by Jeff Shaara
Others were taking up that call, all along the hillside, and Bauer sat frozen, his heart thumping hard, his knees pulled up tight. He blinked, forced himself to stare into the dark. The artillery fire slowed, then stopped, and Willis called out what was already in Bauer’s mind.
“They’re just testing you! Finding the range. You all stood up there like you were watching a parade ground drill, and their skirmishers saw you. They got field glasses, too, you know! That oughta tell you how close we are to what we came for. Anybody feel like griping about being left behind? You think the army’s done forgot about you still? This is the front lines, boys!”
The men were calming, and Bauer felt a stab of concern, had yet to be in any kind of fight alongside these men, did not expect they would react with such a burst of chaos. He wanted to stand, to help Willis calm them, bring them back into line, but Willis was moving slowly past, his words doing the job. Behind them, farther down into low ground, across the thickets, other officers were taking charge, more voices of authority, picket lines of their own slipping forward to keep any prying rebel eyes just far enough away. Willis was staring up the hill, his face caught by the glow from the house fires.
“Just sit tight. We got nowhere else to be until they tell us.”
Finley stood close to Willis, and even in the shadows Bauer could see the sergeant’s massive thickness, a squat tree trunk of a man.
“They’ll be all right, Lieutenant. They’s just not used to seeing such things. Damnedest thing, though, people burning down their own houses just to get a better look at us. Might be saving us some work.”
“That ought to tell you something, Sergeant. They know we’re here, and that we’re not planning on just waiting around. You boys … all that talk about being left out of the fight. Looks to me like the brass has put us out here where we can lead the way. I told you boys before … we’re rested up. That’s what the army knows how to do. Use up some fellows until they’re too worn-out, then give them a rest. Well, right now, those boys who did the deed at that Champion place are filling in behind us, getting rested up. And we’re up here. Anybody confused about that?”
There were a few responses, no one arguing the point with Willis. Bauer could see through the darkness now, the trees and open ground more visible, the first hint of dawn, saw men in groups, some spread out along the base of the hill, many more back in the open. There was a different kind of quiet to them, no one sleeping, a few in motion, crawling toward him, many more sitting with their backs against the hillside.
Bauer closed his eyes, wasn’t ready for the dawn yet, felt a chill from cool air, but the shiver came from somewhere else, some other place planted deep inside him. There was never a good time for this, for all of that preparation, none of the veterans ever feeling oh so comfortable that the inevitable fight would be better this time because trees had been cut down. He kept his eyes closed, a churning in his brain that would do anything to keep this day from beginning. When the march first halted, he had slept, but that was barely a memory, hours before, some other place on ground that seemed to burst with thorns. He gripped his legs harder, eyes still closed, thought of bees, the deadly pieces of lead, so many, so often. He kept his eyes closed, his head down hard against his knees, his mind opening up into a childlike fantasy. If I can’t see you, then you can’t see me.…
Army corps commanders will push forward carefully, and gain as close position as possible to the enemy’s works until 2:00 P.M. At that hour they will fire three volleys of artillery from all the pieces in position. This will be the signal for a general charge of all the corps along the whole line.—Major General Ulysses S. Grant—Special Order 134
The order had been passed down to the most junior officers, those men surrounded now by their small commands, Willis standing among two dozen seated men who sat in silence as the order was read. Willis recited from memory, no time to put all of this to paper, stared out toward his platoon, a nodding glance toward Captain McDermott, who stood out to the front of his entire company. To one side, a cluster of horsemen stood tall, their voices hushed, hands pointing, a variety of flags scattered out in the field around them. Men rode away now, others coming close, and Bauer watched the scene play out, could see agitation, anger in the brass.
Now Willis was close beside him, said in a low voice, “We’ve got a hell’s gambit in front of us, Dutchie. It’s after one-thirty. The captain said he just got this order. Strange. This sorta thing ought to be passed along a whole hell of a lot sooner than the time we start the advance. Has to be somebody’s mistake. Don’t like mistakes, not from the brass. Dammit anyway.”
Bauer looked at him, saw tension in black eyes, knew that look too well. Whatever demons drove Willis to stand up to the enemy were at work now, the man’s words clipped, each one a small punch. Bauer whispered, “We’ll do all right, Sammie. These boys are eager, no doubt about that.”
Willis seemed not to hear him.
“Wouldn’t be Grant doing that. Had to be some jackass staff officer, taking his sweet time putting on his fancy sash and polishing his damn sword before he decided to get out here and put that order in our hands. Not McPherson, either. Good man, I think. For a West Pointer.”
That answered a question for Bauer, his own uncertainty about their corps commander, a man few of the foot soldiers would ever see. From the beginning of training there was a prejudice against the men from West Point, generals who had learned of war from books. But no one faulted General Grant, not after Shiloh, and even the crankiest veterans had begun to concede that book learning might not be such a bad thing for those men who made the decisions.
Bauer said, still in a whisper, “You think General McPherson’s a good one? Didn’t know about that.”
Willis looked at him, no change in his hard expression.
“You think it matters? He gonna make you a better fighter, or make sure you’re safe? Shut up, Dutchie. I gotta get out front, meet with the captain, the other lieutenants.” He paused. “We better be ready, that’s all I can say. The rebels might run, but the river’s at their back. They’ll fight before they try to swim. There’s gonna be some lead tossed at us, for sure.” He looked at Bauer again, no sign of softness, but the words betrayed that. “Keep your head down, Dutchie. We shove our way into Vicksburg, I want to see you there. You run off … well, you ain’t gonna run off.”
Willis moved away quickly, in short, precise steps, and climbed up the sandy embankment, the place where Captain McDermott was assembling his lieutenants. Bauer watched them gathering, the company commander obviously angry, sharing something with his officers, and Bauer thought about Willis’s words, tossing lead. He looked around at the others, saw faces down, some men praying, almost no one sharing conversation. His eye caught the shock of red hair, the boy O’Daniel, his hat off, sitting with a fixed stare, one hand rubbing the stock of his musket. Bauer moved a step that way, but saw the boy’s face now, tears. Bauer stopped, knew what the boy was feeling, knew the fear, that when the muskets began, the fear could lead to uncontrollable terror, that the boy might run.
Finley moved up beside him, seemed to follow his gaze, moved to O’Daniel, jerked him up to his feet, the boy’s face a plaster of wet grime.
“You wanna go home to your mama, Red? Well, you do your job today, and we might all do just that.”
Bauer took a step forward, felt a sudden hatred for the big sergeant, had no patience now for the stupidity of mindless cruelty.
“He’s got no mama. Let him be.”
The words came out with more volume than he expected, and Finley turned, his shoulders bowing up, a massive fist rising up, the man’s eyes fixed on Bauer’s face.
“You telling me how to talk to my own men, Dutchman? You’ll eat those teeth.…”
“Sergeant!” Willis moved quickly, stood between them, and Finley hesitated, lowered the fist. “Put these men on their feet. We’ve got a half mile to march before we begin the attack. No time for this. You hear me?”
“I hear you, sir.”
Finley turned but the others were already rising up, muskets in hand, and Willis said aloud, “Some of you … if you got family possessions … think of leaving them here.”
Bauer had heard these words before. He didn’t want to see that, didn’t want to know who around him was that frightened, or that certain they weren’t going to survive what they were about to do. The men took the lieutenant’s advice, some pulling out letters, small Bibles, a pile forming beside a small tree. It was a strange show of faith, that the items would be untouched, no thievery from the men who came up behind them. The fear was rolling up through him now, unavoidable, infuriating, and he fought to hold back tears, his hands shaking, steadied them on the stock of his musket. He closed his eyes, could hear the men all across the wide field, gathering themselves, some with no idea what was coming, green men eager for the fight. The pile by the tree was growing, more Bibles, papers, charms on leather straps, but many of the men were falling into line, the order already given, battle formation, the bugler off to one side blowing out the awful cadence. His hand pressed against his shirt pocket, nothing there, and he focused on that, felt a dull throb of aching sadness that there was nothing in his pockets worth saving, no one back home who would even know what might happen to him.
The volleys from the artillery had streaked overhead, more bugle calls, and all across the wide fields the march began. They stepped to the sound of drums, their part of the battle line pushing through a cornfield, the low green stalks trampled quickly. Bauer kept his eyes on the higher ground to the front, and already he could see movement, rebels behind their earthworks, reacting to the wave of blue pouring their way. The musket fire had begun even before the artillery fire, sharpshooters sent out well in front of the advance, an aggressive picket line, men in blue scampering forward into any kind of protected place. The rebels were firing back, seemed to pay more attention to the men closest to them, the greatest threat right in front of them, were not yet offering any great volleys toward the snaking lines of blue. The smoke had begun to rise, small wisps from hidden places, some drifting above the vast mounds where the rebels waited, and with every pop of a musket, Bauer felt a flinch inside him, a blink of his eyes, a shaking in the hand that supported the butt of his loaded musket.
He glanced to the side, saw the familiar faces, the names he had come to know, Irishmen, wouldn’t think on that, on whether that meant anything at all. His brain was chattering in rhythm to the scattered musket fire, nonsensical thoughts, manic words, answering the sickening churn in his stomach. He felt the sweat in his clothes, the hard breathing in short gasps, looked down to his feet, his brogans digging deep into soft soil, each step a desperate effort to stomp away the fear that he might run. Tossing lead.
“Tighten up the line! No gaps!”
The words growled through him, Sergeant Finley doing his job, the only voice he heard, the drumbeats behind them distant, many more men in formation there, strengthening the lines, adding to the power. Drive them back, he thought. No need for a fight at all. They’ll run maybe, just … go. He looked again toward the rebel works, saw an eruption of fire, an artillery piece firing toward them, the shell passing far overhead. The thunder of that reached him now, followed by another, but up front, the sharpshooters were taking advantage, rebel gunners too exposed, and so the cannon fire was weak, scattered. The lack of artillery made for an eerie kind of silence, but it was not silence at all, the drums and the muskets making their own kind of soft rhythm. He strained to see ahead, his steps slowing, hesitant, the fear in his brain trying to hold him back. The dirt beneath his feet was soft, tilled soil, his brogans snagging on the green cornstalks, and he stumbled.
Finley was there, always there, and said, “On your feet! Keep together! Close up that line!”
The chattering of fire in front seemed to increase now, and they passed a man, hunched down, loading his musket, giving a sharp single cheer, “Go get ’em, boys! They can’t shoot without showing themselves! Hee! We’re giving ’em hell!”
Bauer ignored the man, stared still at the rebel works, close now, fat mounds and tall walls of raw earth, and beyond them flags, heads peering up, then gone, the whistling zip of musket balls still from the sharpshooters. He tried to guess the distance, two hundred yards, close enough, too close, the screaming voice in his head, Get down! But his feet would not obey the panic, the steps automatic, in time with the men beside him, behind him, the earthen walls closer still.
From beyond the fat mounds of earth, more artillery came, cascades of thunder, most of it overhead, but then the solid shot found them, tumbling through the men themselves, rolling and bouncing into the lines, crushing everything they touched. The canister was there as well, thick clouds of hot iron, a hot rush of air, ripping the ground in front of him, tearing gaps in the men with sickening efficiency. He knew of all that, had seen it before, knew the sounds, the crack of bone, the curdling tear of flesh, screams and cries, even the smallest wound too painful to bear. And now the tops of the earthworks seemed to come alive, muskets rising up, pointed forward, voices calling out, a chorus of cheers, some hint of a rebel yell, but those men weren’t coming; there would be no great terrifying charge. The first volley blew out in a hard blast of smoke, the singing of a hundred bees zipping past him, the dull smack of cracking bone, one man falling out of line, tumbling down in a heap, another close to him crying out in a hard shriek. He lowered himself, a reflex, pulled his shoulders down, making himself smaller, a useless gesture, and now the second volley came, quickly, too quickly, the sounds ripping past his ear, a man behind crying out.
Behind him he heard Finley’s voice: “Tighten up! Keep moving!”
Bauer did not stop, fought the voice in his brain, terror and hate. But still he moved forward, feeling the man beside him, the entire line pushing closer, Willis now, out in front of the line.
“No firing! Wait for the order!”
Another volley burst out from the earthworks, the smoke thick and billowing, and Bauer flinched again, caught the stink of the smoke, a fog drifting toward them, the rebels hidden from view, and now the bugle sounded again, the horrible sound, so familiar, so much training, the order to charge. He saw Willis raise his pistol in the air, turn to them, his hand in a circle, and now Willis turned again toward the rebels, lowered his head, and surged forward.
Bauer did as the men around him, a jogging run, the rebels firing again, the sounds of the fight growing all along the line, far out beyond the Wisconsin men. There was cannon fire now, thumps in every direction, but not many, most of the fight coming from the muskets. Bauer kept his eyes on the fat earthen walls, fought through aching legs, searing heat in his lungs, heard the order, someone, a voice.
“Fire!”
He stopped, raised the musket, no target, smoke and dirt, hesitated, searched for something, anything to shoot at. He pointed high, to the top of the wall, saw a flicker of movement, yanked on the trigger, the musket punching his shoulder, more smoke, the butt of the musket released, dropping to the ground, his fingers fumbling in the cartridge box, a frantic shivering as he tried to reload. Around him, men were doing the same, and he saw them out to both sides, vast lines of blue, more moving up behind. In every direction, men were falling, others firing their muskets. Out front, some of the men were rushing up close to the earthen walls, dropping down into low ditches, struggling through piles of brush, cut tree limbs, more obstacles. The rebels kept up their fire, not massed volleys, just steady and regular, a hum that sliced the air all around him. He stumbled, low ground, saw men lying flat, facedown, the dirt around them punched by musket balls, and Bauer did the same, flattened out, a ball striking close to his head, dirt on his face, the musket shoved up in front of him, a useless gesture of protection.
“Up! Let’s go! Keep in line!”
He saw Finley, the big man waving, grabbing men, pulling them up from the cover, and Bauer felt weakness in his legs, his brain screaming him down
flat, another ball striking beside him, Finley cursing, men around him moving forward. Bauer pulled himself to his feet, a brief panic. Did you reload? He glanced at the percussion cap, yes, relief, followed a cluster of men, all moving with Finley, many men to one side, shouts and screams and smoke. The rebel fire came through them in sheets, men falling in line, a half dozen going down at once, Finley standing, waving them on, looking at Bauer, pointing, words he couldn’t hear. Bauer slogged through soft sand, fought thorny brush, his legs tangled in wire and tree branches, bodies, one man writhing, blood on his face, and Bauer knew not to look, not to stop. He pushed ahead, saw Finley still watching him, the face different, and Bauer stopped, Finley’s eyes holding him, the man’s anger gone, hands motioning to him, a casual wave, the sergeant’s mouth moving slowly, blood now on his lips, flowing down his chin. The eyes stared out past him now, and Finley staggered, fell, straight toward him, and Bauer was there, over the man’s body, felt panic rising up inside him, sickness, saw a small pool of blood on the sergeant’s back. He put an arm down, froze, wouldn’t touch him, his brain yelling at him, It doesn’t matter, and he felt a hard grip on his shoulder, was jerked to one side, his knees giving way, saw Willis, hot fire in his eyes, no glance at Finley.
