Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [186]
He rubbed his face, told himself to keep it under control. He knew he was angry, and an officer cannot be angry, does not have the luxury of the good old-fashioned cleansing temper, of walking up to headquarters with a pint of whiskey and two hard fists, kicking down the door and launching a bolt of lightning through the face of the man who did this. He felt himself shake. Yes, that would be very damned nice. The whiskey would be easy, there was always some around. He could even picture the scene, the whole thing, the staff officers moving to stop him, and he would brush them aside, the pale and weak men who did not dirty themselves with soldiers’ work, and there would be Burnside, the fat round face staring up at him with raw terror, and he would pull him up by the collar . . . no, he would grab the sides of his face by those ridiculous whiskers, and Burnside would scream out, “Have pity, mercy!” And he would say, “They are all gone. You sent them across that river and watched them die . . . you fat, bloody idiot.”
He laid his face down in his hands, felt it pour up out of him, tried to cry, felt his eyes fill, and then it cut off, would not come. He could still see the looks on the faces, the pieces of broken and blasted men, his men, still running at the wall, right into the face of the muskets; and after the blinding flash, if they were still standing, they still ran forward. How can we expect them to keep doing that? It is not just training, you do not train a man to face death, he either will or he won’t. And so many of them will.
He thought of Burnside again, thought, At least he knows what he did. Hancock still loved McClellan, would always consider him a friend, but McClellan did not understand, did not seem to grasp why a battle was lost, that he might have done something differently, better, faster. He would never blame the men, of course, but always looked behind him, to Washington, always found a conspiracy, some way to blame . . . them. But Burnside had accepted his failure, had even tried to lead another assault, ride out in front of his old Ninth Corps by himself, lead them up to that damned stone wall, die as the others had died. It was a foolish gesture, and no one ever considered letting him go, and even he had understood that the absurd plan would kill a great many more good soldiers in yet another suicidal assault.
Lincoln will certainly replace him, Hancock thought. He went through the names: Franklin, Sumner, Hooker. None of them seemed to inspire much of anything. There was Reynolds, Baldy Smith, even Couch: a better group than the first, probably. But there was always the issue of rank, of seniority. And this was still the army.
He saw clouds forming now, a long low bank far to the west, back behind Lee’s hills, more dark winter. We will do nothing for a while, he thought. Good, let them rest. Christmas . . . He thought of his son. My God, he is nearly ten years old. And he wants to be a soldier. He remembered Mira’s last letter, the toy gun, fighting imaginary rebs in the backyard. No, he will not get the chance. The war may last . . . but he will not go, not ever.
He stood up, stretched, felt a stinging pain, his stomach, a wound he had not even noticed until it was over. Something . . . a ball, shrapnel, had torn his shirt, grazed a raw red line on his skin. Lucky man, he thought. If it had been an inch closer . . .
He stepped down from the rock, slid in the mud, steadied himself. Best get back, he thought. They’re probably looking for me. Ought to find Couch, talk to him. And Meagher, his leg. He started back along the hill, was surprised to see a man higher up the