Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [220]
Far in front of him, beyond the heavy lines of smoke, one man sat high on his horse, held a billowing flag, the Stars and Stripes, taken in a rush from his headquarters. He clamped it tight against his body with the stump of his arm, the empty sleeve waving wildly, held his pistol high with the other hand, yelled, screamed, pleaded with the men who ran by him, “Stop, for God’s sake . . . turn and fight!”
They did not stop, would not look into the face of their commander, knew only that behind them was the certain terror of hell on earth, and somewhere, if they kept going, they would find the river, would get back across, to where it was safe; that maybe they would fight again, become an army again, but not today.
49. HANCOCK
May 2, 1863. Late afternoon.
“COLONEL MILES, they’re coming again!”
The young man followed the extended arm, saw movement deep in the brush, the wave of brown and gray, and raised his pistol. All along the skirmish line the other officers yelled out the order, and now the line exploded into a single blast, a careful volley that stopped the advance cold, and the gray lines melted back into the dense brush.
They were beside a long, narrow creek bed, had spent the night digging shallow trench lines, clearing the woods to their front for a clean line of fire. Behind them, back up the rise, the main body of Hancock’s division was dug in as well, waiting for the grand assault by Lee’s army.
Hooker had ridden by earlier in the day, full of pomp and compliments. Hancock had been polite and formal, endured the inspection as a soldier had to endure inspection, but Hooker’s predictions had not come true, there was not yet a heavy attack, just this constant skirmishing, wave after small wave, against the strong lines that had so pleased Hooker, the lines that would butcher Lee’s army.
Hancock heard the new assault, the brief volleys, saw the thin line of smoke rising, again, from the trees below. He saw an officer moving in a run up the rise, and the man stopped, the young face smeared with mud and the gray stain of battle. He spoke through heavy breaths, saying, “General, it’s nothing but . . . more of the same. They’ve been beating us up all day with a single line of skirmishers. It doesn’t make sense, sir.”
Hancock stared across the wide depression, past the trees that covered the creek bed, toward the position of Lee’s unseen troops, and now, to the south, in front of the Twelfth Corps, a new burst of artillery, shells bursting in the air, shattering trees, and far down in the woods there was a rebel yell and a clash of muskets, and both men watched, waited, and then it stopped.
Hancock looked down at the dirty face, found the clear eyes. “Colonel Miles, I will send you a bit more strength, beef up the line again. But I don’t believe you will be pushed very hard. Not now . . . it’s too late in the day.”
Miles looked back down the hill, said, “Doesn’t make sense. You can’t get anything done with a skirmish line.”
Hancock looked across the crest of the ridge, the trenches and heavy lines of troops, his division, still waiting, rifles still pointing toward the trees below, rifles that had been quiet most of the day. They had not moved, had kept the sharp eye to the east, where Lee’s army had moved in close the night before. All day, Lee had just . . . played with them.
He waved an arm, and an aide moved closer. Hancock said, “Go tell General Meagher to pick out