Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [234]
Hancock looked at him, saw no smile now, only the dirty sweat of the battle. “We are holding our lines . . . but . . . no, I have received no supplies. The wagons are up above the mansion. Have you sent back to headquarters?”
Slocum waved his arms, seemed frantic. “Of course I’ve sent to headquarters! There is no support there! Hooker will not send any aid . . . says we are fighting for our lives!”
Hancock saw the look, a man who believed they were done, a commander who would infect his men.
“General Slocum, we are not giving way! There are not enough rebel soldiers to drive us from this ground! Can you hold your position?”
Slocum stared now down toward his lines, then turned to Hancock with a new look, a dull sadness. “We will hold out as long as we can. If Sedgwick does not come to our aid . . . it cannot last.”
Hancock thought, Sedgwick? Why do we need Sedgwick? Is he still on the river, below Fredericksburg? He was feeling the old anger again, the heat rising in his chest.
“General Slocum, I must tend to my division. I am sorry that headquarters is not cooperating with you. I will try to find General Couch. He may have some help to give.”
He pulled the horse away, left Slocum sitting, rode back toward the turnpike, toward headquarters, the Chancellor house.
There were guns now, long lines, wagons and caissons, moving up into the wide clearing, coming from the south and the west. They moved up past the house, to the north, began to unlimber, officers screaming orders, gunners pulling their cannon into position. He reined the horse, thought, Why are they back here . . . and suddenly, in front of him, a bright flash, a hard slap of wind, and the air came alive, bright red streaks, blinding explosions. Now he understood: We have pulled back, the lines are closing in.
He pushed the horse, could see the house, saw a shell hit directly into the walls, shattered brick blown high in the air, a stone chimney collapsing. Men were running, scattering, riderless horses were galloping toward him. He tried to keep going, the house now hidden by smoke, and he heard men yelling, approaching, saw flags now, officers. He waited, thought, Keep moving, but no, there will be no one there now, and that whole damned clearing is a target. He heard his name then, a hoarse voice. He turned toward the sound, saw men on horses, Couch. Other officers were trailing behind him, and they were moving fast, away from the house, toward the east, moving closer now, toward the turnpike. He pulled the horse around, met them on the road.
Couch said, “Are your lines holding, General?”
“Yes, we have not withdrawn from our original positions. Where are the rebel guns firing—”
“From Hazel Grove. We have pulled back. Our commander has decided we are too weak, and so we are concentrating the lines. We are too goddamned weak!”
He saw Couch’s face, red rage, knew that it was all falling apart, and Couch said aloud, as more men gathered around them, “General Hooker has been injured. It is not serious . . . he seems to be stunned. He was at the house when the shelling began and was struck . . . quite possibly by the hand of God.” There were nods, small laughs from the men, and Hancock saw that Couch was not smiling.
“The general has transferred command of the field to me. His last orders were . . . that the army be withdrawn . . . that we seek the safety of the river. It is the commanding general’s feeling that this army has been beaten on this ground. I do not agree with that assessment . . . but the order has been given. I have sent word to Sickles and to Slocum to begin pulling back from contact with the enemy.”
Hancock stared down to the south, toward Slocum’s lines. He could see wagons moving, men filling the road. Behind them, around the burning house, shells continued to fall, and the Federal guns there were now answering. From the far side of the clearing, from where the stampede