by Jeff Shaara
Once more the wounded seemed to wake with a burst of energy, aware that help was at hand, rescue perhaps. The lieutenants continued their shouts, and the sergeants obeyed, pushing the men onward, hesitant footsteps even from them, the troops responding as they had to, stepping through and over the corpses, trying to avoid the wounded. Bauer closed his eyes, a bad idea, opened them again, picked his way past lumps of burned corpses, struggled through the smell. Close to him, one man moved his arm, waved, called out, and Bauer couldn’t look away, saw the man’s hand a stump of black, stripped of fingers. The mud was there as well, even in the stubble, and Bauer smelled that, too, thick on his boots, knew without looking it wasn’t just mud. Some of the bodies were in pieces, one man sliced in half, perfect precision, the two parts separated by a foot-wide puddle. Bauer picked his way, the fury of the wounded driving a hole in his brain. One officer reacted his own way, calling out, “The ambulances are coming! They’ll be here soon!”
Bauer wondered about that, saw the stare on the lieutenant’s face, knew it was a lie. The officer could not possibly know anything of ambulances, or what might be coming up behind them. Bauer was moving past the burned stubble, into taller grass, wet, stinking, but still there were bodies, some of them pressed deep into the soft grass. Around him, some men were tripped by what they couldn’t see, some jumping forward, past whatever sickening obstacle they encountered, making their way the best they could. By now all of them were staring downward, making their way forward by first searching the grass. Bauer could feel the wetness from the grass soaking through his trousers, but below his feet, the rains had a different effect. Much of the blood had washed into the ground, but there was a price for that, so many parts of bodies clean, a shining skull, stripped of skin, exposed bones, a rib cage, no head, a single leg, naked. There were many more still whole, no apparent wound but a rip in the cloth. In this field was a perfect mix of troops from both sides, and hidden in the grass were the weapons, a danger all their own, bayonets and knives, one man to Bauer’s left crying out, stumbling, a sergeant moving quickly. The man stayed down, the sergeant saying something about a bayonet, then looking back, as though hoping the lieutenant had been right, that an ambulance might yet come up. Bauer stared down again, his feet pushing more carefully through the grass, thought of the newly injured man, Hopkins, from Madison maybe. Now Hopkins was their newest casualty, the newest member of this astonishing horror, this nightmare fraternity that spread out in the fields as far as anyone could see.
Bauer glanced toward Willis, saw him making his way with delicate care, staring downward, picking his way, making a long stride over a body. Around them were more calls from the wounded, men in every direction, hidden by the grass, the voices too many for Bauer to hear the words, one thought as he blocked them out: God help them. The slow trudging march seemed unending, and Bauer looked toward the far wood line, another blasted patch of wrecked timber. Officers were there already, a man on a horse, a sword pointing, guiding the closest men through a gap in the timber. There were more gaps, narrow openings that led them around and through the obstacles, the lines disorganized once more. He reached the tree line, waited his turn, moved through the gap, made his way over the obstacles, could see more dead, heard more cries. By now Bauer was growing numb to it all, his brain saturated. The bodies had become just part of the ground, pieces of trees alongside pieces of men, the smells blending together, mud and death. The shouts of the officers grew louder, the woods only a small patch, the field beyond one more carpet of horror. Out front, another horseman appeared, and Bauer welcomed the distraction, saw it was Captain Patch.
“Move those men out here! Double-quick! The enemy is in those far trees, and they’re coming! Fall into line in cover … get ready! Aim low!”
Patch seemed to pause, realized his horse was stepping through the remains of the men who had gone down the day before. He said something Bauer couldn’t hear, seemed to back the horse away. Another pair of horsemen rode quickly across from one side, and Bauer was surprised to see Colonel Allen, had wondered if the colonel was even alive. A few men acknowledged that, shouts, mostly subdued, but Allen spoke only to Patch, waved one hand toward the far woods, and Bauer saw the bandage, thick and heavy, wrapped around Allen’s chest. Bauer felt a strange surge of emotion, the thought shared by men around him, low voices, all of them recognizing that the colonel had come back … for them. Allen looked across the line, said something again to Patch, then rode away, followed by his aide. Patch turned the horse toward them, another shout, “Find cover anywhere you can! Get ready!”
A voice behind him, Champlin.
“The colonel coulda stayed in the back. We’ll follow him to hell, boys.”
Champlin went to work, moved quickly out past Bauer, pointing out the cover, the best places for a man to lie down. Other sergeants down the line were doing the same, but the men were already dropping low. Bauer backed farther away from the edge of the field, heard a wounded man behind him, a desperate rasping cry. Bauer hadn’t seen him before, wouldn’t see him now. He saw a gap between two logs, slid down, wet mud beneath, brought the stock of the musket against him, the muzzle pointing up close to his face. The mud was soaking up into his pants, and he tried to ignore that, but couldn’t, one hand reaching out below, feeling for something … human. He glanced at the hand, saw mud, only mud, once more the quick prayer in his mind: Thank God.
He heard horses, turned, was surprised to see an artillery battery, the teams of horses pulling limbers and four guns up close to the edge of the woods behind them. Men were calling out, low cheers, and Bauer felt that, the sudden surge of confidence, added power to the position. He watched as the gun crews unlimbered the artillery pieces, wheeling them about. One officer stepped through them, pointing out past the men in the trees, toward the woods far across the field beyond. The guns were positioned a few yards apart, their crews adjusting the elevation, nudging each gun to one side or the other, what Bauer could only guess was the effort to aim at some target only the gunners knew, where rebel batteries were positioned, or where the rebel infantry might be moving right now. He stared with excited admiration, watched as the crews loaded each gun, and Bauer tried to see the projectiles, but the men moved too quickly, no way for Bauer to see if they were using canister or solid shot. Canister, he thought. If the rebs are coming … we need canister. He glanced out toward the field again, saw Willis close to one side, staring out to the field, not interested by the battery. Willis had his musket up, resting on a log, and Bauer looked again to the big guns, saw the aim of the barrels just above them, thought, keep your head down, that’s for sure. The crews stood back now, ready, and Bauer knew to brace for it, expected the battery to open fire immediately, the blasts that would throw thick clouds of stinking smoke right over them.
But the first shell came from the other way, from the front. It tore through the jumble of tree limbs with a sharp scream, the blast coming down close behind him, tossing splinters skyward with a deafening burst. He ducked low, farther into the mud, the thick limbs on two sides of him, a V shape, pointed out toward the field. He glanced back, saw a shred of blue, smoke engulfing him, blinding, choking, tried to see the ripped coat … who? But there was no time for that, the next shell coming in with a different sound, a tumbling whistle, impacting farther back, where the battery was positioned. He kept low, the shells coming in a screaming chorus, one to his right, then more, a shower of roars, impacting behind … the battery. A half-dozen more split the air to one side, coming from another place, somewhere to the left, all of them exploding where the cannons had been placed. He covered his ears, fought the sounds, harsh ringing in his ears. But the shelling seemed to slow, a pause, silence, then one shell out front, far short, in the field, dirt and debris tossed in the air.
The silence came again, a long pause, nothing at all. He waited still, slowly dropped his hands from his ears, took a breath through the dense sulfur smoke, shook his head slowly, the silence not changing the rin
ging pain in his ears. The rebels guns were firing somewhere else, nowhere close, and he rose up slightly, turned, looked back. The battery was completely destroyed, all four guns broken, blasted, smoking heaps of wreckage. The smoke was clearing, but still, one limber was on its side, burning, black smoke. Where the guns had been were only broken wheels, timbers, one barrel stabbed straight down into the ground, another cracked, split lengthwise. He rose higher, drawn by a stunned curiosity. He saw the crews, what was left of two dozen men, shreds of blue cloth, bodies and pieces of men scattered through the wreckage … and dead horses. They lay in pieces as well, steaming piles of ripped flesh, guts in heaps. He felt sick, still stared, a last flicker of hope, that someone would have survived, that one gun would still be there, ready to help. But there was nothing left. The men around him stared as he did, raw silence, a short moan coming from the wounded man, still unseen, Bauer hating the man, furious now, furious at everything.
“Get ready!”
The voice came from some other place, barely audible, the ringing in his ears numbing his brain, but the voice came again, closer, familiar.
“Get ready! They’re coming! Aim low!”
A pair of shells came in one behind the other, the ground jumping beneath him, a shower of thick splinters blowing into his back. He cried out, the shock, saw a man lying across a broken tree, the shell finding him, pure chance. He ducked again, curled up as tightly as he could, thought of Willis, where? Champlin, the others … Captain Patch. But his brain pulled him back, another jolt under him, a remnant of a tree to one side swept completely away. Every part of him was shaking, a hard shiver in his gut, the musket held tightly against him. The shells came again, another series of four, then two more, not as close, the aim of the gunners shifting, seeking targets farther to the right.
“Everybody up! Get ready! Aim low!”
He glanced up, his eyes barely above the fattest limb, sat upright now, was amazed to see Captain Patch moving his horse directly along the line. Patch had a strange fire on his face, a hard, cold steel as though fighting through the horror in his own mind. But there was a job to do, and Patch was drilling that into his men. Bauer shifted his knees, rose up, could see now what the job was to be. Beyond the carpet of bodies, the woods were in motion, a wave of color, men coming at them quickly, no more than three hundred yards away. He stared, hypnotized, but around him men were shifting position, finding a place to aim the musket. The sergeants were clambering over the fallen timbers, quickly, sliding snakelike through the men, their own muskets and carbines settling into the good place, seeking protection in the cover. To the left, a volley of musket fire erupted, too soon, someone’s nervous impatience, the line of rebels not affected. All along the line, both directions, the calls came, but the men knew what to do, had done this before. The rebels came on, the only sounds now coming from them, the volume of their voices rising, a great wave rolling forward. A musket fired, close to his left, terrified impatience, and Bauer tried to fight that, angry at himself, shouting silently at the shaking in his hands. He had a different panic now. Is it loaded? He glanced down, saw the percussion cap, yes, good! The roar of voices was closer still, strange, unreal, something in his brain giving way, a story he heard, campfire at night, the scream of the Banshees … and he fought that, pushed back at the terror, the desperate need to leave this place, to stand up, drop the musket, run …
“Fire!”
The muskets around him blew out their charges, and he stared at the smoke, had done nothing, no aim, his finger fumbling for the trigger. The men behind him fired now, more smoke, the blasts close above his head, men all around him scrambling to reload, more useless shouts from the sergeants. He aimed, cursing the smoke, the shaking in his hands slowing, waited, some glimpse, the order to one side, “Fire at will!”
The chorus of shouts coming toward them was louder still, and he saw them through the smoke, a man with a thick black beard, strange floppy hat, red shirt, twenty yards. He pulled the trigger, musket jolting his shoulder, smoke in a burst in front of him. He didn’t wait to see, the routine taking over. He dug frantically into his cartridge box, shoved the musket down beneath the log, the barrel toward him, paper in his teeth, ripping, the taste of powder, pouring it into the barrel, the ball, shoved in, the ramrod, push … hard, pull the musket up, roll it over, hammer back, percussion cap in place. He looked out, saw a man step up on a log, a small gray hat on the man’s head, gold braiding, gold buttons on his chest, the man holding a pistol, looking back, waving it, then forward again, pointing, firing, to the left. The man seemed to search, looking manically, his eyes finding Bauer, but Bauer’s search had ended. The pistol moved, a single smooth motion, the man aiming, and Bauer pulled the trigger, the musket making an odd sound, belching smoke. He grabbed for another cartridge, began the routine again, saw the rebel officer standing fixed, looking down, the pistol gone, his hand moving to his chest. Bauer saw it now, the ramrod, his ramrod, driven through the man. The officer stepped back off the log, then dropped to his knees, still stared at the arrow that had impaled him, then fell to one side, disappeared into the debris of the timbers.
“They’re pulling back! Fire at will!”
Bauer felt an odd panic, no, what did you do? His hand searched frantically, the ramrod not in its place, nowhere around him. He looked out to the field, saw the rebel line pulling back, men still dropping, shot down from the muskets of the men close to him.
“Up men! Charge them! Don’t let them get away!”
A dozen men closest to him took the call, rose up from their good cover, stepping forward awkwardly, stumbling, moving out into the open ground. But an officer held them up, forming them into line, and Bauer stood, tried to climb out of his hole, his legs stiff, frozen, and he looked out again into the field, fresh bodies in the grass, men stacked on top of men. Close in front of him, he saw the ramrod, pointing straight up from the debris, forced his legs out over the log, eased himself that way, hesitated, his brain holding to the image of the man’s pistol, the black hole of the barrel. He held the bayonet ready, peered quickly over the debris, saw the officer, blood in a small stain on the man’s gray coat, the ramrod halfway buried in the man’s chest.
“Well, pull it out! Let’s go!” Willis was there, rapped him hard on the back. “You practicing archery? Here, I’ll do it.”
Willis grabbed the ramrod, put a foot on the man’s ribs, gave a tug, the thin steel sliding out, a small fountain of blood following it up from the hole. Willis laughed.
“You do that again, just remember … there’s plenty of these damn things lying around here. But it ain’t the smartest way to kill a reb. You mighta bent this one a little. C’mon. Load your damn musket. We still got work to do.”
“Move! Advance!”
Champlin was there, gave Bauer a shove in the back, noticed the rebel officer now.
“Well, look what you got here. A captain. Good shooting, Private.”
Willis slapped him again.
“Yeah, he’s a regular sharpshooter.”
“Let’s go! Join up with those fellows over here. Form up!”
Bauer followed, looked again to the graycoat, heard Willis say something about the man’s pistol … a keepsake. Bauer ignored him, stared out to the field, the men forming into line, Captain Patch again, more men down the way, more strength, the line stretching all along the edge of the woods. The men were stepping forward, picking their way through the bodies, and Bauer felt that as well, some odd logic, the rebels just killed not as respected, Bauer stepping on a fresh body to avoid an older one. He slid into line, saw a small wound on the captain’s horse, heard Patch call out, “Look at it, boys! Look at how many we are! Brigade front! We’re going after those damn rebels! The colonel’s damn tired of this! We’re not waiting for ’em to come to us!”
Patch waved his sword, the bugler giving the call from somewhere down the line, and Bauer began to step through the scattered and heaped bodies, stared down at the mass of flesh
around him. He avoided what he could, saw men farther out in the field, wounded rebels, some trying to crawl away. Bauer suddenly absorbed Patch’s words … we’re not waiting for them to come to us … and one thought rolled through his brain, one question:
Why not?
They had moved forward again, past another field littered with dead. Bauer squatted low, a nervous shaking stare at the line of rebels who stared back at him. Behind him, more men were standing, and now the order came, Captain Patch to one side, still on the horse.
“Fire!”
The entire line erupted, and down to the side another order was given, another volley. Across from Bauer, the rebel line seemed to waver, too many men going down, some pulling away. The musket fire came toward them now, sharp zips that tore the air in all directions. Behind Bauer, the second line fired their volley, while Bauer reloaded, the bend in his ramrod ignored, the bloodstain from the rebel captain long wiped away. Across the field, the rebels began to melt away, many of them down, falling still, a third volley tearing their lines, Bauer joining into that, searching the smoke for anyone standing, the aim at the legs, the jolt into his shoulder. The smoke hid the rebel retreat, most of it, some men still standing tall, but not for long. Bauer had seen that too often, at the peach orchard, near the awful bloody pond, and now, in the open fields. They stood as though deaf to the sounds of the lead in the air, as though on the parade ground, fire, reload, fire again. But the strength in the Federal lines was far too great, and the brave rebels, the men Bauer had begun to admire, were far too few to hold back the wave of blue that poured toward them.