by Jeff Shaara
It was Willis’s attempt at humor, always an edge of anger to it.
“Not me, sir. I’m just the son of a sausage maker. Dumb as a river rock.”
There was a silent pause, and Bauer knew why. Willis said, “How you doin’ with all of that? Really sorry.”
“It’s okay, Sammie. Papa went quick, a blessing. Mama … well, not as good. Watched her get weaker, thinner. Worst part of it, she didn’t hardly know me at the end.” He shoved hard against the memories, didn’t want to see her at all, not right now. “It ain’t good watchin’ people die, Sammie. Not people … you love.”
“And that’s why you’re down here waitin’ for some damn secesh to rise up in front of you? You’ve seen plenty of men die. None of it’s pretty. It’s just … why we’re here. You lose your belly for it, and somebody’ll make you pay for that. Those damn secesh got plenty of belly for killing. I intend to fix that. Clean this country like a scrub brush if we have to.”
Bauer had heard plenty of this kind of talk before. It was nothing like the boasting of the loudmouths in the training camps. Bauer had seen Willis in the middle of the fight, knew that his friend wouldn’t hesitate to kill any rebel who stood in his way, whether by musket, bayonet, or his bare hands. Bauer had a twisting need to change the subject.
“These boys do pretty good at Corinth?”
“Not bad. Since they missed out on Shiloh, they’re pretty ornery about anybody slappin’ them in the face with that. Felt like they had to prove something. They know what the 16th did, they know that the 18th nearly got wiped out. I heard a fair number of Wisconsin boys got hauled off when General Prentiss was captured. They’re sittin’ somewhere in a rebel prison, most likely. If they survived at all.” Willis paused. “Not me. Good luck to any damn secesh tries to take me captive. I’ll rip his heart out before I let that happen.”
“Hey, Lieutenant!”
The voice came from beneath a large tree a few yards away, and Bauer could see now, others sitting up, some of them close enough to hear their conversation.
“What is it? Who’s that … Kelly? What the hell do you want?”
“Sir, I was just a-wonderin’ sir, if we’uns could be getting some sleep any time this here evenin’. Hate to be interruptin’ you tuckin’ your boy into bed and all.”
Bauer felt a hot glow of embarrassment on his face, but Willis responded with a spit.
“You slept all damn day on the march. I saw you. Tomorrow we tie you to the colonel’s horse, so’s you stand up straight.”
There were laughs all around them, the taunting aimed mostly at Kelly. Bauer lay back, stared up, saw Willis moving, then hesitation, the low voice again.
“Might see those scoundrels tomorrow, Dutchie. You keep close watch on your poor old innocents, too, all those plantation folks you feel sorry for. One of them’s liable to put a musket ball in your head. You do your job, you hear me?”
“You can depend on me, Lieutenant.”
Willis rose quickly, was gone in the darkness. Around Bauer, the talk faded away, none of the usual energy the others had for teasing him. The men were as tired as he was. He stared up into stars, heard the familiar whine of the mosquitoes, pulled one side of his blanket over his face, the only remedy, his eyes heavy, and he let out a breath, the sounds of the others fading away. But the one image stayed with him, always there, the frail sickness of his mother.
SOUTHEAST OF RAYMOND, MISSISSIPPI
MAY 12, 1863
The march started early, and from every path and side road, cavalry patrols had appeared, the horsemen moving with urgency. He watched an entire company moving past, a hundred or more, following their commander, other officers, a flag. Another smaller squadron came past them now, from the rear of the column, the officers shifting the infantry to the side of the road to give the horsemen space. Around Bauer, men cursed the clouds kicked up by the hoofbeats, but Bauer felt something different, not pride exactly; an appreciation for the power of the horses. He coughed through the dust, wiped at his eyes with rough hands, thought, I should have done that, volunteered for cavalry. They’d have taught me how to ride a horse, sure as rain. No matter what happens, those boys see it all first, get to hit the enemy in quick raids. That’s gotta be more fun than what we do, standing up there, staring into musket barrels. Fun. The word jolted him, unexpected. But it was there, the expectation that something was about to happen, that all the shovels and mud and mosquitoes were behind them. He felt the jitters in his hand, his stomach, his heart starting to race. It had been so long since he had actually seen the enemy. And now it would be soon, surely it would be soon. I’m ready, by damned. I want this thing to get over with, and that’s the only way it’ll happen. He tested himself for the fear, but it was distant, not quite there. For now the memories were replaced by something new. By excitement.
Up ahead, officers gathered, a large Stars and Stripes, a quick meeting, one man animated, pointing to the front. The meeting was brief, the men moving off quickly. Beside him, the skinny redhead stood taller, trying to see beyond the vast column.
“What’s happening? Do you know? Are there rebs up there?”
All around him, men tossed their taunts at the “foolish question,” but Bauer could see them looking forward as well, the rhythm of the march quickening, more questions. Beside Bauer, Sergeant Finley barked out, “Stay in line! This is a march, damn you! You wanna sightsee, do it back home! They want you to know what’s up ahead, they’ll tell you.”
Bauer knew the sergeant was right, that until the bugles sounded, there was nothing for these men to do but march. Bauer glanced at the young man beside him, knew only that his name was, of course, Red. The man was barely a man at all, no hint of a beard. He marched awkwardly, all legs and gangly arms that made him look like a freckled spider. Bauer could see fear on the man’s face, nervous twitches, his head jerking back and forth, eyes distant, searching.
“Hey, Red, what’s your name … your real name?”
The boy stared at Bauer like he had never seen him before, nodded, looked again to the front.
“Evan O’Daniel, sir.”
Bauer couldn’t help a smile, said softly, “Not sir. You’ll catch hell for that.”
“I know. All the time. I … was just raised to call folks … sir. Most everybody in this outfit’s older than me. You, too, I suppose.”
“How old are you?”
“Fif … Seventeen, sir.”
Bauer had an uneasy twinge, looked hard at the boy, thought, Fifteen, for sure. Too damn young. They gotta know that. He ought not be here at all.
“Why’d you volunteer?”
The boy seemed to straighten, a show of pride.
“To fight the rebels, sir.” He paused, and Bauer sensed there was more. “Had to get away from there, I suppose. Eight sisters. My papa was expecting me to be a man ever since I can recall. Soldiering … well, that’s the best way I knew how.”
Bauer tried to picture the image … eight sisters. Good Lord.
“They all look like you? All redheaded?”
“Some. All of ’em are younger. I need the army pay, to help out.”
Bauer looked again to the front, heard voices behind them, the men who obviously knew much of this boy.
“Yep, Red, that thirteen dollars a month will have them living in luxury.”
“The army might even give us that pay, one of these days.”
“Don’t hang your hat on that one, lad. Army’s full of promises. They told me I’d be wearing a colonel’s eagles by now. I ain’t seen no sign of that. And the colonel hisself seems pretty pleased to leave it that way.”
Bauer let the jabbering pass by, hadn’t given much thought to his army pay. Anything he received he had always sent home, though the men hadn’t seen any sign of a paymaster for months. There was grousing about that, mostly ignored by now, the men understanding that there wasn’t much of anything around this part of the country to spend it on. He looked again at O’Daniel, who marc
hed staring down. The boy embarrasses easy, he thought. Better get over that. All that red hair … and eight sisters? These boys must be making your life pure hell. Bauer looked again to the front, more cavalry emerging from a wood line to the left, moving toward the front.
“You been in any fights?”
O’Daniel looked at him, wide-eyed, and shook his head.
“No, sir. Just been here a pair of months. I kinda wondered about the pay and all.” He turned, looked back to the man behind Bauer. “They are gonna pay us, though, right?”
The man laughed, slapped Bauer on the back.
“You tell him. You’re supposed to be the old soldier among us dew-eared lads. How much pay you seen?”
Bauer thought about that, suddenly realized the others around him expected a response.
“A few times. They send the pay wagons in every few months or so. I don’t give it much thought.”
“You rich, then? That why the lieutenant pals up to ya? You loan out money, do ya?”
Bauer closed his eyes, shook his head.
“No. I’m not rich. The last time I saw pay … maybe last August, just sent it home. My parents did okay. But I’m the only child. My parents just died. Both of ’em.”
The words seemed to strike them silent, and he regretted it immediately. Dammit, Fritz. Don’t go putting these boys off any more than you already have.
“That’s a pure awful thing, losin’ your folks close together.”
The words came from behind him, and Bauer didn’t look to see the face.
“Thanks.”
They marched in silence now, a gloom Bauer hated. The excitement of seeing the cavalry, the urgency of the march seemed drained from him, and he felt it from the others as well. Beside him, O’Daniel spoke, the redhead’s words barely audible.
“I best be survivin’ this war. They need my pay, for certain. Can’t think of not havin’ my folks back there a’tall. I couldn’t stay in the army, for sure.”
Bauer fought through his gloom, and the sergeant was there again, the usual growl.
“Keep in line there! This ain’t some country picnic! Hey, Dutchman! You make it back home, maybe you should go courtin’ one of Red’s sisters! Ha!”
The sergeant’s jab seemed to lighten them all, and the words came again, teasing, another slap on his back. He felt a sudden glimmer of affection, the men not as suspicious, the hostility from the Irishmen seeming to fade. He stared ahead, didn’t respond to the sergeant, could still hear the mumbling from O’Daniel, the words betraying the boy’s fear.
Up ahead a bugle sounded, the order passed along to halt the march. He saw one of the colonel’s aides riding back toward them, then past, a man doing his job, and Bauer thought, A dispatch most likely, for somebody behind us. The column was stopped now, the lieutenants shouting out the order to remain in the road, the sergeants responding by moving through the column, keeping the men together. Bauer paid no attention to the words. He focused to the front, heard it now, the peculiar hum, broken by thumps of artillery. The hum came again, like the buzzing of bees, and if the others around him, the redheaded boy, had no idea what it meant, Bauer knew too well. He had heard it before. It was musket fire.
With Grant’s army still moving parallel to the Big Black River, the response from the Confederate command had changed from urgent curiosity to action. Flowing westward into the Big Black was a small tributary known as Fourteen Mile Creek. There the rebels finally chose to make a stand, a single brigade of mostly Tennesseans commanded by General John Gregg. Gregg was not there intending some grand assault, but rather to take advantage of a natural defensive position that might allow him to slow the march of Grant’s troops, to possibly force Grant to show his hand. At the very least, Gregg might inflict a hefty toll of casualties on whatever Federal units stumbled into him. It was only by chance that the rebels had chosen the path taken by James McPherson’s corps, and chance again that McPherson’s lead division would belong to General John Logan, a man who knew how to control his men, to appraise what faced him and make the best moves.
Though Federal cavalry patrols had driven out well in front of their infantry, they had not fully located and appraised the force that stood in their way. As Logan’s skirmish line approached the thickets along the creek, Gregg’s first volley stung them hard, and the Federal troops recoiled under the sudden shock of a force whose numbers were masked by the rugged ground. But Gregg’s initial success gave the Confederates a confidence that causes mistakes. Gregg knew as little about what he was facing as Logan did, and he responded to the initial chaos in Logan’s front by seeking a rapid advantage. Gregg launched his three thousand men across the creek, believing he could flank the Federals and possibly crush whatever force was to his front. Despite the jolt to his frontline troops, Logan continued to push forward his remaining regiments, and Gregg soon discovered that he was facing an entire division, ten thousand men. By late afternoon, Gregg had held the Federals back for as long as he could. Realizing he might in fact be in serious trouble, Gregg ordered his rebel troops to withdraw, pulling them back through the town of Raymond and beyond, preserving most of his strength. Like Bowen at Grand Gulf, John Gregg understood the mathematics of what he confronted. The limited number of Confederates who had been sent out to follow Grant’s progress could do little else but slip back across the Big Black and try to determine once more what Grant was planning to do.
“I ain’t hearin’ a blessed thing!”
Bauer ignored the big talk. With the day drawing to a close, the only signs of a fight came now from the ambulances, the houses along the road transformed into hospitals. It was nothing as awful as Bauer had seen before, the casualties not many. But to the men who had yet to see any man’s body torn apart, the sight of blood stirred up an uncomfortable chatter. Beside him, O’Daniel still mumbled, and Bauer recognized a prayer. The redheaded boy had stared out with the rest of them at the first field where the wounded had come, where doctors in bloody aprons did their work. Bauer gave it only a glance, had feared that up ahead it might be far worse. But the fight seemed to have been only a strong skirmish, the two sides maneuvering and colliding with just enough force to produce the casualties, but not so much to bring the entire column into the mix.
Far to the front, the musket fire had stopped, but still there was the occasional thump, an artillery crew taking their last opportunity to find some target they couldn’t see. Even the cavalry seemed to go somewhere else, and Bauer wondered about that, if some general had sent them farther forward, making sure there would be no rebels hidden away in some hole along the march. There were holes galore, the entire countryside cut up and rolling, as though the land had been shoved up against the river behind them like a great piece of carpet, nothing like the smooth ground far to the west. He glanced up, one more day ending, a few clouds in a darkening sky. The breeze had begun to blow, the entire column welcoming that, the wind chilling the sweat on their faces, the soaking sweat of their shirts. The officers hadn’t told them anything, and Bauer suspected that would come later, in camp, some word on what the lead regiments had walked into. As the fight erupted against Logan’s lead division, their own march had been halted for not much more than an hour, and the only chaos he had seen came from the officers who moved past in both directions, carrying information to those who needed to know. Foot soldiers don’t need to be told anything, he thought.
The bugles began, the usual routine at the end of a day’s march. Well, today, it wasn’t us. He felt an odd blend of sadness and relief, saw one more ambulance move past, heard a sharp cry from inside, the voice of someone he would never know, the sound waking one more piece of memory.
He followed Sergeant Finley into a field, saw Willis now, speaking to the company commander, Captain McDermott, both men with hands on hips. Bauer looked more at the captain, knew he was a veteran, too, had been in most of the fighting many of the Wisconsin boys had come through. There was always comfort in that, so different from the cle
an-pressed freshness of the new officers, who knew only of training manuals and drill, who used their power of rank only to torment. We’re probably past that, he thought. This has gone on for so long, most everybody’s seen something of the enemy. He glanced at O’Daniel, the redhead looking at the sergeant, waiting to be told where he should go next. Well, maybe not everybody. They ought not let a youngster out here. Not even those drummer boys. This is no place for boys.
He followed the sergeant’s directions, found a smooth piece of ground several yards wide, his camp for the night, would share it with a dozen men from the company. The bedrolls were laid out, men sitting, some already lying flat. Close by, a fire was building, a precious coffeepot, and jabbering from the men who always went first to the fires. He heard anger, protest, mindless bellyaching from men who had missed out on today’s fight. The musket fire had done that to him as well, drawn out the lust, surprising even him. But that excitement had passed with the sight of those first casualties, and he could not erase those images now, bloody aprons, broken men.
He reached into his knapsack for the hardtack, ate the dismal cracker without thinking, tried to block out the big talk from the fire. To one side he saw the redhead, O’Daniel, sitting silently on his bedroll, staring off into some other place.
BOVINA, MISSISSIPPI
MAY 12, 1863
“Sir, General Gregg reports the enemy is in some force at Raymond. He was compelled to withdraw. There were casualties on both sides.”
Pemberton stood beside his horse, stared down, kicked at the ground slowly with one boot.
“Of course there were. I informed General Gregg that he should not assault the enemy unless he was certain of victory. Did he not understand my order? Does no one understand my orders?”
Waddy looked down as well, shrugged, not the response Pemberton hoped for.
“I cannot answer that, sir. Your orders have been clear to me.”
