Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [174]
From the smoke in front of him, men were moving back toward him, the survivors of French’s lines, lines that were completely gone. Across the field, through small clearings in the smoke, Hancock could see bodies everywhere. He looked behind him, saw his own lines still holding together, still advancing, and he yelled out, waved them on. The men saw him, still cheered him, raised their hats and held their muskets high. They moved steadily toward the great mass of guns that waited behind the stone wall. They began to pass French’s men, the men who had survived by lying flat on the ground, trying to hide from the rifles. They had found a slight depression in the ground—the last hundred yards to the stone wall was up and over a small rise, and the men had found blessed cover.
Hancock saw that this was a good place to reform the lines, bring them together for the last push. He rode forward, could see over the rise to the wall, thought, Not too close, remembering Meagher’s words: “A general’s not much good to anyone if he gets himself killed.” Zook’s men were gathering below the rise now, and some of French’s men were regrouping, standing with them. He saw Zook calling to them, and they began to move again, up the hill. They reached the crest and now stood within fifty yards of the wall.
Many of the men were stopping to fire, their first chance to see the clear face of the enemy, and then they were wiped away, whole groups falling at once. Hancock watched from below the rise, yelled, “No, do not stop!” but there was no one to hear him.
Behind him, dropping now into the depression, came the Irish Brigade, and he saw Meagher waving the men on, and then Meagher was falling, awkwardly, from the horse, and Hancock rushed that way and dismounted.
Meagher was surrounded by his men, the men in the green hats, and he waved them away. “No, go on, I’m all right!” He saw Hancock, pointed at the knee, the dirty bandage, and Hancock saw a neat black hole. Meagher said, “I’ll be a-takin’ this leg off, that’s for sure. Damned thing keeps drawin’ fire.”
Hancock leaned over him, and Meagher looked around, began waving at his men. “Go on, move! You’re almost up the hill! Go!”
He’s all right, Hancock thought, and joined the line of Irishmen moving forward on foot.
They went to the crest, saw the wall, and the men kept going, broke into a run, did not stop to shoot. He watched them close in, saw the faces of the men behind the wall, many, many faces, and there was another volley, and then another, and again he could not see, and now behind him it was Caldwell’s brigade. He did not see Caldwell, but still screamed at the men, and they obeyed, climbed up, moved forward with the rest. Now he had no one else to send, tried to see through the smoke, through eyes watering from the thick smell of burning powder.
He expected to see the blue coats, his men, climbing the stone wall, moving over the top, pushing the rebels out. But the smoke was too thick and the muskets were still firing. He dropped down to his knees, moved up, out into the open, crawled over a body, then another. There was a lull, and the smoke was drifting back, over his head, and now he could see, and the faces were still behind the wall, looking out over the field with the black and hungry stare of men who have not had enough, the ground in front of him spread with a vast carpet of blue.
36. CHAMBERLAIN
December 13, 1862. Late afternoon.
HOOKER’S RESERVES did finally cross the river, marching shakily across the bouncing pontoons and through the burning and shattered town, forming their lines at the edge of the open field. It was late afternoon, and Sumner’s attack had run its course. Steady streams of bloodied and hobbled men now crossed the field toward them, many passing right through the lines without speaking, others cursing their own luck, or warning the fresh troops what awaited them out there, beyond the low rise.