by Jeff Shaara
He hesitated, hard shaking in his legs, squeezed the musket, forced himself to rise to his feet. Along the crest, others did the same, the new line of men climbing toward them closer, their officers calling out.
“Go! Advance!”
Bauer felt the push from behind, raw energy, moved with the men around him, dropping down off the crest, across a parapet, down farther, fought to keep his balance. He tried to see the rebels, any rebels, but the footing was treacherous, pain in his legs, his breathing hard through dust and smoke and burnt powder. He was off the slope now, flatter ground, open, the crater close to one side, and he saw men lying flat in every direction, lifeless, others aiming the musket, some men huddled low, seeking any cover they could find. Behind him, the fresh wave of men came down, pushed by screaming sergeants, the orders of the lieutenants, any other officer trying to do the job. He pressed forward slowly, didn’t need to be shouted at to know where the fight was, where his musket was needed, where he was supposed to go. He followed men who stepped out into the crater, the ground beneath his feet ragged, stinking, split jagged timbers, wreckage blocking his way. Around him, men were tossing aside what they could, opening a path. But those men went down quickly, the rebels up on the far side of the crater responding to the advance, flashes of musket fire in waves, the stinging rip of the air around him slowing Bauer down, pushing him to the earth. He flattened out, gripped the soil, pulling himself into the ground, the man’s words in his head, the bosom of Mother Earth. The air ripped past his ear, the ground punched close in front of him, and he froze, couldn’t fight the terror, felt paralyzed, but the words burst through his brain, his own command, fury at himself, at the coward he had been, that he was trying to be now. Move! Get up!
He looked up, saw men in blue huddled low against the far embankment, and back the other way, more men trudging through the debris at the great breach, adding to the strength of the Federal push, adding bodies to those who had fallen. Officers were pulling men back now, the crater too crowded, nowhere for them to go, a color bearer running past him, back, out of the hole. Others came forward, a line of men coming down to one side, avoiding the breach, tangling with the chaos of the men already there. The debris offered cover, and Bauer rose up to a crouch, saw a small mound of smoking earth, stumbled that way, curled up, pulled his knees in tight, his musket hard against his shins. He fought with himself, what he should do now, where he could go, where he had to go, saw an officer standing close to him, waving the sword, the man suddenly collapsing. But another officer came up, shouting out, gathering his men. The ground to one side erupted in a spray of dirt and fire, a blow from rebel artillery, and Bauer heard the response, a new wave of Federal fire, deafening, streaking overhead, gunners pushing their charges achingly close to the heads of their own men. Bauer held the grip of the musket across his knees, pulling tighter still, trying to breathe, to see, the small bit of protection just high enough to block the rebel musket fire.
The officer was still there, still waving his men past, and he looked at Bauer, pointed the sword, and gave a hard shout over the din: “Up! Advance! Let’s go!”
Bauer saw the strength in the man, searched for it in himself, begged, cursed the terror. But the officer wouldn’t leave, only called out again, “Up! Get up, son! Show those men who you are!”
Bauer absorbed that, thought of Willis, images flashing through him, Finley, the gruff sergeant, no fear at all. The officer moved away, colors close behind him, men surging past, and Bauer straightened his legs, rolled over, took a long breath, wiped away the cold shivering in his knees, his hands, the ice in his chest. He stood shakily, pulled the musket up tight to his chest, saw the rebels high up across the crater, steady fire, some now down in the crater itself. Men were struggling, bayonets, muskets as clubs, the rebels pushing forward, but not many, the blue troops taking hold, driving them back. Bauer started to move forward, glanced out to the side, the crater narrow, a small ocean of bare dirt, men in any cover they could find. The musket fire went both ways, but the rebels had the ground, the height, and Bauer saw a mass of blue along the base of the crater, saw the officer, followed still by the color bearer, moved that way. He tumbled forward into more soft sand, men tumbling onto him, others shifting their position, making space. He lay on his back, gasped for air, the musket against his chest, could see the blue troops out across the crater, many of those pulling away, blending into a fresh surge of men through the yawning gap. On the far side of the crater, Federal troops lined the crest, doing what he had done, trading fire with the rebels right above him. He watched it all, a helpless spectator, heard an artillery shell coming down hard, back behind the rebels. Some men were still in the open, firing up from churned-up earth, using the blasted ground for cover, some men shoving wooden timbers up as protection. An artillery shell burst now, the rebel gun to one side, blasting a pile of timbers to splinters, ripping into the men behind it, the men who thought they were safe. The muskets aimed for the rebel cannon, Federal artillery responding as well, the rebel gun gone now, pulled away or destroyed. To one side of the crater, rebels appeared along the crest, Bauer now exposed, the men around him responding as he did, taking aim, a burst of musket fire punching the dirt along the crest. Across the way, the Federal troops along the redan took up the fire as well, keeping the rebels down, behind their great mound of earth.
The rebels seemed to have pulled away, the men around Bauer safe, for now, the muskets coming down, men gathering up, an officer, another, heated exchange. Beside him, Bauer saw the face of a boy, terrified animal eyes, tears, and Bauer said, “It’s all right! Don’t be frightened!”
The boy stared at him, and Bauer expected the boy to bolt away, had seen that look before, knew what the boy was feeling. But the boy nodded toward him and said, “What do we do?”
“We fight! You see a rebel, you shoot him!”
The words were meaningless, a hundred men spread out on the sloping dirt, little fight in them at all. Some were without muskets, and Bauer saw weapons out in the crater, some close to fallen men. Damn!
“We’re done for! They’re coming!”
The words came from a few feet away, one man on his knees, ready to run, a sergeant there, shouting at the man, “Get down! Nobody’s coming down here! Get ready! Load your weapon!”
Bauer felt strength in the sergeant, had seen that before, and the man responded, flattened out, seemed to calm. The sergeant crawled along the men and said, “You stay put! The rebs’ll stay back and we’re in the best place in the field!”
One of the officers was there now, and Bauer felt the control returning, the discipline coming back.
“Keep low, men! You see the enemy, fire at will! Anybody see Colonel Maltby?”
“Sir, the colonel went down … out there.”
The officer lowered his head and said quietly, “Damn. Well, until somebody back there tells us to move, we’re staying right here.”
With so many Federal troops outside the redan, the rebels were content to keep to their position along the back side of the crater, and beyond. The fight had settled into something of a stalemate, and with the fading daylight, the Federal troops shifted into whatever positions they could find within the crater and outside the edges of the redan. The musket fire was still there, but slower now, men choosing targets, most of that from the Federal side. Bauer huddled against the wall of the crater, engulfed in the stink of powder, the smell of the fight held in the crater like water in a bowl. The men closest to the rebels were still the safest, and the few rebel muskets that offered fire were aimed out far past Bauer and the men at the base of the rebel position. But here, so close to the newly dug parapets where the rebels made their perch, Bauer had no target at all, the men straight up above him, a glimpse of a musket barrel, a bayonet, smoke from the muzzles.
Bauer studied the men around him, some hatless, shirtless, a few with wounds, blood on arms. Others did as he did, gripped the musket, gazing upward, the faint hope that a rebel would mak
e a mistake, would erupt into that mindless heroism, that when the enemy was so close, some men would leap into the fray, slashing with the bayonet, the knife, firing the pistol. The men in blue seemed to expect that, sergeants slipping among them, the officers with their unnecessary warnings about “being ready.”
He hadn’t fired the musket in a while now, still no targets, some of the men around him having none of that discipline. Men fired still, aiming straight up, worthless effort, the sergeants shouting them down. But Bauer lay flat against the dirt, the musket ready, angry hope that a target would appear. The officer seemed to know better, nervous jabbering that the rebels were in the good cover and would certainly stay there, while the men in blue were caught in a place they would have to spend the night. Back across the maw of the crater, others kept up the musket fire, pinning the rebels down in their protection. Above Bauer, the rebels kept their muskets quiet, almost no return fire. He could hear them, voices, orders, the same kinds of panic and discipline, that even with so many of the enemy so very close, there was very little anyone could do about it.
And then, he saw the dark ball, the odd, egg-shaped piece of steel. It rolled down the hillside next to him, kept rolling, below his feet. A man jumped quickly, snatched it up, threw it back up the hill, the blast coming right above Bauer’s head.
“Ketcham!”
“Watch it! There’ll be more!”
Bauer flinched from the blast, the question bursting out of him, others as well.
“What was that?”
The sergeant closest to him stared upward, expectant, and said, “Ketcham grenade! They take a few seconds to ignite. You see one, throw it back! If you’re too late … well, it won’t much matter.”
Bauer had heard something of the grenades, had never seen one, never used anything like that in training.
“Who’s Ketcham?”
“Who the hell knows, Private. You gonna ask around?”
The next one came now, rebels shouting out as it rolled down the hill, the iron ball tumbling off to one side, no one close, the blast tossing dirt up in a fiery burst. Bauer heard a man screaming, others moving quickly, the word Bauer had come to hate.
“Shrapnel! Get a doc!”
“There’s no doc! He all right?”
“No, hell he’s not all right! Got him in the chest!”
Bauer absorbed the chaos, heard cheering from above, one voice: “Hey bluebellies! We got a thousand of them things! Wait till dark, then we’s gonna have a real party!”
One man stood, fired his musket, still no target, the man dropping down, reloading, cursing.
“You damn rebs! If we’re out here after dark, we’re coming up there and slit your damn throats!”
“Got a better idee, Billy Yank!”
Bauer saw the grenade coming down in an arc, felt his heart stop, the ball landing with a soft thump beside him. The shouts came, but he rose to his knees, grabbed it, hard and cold in his hand, a wisp of smoke, and he slung his arm in a high toss, the grenade going straight overhead, igniting now in a cloud of fire. He closed his eyes, flinched again, heard shreds of metal whistle past, the sand around him absorbing the shrapnel. He dropped down again, the heartbeats thundering in his chest, heard the officer, far to one side.
“Be ready! Be quick about it!”
Bauer stared upward, the daylight fading quickly, the familiar fear returning, the taunt from the rebel driving home. Dark. Can’t see ’em. A thousand of ’em.
“Hey, Billy Yank! How’s this?”
The iron ball rolled down in a furrow of soft sand, a smoking fuse, much larger, and the sergeant was there, grabbed it, shouted out, and with a loud grunt, slung it back overhead. The toss was perfect, the shell exploding on top of the hill, the shouts and screams now coming from the rebels.
“Good work! Be ready for more!” Bauer looked to the voice, calm authority, an officer moving up quickly from somewhere out in the crater. “I’m Major Stolbrand. Those artillery shells have a fuse. If it’s still smoking, throw it back.”
“Bauer, sir.”
“Let’s go to work, Bauer. All of you! Try to catch those grenades in the air. They’re not that heavy. The bigger shells … well, if we can throw a few of those back over, the rebs’ll get tired of that game pretty quick.”
Bauer watched the major crouching low, his eyes alert, darting back and forth, and Bauer did the same, waited, breathless silence, the men all along the sloping ground knowing what to expect now.
With the darkness, the grenades still came, but the men were ready for them, the fuses just slow enough to provide flickering light, that even in the darkness the Federal troops could see them. The men responded with the same urgent energy as the sergeant, the shells hurled back up to the crest of the hill, returned to their owners. Bauer stayed close to Major Stolbrand, mimicked his actions, the man clearly understanding what kind of weapon the Ketcham grenades were, the horrific damage they could inflict, the breathless moment of time the men had to get rid of them.
As the darkness settled completely over the crater, the rebels began to tire of this deadly sport, Stolbrand and the men close to him becoming far more skilled at countering the grenades with alertness, speed, and a good arm. If Bauer knew nothing of this absurd game before, he discovered quickly that he was learning from an expert. The major had come forward through the crater to scout the ground for a Federal plan to position an artillery battery at point-blank range to the rebel works. Charles Stolbrand was General John Logan’s chief of artillery. With full darkness, the effort began to bring Federal cannons forward, creating a protected battery that would certainly decimate the rebels who tried to hold their position on the far side. But the rebels were not idle. After a desperate scrounge along the rebel lines for additional percussion caps, the rebel muskets again came to life, the men from Louisiana now equipped to stop any further Federal advance, especially the vulnerable artillery crews.
With neither side able to dislodge the other, by the following afternoon, Grant was faced with yet another agonizing frustration. Though the mine explosion had accomplished what the engineers had hoped, the rebel engineers, particularly Samuel Lockett, had made the only countermove they could. It worked. Late the next day, Grant ordered the attack called off, and under a curtain of covering fire from the strong positions outside the redan, the Federal troops who endured a night so close to the enemy were able to escape the crater and return to their lines outside the 3rd Louisiana Redan.
For Bauer, the escape started one more weary journey back to his unit, to the Irishmen who had witnessed the mine explosion from a distance, who had spent the long night wondering about the fate of their Dutchman. Those men had done all they could to hold down or distract any rebels across their part of the line, meager assistance for the men who made the assault on the crater. For Sammie Willis, the lieutenant who had given his friend the honor of becoming a handpicked marksman, the wait was the worst of all.
NEAR COX’S FERRY—THE BIG BLACK RIVER
JUNE 27, 1863
He walked out from the horse and scanned the open land east of the waterway.
“No movement, then?”
“No, sir. Nothing we’ve determined with any certainty. They’re out there, we know that. The last report put the bulk of his troops close to Vernon. But even those forces are minimal in strength. They are spread out through the various villages east of the river, but so far, there is no sign they are forming for a general advance.”
Sherman looked at the young man, and couldn’t help being impressed.
“Captain Ballou, you have performed admirably.”
The cavalryman seemed to know how rarely Sherman offered praise.
“I’m only doing my duty, sir. But, thank you.”
“Any reports from up north? Anything moving out of Yazoo City?”
“Sir, Lieutenant Joel took a patrol up that way, encountered a few rebels. Wirt Adams’s boys. Pretty sure about that. But they were just an outpost. No sign of any b
odies of infantry making any move at all. I admit, sir, it is most curious.”
“What’s curious?”
“Well, sir, we have heard from a number of rebels in the vicinity, captured scouts mostly, all of them insisting that Johnston’s army is coming this way. There are reports that he has as many as one hundred thousand effectives.”
Sherman tilted his head, the brim of his hat shading his face from the blistering sun.
“Then we’d be in a bad way, wouldn’t you say, Captain?”
“Well, yes, sir. That was my thinking.”
“And yet, you scouted all over hell and New Jersey, and couldn’t find them? Pretty hard to hide a hundred thousand men. And if you gave that a little more thought, Captain, you’d wonder why Joe Johnston would want them hidden at all. I would think he’d make as much noise as he could, do everything possible to scare us right out of our pants. That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“Sir?”
“Scare us out of our pants. Chase us the hell out of this country. Save Vicksburg from the evil blue plague. So. Where the hell is he?”
The captain seemed suddenly uncomfortable, as though Sherman was about to unleash some punishment on him. Sherman saw the uncertainty, a glimmer of fear on the young man’s face, not what he wanted to see.
“Relax, Captain. You’ve sent patrols out along the railroad, out into every little burg the rebels could be hiding.”
“Well, yes, sir.”
“You find any sign that there’s a hundred thousand men out there?”
“I regret … no, sir.”
“For God’s sake, Captain, I’m paying you a compliment. You didn’t miss them. You didn’t find them because they’re not there. I’m guessing you didn’t trip over Horace Greeley, Jefferson Davis, or Abigail Adams, either.”