Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [218]
It was Colston now, and the second division moved into lines behind Rodes, the men swarming past Jackson’s horse. Most did not look up now, knew it was soon. Then Colston was beside him, wanted to say something. He was nervous, had not led a division into battle before, and still Jackson rocked, his eyes closed. Colston watched him, let it go, turned to his troops again.
Jackson suddenly stopped moving, looked sharply behind him, saw Pendleton and said, “Where is Hill?”
Pendleton was startled, moved closer. “General Hill will be up with his lead brigade very soon,” he said. “He is not more than a mile behind. His last two brigades are well back, sir. They have not been able to make up for the lost time, for the fight with the Yankees.”
Jackson turned, closed his eyes again, was suddenly furious, felt a stab of pain in his side. His chest tightened and he tried to breathe, opened his mouth, and the tightness gave way. Hill again. It was good Hill was last in line. They could move without him if they had to.
Rodes was still close by, heard the brief conversation, felt defensive about Hill, said, “Sir, General Hill was pressed by a large force of Federals. I am certain he is bringing his men up as quickly as he can.”
Jackson stared at him, a withering glare, and Rodes looked away, had crossed a dangerous line with his commander. Jackson closed his eyes and slowly began to rock again. Colston’s lines were almost in place now, and Jackson spurred his horse, moving down the road toward the back of Rodes’s troops, with Rodes moving quickly to catch up with him. Jackson reached the line of men, leaned over and tried to see out into the thick brush. The line disappeared in both directions, the men slowly moving forward with small noises, the officers keeping them in line. Jackson heard curses and nervous laughter, could hear the sounds of the brush, the men stepping through the tangle. He looked down the road, lifted his field glasses, stared ahead and saw two small black eyes, the silent stare of Howard’s cannon. Lowering the glasses, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gold watch: five-fifteen. They would have two hours of daylight.
Rodes said nothing, waited, and Jackson now looked at him, hard, tried to see into the man’s soul, measure the strength of his heart. Rodes still waited, felt the power of Jackson’s cold blue stare.
Jackson said, “Are you ready, General Rodes?”
“Yes, sir.” Rodes did not pause.
“You can go forward, sir.”
Rodes turned, and there was a quick shout and a bugle sounded, and out in front the first line began to crush through the tangle of briars and thickets. From far out in both directions came the sound, the high, screaming wail, of ten thousand men; a solid line a mile wide pushing and clawing through the brush in one great mass of motion. The terrible sound echoed far in front of them, carried forward by the wind, and before them, beyond the brush, in the wide clearings along the road, heads began to turn, and plates of hot food were spilled, and the men in blue coats stood, staring at the impossible, the impenetrable thicket, stared as the deer and the rabbits and the birds ran and darted and flushed out before the great wave. Before the first man was seen, or the first musket aimed, the men in blue were swallowed by the sound, by the raw terror, and they began to run.
HE RODE close behind the first heavy line, pushed out into the first clearing. His men stopped, raised their rifles in one sweeping motion, and there was a long blast, the echo filling the space. In front of them the flight of many soldiers was cut down. They ran on again, passed untouched stands of muskets, campfires and tents and wagons.