Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [223]
50. JACKSON
May 2, 1863. Evening.
THE VOLLEYS were slowing now. The big guns still threw shell and canister toward him, but the dark was spilling heavily over the ground, had filled the thick woods, and even the open clearings were growing dim. He saw Colston, and rode that way. Colston was yelling at an officer, directing the man to form his company, saw Jackson and stared with wild eyes.
“We have stopped, sir! Can’t see! The lines are tangled . . . we’re mixed in with Rodes’s men. It’s confusion, sir! We need Hill to come up . . . Hill’s men can move on by us!”
Jackson turned, looked to the rear, tried to see past the dark thickets. He heard the sound of troops, fresh troops, said, “Yes, General. Try to form your men. I will tell General Hill to push on! We must not stop! They are running. They will keep running if we press them!”
He turned the horse, rode back toward the oncoming lines, now saw A. P. Hill leading his staff. Hill saluted, unsmiling, and Jackson stared hard into the thin face. “Keep them moving, General,” he said. “Keep the pressure up. We have broken their flank. We can crush them now, cut them off. We must not give them time to organize. Take your division forward, then press on to the north, toward the river. Move toward United States Ford . . . they must not escape!”
Hill stared at him, said, “General . . . it is dark. I don’t know the ground.”
Jackson turned around, looked, saw his own staff beginning to come together, saw Captain Boswell, the engineer, and yelled out, “Boswell, report to General Hill. Find a way through the woods . . . to the northeast. Find the rear of the enemy’s position. We will cut them off!”
Boswell moved up, saluted Jackson, and Hill looked at him, knew there would be no argument.
Jackson turned away now, his orders clear, and he rode forward down the dark road. In front of him a sudden burst of shelling was answered from both sides, the woods cut down by aimless blasts of metal. He rode farther, listening, looked up into the black, wanted to ask God to please let them keep on . . . but he did not, thought, You have given us much today. To the south, away from the turnpike, he could see a red glow, and then another. Now, the staff eased up closer behind him.
A voice said, “Fire . . . the woods are burning,” and they waited, watched.
Another man said, “Oh my God . . . the wounded . . .” Jackson held up his hand, waved them back, pushed the horse forward, listened. The shelling had stopped now. Scattered musket fire echoed through the trees, and he watched the fire, could hear it, fueled by the dry and dense brush.
He wanted to ride forward, to the confused tangle of Rodes’s and Colston’s lines, to tell them not to stop, to keep going, move forward . . . but he felt the sudden deadweight of hopelessness, could not see anything at all in front of him, knew they could not as well, that a night attack rarely made sense, not in a place like this. He looked up, said another prayer, Thank You for our success, and through the tops of far trees, saw a white light, the great brightness of the rising full moon. Around him the light was cutting through the shadows, and now he could see the shapes, the wide path of the road. Yes, he thought, God is still showing us the way!
He turned, and the staff came up again. He saw the boy, the young man who knew these woods so well, and Jackson said, “Is there a road . . . that way, toward the United States Ford?”
“No, sir, not here. There’s some old trails, but farther up, there’s the Bullock Road. Some trails off that . . .”
Jackson nodded impatiently. “Show me! Now . . . we must not waste time!”
The boy moved forward, Jackson followed, and the staff trailed behind.
They turned down a small road, moving slowly