by Jeff Shaara
One of the men spoke up, a shovel propped up on his shoulder.
“That’s right, little gal. He’s the one telling us where to toss up all this here dirt. I’d call him an expert at it. Only thing is … we can’t eat this stuff. Uh … begging your pardon, sir. Been a while since we seen a fine filly like this one up here. She’s a might messy, though.”
“More energy with the spade, less with the mouth, Private. I want these trench lines completed by tonight. All of you, pay more attention to how many men you might protect with those spades.”
Lucy watched the work ongoing, dirt in neat piles out in front of a long, narrow ditch.
“So, Major Engineer, how come you’re not riding a horse? You eat him?”
“Fine talk from a nurse. My horse is … no longer available, yes. But it would be foolish for me to sit up here for all the world to see. Federal sharpshooters can probably sight us standing here right now. For all I know, they’re not trying to kill me because they can see you.”
She felt a bolt of alarm, looked out toward the larger fortifications, could see clusters of men barely visible, a few scattered, standing on a ledge, muskets by their side.
“If I was a spy, I’d want to know why you’re digging back here. Awfully far from … up there.”
“If you were a spy, I’d have you shot.”
There was no humor in his words, and Lucy knew the game had ended. She watched the workers a minute more, Lockett ignoring her now, caught glimpses from the men, too curious not to offer a quick look.
“Major, I will leave you to your digging. I am very sorry to have bothered you.”
“No bother. But I would keep yourself back below this hillcrest. With the enemy laboring as they are, I’m fairly certain I know their intentions. I just don’t know … when. I’m just preparing for the worst.”
The emptiness in her stomach was stirring up now, and she suddenly realized she had no idea what she might eat. She knew better than to ask the engineer for anything. You’re not supposed to be up here at all. It is hardly appropriate for you to make yourself some kind of … mascot. She moved away, stepped down through the grass, avoided a crater, saw scraps of metal, a broken wheel. Off to one side, at the base of the hill, she saw a row of graves, long, wide ditches rounded over with fresh earth. She turned away from that, thought of Lockett’s preparation, his description. For the worst. Her mind took her back to the hospital, all she had seen and touched and smelled. She looked at the red stains on her hands, the stinking crust beneath her nails. Before this passes, how much worse must it be?
NORTHEAST OF THE 3RD LOUISIANA REDAN
JUNE 25, 1863
He crawled forward, the men up front moving back his way, the change of shifts this time coming well before dawn. The men who slipped past him seemed in good spirits, none of the grousing about too many hours in the inclement weather, or bellyaching about their hunger. With the rainstorms two days past, the muddy ground had mostly dried out, the nights now just cool enough to keep a man from sweating as he huddled low in the trenches closest to the enemy. The sharpshooting duties had grown more mundane as well, bleary-eyed boredom, the rebels seeming to grasp the obvious, that a duel with the men in blue was likely to be a one-sided affair. There were still casualties, careless men on both sides who allowed their bravado to interfere with common sense, revealing their hiding places by standing up tall, taunting the enemy with claims of imminent victory, idiotic mouthiness about the rebels’ lack of food, or any other insult that came to mind. Bauer had seen some of that courage coming from a bottle, some illicit find, apple cider, other concoctions the men continued to scrounge from so many hidden cellars. The officers had done as much as they could to prevent that, but even the officers were guilty of raiding places they had no business searching. The unfortunate behavior went against explicit orders from above, but even the commanders could not prevent bored men from seeking some adventure in the middle of the night, whether the penalty was a stint in the stockade, or the most severe punishment, the musket ball from a well-hidden enemy.
Any real information about conditions behind the rebel earthworks had come from the steady flow of deserters, men who crept out of their holes in the darkness, soft whispers asking for safe passage, encounters the pickets were growing accustomed to. Bauer had seen a few of them, stinking and filthy, escorted past him by armed pickets, mostly during those nights when Bauer worked the shovel. He didn’t speak to them, but there was no mistaking their intentions. Some of them had wept as they moved by, their pride crushed by the hope of an opportunity to sit unmolested by a campfire, to soak up a cup of real coffee while they slurped down a plateful of bacon or real beans. With each rebel who came through the lines, the men in blue could feel the sagging fortunes of the ones still out there, the men still dangerous, still eager to kill a Yankee, who huddled low behind the massive earthworks. Bauer was only one of thousands who pondered just how much longer this could last.
The digging had mostly ended, and when Bauer went forward now, it was with his musket. He had rarely liked picket duty, had had a hard fill of that the year before. Then it was the swampy snake-infested lowlands that had erupted into the hell of Shiloh. But out here, the trenches were deep, the ground dry, the men well fed before beginning the shift.
He settled into the flattened place, soft dirt pressed hard by the men before him. He stared at darkness, a spray of stars overhead, leaned against the dirt. In front of him, the loose soil had been stacked in a long roll, adding height to his protection, some of that his work. He didn’t miss the shovels, but still, the work had been no more than a good bout of exercise, a definite improvement over some parade ground drill far to the rear. That nonsense was ongoing in other regiments, and Bauer knew better than to ask anyone about that, even Willis, lest it trigger some sudden inspiration for the Wisconsin men to join them. There had been some mention of the drills, the company commander, Captain McDermott, using the phrase that no doubt made his superiors happy: efficient readiness. Bauer gazed upward, his eyes lost in the stars, thought, We’re ready enough. The rebels are two dozen yards in front of me, over that big fat hill, sitting in holes like this one, and it sure as hell isn’t gonna take some bugler to put us into the right kind of formation. When it comes time, all we do is climb up and over, and shoot anybody who’s still waiting for us. God help us, maybe there won’t be anybody. It’ll be like Corinth again, all kinds of commotion and bluster, and when the order finally comes, there’ll be nobody home. That would be the right way to win this thing.
He worried about the inevitable fight to keep his eyes open. They all knew the penalty for falling asleep, talk spread by the officers that a man could be shot for sleeping on guard duty. If anyone in the company forgot that, Willis and the other lieutenants were quick to remind them. Not going to let you down, Sammie. Not sleepy at all right now. This might be fun, actually. Wonder who’s out there this time? He glanced to the left, knew Kelly was there, a half-dozen yards away. But there would be no conversation between them. The job was too important, and if there was little danger of armed infiltrators, Bauer truly hoped it would be his turn to escort some rebel deserter back to the big tents in the rear.
“Hey, Yank!”
Bauer waited, looked toward Kelly, then the other way, another man to his right he didn’t know.
“Hey, Yank! Wake up!”
He heard Kelly whisper toward him, “You gonna answer him?”
“Yeah, secesh. I’m right here, aimin’ this musket at your head. What you want?”
“Now, Yank, no need to be so hot about it. No officers around, is there?”
Bauer felt foolish now, couldn’t have found a target if it was right in front of him.
“I’m here. What you want, secesh?”
“Call me Zep.”
The name sent a small jolt through his brain.
“Hey! I saw you … met you when we buried the bodies.”
“Which one er you?”
He
thought a minute, remembered Willis’s tease.
“I’m the ugly German. Wisconsin.”
“Yep. I recall. You is one ugly fella, too. Bunch of Irishmen in your unit, then.”
Kelly spoke up now.
“You got that one, secesh. Zep. What kind of name is that?”
“The one my pappy gave me. What’s your’n?”
“I’m Fritz Bauer. They call me Dutchie.”
Kelly responded, “Patrick Kelly. You and your buddy traded me a cigar.”
“Yep, I remember you boys. Well, Wisconsin, you’re sitting across from Looseeana’s finest. I’d say there’s about four hundred of us on this part of the picket line.”
Bauer was in the game now, smiled.
“That’s all? We got eight companies out here, just in case you boys try something.”
He heard a low laugh, realized the man wasn’t more than a few yards away.
“Well, then, I reckon we’uns got the whole dang armies out here, just ready for a skirmish. Funny, for a couple thousand pickets in breathin’ distance of these bare feet, you’re mighty quiet.”
Bauer knew this would exhaust itself quickly.
“Well, maybe I overstated it a little. There’s me … and Kelly. Maybe that’s it.”
“Don’t much believe that, neither. Don’t worry, Yank, I ain’t about to go leading some hell-for-leather charge nowheres. Unless you promise me I’ll find the coffee wagon.”
Kelly jumped in.
“Come on over, Zep, and I’ll take you there meself. Mighty hot and mighty strong.”
“Well, we got a pot of squirrel stew over here that I ain’t about to leave behind. Feel free to haul a big ole cup of that coffee over thisaway, anyhow.”
Kelly laughed and said, “Hey, Zep! I traded with your cousin … don’t recall his name. Nice fella. He out here, too?”
Bauer recalled that now, the swap, newspapers for cigars, Willis talking to a rebel lieutenant.
“And your lieutenant … Gramling, maybe?”
There was a silent moment, and Zep spoke now, a different tone to his voice.
“My cousin … that’d be Farley. Shot in the eye. Never made a whimper. I guess you could say he didn’t even know what hit him.”
“Sharpshooter?”
The word leaked out of Bauer, and he regretted it immediately, thought of the stovepipe, one more horrible day.
“Well, reckon so. The lieutenant’s back there in the hospital somewheres, so they say. Took a ball in the top of his head. Saw his brains, sure ’nuff. If he’s alive, it’s a dang miracle.” He paused, and Bauer said nothing, Kelly silent as well. “I reckon you boys have learned to shoot a bit since I last ran into ya.”
Bauer couldn’t erase the image of the stovepipe, the speck of daylight. Kelly answered first.
“War, I guess. Sorry. Especially for your cousin.”
Zep didn’t respond, and Bauer was beginning to hate this conversation, didn’t want to know who it was he might have killed. He thought of the tower now, that crazy lieutenant with the coonskin hat. I shot an officer … maybe his. But that’s down a ways, and there’s plenty of damn lieutenants. Even Sammie would agree with that.
There was other talk now, farther down the line, low chatter, questions, boasts, empty threats and promises of every imaginable exaggeration. Bauer sat back, stared at the stars again, but Zep surprised him.
“You bluebellies’ll probably come at us again, ’fore long. It ain’t gonna be easy, not for none of us. You all seem like decent folks, but I guess … it don’t really matter. You try to climb into that big ole fort right here and when I stick you with this here bayonet, I won’t ask your name.”
Bauer stared out, then glanced at the musket leaning up in front of him. He tried to remember the man’s face, or the cousin’s, thought, Maybe it wasn’t me who killed him. Probably not. Or maybe it was.
“You’re right, secesh. I’m guessing we’ll be coming over that dirt pile again, and it won’t much matter which one you are.”
Willis had them seated in low ground, seemed to count them, as though recalling each man’s name.
“Now, listen up. You finish breakfast, you stay ready to move. They haven’t told me a hell of a lot, but the colonel got orders that something’s going to happen today. I heard this for a while now, and maybe some of you heard rumors. What I know is we’ve been doing a hell of a lot of digging, down to the left, near that tower. We’re so damn close to the reb position, somebody figured out we oughta just keep going and burrow a hole right underneath ’em. All I know is what the captain said, and all he knows is what the colonel felt like telling him. But there’s a flock of engineers down that way, and some coal-mining boys have been brought in. Saw that myself. Rough-looking lot. They’ve been working for the past few days, and I guess they did what they came to do. The colonel said General Grant himself came by, checking on ’em, and … well, I take that kind of rumor pretty seriously. So should you. So … check your muskets, fill your cartridge boxes, your canteens. The colonel says some of the units along this part of the line are ordered to provide handpicked sharpshooters, including us. So, Dutchie … that’s you.”
There were groans, Kelly slapping him on the back.
“Well, hell-a-mighty. They don’t think micks can shoot straight?”
Willis was all seriousness.
“Shut up. You’ll all be in this before it’s over with. When I see the colonel that grouchy, I know something’s about to happen. But all of you, keep your damn mouths shut. No spewing off about this to anybody else, Wisconsin boys or not. I don’t know what any other unit is being told, but right here, you’re my little half acre of hell. You’ll do what I say or your ass will end up in the stockade. Maybe missing a few teeth along the way. This is for real. You have questions, keep ’em to yourself. I don’t have answers.”
ACROSS FROM THE 3RD LOUISIANA REDAN
JUNE 25, 1863, 3:00 P.M.
They were dug in within a hundred yards of the redan, muskets loaded, officers behind them staring out through field glasses. Bauer didn’t know the men on either side of him, knew only they came from Illinois and Indiana, quick introductions, maybe a handshake, any names he heard already forgotten. There was nothing social about this duty, the men chosen to be on this line by officers who knew their marksmanship. Bauer slid the musket up into a soft groove in the sand, onto the leather pad that kept the sand out of the musket and helped steady the shot. There were others back behind them, their perches elevated, more muskets trained on the rebel position, their firing line above the heads of Bauer and the others to the front. To one side stood the tower, what had once seemed so completely ridiculous now a testament to the overwhelming superiority of the Federal position. Bauer had to believe that across the way, rebel gunners peered up at that monstrosity every hour, each one itching to launch the solid shot through the wooden rails that would bring the tower down in a heap of broken lumber. When he arrived on the firing line, others were speaking of it as well, the same sense of wonder that this amazing tactic had actually worked. Lieutenant Coonskin was known by all, if only by reputation, and Bauer learned quickly that many of the others on this firing line had done just what Bauer had, taking aim at the unfortunate rebel who had once been safe standing on his own rampart. The men around him spoke of the rebel artillery with a hint of arrogance, that more than once, the bravest rebel gunner had made the effort, wheeling his cannon to a firing position, only to be obliterated by the volleys that poured out from Hickenlooper’s battery. Any rebel artillery was now kept far out of sight, back into dugouts, perhaps, or off the line completely. Even far behind the rebel earthworks, any gunner who had range of the tower had to know by now that Hickenlooper’s guns had range on him.
“Keep at ease, men. Nothing’s happening yet.”
The officer was off to one side, field glasses staring out, lowering them now, an Illinois man Bauer didn’t know. Beside Bauer, a man spoke up, clearly from the same unit, respectf
ul recognition.
“Captain Jewell, what’re we looking for? Begging your pardon, sir, but the rebs are sure keeping low. There hasn’t been a single cap sticking up. It’s like there’s nobody there at all.”
“You know better than that, Corporal. Your job is to find a target. There might not be anything happening right now, but be patient. General Grant’s just down the line, with General McPherson. They wouldn’t be out here if it wasn’t important.”
Bauer turned, stared that way as they all did, hoping to catch some glimpse of Grant, or even the corps commander. Beside him, an older man.
“Don’t be a mud brain. You think those generals are gonna stand up here where we can all give ’em a salute? They didn’t get to be generals by being blooming morons. Just do your job.”
Bauer glanced at the man, a short gray beard, a man with the same frightening look he had seen from Willis, a man who knew something of killing.
“What unit …”
“Forty-fifth Illinois, boy. Done told you once. I wanted to be out there with the first wave, but Colonel Maltby told me himself he wanted my eyesight back here. You got a reputation, I suspect. That’s why you’re here. Me, too. They want my musket where it’ll do some good. Any fool can run up a damn hill.”
First wave? Bauer pondered that, clearly a man who knew a great deal more than Bauer did.
“I got picked for this because I can shoot pretty good, I guess,” Bauer said. “Done some sharpshooter duty. Seventeenth Wisconsin.”
“Well, Wisconsin, if Colonel Maltby’s gonna lead some kind of attack against those works, I’m damn sure gonna do what it takes to make it easier on him. That means picking off rebels. You clear on that?”
“Don’t know Colonel Maltby.…”
“You will, soon enough. Finest regimental commander in the army. Nothing we wouldn’t do for him. McPherson must feel the same way, chose him for this job.”
“What job?”
The man looked at him, then spat out a stream of tobacco juice to one side.
