Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [237]
“Charge, you cowards! Charge! They’re right behind us!”
It was John Geary. Hancock moved closer, and Geary kept yelling, was turning back, looking toward the thickets and the last of his own retreating men. They moved by, passed through Hancock’s line, many with wounds, moving slowly, and Geary yelled again, at Hancock’s troops.
“Charge them, you cowards!”
Soldiers were closing around the horse, and Hancock saw a musket raised, pointed at Geary. A soldier said, “There are no cowards in this line!” and others began to yell at Geary as well, angry taunts. Geary was staring at the musket, the point of a bayonet.
Hancock moved up, said, “General Geary, I am in command here. You will not give orders to my men. These men have had their fill of watching this army retreat. I would suggest you retire to the rear with your troops.”
Geary stared at Hancock, mouth open, and Hancock turned the horse away, had nothing else to say, knew he could not pour out his anger on this one man, a man who after all was doing what he was told.
He heard hoots, yelling behind him, knew it was directed at Geary, the men calling after him as he rode back, away from the fight. Now there were new voices, men calling out, and he felt a sudden rush of hot wind, a high zip of a musket ball, then more, rushing past him on all sides and below, down past the last dying flames of the mansion, they came from out of the brush, a row of muskets, bayonets, and the ragged lines of the enemy.
The long lines on either side of him erupted instantly, a quick and heavy volley, and a thick blast of smoke rolled across the wide field. Now the answer came back, and he began to move, looking for the commanders. He had not seen Meagher for a while, and Caldwell was up ahead somewhere. He rode quickly, and the smoke stayed out in front of them, like fog rolling down a hill, so the firing from below was blind, balls whizzing over him, high and wild. He saw Caldwell on his horse, moving down the line, and Hancock motioned, back, away from the lines, and Caldwell turned and moved with him toward a small grove of trees. Hancock turned the horse, tried to see, and felt a quick shiver from the horse. The horse was searching the ground, plucking slowly at the green grass. Hancock jumped down, saw a steady trickle of blood, a clean shot through the head. He stood back, watched the animal, grazing, thought of the talk of the wounded, men who are dying, who fade slowly away, drifting back to some other place, some peaceful memory, and he thought, You too, old girl, and the front legs quivered, then buckled, and the horse fell over on its side and did not move.
Behind him, Caldwell’s aide had grabbed another horse, led it to him. Hancock stared at the animal, much smaller than his, and climbed up, his boots nearly brushing the ground.
Caldwell was staring back at his own lines, the smoke drifting toward them, and he said, “General, we cannot hold out against a strong assault. Where are the reserves?”
Hancock pulled the horse around, said, “You will hold your lines until I tell you to withdraw. There are no reserves, the rest of the army is withdrawing to the river.”
Caldwell stared, wanted to ask, saw the hot glare in Hancock’s eyes and nodded. “I understand, sir.”
Hancock spurred the horse, and it moved toward the smoke. He was suddenly engulfed in a thick cloud of sulfur and ash. He tried to turn, to move off to the left, but was swallowed now, felt himself choking. He moved farther, kicked the horse hard, and saw a clearing and his other lines, facing east, and below, a new volley, a fresh wave of the enemy coming from the woods where Miles had held them away. Then it was Meagher’s lines, and he rode forward, saw the green flag and Meagher pointing, shouting. There was a long, single explosion of muskets, and quickly, another. He moved up behind the line, could see down, a thick mass of men pouring out of the heavy trees, coming toward them. They were stopping