He let them go. To try and kick them back into the ranks was a waste of effort They'd bolt again once the real fighting started. But he recognized several and would be certain to remember their names, along with the name of one of the men lying there dead, Tom McMurtry-he had once fished with him in summer and hunted in the fall, years ago-the top of his head smashed in by the exploding shell.
The gradual slope began to shallow out into level ground All ahead was smoke, fog, shadows. To the east the horizon was a dull gray, a bit brighter than the rest of the heavens, the ground fog having risen during the night, obscuring the stars.
The grass beneath his feet was trampled down, soaked with dew. Bits of equipment littered the ground, a blanket roll, a discarded musket, and now the first casualties, men crawling back, the column opening then closing to step. around them. One of the wounded held up an imploring hand, only one, for his left arm was torn off at the shoulder, the man begging for water. All ignored him, pressing on.
Bullets snicked the air overhead, fluttering by like angry bees, random shots from the fight up ahead; a shell fluttered over, fuse visible, sputtering and trailing sparks.
More men on the ground, dead, twisted up, torn apart, blood streaking the grass. A lone artillery piece, how it got there was a mystery, abandoned, its team of six horses dead, the column having to slow for a moment as it moved around the wreckage, then double-timing to move back up to the fore.
"Double time!"
The cry echoed up and down the swaying columns. The drummer boys picked up the tempo of their beat. Up at the head of the column the flag bearer was holding his banner high, waving it back and forth. A man at the rear went down, the smack of the bullet hitting him in the forehead clearly audible. He flipped over backward, nearly knocking Hazner over. Hazner staggered, then ran to catch up.
Still nothing in the mist. He wondered how Scales knew which way to go. How long had they been moving? Five minutes now, seven, ten? They should be almost there. There was nothing but mist, smoke, scattered bodies. Where were they going?
The tension seemed unbearable again. For a few minutes, in the initial excitement, he-for that matter, all-had forgotten what was coming. Now, as they moved at the double, some of the men beginning to pant for breath, staggering, the fear was returning, the dread of the moment of impact.
And still nothing but mist
As if in answer to a desperate, terrible prayer, the mist seemed to part. The head of the column actually slowed, men in the rear ranks pressing in, some cursing, shouting. Hazner moved from the center over to the side of the column, looking up through the twenty-yard gap between his regiment and the one to their left.
A dark line seemed to be traced across the low horizon ahead. He caught glimpses of men moving along the top of it. The ground before them was nothing but a mad tangle of bodies, men writhing in agony, others lying prone, hunkered down, curled up, hands and arms covering their heads, a few with poised rifles raised, continuing to fight. The ground was a shambles of torn-up grass, mud, blood, thousands upon thousands of torn cartridge papers, twisted rifles, dead horses, an officer lying against the stomach of a dead mount, head bowed, weeping hysterically.
"Charge, boys! Charge!"
A wild shout erupted from the column; the drummer boys, all sense of tempo gone, began to beat furiously. Men surged forward, the spine-tingling rebel yell rising up in a wild shriek, Hazner picking up the cry, which sounded like wolves baying at the scent of blood.
A flash erupted from atop the parapet, then another and another. The first spray of canister, two hundred iron balls fired from a thirty-pound rifled gun, tore into the flanking regiment, cutting a murderous swath across the front of the line. A second later the next blast struck the Fourteenth. Something slapped into Hazner's face. Warm, sticky, and he was momentarily blinded. Horrified, he wiped his eyes clean, feeling bits of flesh between his fingers, the taste of blood salty in his mouth. He fought down the reflective desire to gag, to vomit, as the realization dawned that it was the entrails of a man he was wiping away.
"Come on!"
Amazingly he could hear Colonel Brown screaming. He was still alive.
"Come on!" Hazner picked up the cry, now edging in, pushing the man in front of him as the column regained momentum, pressing up and over the torn remains of a score of comrades cut down by that first blast.
He caught a glimpse of the preacher, gasping, sitting up, blood gushing from his chest, the man feebly holding his Bible and pressing it to the wound.
In the smoke just ahead Hazner saw the first lines of the abatis. In many places the sharpened stakes had been torn out or pushed down. There were six rows of them, the outer rows broken or knocked down, but the inner rows still intact in many places, here and there with narrow lanes cut through them. More than one dead man was impaled on the stakes. To his horror he saw a wounded man pierced through the stomach, but still alive, screaming.
The column slammed into the first line of stakes. He had heard that some of Pettigrew's men had gone in armed with axes, but they had not fully cleared the way, and he caught glimpses of them, dead, some with axes still in their hands. He was tempted to toss aside his musket and pick one up, but decided against it. He needed to stay with the men, not get diverted.
By sheer brute strength the column was forcing its way through, men slamming at the stakes with the butts of their muskets to knock the barriers aside, squeezing through the openings. The column stalled; men from the rear ranks began to spill around to the flanks of the column pushing up against the stakes.
Rifle fire now erupted from the wall of the fort with deadly effect, men dropping to either side of Hazner as he ran along the flank of his regiment, pushed through the remnants of the first two lines of abatis, and pressed his way into the third.
More cannon fire. He heard a strange, hollow rattling and looked back. One of the drummer boys was standing there, gazing down. His drum had been blown in half but he was still alive.
"Get down, boy! Get down!"
The boy looked up at him, then, without a sound, collapsed. The shot that had destroyed the drum had all but torn off his leg at the knee.
Turning, he began to batter at the stakes, screaming with rage, pushing his way through. A stake directly in front of him was all but split in half by a rifle ball that would have hit him in the stomach. He pushed it aside.
"Come on!"
A mortar shell, fired with only a few ounces of powder, came down silently, striking the ground in front of him, the fuse going out in the muck.
"Come on!"
He looked to either side. The regiments were swarming together, any semblance of formation gone, officers screaming, waving swords, men cursing, heaving, pushing, many- far too many-falling, shrieking, clutching at arms, heads, chests, stomachs.
They surged through the last barrier line. The moat was before him. It was a sight of horror. The filthy, muddy water was pink, the color clearly visible even in the dim light… filled with the dead, wounded, and dying. The wounded looked up imploringly, some shrieking for them to go back, those still game urging their comrades forward, a few still unhit rising up, struggling to claw their way back up the muddy wall of the fort.
He saw the flag bearer of the Fourteenth go down. Before the colors had even begun to fold up and drop, someone else held them aloft, screaming for the men to follow, Colonel Brown at his side. The colonel and the flag bearer jumped, skidding down the outer slope of the moat, the regiment surging after them.
Hazner was knocked off his feet by a man behind him jumping. He skidded face-forward down the slope, hitting a body on the way, turning to slide feet-first into the slime.
"Keep your cartridge boxes up!" he screamed, even as he clawed at his own and dropped waist-deep into the moat. Some of the men were already doing that, but far too many, caught up in the madness, simply waded in. With the first two steps he lost his shoes, sucked off in the mud.
He felt as if he was running in a night
mare, each slow step an eternity, water geysering around him. He stepped on a body pressed down into the mud, his bare feet sensing the back, the man's head, and he was glad the body was there, giving him enough footing to leap the last few feet on to the inner wall of the moat.
The nightmare sensation was still there. He tried to stand, to run up, but the ground had been churned into a morass by Pettigrew's men, whose bodies littered the slope.
He looked up and saw the barrel of a thirty-pounder being run back out, barrel fully depressed. He flung himself down, the roar of the gun stunning him, the deadly impact striking the far slope of the moat, cutting down dozens.
He stood up.
"Now! Now!"
He repeated the cry over and over as he staggered up the slope, losing four steps for every one gained. Stepping atop a legless body he gained enough footing to fling himself up nearly to the crest. He paused, looked back, saw that Brown was still up, sword still held high. The flag bearer was up as well, pressing forward; then he dropped. Another man picked up the flag, following Brown, a wedge of men, like an inverted V, pushing behind them.
The crush of men pressed up beside him and Hazner fell in with them. They were almost at the embrasure. He pushed up the last few feet to one side of the gun opening, clawing his way to the top. He caught a glimpse of heads, some wearing blue kepis, most of them hatless, the rammer for the gun withdrawing the staff, screaming for the crew to run the piece back out.
He stood up, aimed at the man less than five feet away, and squeezed. Nothing happened; his rifle was still uncapped.
A gunner, shouting, raised a revolver, and he dropped down atop the crest of the wall, the pistol round cutting a neat hole into the brim of Hazner's hat
He lunged forward, tumbling over the wall and into the fort. All was madness, confusion. Landing on the firing step, a Yankee, standing above him, screamed, using his musket like a club, swung down, trying to crush his skull. Hazner rolled, avoiding the blow. Kicking with his bare feet, he caught the man on the knee; the Yankee, cursing, staggered back. He tried to stand up, but then was knocked down as another man landed on top of him. He caught a glimpse of the inside of the fort, bodies sprawled everywhere, many of them in gray or tattered butternut A line of infantry, bayonets poised, were in the center compound, light field pieces deployed across the small parade ground, aimed straight at the wall.
The man atop him grunted, cried out, then rolled off. He came to his feet, saw the man that had been atop him thrashing, screaming, a bayonet stuck in his back, the Yankee who had caught him fighting to pull the bayonet back out
Holding his musket at the butt, Hazner swung it like a club and brained the man, who collapsed, falling off the firing step into the compound below.
It was now a murder match, men fighting like primal animals, no quarter given or asked. Fumbling, he pulled out a percussion cap, thumbed it on to the nipple, cocked his gun, and swung it around, firing from the waist into the stomach of a man lunging at him.
More men were swarming over the top of the parapet; the few Yankees atop the firing step began to jump off, running. He was about to jump down after them and then saw, to his right that the crew of the thirty-pounder were still at their position, a sergeant slapping a friction primer into the breech, pulling the lanyard taut screaming for the crew to jump back.
Colonel Brown was up into the embrasure, turning, looking back, shouting incoherently. He was so close that Hazner could almost touch him. Lunging out he grabbed Brown by the arm, which was covered with blood, and then fell backward, dragging the colonel with him. Behind Brown the flag bearer was coming through the embrasure, colors still held high.
The gun went off with an earsplitting thunder crack, the flag bearer disappearing, screams echoing up from beyond the wall.
Dropping his grip on Brown, Hazner crouched, animal-like, looking around, taking it all in, his senses suddenly sharp, clear, the world momentarily focused.
Trie infantry in the center of the fort's parade ground were firing away, independent fire, picking their targets as they came up over the wall. One of the field pieces erupted with a sharp kick, leaping backward, canister sweeping the top of the fort to Hazner's left, sweeping down a dozen or more men, some of them Union, on the open parapet.
Yankees deployed along the far side of the wall, facing in toward Washington, were turned, crouching down, firing as well; a light field piece over there was turned, pointing straight at them, ready to sweep any charge that came into the parade ground.
He stood up for a brief instant, looking back over the parapet, back across the ground they had just stormed. It was carpeted with the dead and wounded of two divisions. Scattered groups of men were still pushing forward; down in the moat, hundreds, perhaps a thousand or more, floundered about. Any semblance of command was lost in this nightmare.
Where was the next wave? The mist revealed nothing.
"We're getting out!" Hazner shouted. He stood up, pushing his dazed colonel up on the wall. The gunners, not ten feet away, were furiously reloading their piece. For an instant he thought of taking them, but knew it was useless. Bullets were smacking into the earthen wall to either side, fired from the troops assembled below.
He violently pushed Brown, who was still dazed.
"No!" Brown cried, but Hazner ignored him, leaning down, lifting him up with his blacksmith's strength, slamming him over the parapet.
He leapt up, grabbed Brown, and rolled off the top, skidding halfway down the slope. Brown tried to stand back up.
"Goddamn it, Colonel. Lay down!"
"We can still take it!"
"Not yet, damn it. Wait for the next wave!"
"We can still take it!"
Brown tried to stand up, blood pouring from his wounded arm. Exasperated, Hazner reared back, punched him with a numbing blow on the side of the head, and Brown fell, tumbled into the mud, and was still.
Fumbling into his cartridge box while lying on his back, Hazner reloaded, awkwardly pulling out the ramrod, pushing the charge down while his musket lay on his stomach, then rolled over, capped the nipple, and poised his weapon.
Pressed flat against the slope, he knew that for the moment he was safe, though those on the far side of the moat were trapped in hell. Hundreds of men, thinking as he did, had pressed themselves down into the forward slope of the fort, the ground defilade that could not be hit. The thirty-pounder, only feet away, could sweep the far slope and the fields beyond, but it could not touch him, though the roar of it would leave him deafened. Any infantry that tried to pick him off would have to stand atop the parapet, and several did try in the next few minutes, only to be riddled, as a hundred or more fired on them, offering back some small measure of revenge for the carnage. It was a stalemate.
Hazner looked around, recognizing some faces from his regiment.
"We stay here!" he shouted. "Stay here, don't fall back, or you'll be slaughtered. Stay here till the next wave comes, then we go back in!"
He reached down to his canteen. Uncorking it, Hazner lifted it up. It was light, empty. A bullet had cut it nearly in half.
Cursing, he flung it aside, and then hunkered down to wait for what would come next
He looked back to the east The sun was breaking the horizon, dull red as it shone through the smoke and the fog, which would soon burn away. It was going to be a hot day. It was going to be a very long day.
July 18th 1863
6.30a.m.
The smoke of battle was drifting down Fifth Avenue. A gutted mansion to his right burned fitfully, its brownstone walls scorched black, glass from the broken windows lying scattered along the sidewalk, smoke pulsing out of the empty window frames soaring up in coiling plumes. Two bodies dangled from a lamppost in front of the mansion, hand-lettered signs tied to their feet… rebel arsonists, the signs twirling slowly as smoke drifted around them.
The artillery fire had stopped just after dawn, only the occasional rifle shot echoing now in the gloom. The haze of smok
e hung low on the street, a fitful rain splashing down, the rain thick with soot, ash, the smell of wet wood smoke.
Maj. Gen. Dan Sickles walked purposefully down the middle of the street, his escort, a company of green-clad Berdan's sharpshooters, fanned out around him in a circle, moving like the veterans they were. Instead of stalking through woods and fields they now moved from doorway to doorway, rifles poised, scanning rooftops, open windows, abandoned barricades, racing forward, going down on one knee, then up again. Disdaining such caution, he walked upright, unafraid, setting the example he knew had to be set. Twice assassins almost got him, one of the shots nicking his hat. Of course he made sure that an illustrator from Harper's Weekly knew about that event; with luck it might be on the cover next week, with him standing as a hero in the middle of the street, the skulking coward leaning over from a rooftop. He had made a point of drawing his revolver and firing several shots back-missing, of course, but still it set the right pose. The country needs a hero in a time of crisis, he thought, and I am going to give them one.
A scattering of cheers and applause greeted him as he strode down the avenue, frightened civilians peeking out of windows, then coming outside to greet him. A beautiful young girl in a soot-darkened silk dress of bottle green came out from a doorway, carrying a flower. Shyly she curtsied and handed him the blossom.
Smiling, he bowed gallantly, took the flower with one hand, and then, taking the girl's hand, he bent over and kissed it gently.
"Thank you, my dear."
"The honor is mine, General."
She scurried back into her house, several of the veterans accompanying him looking at her, grinning slyly. He turned, handed the flower to one of his adjutants, and smiled at the knot of reporters walking behind him.
"You're a popular man this morning, General," a reporter from the Tribune shouted.
He smiled, thinking the nation needed a modest hero.
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