Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [238]
He rode back toward the black skeleton of the mansion, could see the gray troops moving in one long mass up that side of the rise, and now he knew it was done, his men could not stay here, were being pressed from both sides. He moved quickly, waved to the couriers trailing behind and yelled, “Go to the commanders! Pull back, to the north. Retreat in line, keep firing!”
The men were away, and he rode up the road toward the north, where the rest of the army was crowding the banks of the river, digging in, a quick defensive line protecting the withdrawal from the rushing tide of Lee’s tightening ring.
He turned, saw his men falling back on both sides of him, the lines backing toward each other, the distance between them closing rapidly, the deadly fire from the rebel muskets now striking his men from behind, some shots flying farther, reaching out and dropping men far across the field, in the lines of their own advancing troops.
The smoke came toward him again, and he pulled the horse away, slowly, stayed on the road. His men were still moving back, a good solid line, no break, no panicking flood. He halted the horse, sat still now, and suddenly the light wind shifted again, cleared the smoke away, and now he could see it all, his men moving backward. He felt himself shake, an icy stab in his chest, that this was some kind of absurd, horrible joke. He kept staring at them, watched them come closer, backing toward him, and now he felt a sudden release, the small hard place inside him that he could not open, could not touch months before, on the muddy banks of the Rappahannock. But now it came, an unstoppable flow of grief, the weight inside him pouring out, and it was not for the dead, for the men who would hurt no more, but for these, the living, the men in front of him now, men no different from him; soldiers who would carry this with them for the rest of their lives, who would always know that they ran in the face of the enemy they should have beaten, not because they were cowards, or because there was weakness in their hearts. They ran because they were told to.
53. LEE
May 3, 1863. Midday.
HE HELD the horse beside the road, allowed the guns to pass, the sweating mules and creaking wagons. He saw the clearing now, rode farther, his staff behind, climbed the short rise and could see across the wide-open ground. The remains of the grand house were a smoldering mass of twisted black. He moved that way.
His army was already ahead of him, had pushed beyond the clearings, concentrating on the withdrawal of the Federal troops. Now, guns from Hazel Grove, from the batteries to the west, were moving up, repositioning. It was barely past noon, and he watched them, thought, We can still do it today, there is plenty of time.
He dismounted, walked by himself toward the ruins of the house, stopped close to the edge of the smoldering ash. He tried to feel some joy, the familiar thrill, the wild pursuit of a routed enemy, the glory of victory. It would not come. Men were passing around him, keeping a respectful distance. He heard the shouts.
“We whipped ’em good!”
“The bluebellies are still runnin’, General. . . .”
He looked toward the voices, men waving at him, hats and muskets high, and he waved back, weakly, stared down again into the ashes.
Taylor kept the rest of the staff back, on their horses, and moved forward slowly, walked the horse up behind Lee and stopped. Lee did not look up. Taylor said, “Doesn’t seem right that General Jackson isn’t here to see this.”
Lee shook his head, said, “No, Major. It doesn’t seem right at all. But it is the will of God.”
Lee tried to pull himself away, thought about the army, Jackson’s troops coming together, reorganizing, the regiments and companies reuniting now after the massive confusion, the headlong rush through the thick woods. He had seen the face often, peering out from under the old cap, and Lee had to keep telling himself, He is all right, he just lost an arm. Lee had