Alternate Generals (27 page)

He saw Scruggs' line burst through the woods, surging down into the narrow valley, the men charging, rifles held high. They hit the slope of the hill and started up. A wall of smoke blossomed halfway up, men tumbling over, splinters of wood, broken branches swirling upwards. The charge of the 48th came in on their flank, overlapping the line, and the ripple of smoke on the hill extended southward, then to the southeast slope.
So they were wrapped around the flank like a fishhook
, Joshua thought.
Exactly what I'd do.

The 47th went in next, sweeping past where Joshua stood, the power of the charge sucking him into the vortex of the fighting. Wild, mad, passionate screams erupted around him, the rebel yell corkscrewing down his spine so that his own voice was added as he rushed forward, bounding over boulders, leaping past men falling to his front and either side.

Pausing for a second he looked up the hill. It was impossible to see the other line, concealed now behind a curtain of yellow-gray smoke which was punctuated by flashes of dull red light. The charge was slowing, his own men were hunkering down, crouched behind trees and rocky outcroppings, firing up. Here and there along the line knots of men surged forward, gaining another dozen yards before being beaten down, desperately clinging to their gains or slipping back down the slope.

Joshua paced down the line, urging his men to keep up their fire, shouting encouragement. Men of the 47th started to work their way to the right and, up on the hill, he saw where the wall of fire ended. As the men of the 47th extended their line to the right he saw blue-clad forms dodging through the trees, leaping over rocks, staying low, extending their own line.

Another charge by the 47th went up the slope, this time pushing straight into the Union lines and for an instant he thought they had broken through. A wild melee of hand-to-hand combat erupted and then the gray and butternut surge slipped back down the slope like a tide retreating from a rock-bound coast. Men of three regiments were now intermingled, all of them pouring fire up the slope, surging ahead, falling back, surging ahead yet again.

Damn good fighters up there
, Joshua thought.
Not many Union troops would hold against such a bayonet charge.
And then his heart froze. For an instant the smoke parted and he saw the flag, the dark blue banner of Maine, rippling on the skyline as its bearer defiantly waved the colors back and forth. Next to the colors he saw him and knew. How could one not know his own blood, even if it was just a glimpse captured for a second in the mad confusion of war.

Tears filled his eyes, blinding him. He turned away and saw a young tow-haired boy, scalp bleeding from a shot which had creased his brow, raising his rifle up, taking careful aim. Joshua reached out and pushed the rifle up even as the boy squeezed the trigger.

Startled the boy looked up at him. Joshua gulped hard.

"You were aiming at my brother," Joshua whispered.

Wide-eyed the boy looked at him and then nodded.

"Sorry, sir."

"All right, son, just shoot somewhere else," Joshua replied.

Shoot somewhere else. What old friend from Maine had he just condemned by that?
Let not this cup come to my lips oh Lord
, he thought,
yet by having the cup pass, who else was doomed now instead?

Joshua looked back up the slope. Tom had always turned to Joshua for approval in all things, the younger seeking the elder. He watched how Tom was handling his regiment. He had chosen his ground well, not on the crest where he'd be silhouetted, halfway down instead, barricaded in behind the boulders. Tom stood up. Joshua held his breath as his brother sprinted along the line, obliviously extending it out, bending it back as the men of the 47th pushed around the flank.

Tom stopped, looking down the slope as if gauging where the next blow would hit and for an instant Joshua wondered if Tom could see him. The smoke closed around them and Tom was lost to view.

The 47th ran forward yet again, the rebel yell echoing, the men going up grimly, pushing hard and then falling back. Forcing himself to concentrate, Joshua gauged the defense. They were on the end of the line here. He stepped back, studying the ground behind him and to his own flank. His own flank. A low stone wall was barely visible fifty maybe seventy-five yards to the right and rear. Suspicious, he grabbed a sergeant passing by with a squad moving to the flank.

"Sergeant, head over to that wall," Joshua ordered.

"Sir, that's the wrong way to the fight."

"Just do it."

The sergeant shrugged, saluted wearily and motioned for his men to follow. The sergeant had barely made it halfway to the wall when a flurry of shots rang out, dropping several of the men in the squad.

Startled, the men of the 47th looked over their shoulders.
So they had a flanking force out to catch us
, Joshua thought.
Good work, Tom.

Joshua hailed a captain, ordered him to detail his company off to sweep the wall and then sprinted back through the valley and up the slope to where his two reserve regiments waited.

As he reached Oates and Perry of the 15th, Joshua saw Robertson riding up, hat off, swearing at the top of his lungs for Perry and Oates to fall in and support him.

Joshua stepped between his two regimental commanders and Robertson.

"General Chamberlain, just what the hell are you doing leaving me unsupported?" Robertson roared. "Damn all to hell, sir, I order you to detail off your reserve to support my flank as I go in. Thanks to you I've yet to commit for fear of losing my flank."

"Sir, I request that it be the other way around," Chamberlain replied. "I've found their flank; it's in the air."

Again there was a moment of hesitation. It was Tom he was about to do this to.

Robertson looked down at him coldly.

"If General Hood was here," Joshua added, "I think he'd agree."

"Hood is down," Robertson snapped, "I'm in command of the division now."

"Then, sir, I beg you, let us do what General Hood would have wanted. Have you committed your front yet?"

"No damn you, Chamberlain, I couldn't without leaving my right wide open."

"Sir, look," Chamberlain said hurriedly and with the point of his sword he traced out the hill in the dirt, their position and described his plan.

Robertson looked down coldly.

Joshua finished and looked up at Robertson. "Sir, I was at the conference with Hood and Longstreet. It's what Hood wanted all along. We can still do it. But we have to do it now."

Robertson hesitated, then finally nodded.

"Damnation, Chamberlain, this better work or Pete will have your stars and mine."

"Sir, it's a hell of a lot better than trying to charge up that forward slope," Joshua shouted, pointing towards the inferno in front of Little Round Top. "In all this confusion they won't realize we've stripped this part of the line and even if they did they'd be insane to come down off that high ground."

"All right, go."

Joshua saluted and turning he grabbed Oates and Perry.

"Follow me!"

At the double Joshua started back down across the valley and seconds later he heard the rhythmic clatter of the two regiments following him, tin cups and half-full canteens banging on hips, shoes and bare feet slapping on rocky ground. Racing behind the 47th Joshua kept his eye on the hill, slowing for a minute as his twin columns swept over the low stone wall where men of the 47th were pushing back the light flanking force. He looked down at a dead Union soldier . . . red felt Maltese cross on his hat, brass letters and numbers 20 & B underneath the cross.

Tom, may God forgive me
, Joshua silently prayed.
Was there something in the Bible about this, about two brothers, both driven by honor to face each other as enemies for what they believed was right? Too much now, can't remember.

Stopping, he motioned for Perry to pivot and go in over the men of the 47th. The charge of the 15th Alabama went up the hill, disappearing into the smoke. The crescendo of fire was deafening. He waited; it had to be timed right. How long have we been hitting them? An hour, two hours? Hard to tell.

The seconds passed, volleys tearing through the woods.
Four regiments now against Tom. Damn, the boy was putting up a hell of a fight. Can't hold much longer now. Have to keep my own reserve together and wait a few more minutes for the 15th to break through or wring the last ounce of fight out of them.

Suddenly he saw men coming back down the hill, a few at first, wounded, but then more, some men backing away, others running. The sight that greeted him was startling and he felt a sweeping pride for his younger brother and the boys who followed him. . . . They were charging by God. Rifles up, screaming like madmen, they were countercharging!

Awed, he watched the wild defiant act and in an instant he knew. They were out of ammunition, none of them were firing as they advanced, they were coming on with the bayonet alone.

"Oates!"

"Here, sir!"

"They're out of ammunition! Now's your time. Charge and take it to the top of the hill!"

With a wild scream Oates leapt forward, sword held high. The men of the 44th, rested, with sixty rounds of ammunition in their cartridge boxes and canteens still half-full broke into a swirling countercharge, advancing like all rebel units do, not in orderly lines but rather as an insane tempest of fury and raw mad courage which had carried their ancestors across a hundred fields of strife.

Up the hill they charge, Joshua at the fore, sword held high. The men of the 20th, carried away by the momentum of charging down the hill, could not stop. The two lines collided, breaking into a maelstrom of hand-to-hand combat. Rifle shots, fired mostly by rebels, were let loose at near point-blank range, dropping dozens of blue-clad defenders.

Joshua continued his charge up the hill, urging his men on as they swarmed over the 20th Maine. Running up the hill the smoke parted for an instant and an officer was before him, pistol raised, aimed straight at Joshua's face.

Time seemed to slow, to distort out. He saw the gaping bore of the Remington .44, finger around the trigger, already starting to draw back, and then the cool steel-gray eye behind the sight. Joshua slowed to a stop, the barrel inches from his face and he looked into the eye, saw a flicker of astonishment and of pain.

"Tom, don't," Joshua sighed, "Not for me, but it would be a hard day for Mother if you do."

The gun dropped, tears clouding Tom's eyes. Joshua reached out and put his hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Stay close to me, Tom." Taking the revolver so Tom would not be mistaken for someone still in the fight, Joshua continued to press up the hill.

Men of the 20th tried to scramble ahead of them, gasping for breath, tongues lolling, features pale and drawn, stamped with the blank stares of exhaustion and despair. Joshua was thankful that the men of the 44th recognized that the men from Maine were finished, played out, the regiment overrun and were simply leaving them behind. They swept past the shattered unit, a few men left behind to gather in the prisoners. The charge continued to swarm up the slope, the men of the 15th having rallied and following in its wake, adding weight to their advance. To his left he saw the ranks of the 47th and 48th advancing, rolling up the units that had been on the 20th Maine's right.

As they neared the crest a ragged volley greeted them. The charge slowed for an instant and then pressed forward, crashing into the rear of the units defending the crest of Little Round Top.

In an instant all semblance of defense broke down, the men of the 44th and 15th swarming up over the battery of guns which were pointing down the will to the west.

All along the crown of the heights a wall of blue broke and started to pour northward. In the valley of death below, Confederate troops who had fought their way through the Devil's Den were up, cheering hysterically as the regimental flags of the Alabama regiments fluttered on the heights. Like a wall collapsing, the Union line shattered, the breakup rolling down the slope of Little Round Top and on out into the Wheat Field, red Saint Andrew's crosses surging ahead. Joshua paused, taking in the sight, awestruck by what his charge had unleashed.

Some of the men around Joshua struggled to turn one of the field pieces northward and, without bothering to aim, fired a defiant shot towards the Union regiments deployed out along the southern reaches of Cemetery Ridge. He could see men turning, looking up towards the heights crowned with the battle standards of the Army of Northern Virginia. He could sense the panic rippling down the line, striking into the very heart of the Army of the Potomac like an icy blade.

"By God, sir, I've never seen anything like it!"

Joshua turned to see Robertson scrambling over the rocks, his brigade storming forward over the eastern flank of the crest, having marched around behind Joshua's brigade while he had charged up the slope. Robertson's men surged forward, pushing on down into the rear of the Union lines.

"We're already into their supply wagons," Robertson roared. "It's chaos down there. Mad panic. We've cut the Taneytown Road. We'll be across the Baltimore Pike soon, by God! Between them and Washington, Joshua! Washington, sir, we're on out way to Washington!"

Joshua sighed. The heat, the damnable heat, and ever so slowly he sat down, unable to speak.

"Joshua?"

He looked up. It was Tom.

"How are you, Tom?"

"Tolerable, Joshua, tolerable."

"Your men?"

"Every officer dead or wounded. Maybe ten, twenty enlisted men got away. The rest, well, you have the rest."

"They fought like tigers, Tom. You should be proud of them." He hesitated, "I would have been proud to lead them."

"But you didn't, Joshua, you didn't. I did." Tom looked at him with mournful eyes. "Why, Joshua? You should have been with us. Why?"

Joshua was unable to reply.
Why indeed? Do I believe in this cause? In Virginia, yes. But I believe in Maine as well. Believed in the Union and still hate slavery. Yet I brought victory to the South. God, where is the answer to this?