THE AFFAIR AT COULTER'S NOTCH
"Do you think, Colonel, that your brave Coulter would like to put one ofhis guns in here?" the general asked.
He was apparently not altogether serious; it certainly did not seem aplace where any artillerist, however brave, would like to put a gun. Thecolonel thought that possibly his division commander meantgood-humoredly to intimate that in a recent conversation between themCaptain Coulter's courage had been too highly extolled.
"General," he replied warmly, "Coulter would like to put a gun anywherewithin reach of those people," with a motion of his hand in thedirection of the enemy.
"It is the only place," said the general. He was serious, then.
The place was a depression, a "notch," in the sharp crest of a hill. Itwas a pass, and through it ran a turnpike, which reaching this highestpoint in its course by a sinuous ascent through a thin forest made asimilar, though less steep, descent toward the enemy. For a mile to theleft and a mile to the right, the ridge, though occupied by Federalinfantry lying close behind the sharp crest and appearing as if held inplace by atmospheric pressure, was inaccessible to artillery. There wasno place but the bottom of the notch, and that was barely wide enoughfor the roadbed. From the Confederate side this point was commanded bytwo batteries posted on a slightly lower elevation beyond a creek, and ahalf-mile away. All the guns but one were masked by the trees of anorchard; that one--it seemed a bit of impudence--was on an open lawndirectly in front of a rather grandiose building, the planter'sdwelling. The gun was safe enough in its exposure--but only because theFederal infantry had been forbidden to fire. Coulter's Notch--it came tobe called so--was not, that pleasant summer afternoon, a place where onewould "like to put a gun."
Three or four dead horses lay there sprawling in the road, three or fourdead men in a trim row at one side of it, and a little back, down thehill. All but one were cavalrymen belonging to the Federal advance. Onewas a quartermaster. The general commanding the division and the colonelcommanding the brigade, with their staffs and escorts, had ridden intothe notch to have a look at the enemy's guns--which had straightwayobscured themselves in towering clouds of smoke. It was hardlyprofitable to be curious about guns which had the trick of thecuttle-fish, and the season of observation had been brief. At itsconclusion--a short remove backward from where it began--occurred theconversation already partly reported. "It is the only place," thegeneral repeated thoughtfully, "to get at them."
The colonel looked at him gravely. "There is room for only one gun,General--one against twelve."
"That is true--for only one at a time," said the commander withsomething like, yet not altogether like, a smile. "But then, your braveCoulter--a whole battery in himself."
The tone of irony was now unmistakable. It angered the colonel, but hedid not know what to say. The spirit of military subordination is notfavorable to retort, nor even to deprecation.
At this moment a young officer of artillery came riding slowly up theroad attended by his bugler. It was Captain Coulter. He could not havebeen more than twenty-three years of age. He was of medium height, butvery slender and lithe, and sat his horse with something of the air of acivilian. In face he was of a type singularly unlike the men about him;thin, high-nosed, gray-eyed, with a slight blond mustache, and long,rather straggling hair of the same color. There was an apparentnegligence in his attire. His cap was worn with the visor a trifleaskew; his coat was buttoned only at the sword-belt, showing aconsiderable expanse of white shirt, tolerably clean for that stage ofthe campaign. But the negligence was all in his dress and bearing; inhis face was a look of intense interest in his surroundings. His grayeyes, which seemed occasionally to strike right and left across thelandscape, like search-lights, were for the most part fixed upon the skybeyond the Notch; until he should arrive at the summit of the road therewas nothing else in that direction to see. As he came opposite hisdivision and brigade commanders at the road-side he saluted mechanicallyand was about to pass on. The colonel signed to him to halt.
"Captain Coulter," he said, "the enemy has twelve pieces over there onthe next ridge. If I rightly understand the general, he directs that youbring up a gun and engage them."
There was a blank silence; the general looked stolidly at a distantregiment swarming slowly up the hill through rough undergrowth, like atorn and draggled cloud of blue smoke; the captain appeared not to haveobserved him. Presently the captain spoke, slowly and with apparenteffort:
"On the next ridge, did you say, sir? Are the guns near the house?"
"Ah, you have been over this road before. Directly at the house."
"And it is--necessary--to engage them? The order is imperative?"
His voice was husky and broken. He was visibly paler. The colonel wasastonished and mortified. He stole a glance at the commander. In thatset, immobile face was no sign; it was as hard as bronze. A moment laterthe general rode away, followed by his staff and escort. The colonel,humiliated and indignant, was about to order Captain Coulter in arrest,when the latter spoke a few words in a low tone to his bugler, saluted,and rode straight forward into the Notch, where, presently, at thesummit of the road, his field-glass at his eyes, he showed against thesky, he and his horse, sharply defined and statuesque. The bugler haddashed down the speed and disappeared behind a wood. Presently his buglewas heard singing in the cedars, and in an incredibly short time asingle gun with its caisson, each drawn by six horses and manned by itsfull complement of gunners, came bounding and banging up the grade in astorm of dust, unlimbered under cover, and was run forward by hand tothe fatal crest among the dead horses. A gesture of the captain's arm,some strangely agile movements of the men in loading, and almost beforethe troops along the way had ceased to hear the rattle of the wheels, agreat white cloud sprang forward down the slope, and with a deafeningreport the affair at Coulter's Notch had begun.
It is not intended to relate in detail the progress and incidents ofthat ghastly contest--a contest without vicissitudes, its alternationsonly different degrees of despair. Almost at the instant when CaptainCoulter's gun blew its challenging cloud twelve answering clouds rolledupward from among the trees about the plantation house, a deep multiplereport roared back like a broken echo, and thenceforth to the end theFederal cannoneers fought their hopeless battle in an atmosphere ofliving iron whose thoughts were lightnings and whose deeds were death.
Unwilling to see the efforts which he could not aid and the slaughterwhich he could not stay, the colonel ascended the ridge at a point aquarter of a mile to the left, whence the Notch, itself invisible, butpushing up successive masses of smoke, seemed the crater of a volcano inthundering eruption. With his glass he watched the enemy's guns, notingas he could the effects of Coulter's fire--if Coulter still lived todirect it. He saw that the Federal gunners, ignoring those of theenemy's pieces whose positions could be determined by their smoke only,gave their whole attention to the one that maintained its place in theopen--the lawn in front of the house. Over and about that hardy piecethe shells exploded at intervals of a few seconds. Some exploded in thehouse, as could be seen by thin ascensions of smoke from the breachedroof. Figures of prostrate men and horses were plainly visible.
"If our fellows are doing so good work with a single gun," said thecolonel to an aide who happened to be nearest, "they must be sufferinglike the devil from twelve. Go down and present the commander of thatpiece with my congratulations on the accuracy of his fire."
Turning to his adjutant-general he said, "Did you observe Coulter'sdamned reluctance to obey orders?"
"Yes, sir, I did."
"Well, say nothing about it, please. I don't think the general will careto make any accusations. He will probably have enough to do inexplaining his own connection with this uncommon way of amusing therear-guard of a retreating enemy."
A young officer approached from below, climbing breathless up theacclivity. Almost before he had saluted, he gasped out:
"Colonel, I am directed by Colonel Harmon to say that the enemy'
s gunsare within easy reach of our rifles, and most of them visible fromseveral points along the ridge."
The brigade commander looked at him without a trace of interest in hisexpression. "I know it," he said quietly.
The young adjutant was visibly embarrassed. "Colonel Harmon would liketo have permission to silence those guns," he stammered.
"So should I," the colonel said in the same tone. "Present mycompliments to Colonel Harmon and say to him that the general's ordersfor the infantry not to fire are still in force."
The adjutant saluted and retired. The colonel ground his heel into theearth and turned to look again at the enemy's guns.
"Colonel," said the adjutant-general, "I don't know that I ought to sayanything, but there is something wrong in all this. Do you happen toknow that Captain Coulter is from the South?"
"No; _was_ he, indeed?"
"I heard that last summer the division which the general then commandedwas in the vicinity of Coulter's home--camped there for weeks, and--"
"Listen!" said the colonel, interrupting with an upward gesture. "Do youhear _that_?"
"That" was the silence of the Federal gun. The staff, the orderlies, thelines of infantry behind the crest--all had "heard," and were lookingcuriously in the direction of the crater, whence no smoke now ascendedexcept desultory cloudlets from the enemy's shells. Then came the blareof a bugle, a faint rattle of wheels; a minute later the sharp reportsrecommenced with double activity. The demolished gun had been replacedwith a sound one.
"Yes," said the adjutant-general, resuming his narrative, "the generalmade the acquaintance of Coulter's family. There was trouble--I don'tknow the exact nature of it--something about Coulter's wife. She is ared-hot Secessionist, as they all are, except Coulter himself, but sheis a good wife and high-bred lady. There was a complaint to armyheadquarters. The general was transferred to this division. It is oddthat Coulter's battery should afterward have been assigned to it."
The colonel had risen from the rock upon which they had been sitting.His eyes were blazing with a generous indignation.
"See here, Morrison," said he, looking his gossiping staff officerstraight in the face, "did you get that story from a gentleman or aliar?"
"I don't want to say how I got it, Colonel, unless it is necessary"--hewas blushing a trifle--"but I'll stake my life upon its truth in themain."
The colonel turned toward a small knot of officers some distance away."Lieutenant Williams!" he shouted.
One of the officers detached himself from the group and coming forwardsaluted, saying: "Pardon me, Colonel, I thought you had been informed.Williams is dead down there by the gun. What can I do, sir?"
Lieutenant Williams was the aide who had had the pleasure of conveyingto the officer in charge of the gun his brigade commander'scongratulations.
"Go," said the colonel, "and direct the withdrawal of that guninstantly. No--I'll go myself."
He strode down the declivity toward the rear of the Notch at abreak-neck pace, over rocks and through brambles, followed by his littleretinue in tumultuous disorder. At the foot of the declivity theymounted their waiting animals and took to the road at a lively trot,round a bend and into the Notch. The spectacle which they encounteredthere was appalling!
Within that defile, barely broad enough for a single gun, were piled thewrecks of no fewer than four. They had noted the silencing of only thelast one disabled--there had been a lack of men to replace it quicklywith another. The debris lay on both sides of the road; the men hadmanaged to keep an open way between, through which the fifth piece wasnow firing. The men?--they looked like demons of the pit! All werehatless, all stripped to the waist, their reeking skins black withblotches of powder and spattered with gouts of blood. They worked likemadmen, with rammer and cartridge, lever and lanyard. They set theirswollen shoulders and bleeding hands against the wheels at each recoiland heaved the heavy gun back to its place. There were no commands; inthat awful environment of whooping shot, exploding shells, shriekingfragments of iron, and flying splinters of wood, none could have beenheard. Officers, if officers there were, were indistinguishable; allworked together--each while he lasted--governed by the eye. When the gunwas sponged, it was loaded; when loaded, aimed and fired. The colonelobserved something new to his military experience--something horribleand unnatural: the gun was bleeding at the mouth! In temporary defaultof water, the man sponging had dipped his sponge into a pool ofcomrade's blood. In all this work there was no clashing; the duty of theinstant was obvious. When one fell, another, looking a trifle cleaner,seemed to rise from the earth in the dead man's tracks, to fall in histurn.
With the ruined guns lay the ruined men--alongside the wreckage, underit and atop of it; and back down the road--a ghastly procession!--crepton hands and knees such of the wounded as were able to move. Thecolonel--he had compassionately sent his cavalcade to the right about--had to ride over those who were entirely dead in order not to crushthose who were partly alive. Into that hell he tranquilly held his way,rode up alongside the gun, and, in the obscurity of the last discharge,tapped upon the cheek the man holding the rammer--who straightway fell,thinking himself killed. A fiend seven times damned sprang out of thesmoke to take his place, but paused and gazed up at the mounted officerwith an unearthly regard, his teeth flashing between his black lips, hiseyes, fierce and expanded, burning like coals beneath his bloody brow.The colonel made an authoritative gesture and pointed to the rear. Thefiend bowed in token of obedience. It was Captain Coulter.
Simultaneously with the colonel's arresting sign, silence fell upon thewhole field of action. The procession of missiles no longer streamedinto that defile of death, for the enemy also had ceased firing. Hisarmy had been gone for hours, and the commander of his rear-guard, whohad held his position perilously long in hope to silence the Federalfire, at that strange moment had silenced his own. "I was not aware ofthe breadth of my authority," said the colonel to anybody, ridingforward to the crest to see what had really happened. An hour later hisbrigade was in bivouac on the enemy's ground, and its idlers wereexamining, with something of awe, as the faithful inspect a saint'srelics, a score of straddling dead horses and three disabled guns, allspiked. The fallen men had been carried away; their torn and brokenbodies would have given too great satisfaction.
Naturally, the colonel established himself and his military family inthe plantation house. It was somewhat shattered, but it was better thanthe open air. The furniture was greatly deranged and broken. Walls andceilings were knocked away here and there, and a lingering odor ofpowder smoke was everywhere. The beds, the closets of women's clothing,the cupboards were not greatly damaged. The new tenants for a nightmade themselves comfortable, and the virtual effacement of Coulter'sbattery supplied them with an interesting topic.
During supper an orderly of the escort showed himself into thedining-room and asked permission to speak to the colonel.
"What is it, Barbour?" said that officer pleasantly, having overheardthe request.
"Colonel, there is something wrong in the cellar; I don't know what--somebody there. I was down there rummaging about."
"I will go down and see," said a staff officer, rising.
"So will I," the colonel said; "let the others remain. Lead on,orderly."
They took a candle from the table and descended the cellar stairs, theorderly in visible trepidation. The candle made but a feeble light, butpresently, as they advanced, its narrow circle of illumination revealeda human figure seated on the ground against the black stone wall whichthey were skirting, its knees elevated, its head bowed sharply forward.The face, which should have been seen in profile, was invisible, for theman was bent so far forward that his long hair concealed it; and,strange to relate, the beard, of a much darker hue, fell in a greattangled mass and lay along the ground at his side. They involuntarilypaused; then the colonel, taking the candle from the orderly's shakinghand, approached the man and attentively considered him. The long darkbeard was the hair of a woman--dead. The dead woman
clasped in her armsa dead babe. Both were clasped in the arms of the man, pressed againsthis breast, against his lips. There was blood in the hair of the woman;there was blood in the hair of the man. A yard away, near an irregulardepression in the beaten earth which formed the cellar's floor--freshexcavation with a convex bit of iron, having jagged edges, visible inone of the sides--lay an infant's foot. The colonel held the light ashigh as he could. The floor of the room above was broken through, thesplinters pointing at all angles downward. "This casemate is notbomb-proof," said the colonel gravely. It did not occur to him that hissumming up of the matter had any levity in it.
They stood about the group awhile in silence; the staff officer wasthinking of his unfinished supper, the orderly of what might possibly bein one of the casks on the other side of the cellar. Suddenly the manwhom they had thought dead raised his head and gazed tranquilly intotheir faces. His complexion was coal black; the cheeks were apparentlytattooed in irregular sinuous lines from the eyes downward. The lips,too, were white, like those of a stage negro. There was blood upon hisforehead.
The staff officer drew back a pace, the orderly two paces.
"What are you doing here, my man?" said the colonel, unmoved.
"This house belongs to me, sir," was the reply, civilly delivered.
"To you? Ah, I see! And these?"
"My wife and child. I am Captain Coulter."
The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce — Volume 2: In the Midst of Life: Tales of Soldiers and Civilians Page 7
