Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [222]
He stared down the hill, watched the white smoke gradually clearing, and the rumble in his gut began again, and a familiar word suddenly flowed into his brain, a word from the textbooks, from old lessons. Suddenly, he felt utterly stupid, knew they had all listened to Hooker, had accepted instinctively, blindly, what the commander told them, and even if they did not truly believe it would happen, that Lee would hurl his army against a solid wall, they still waited, firmly in their trenches, inflexible and mindless. The word came into his brain again: demonstration. Now he understood why the attacks were regular and brief, with just enough muscle to hold his division in their trenches. Now he understood what Lee had done.
He spurred the horse hard, jerked the reins, and began to gallop into the deep glow of the sun, toward the Chancellor mansion where the generals waited. It was a short ride, and he pulled into the yard, jumped down hard, stumbled, and men were watching him, some were laughing. He stood, felt a sharp pain in his knee, looked up toward the porch, saw, sitting at a small table, holding a teacup, Joe Hooker.
“General, try to maintain a bit of dignity. There are enlisted men present.”
There was laughter, and Hancock saw the faces of the others. Officers and their aides spilled out onto the porch, drawn by the commotion, and he saw Couch now, coming out of the house. Couch saw the look on his face and did not laugh. On the road behind him there was a sound, the clatter of wheels, and he turned, followed the gaze of the others, saw a horse, a fast gallop, pulling an empty wagon, and there was no driver. He watched the wagon move past, heard more laughter, looked back to Couch, would talk to him, find out what was happening, the truth. On the porch, one man looked past Hancock, looked toward the last of the sunlight, through the trail of dust from the single wagon, said, “Good God . . . here they come!”
Hancock turned, saw on the road, across the clearing on both sides, a ragged mass of troops, no coats, no hats, without guns. There was the rattle of another wagon, then many more, still without drivers, terrified horses, pulled along by a growing tide of running men.
On the porch Hooker yelled out, and men began to move. Above the house, in a wide clearing, there was a line of resting troops, a reserve division of Sickles’s corps, and now orders were flying, the men scrambling into formation. Hooker shouted from the porch, “Move into line, move around, move into line! Give them the bayonet!”
Hancock grabbed his horse, jumped up and spurred the big animal out into the road, saw now that this was not the enemy, these were men in blue. Our men, he thought, and felt the great weight of the wave. If they keep going, they will run right over the backs of my men.
He could hear guns now, well to the west, scattered cannon, but mostly muskets, the vast flow of sound finally reaching the clearing. There were more wagons, men on horses, and the mad stampede was moving past the mansion. Hancock looked for officers, someone in control, saw the line of Sickles’s fresh troops swinging around, moving toward the road, trying to stop the panicked mob. From the thicket below the road more men appeared, torn uniforms, still running, and he raised his sword, swung it down hard, hit a man flat across the shoulder, knocking him down. The man looked at him with raw terror.
Hancock shouted, “Get up! Stop running!” and the man was back on his feet, seemed to understand. But then another rush, and the man was caught up and gone again. Hancock turned the horse, rode quickly down the road, fought his way with the tide, moved past, tried to get out in front, to reach his trenches before the tide swept over.
He crested the hill, turned back, saw fewer men running now. Many had simply collapsed with exhaustion. But others came on, and now they reached his own troops. His men were turning, standing, surprised,