A Chain of Thunder

by Jeff Shaara

  He barely knew the man, the gruff beast of an Irishman, the man surely born to be a sergeant, as though God could find no other place to put him. Before every assault, there were the men you felt uneasy about, the men who seemed to know when their time was due. There had been a few of those on the nineteenth, the Wisconsin men who had stripped themselves of precious belongings, expecting never to return. But Finley wasn’t like that, seemed to be tougher than any musket ball, tougher than the war. To Bauer, that was a different kind of comfort, something that inspired him to follow the man, to obey his grouchy commands, and, yes, to fear what he might do to you if he became truly angry. Bauer couldn’t find a way to accept Finley’s death. He tried to pray, more of a complaint, a protest to God: You made a mistake. You took the wrong man. He wasn’t meant to die. He didn’t leave his Bible or his letters back by that tree; there was no fatalism in the man at all. Getting shot should have made Finley madder still, his Irish wrath certain to drive him up over that wall of earth to take his nasty revenge on the rebel who pulled the trigger. But … no. He was still out there, lying in a crumpled heap at the base of the rebel works, a terrible, terrible mistake.

  Bauer had retrieved a second cup of coffee, the strong brew curling his nose. He sat with a dozen men, most of Willis’s platoon, men who knew that with the rising of the sun, something important would happen. Other men were shaking off the damp chill, arms slapping sides, the various itches from whatever insect had burrowed into a temporary human nest. Bauer stared back to the east, the sky showing just a hint of the first glow, and he sipped from the cup again, heard low voices, heavy Irish brogue, familiar now. He could finally understand them, the slang, the odd curses. He had wondered about Willis, how a new lieutenant would adapt to that, but it was never that way. They would adapt to him. It was Willis, after all. You paid attention to him because it was the smart thing to do, and any soldier worth his salt learned just which officers he could trust. And the sergeants. The face came, the snarling growl planted inside Bauer’s mind. Finley. Dammit anyway.

  Men were gathering closer, silent blue shadows moving up to create the formation. Bauer could feel the strength building, the entire regiment pulling in closer, the officers putting them along the base of one more rise. They were closer to the rebel works now than they had been on the nineteenth, no cornfield to wade through. From all Bauer could see, the ground in every direction seemed to be nothing but slices in the earth, narrow ravines, small rolling hills, with only a few open fields where the enemy gunners could find a target. Bauer watched more of the men coming up, an entire company, and the cup began shaking in his hand, reflex, that first stab of fear. He had enough coffee, tossed the dregs to one side, thought, Well, I suppose they told Sammie the truth. We’re going to do it again.

  Word had come down the day before. The failure on the nineteenth had indeed been a mistake, a clumsy, disorganized effort. The message came down through the division commander, General McArthur, to every regimental commander, Colonel McMahon passing it down to the company commanders, who gave the word to their lieutenants. The night before, Willis had come to his platoon, gave them the briefest of instructions, Willis’s way. Once the shooting started, if the men didn’t know whom to follow, or what to do, they wouldn’t much matter anyhow.

  Bauer saw him now, and Willis moved slowly, picked his way, and Bauer knew he was searching.

  “Morning, Lieutenant.”

  Willis eased that way, casual, as though seeing Bauer purely by chance. But Bauer knew from the man’s motions there was no accident to this at all. Willis sat down beside him, pulled his legs up close, hat low on his head, his arms crossed on his knees.

  “Nasty business, Dutchie.”

  The voice came in a whisper, but no one around them seemed to care now, too used to this friendship that had long passed being a source of ridicule.

  “What business?”

  “Today. Artillery will start up any time now. Ought to be a hell of a barrage. Three hours’ worth. They been hauling caissons up all night, pulling the guns up close. There are batteries in those trees back there, gathered up in force closer to the rebs than I’ve ever seen. They figure on blowing holes in the reb works, I guess. Might take the backs of our heads off, too.”

  “So … for sure, we’re going out again?”

  “I already told you that. Jesus, Dutchie, you heard the orders.”

  “I know. But things change. You know generals.”

  Willis looked at him, and Bauer felt the glare. Willis didn’t have to say anything. Bauer knew that what either of them understood about generals wouldn’t fill a tin coffee cup.

  “We’ll line up in platoon column. Small formations. I guess that makes us smaller targets. But Captain McDermott says it’s orders. Should make it easier for us to snake our way through the reb obstacles, all that cut timber and such. Somebody was paying attention to our little disaster three days ago. Not all generals have wood skulls.”

  Bauer saw an officer moving through the low brush, seemed to be searching, and Willis stood quickly.

  “Sir? You need me?”

  “Just checking on us, Lieutenant. There’s three more companies to our right, three more backing us up. You seen that fort out there?”

  Bauer knew the voice of the captain, was suddenly curious. McDermott never seemed to make idle chat.

  “The earthworks down to the left? Yes, sir. The flags say it’s Louisiana boys.”

  “Yep. We’ll be going in alongside some Illinois fellows down that way. General McPherson just came back from Grant’s headquarters all in a lather. Breathed a little hellfire to General McArthur. Probably the same thing Grant did to him. There’ll be no mistakes this time. We go out at ten o’clock. The whole bunch of us, all across the lines.” Bauer could hear nervousness in the captain’s words, only adding to the stirring cauldron inside him. McDermott continued: “No need for a pocket watch. The assault will begin as soon as the artillery quits.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, one more thing, Sammie. I’ll get you a new sergeant as soon as we can get organized. No point in bringing in anybody fresh or giving out a promotion until we get clear of this place. You all right with that?”

  “Of course, sir. I can handle these boys. They probably aren’t as scared of me as they were Finley, but I think I can change that.”

  McDermott slapped Willis on the shoulder, and Willis snapped a salute. McDermott moved away, and Willis eased back toward Bauer, then sat down. Bauer could see his face now, a hint of daylight. Bauer smiled.

  “Sammie? He called you Sammie?”

  Willis let out a breath, Bauer’s words catching the attention of the men close by.

  “Well, it’s my damn name, Private. Officers can do that, you know.”

  Bauer couldn’t hold back the laughter, a fountain inside of him opening up, so much of Willis’s scolding, all that propriety. The question burst out of him.

  “What do you call him? What’s his nickname?”

  Willis didn’t need a heavy dose of Bauer’s teasing.

  “I call him Captain McDermott, you jackass.”

  Bauer lay back in the leaves, still laughing, the shaking in his chest coming from some odd place, rising up, unstoppable. Around him, men were beginning to laugh as well, caught by the contagiousness of it, whether they knew the joke or not. The questions came now, even through their chuckles.

  “What’s funny?”

  “What’s eatin’ him?”

  “Tell me the bleedin’ joke!”

  The laughter spread, and Bauer couldn’t stop himself, his eyes watering, a tight aching in his stomach, tried to hold it back, but the laughter took him over completely, no thoughts of anything but … Sammie … the captain … the laughs unstoppable, spilling up out of him in a loud rolling wave. The tears came harder now, and he curled over, his face in the leaves, felt a slap on his back, the others sharing the moment. The aching grew worse, the tears flowing heavily, his arms gripping hard
to his body, still facedown, ignoring the others, the laughter slipping into something else, raw, painful, more tears … Finley…

  And then the artillery began.

  MAY 22, 1863, 10:00 A.M.

  It had begun promptly at seven, and for three hours, the artillery poured over them with deafening roars, the shells seeming to rip the air no more than a few feet above the ground. Bauer had kept flat, the men around him doing the same, hands over ears, faces down, always the fear that a shell would burst, a misfire, scalding iron blowing straight down into men who had no place to go. After the first half hour, Bauer had begun to relax, the hands still planted against his ears, but the rumbles and screams rolled into one long lullaby, and for the first time in three days, he had slept. There were no dreams, the big guns shaking the ground just enough to keep him stirring, but the sleep did come, the shelling rolling up and over him like waves, the ground beneath him like a softly pulsing ocean. When the sleep left him, the guns were still in full fire, and he pulled his hands away, a mistake, his ears punched, ringing hard, the hands clamped up once more. Around him men were doing the same, most flat on the ground, a vast blanket of blue, most of them motionless, eerie, a sight that startled him, a memory. But there was no blood here, no wounded, just an army, waiting for the good work of the big guns. He wanted to climb the slight rise to the front of them but knew he would see that soon enough. For now the cannon fire was glorious, and he focused on that, the sheer brute power of what must be happening over there.

  He jumped, a hand grabbing his calf, saw Willis on his hands and knees, the look in his eyes that had a dangerous meaning. Willis tapped him hard, no words, nothing to hear, and then Willis crawled away, moved up the rise, seemed to know something. In seconds, the cannon fire began to fade, scattered shelling, a distant battery, and then no sound at all. Bauer sat up, his hands off his ears, still the ringing. Men around him were doing the same, muskets coming up, cartridge boxes checked, the ammunition handed out the night before. Bauer saw the captain moving along the sloping hill, saw a man on a horse, Colonel McMahon, shouting orders, Willis responding, motioning to his platoon, words Bauer couldn’t hear. The muskets were upright now, settling onto shoulders, the order unmistakable, and Bauer stood, raised the muzzle up close to him, reached into the cartridge box, retrieved the paper cartridge, the routine so familiar. He tore the paper with his teeth, spit out the bitter taste, poured the powder into the barrel, stuffed the lead in after it, the ramrod out quickly, finishing the job. He fingered the percussion cap, felt his hands shaking now, fumbled with it, turning it over, but the training was there, perfect rhythm, and he cocked the hammer, pushed the cap onto the nipple. He closed the hammer again, gently, saw Willis watching him, steel glare in his eyes, and Bauer’s ears were clearing, the words reaching him, one more order.

  “Bayonets!”

  Bauer obeyed, and all through the brushy field the men were doing the same, the glint of steel in the sunlight, the men pulling themselves into narrow columns. Bauer saw the colonel again, the horse moving along the ridgeline, a sword in the man’s hand, pointing straight up, then a slow, sweeping curve, toward the enemy.

  The bugle sounded now, back behind them, the line of men reacting, climbing the rise, and Bauer tried to ignore the thunder in his chest, dug his feet into the soft soil, men on either side of him, behind him, the colonel out front, moving now to one side, other officers leading the way, controlling their men, smaller groups, the plan. Willis motioned to his small platoon to keep together, Bauer fourth in line behind Kelly, and just behind him, the redheaded boy. The ground was flat for a dozen yards, then made a shallow dip, then flat again, and beyond, no more than two hundred yards, great thick walls of dirt. Bauer stared, eyes fixed at the top, saw a long cut tree lying on the crest, saw now heads, muskets, lining every foot of the log. There were deep V’s cut into the earthworks, the black maw of cannon protruding, one pointing at him, more cannon all down the line, some back behind the fortifications, barrels elevated, their crews scrambling furiously. He glanced to the side, the mass of blue moving out across open ground in perfect parade drill, the reflection off the bayonets, the men moving in slow, precise steps. Bauer jerked his eyes back to the rebel cannon, the great mounds of dirt, thought now of their own artillery, three hours … and the rebel works were just as they had been, the muskets in line along the top of the log, and to the left, a great fat fort, flags, the words of the captain, boys from Louisiana. He shivered, kept shivering, his feet moving by jerks and starts, pulled along by the men on both sides, his eyes seeing movement, men, heads, faces.…

  The sharpshooters were already at work, pops and pings launched all around him, some from behind, small sprays in the mounds of dirt. The rebels began to answer, but then Bauer heard the shout, an officer, somewhere out there, and the entire fortification erupted into smoke, flashes of fire, the musket balls whipping past him, men staggering to one side, another platoon, half the men cut down. The artillery fire came now, sheets of canister, and Bauer knew not to see any of that, no staring off to see what might be happening to any of the others. He hunched his shoulders, pulled himself shorter, helpless gesture, more musket balls zipping past, a crack of bone in front of him, the first man behind Willis dropping, rolling to one side, a scream, hands on a bloody face. Willis turned briefly, shouted a curse to them, waved them forward, more quickly, a slight jog, the men on both sides doing the same. The canister came again, high, sweeping the air over Bauer’s head, a blast of hot breath and he ducked, reflex. They were running now, several of the platoons reaching the first obstacles, cut tree limbs, sharpened to a point, brush and wire, and Willis scrambled up and over and through, Kelly doing the same, and Bauer followed. The smoke was rolling through them, blessed camouflage, but the voices were plain, high above them, more volleys coming, shouts on all sides, yells from the rebels. Bauer felt a stabbing in his leg, jumped, no! But it was a branch, a tear in his blue pants, and he worked himself free, dropped the musket, bent low, grabbed it, looked up at the earthworks, saw musket barrels protruding over the top of the log, splinters from musket fire, the sharpshooters doing all they could to keep the rebels down. To one side, the ground was low, and the muzzle of a cannon erupted in a hard, crushing blast, Bauer deafened, Willis falling against the earthen wall, close beside the maw of the gun. But the sharpshooters saw that, too, and Bauer heard a handful of zips, cracks, and pings, lead striking the cannon barrel, men behind the dirt calling out, orders, clear, drilling into him.

  “Pull back!”

  Willis slid along the side of the dirt wall, waved furiously, his men moving up close, Bauer still back, looking toward the cannon, but the barrel was gone, one man lying flat in the V, blood flowing onto the dirt. Sharpshooters. He embraced the word, looked up, and heard Willis.

  “Get up here! Flatten out!”

  Bauer stumbled forward, held the musket across his chest, and lay back against the dirt. He glanced at the percussion cap, hadn’t fired, looked straight up, the hill steep, a slight slope back to the rebels. He tried to breathe, the smoke choking him, and stared back across the open ground they had crossed. He was stunned by the sight of a dozen more platoons coming right into the same place, climbing down across a wide, shallow ditch, struggling to crawl over the tree limbs, caught in the tangle of wire. Men were shot down now, some very close, many more farther out in the field, the fallen now scattered all across the ground, far out on both sides. But the men still came, officers leading the way, pistols in hand, some men kneeling to shoot, cut down, others running hard, tumbling into the ditches. Above them the muskets continued, the smoke thick, stifling, Bauer’s eyes watering, lungs burning. Willis was shouting now.

  “Follow me, dammit!”

  Bauer saw Willis digging his feet into the soft soil, trying to climb, shoving his pistol back into the holster, climbing with both hands now. But the hillside was too steep, and Willis slid back down, one fist punching the dirt, red fury on his face. He turned to his men,
others trying to climb, no better at it, Bauer feeling the desperate helplessness, raised the musket, no targets but musket barrels a dozen feet above him, one man suddenly leaning out, pointing down, and Bauer fired, no aim, the man disappearing into the smoke. More rebels began to lean out and over their wall, but the sharpshooters were waiting, a rebel soldier suddenly tumbling forward, falling in a heap beside Bauer, Willis firing his pistol into the man’s chest. Bauer stared, thought of the bayonet, but he knew death, watched the man rolling over slowly into the brushy thicket. Bauer scrambled to reload his musket, saw Willis trying again to climb the embankment, again the wall too steep. Willis turned, then leaned against the dirt. Bauer saw the raw anger as Willis shouted out.

  “Where the hell are the ladders?”

  The men who couldn’t get to the dirt walls were driven back to whatever cover they could find, the open ground littered with bodies. Along the earthworks, men huddled, all they could do, but those men were the most fortunate, since there was very little the rebels could do to them. The sharpshooters were the most effective weapon the men in blue could offer, keeping the rebel soldiers down behind their cover, picking apart the artillery teams, blunting any attempt the rebels made to reach out to the men close below them.