the front of Zook’s men, saw the lines straightening, the last of the barriers cleared. It will be faster now, he thought. We are getting close. He turned toward the hill, looked up the long slope, saw the mouths of the big guns pointing down at his men, the gaps still blowing through the lines, and felt a new rush of blind fury. He yelled out . . . something . . . not words, turned and saw Zook leading them on, laughing madly, wild eyes, and now they moved past him, toward the face of the hill.
Behind him, he watched for Meagher, saw the specks of green coming on, saw horsemen, the officers, bright flags in the wall of smoke, and then he saw Meagher, rode quickly toward him.
Meagher waved, had his sword high, yelled above the steady roar, “There she be, General. We’re a-gettin’ close. It’s a hot one, that’s for sure!”
Hancock did not speak, looked toward the hill, at another small farmhouse, the last of the structures. Then he could see the base of the hill and French’s men out in the open, moving faster now. Some men began to run toward the hill. He saw a short stone wall, a long line running along the base of the hill. There was movement from the wall, and suddenly the entire front of the hill was a sheet of flame, a single crushing blast of massed musket fire. French’s lines simply collapsed, melted away in the shower of lead. Smoke flowed across the open ground from the face of the hill. Hancock could not see, but he heard the sound again, another volley, and the balls were reaching his men now. Men were going down, small cries and grunts, the horrible slap and crack of the balls against flesh and bone, and he could begin to hear the wounded, sharp screams, and there was