Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [219]
Devens’s division was in total chaos, stampeded past the trenches of Schurz’s division, the next in line. Schurz’s men turned, formed a line of fire, and a volley came at the front of the gray wave, but it was the poor aim of panic, and the tide quickly rolled over them, driving those who could run into the escaping mob.
There were more trenches now, earthworks dug by men who had expected a fight, and they were quickly covered by the swarm. Jackson rode up, pushed the horse onto a long mound of dirt, could see his troops far in front, continuing to press on. Men were coming up behind him, Colston’s first line.
Jackson turned, yelled, “Press on! Forward!”
They looked at him, and he saw the fire in their faces, his fire, and they went over the embankment, fighting their way through felled trees. Shots whistled past him now, return fire from small pockets of men in blue, the few who stood to fight. But even the most determined, those who would never run, soon realized that the line washing over them was too wide and too many, and if they did not finally move out, join the great wave, they would be quickly captured.
He pushed on, rode through the earthworks, saw beyond to the next obstructions, and there was more solid fire now, coming through the thick brush, splintering branches and limbs. His men slowed, the lines ragged now, and there were new shouts from officers. Jackson yelled to them all, “Form the lines! Keep it up!”
Now there were more volleys, from both sides, and he saw men falling, right in front of him, Rodes’s men—his men. He rode past them, toward a building, glanced at the sign, DOWDALL’S, and reined the horse. Across the road he caught a glimpse of blue, hidden by the brush, and a roar of muskets blew into the line behind him. He turned back, saw a dozen men, a neat straight line, still pointing their muskets forward, and the men were all down, had fallen together. Now there was another sharp blast, farther behind him, toward the brush, screams, and men stumbled out toward the road, blue coats and new stains of red, and his line moved on by, kept going. He looked at the fallen men, men from both sides, a few feet apart, and raised his hand, held it high, the palm up, a silent prayer. Colston’s second line was passing by him now, watching him, and suddenly there was a cheer, echoing down through the roar of the guns and the rising smoke. It spread, grew into a high scream, rolled into a new chorus of the rebel yell, and he watched them now, shouted out again, “Keep it up! Move forward! Stay together!”
The smoke was heavier now, shells ripping the air, bursting in the road, tearing through the brush. Federal batteries were turning, meeting the wave, and his lines began to shatter. He turned to the side, rode along a thick patch of the dense woods, saw a small group of men standing, unsure, and an officer. He yelled to the man, “Get them together, press them on!”
The man looked at him, appeared stunned, and Jackson yelled again, “Get them into line!”
There was a hot rush of air, and the brush in front of him was suddenly swept away; then a bright flash, a deafening, horrible sound, and the officer and men were gone. He had started to yell again, his mouth open, the words forming, and he stopped, turned, would not see, would still push them on.
Jackson jerked at the horse, moved back into the clearing, to the road, began to follow the line again. Now the firing was more to the front. They were still pushing the Federal troops back. He looked behind him, to the tavern, saw a farmhouse and knew they had come two, maybe three miles. He spurred the horse, moved up quickly, did not look at what lay around him, the vast spread of debris, shattered guns and wagons, and the broken bodies of men. He moved out toward a grove of trees, saw there were blue soldiers, crouching, aiming, and a volley ripped by him, struck men moving up behind. He saw a line, Colston’s men, moving