The Bloody Ground - Starbuck 04

by Bernard Cornwell

  Dennison called for the company to speed up, but without any conviction in his voice, and though the company did pick up its heels, some of the men, led by Case, deliberately dawdled. Starbuck himself ran over. "Move!" he shouted. "Move! Faster!"

  Case slowed even more.

  Starbuck dragged out the revolver and put a bullet into the turf behind Case's heels. "Move!" he shouted, "move!" He fired a second bullet, this one well wide of anyone. He had not looked at Case, nor at any other man as he fired, for he had not wanted another confrontation, just to keep the company moving, and the two revolver shots had the happy effect of moving the laggards on like startled rabbits. "Keep them going, Billy!" Starbuck snarled. "Captain Dennison! Move them!"

  Billy Blythe was too shocked to respond. He stumbled on, chivvying Dennison's company with his arms, suddenly more frightened of Starbuck than of the Yankees waiting on the ridge. The sheer force of Starbuck's anger had startled him, but he recognized it as genuine power. Starbuck was one of those men who could shift whole battalions by his personality and it was Starbuck's anger and resolve that was keeping the Yellowlegs moving across the valley under the rippling thunder of rebel shells that arched above their heads. Starbuck, Billy Blythe reflected, was the kind of man who got other men killed. Or got killed himself. "What's your name, Case?" Blythe fell into step beside Case who, to show his independence, had again started to lag a few paces behind the rest of A Company.

  "Sounds like you already know it, Captain," Case said in a voice that was still hoarse from the terrible blow Starbuck had landed on his throat.

  "I meant your Christian name, Sergeant," Blythe said, deliberately restoring Case's lost rank.

  Case hesitated, then decided that Captain Tumlin's friendly tone deserved an answer. "Robert," he admitted.

  "Hell, I got a brother called Bobby," Blythe lied. "Real nice fellow. Maybe a bit too fond of his liquor, but Lord, can our Bobby tell tales." He saw the sidelong look of resentful hatred that Case gave Starbuck. "You shoot him now, Sergeant," Blythe said quietly, "and there'll be a hundred witnesses and before you can spit on his grave you'll be standing under the guns of a firing squad. Just ain't the sensible thing to do, Bobby. Besides, you think he ain't got his eye on you? Just keep moving, Sergeant, keep it brisk. Look like we're trying to win the war, will you? That way he forgets you." Case said nothing, but he did hurry his pace fractionally. A rebel shell that had been fired too low screeched just overhead, making some of the men duck. The shell exploded among the battalion's skirmish line, making Captain Potter scurry long-legged for a patch of bushes. The battalion laughed. "Starbuck's pet clown," Billy Blythe said softly.

  Case gave Blythe a long, hard look as it dawned on him that the battalion's second in command might really be an ally. "If Starbuck dies," Case broke his silence, "you get command, Captain."

  "I sure do thank you for pointing that out to me, Bobby," Blythe said, "and if that ever did happen, why, I'd be looking for experienced men to be my officers. No glory boys, ain't that the phrase? Just good experienced men. Proper soldiers. Know what I mean? Jesus!" This final imprecation was startled from Blythe by the sudden thunder of Yankee cannons. Enemy shells screamed into the valley to explode among the advancing infantry in eruptions of dirt, smoke, flame, and flesh.

  The Yankees had kept some concealed artillery on the crest and now the gunners had hauled aside the screen of branches that had masked the cannon and opened fire on the advancing infantry. Their opening salvo was of shells, but they reloaded with canister so that every shot was now like a giant blast of buckshot fanning out from the muzzle. The canister broke apart at the cannon's mouth to spread its charge of musket balls and Blythe, appalled, saw the grass ahead of the brigade flick as though a huge, invisible broom was whipping toward the attackers. There was a pattering noise like hard rain, then a sudden scream of wind as the cloud of musket balls slashed through the ranks. Men fell, spun, retched, or staggered. One man near Blythe had a rib sticking through the weave of his butternut coat. The man stared at the splintered white bone with a look of utter incomprehension, then bubbling pale blood welled at the rent in his coat and slopped down his belly. More blood flooded his gullet, he fell to his knees, tried to speak, then collapsed onto his face.

  Blythe and Case found shelter behind a boulder, where they shared a cigar as the canister rattled and sighed and slapped the air around them. Dennison's company had scattered in confusion. A few kept going forward, others lay flat, but most ran panicking toward their left where the battalion's remaining companies offered an illusion of shelter. Case hunched down beside Blythe. "This is nothing to Sevastopol," he said. "The damned Ivans shelled us day and night, day and night. Never let up for a minute."

  "Experienced men, that's who I'll be looking for," Blythe said, handing the cigar back to his companion.

  Case grimaced. "So what do we do about Starbuck.7" he asked.

  "Just wait on the good Lord, Bobby, wait on the Lord and He will provide. Don't the good book say that?" "Is that what you're doing?"

  "I'm biding my time, Bobby, but that time will come. I don't see no point in being too eager in battle. Hell, we need heroes, but some of us have to live to go home at war's end. Otherwise the Yankees will be plowing our wives and we'll be rotting in our graves."

  Case peered about the boulder, looking at Starbuck's distant figure. "Can't do much without a rifle."

  "Rifles will be found. Hell, I don't want to command no battalion without rifles," Blythe laughed. He was lining up his allies and doing what he loved to do. He was surviving and thriving, and he reckoned he was good at that because he took a long view of life, and dying in battle was no part of that view. He would survive.

  The crash of the enemy guns stunned Starbuck into silence. He had promised his men there would be no cannon and that they could walk through the valley without fear of slaughter, but now the enemy gunners were swabbing, reloading, and ramming another volley of canister. The fear roared in Starbuck, weakening his legs and threatening to make him whimper like a whipped child. He kept going forward, not out of bravery, but because he seemed incapable of changing his direction or pace. He wanted to shout at Potter to take his skirmishers up the slope toward the gunners, but no sound would come, and so he stumbled blindly on with his mind groping for a prayer that he could not articulate. The terror was unmanning him, and that thought jarred him and he wondered if he could ever face a terror like it again. His foot slipped in a crusted patch of cow dung and vomit rimmed his throat. He fought it down, gasping for air, and he was sure that the men of the Special Battalion, whom he was leading into a murderous cannon fire just as he had led the Legion into a Yankee artillery trap at Chantilly, were despising him. He looked to his right and was astonished to see a vast gap in the brigade's line. The Legion was missing, though beyond the gap he could see the kinked line of attacking men sweeping across the smoke-smeared pasture beneath the red and blue flags. Dennison's company had vanished and half of Cart-wright's was gone, but the rest of the battalion was still going forward, though no longer in neat ranks. The men had spread into the gap left by Dennison's company and some part of Starbuck's scrambled thoughts recognized that the scattering would protect them from the canister.

  Another storm of missiles flicked at the ground and snatched men back like puppets caught on whiplashed strings. The Yankee gunners were doing well, aiming their canister just short of the advancing rebels so that the massed musket balls bounced up into their faces. The taste of vomit was sour in Starbuck's throat, but somehow he was managing to say the Twenty-Third Psalm to himself, and the realization that he was falling back on the faith of his father both surprised him and gave him a steadying moment. He saw that the battalion had crossed the floor of the valley and was beginning to climb its farther slope. The Northern infantry had almost disappeared, not by retreating, but by taking cover among the rocks and bushes on the crest. Below them the Yankee skirmishers were hurrying back up the slope between the smoke bursts
of the rebel shells, then suddenly the crest itself was crowned by smoke as the defending infantry opened fire. The sound rippled across the valley, a splintering crackle that came an instant after the smoke appeared. The bullets whistled overhead, though a few thumped into bodies with a dull sound like a butcher's cleaver falling. Blood misted as men fell backward. "Keep moving!" someone shouted behind Starbuck. "Keep moving! Go on! Go on!" Starbuck was in the broken ranks now, pushing on ahead, his body behaving like a leader even if his mind was still reeling between terror and the need to keep his left-hand companies moving up the slope.

  Confederate artillery at last targeted the Yankee guns and shellbursts cracked in the hot air above the sweating gunners. "Come on!" Starbuck screamed, amazed he could speak at all, "come on!" Every nerve in his body was screaming for him to turn and run, to find a hole and shelter for the rest of his life while the world went mad about him, but the shreds of pride and stubbornness kept him going and even made him go faster. He turned to shout encouragement to his stark-faced, clumsy men encumbered by bedrolls and packs and pouches and scabbards so that they lumbered forward with open mouths. "Come on!" he called, anger in his voice, though the anger was only at himself. The battalion was still two hundred yards from the crest, too far to order the charge, but he sensed that if he did not keep the battalion moving now, then it would go to ground and refuse to advance ever again. The Yellowlegs had already achieved far more than they had in their first battle, but to wipe the stain off their reputation they needed to keep going to victory. Rebel shells were screaming close overhead, their explosions punching the eardrums and throwing up fountains of dirt and smoke along the crest. The Yankee rifle fire had become ragged as men fired whenever they were loaded and Starbuck, seeing how sporadic were the bursts of muzzle smoke, realized that there was little more than a heavy skirmish line left on the crest. The Yankees were not going to fight for this ridgeline, but just inflict some casualties before slipping away and that thought gave him encouragement. Maybe he would not die in this cow-dunged pasture, but maybe he would give the despised battalion the victory it so badly needed, and he shouted again for his men to keep going forward, only this time the shout turned into a rebel yell and suddenly the remaining attackers were shrilling the sound with him as they broke into a clumsy run.

  The canister fire had stopped. Starbuck was aware of only the sounds he was making himself. The thump of boots, the harsh scrape of breath, the desperate yelping of the war cry, the clank of his tin mug against the cartridge box, the slapping of the revolver holster against the back of his thigh. Something was burning on the crest, pumping a thick smoke into the air. Another rebel shell burst, its blast bending a bush sideways and shredding leaves among the smoke. Potter's men were in the ranks now and Potter himself was running close to Starbuck and screaming like a wild man. Starbuck blundered through a scorched, smoking patch where a shell had exploded. A Yankee skirmisher lay beyond, his head back, his hands curled, and his guts spilt into the churned dirt. Men were at last visible on the crest. They stood, aimed, fired, then dropped to reload. A bullet whistled its eerie minie sound near Starbuck, and he began to scream like Potter, a feral, terrible noise that came from the battle-mix of terror and glee. All he wanted to do now was punish the bastards who had so nearly unmanned him. He wanted to kill and kill.

  "Come on!" he shouted, drawing out the last word as at last the attackers reached the gentle crest. Colonel Swynyard had been wrong and there were rifle pits along the ridge, but the Yankees were already abandoning them and going back to their next defense line, which lay on a farther ridge. The Yankee cannon were being dragged by horses back to that ridge where more guns waited and more infantry, but Starbuck had no orders to attack that far ridge. His job had been to push the Northern forces off this ridge and it was done, and he was running into clear air, blessed air, air untouched by bullets or shells, though he knew it would only be seconds before the far guns opened fire.

  "Kill them!" he shouted, then leaped into a vacated rifle pit and leveled his rifle across the pile of soil at its rear. He aimed at a retreating Yankee and pulled the trigger. The hammer dropped onto a useless percussion cap and he swore, broke a fingernail levering the cap away, put another in its place, and tried again. The rifle hammered into his shoulder and its cloud of smoke hid his target. Potter was beside him, laughing. The rest of the battalion, those who had stayed the course, were in the other abandoned rifle pits and firing at the Yankee infantry as they hurried away.

  The far Yankee cannon opened fire. The shells flashed overhead and thumped behind as Swynyard's Brigade went to ground on the captured ridge. Starbuck reloaded the rifle then turned to see where his men were. He could see the color sticking up from a rifle pit, he could see a scatter of wounded men crawling slowly on the slope beyond, and he could see the Legion still climbing the hill. He turned to look north and was amazed to see the land drop away to where, between the shoulders of two humped hills, he could glimpse a silver river sliding eastward. Beyond the river, in Maryland, there was smoke on the hills where other Confederate troops were tightening Jackson's grim ring about Harper's Ferry.

  "Sweet Jesus, but I enjoyed that," Potter said.

  Starbuck meant to tell him that he should have taken his skirmishers up against the gunners, but instead he vomited. He emptied his belly into the floor of the rifle pit. "Jesus," he said when he had finished heaving. "Jesus."

  "Here," Potter handed him a canteen, "it's only water." Starbuck rinsed out his mouth, spat, then drank. "I'm sorry," he said to Potter.

  "Something you ate," Potter suggested tactfully. "Fear," Starbuck said harshly.

  A shell banged into the turf a few yards ahead of their pit. It did not explode, but instead tumbled end over end to embed itself in the spoil thrown up by the Yankee diggers. "I think we might seek other quarters," Potter said, eyeing the shell. The air above the metal shimmered from the heat of the missile's passage.

  "Go on," Starbuck said. "I'll join you." Once alone he squatted in the pit, pants about his ankles, and voided his body. He was sweating and shaking. The ground thumped softly from the fall of the sheik. The sky above the pit was laced with smoke, but suddenly the fear drained away and Starbuck stood and clumsily pulled up his pants, belted them, then buttoned his fraying jacket and rebuckled his revolver belt and straightened his bedroll. He climbed out of the pit and, with shouldered rifle, walked among the other pits to congratulate his men. He told them they had done well, told them he was proud of them, and then he walked back down the slope to watch his stragglers climb sheepishly toward the crest. Captain Dennison was pretending to be busy as he chivvied the laggards, but he took care to avoid Starbuck, though Captain Tumlin walked eagerly across the slope with his hand outstretched.

  "Hell, Starbuck, if you ain't the bravest man I ever saw then my name's not Tumlin," Blythe said.

  Starbuck ignored both the outstretched hand and the compliment. "What happened to your companies?" he asked coldly.

  Tumlin seemed unconcerned by Starbuck's brusqueness. "I managed to keep most of Cartwright's boys moving, but A Company?" He spat. "They're mules, Starbuck, mules. I got up here once, went back for the bastards and still they weren't moving. Did my best. Hell, Starbuck, I know you're disappointed, but I did my God honest best."

  "I'm sure." Starbuck was convinced of Tumlin's sincerity. "Sorry, Billy."

  "You look kind of washed up, Starbuck."

  "Something I ate, Billy, nothing worse." Starbuck found a broken cigar in his pouch and lit the largest remnant. "You want to make me a list of the casualties, Billy?" he asked, then walked back to the crest as the Yankee cannon fire increased in intensity, but the shells were no longer aimed at the captured ridge, but toward a second rebel attack that was coming from their left flank. Swynyard's men had cleared the ridge to prevent its defending Yankees from flanking that second attack, which was the real assault intended to take the high ground that formed the southern skyline of Harper's Ferry. The sound
of the battle thumped and snapped, filling the air with gray-white smoke.

  Starbuck pulled the bayonet off his rifle as he watched the Legion climb the last few yards. Maitland had deliberately held them back from the canister fire, and the men knew it, and while they were doubtless grateful to have been spared the last stuttering fire of the Yankees' melting resistance, they also looked ashamed. The despised Yellowlegs had outperformed them, and Starbuck's men called jeering greetings to the arriving Legion. Starbuck did not try to stop them, though he knew that Dennison's company did not deserve the reward of a little pride. "Captain Dennison!" Starbuck shouted.

  Dennison slouched along the crest where his men were spreading into empty rifle pits. Dennison expected a reprimand, but instead Starbuck pointed across the crest to the rifle pit he had vacated. "Your men can form the picket line," he said. "Skirmish order a hundred paces down the hill. You can stay up here," he pointed toward the rifle pit that he and Potter had vacated. "Make that rifle pit your headquarters."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Don't worry about the shell. It's dead. Go on, hurry. Jump in before some bastard sharpshooter starts practicing on you."

  "Yes, sir," Dennison said, then shouted at his men to follow him to the forward slope of the hill. Starbuck watched as Dennison jumped into the pit, then he turned away.