Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [213]
Oliver Howard had earned the promotion, served well under McClellan and since. He was the first division commander, under Couch, to enter Fredericksburg the winter before. He was a man with no outstanding talents, but he understood command, and it was a natural progression for him to eventually lead a corps. But even he understood that command of the Eleventh was a questionable reward. The Germans were not highly regarded as fighters, and were rarely put into the thick of the action. Now they were the far right flank of Hooker’s army, well out of harm’s way, the last line of defense, facing an empty section of the Wilderness.
They had finished breakfast, and the men were not looking for a fight. There were small groups, circles of blue, card-playing mostly, some stretched along the side of the turnpike, the opportunity for extra sleep. The trenches they had dug faced south, alongside the turnpike, and they were not deep. The fight was well to the east, far off to their left.
To the north, above the turnpike, the river was three miles away. There were no troops positioned above them. It was the far rear of the Federal position, the safest place on the field.
Howard rode slowly down the line of trenches, was met by small nods, the trained show of respect. It had only been a month, and he still did not know many of them, the regimental commanders, long and unpronounceable names. He had been patient with the accents, but often they would speak German around him, and he would say nothing, stare them down, and they would return to English, or say nothing at all.
He rode on the turnpike itself, toward the west, came to the end of the line, saw two brass guns pointing straight down the road, out toward nothing. It was the only place guns could be positioned; the road was the only clear line of sight. He turned toward the right, moved the horse off the road, saw the flags of two regiments, not quite a thousand men who lined up at a right angle from the road, refusing the line to the north. Here, they had not dug trenches at all. He rode alongside the distinct edge of the thickets, tried to see out through the dense tangle, and he saw a man, emerging with curses, carrying an armload of wood. The man tried to free himself from a thorny vine, dropped the wood, said, “Dammit, tore my sleeve.”
He saw Howard, did not salute, bent over to retrieve his firewood, said, “No fit place for a man, General. Damned near got lost.”
Howard nodded, did not smile, pushed the horse along.
There was a flurry of noise back on the turnpike, and he turned in the saddle, saw riders, flags. He spurred the horse, moved closer, saw now it was Hooker, his staff stretching out behind him like a small parade. Hooker raised his hand, stopping them. Howard rode up onto the road, saluted with his left hand.
Hooker said, “Good morning, General Howard.”
Hooker was smiling broadly, in high spirits, and Howard forced a smile, said, “General Hooker. I am honored by your presence.”
Hooker accepted the flattery, sat straight up in the saddle, looked out to the trenches, the official eye of the inspection. Men were standing now, lining the edge of the road, and Hooker said, “Yes, good. Good, indeed. Very strong, very strong.”
Abruptly, he turned the horse around, moved through his staff, followed closely by his color bearers, and shouted back, “Keep it up, Howard!” and the parade moved quickly away.
The men began to spread out again, the show was over, and Howard stayed up on the road, pushed the horse slowly, followed the direction of Hooker’s ride, moved back toward his own headquarters.
Howard did not move with any haste, expected few official tasks to fill the day. He let the horse walk slowly,