The Sea is a Thief

by David Parmelee

  It reminded him at first of a dog, then a fox, pursuing prey in the field; a high, sharp call, staccato and irregular, tinged with a shrill, lonely madness. It swelled and multiplied quickly, not one sound but many, each following close on the other like a cascade of demonic bells.

  Their weapons ready, the soldiers formed ranks, shouting urgently to Sam to do the same. They surged forward as one, the morning's business forgotten.

  The sound was the Rebel Yell. The Confederates had grown tired of waiting; the fight was on.

  The Union infantrymen charged through a grove of willow trees fed by a running stream. Had they visited the little grove on a summer day in the company of a lady, they would have found it a pleasant place. As it was, they took no notice. Each man ran at the limit of his legs, lungs burning. Their eyes were fixed on the brush that lay ahead, alert for the first sign of the greycoats. They burst through the low scrub that ringed that little hollow and found themselves on clear ground, a flat place a hundred yards wide that ended in a stand of tall pines. In the center of it, closing the distance as fast as they could, were the Confederates.

  The southerners fired the first volley, as was their habit, born of confidence in their marksmanship. Their rifles were old and worn, but their eyes were keen. Some distance separated them, but the Union line was well within the range of their best marksmen. Their front line stopped, took aim, and fired. A soldier just to Sam Dreher’s left fell dead with a Minié ball in his chest. To his right, a boy barely sixteen stumbled over the remains of a rotten log, hidden behind a thick tuft of grass. A ball ricocheted from the log and struck him in the eye. Partly blinded, he cried out in pain but reloaded twice and killed two Confederates in quick succession. The men around him, inspired, charged ahead, pausing only to fire and load their Springfield rifles.

  The lines closed in seconds. Gaps opened on both sides as the dead fell in their places, but they vanished quickly as others came up to fill them. The hail of fire continued. The choking blue smoke of gunpowder clouded the damp morning air, blocking Sam’s vision ahead. He saw the grey column stretching far to his right and left. The attack was unexpected; for their daring, the rebels had gained the advantage of surprise, at least for a time. Once the whole force came forward to repel them, the Union’s superior numbers would surely win the day—unless the Confederate army was larger than the generals believed. They had been given nearly a week to bring reinforcements. How many had come?

  In front of Sam and his companions, the onslaught was fierce. Their attackers held nothing back. He knelt behind the poor shelter of a blueberry bush, seeking a target. A little distance ahead of him the blade of a saber flashed; perhaps it was an officer, or a cavalryman dismounted. He traced the bright steel arc to the man that held it. His eyes locked on the front sight of his rifle, and all went still and quiet for a moment as he squeezed the trigger. The Springfield roared, spitting flame, smoke billowing upwards. There was no time for him to think about whether he had taken a man’s life. If he had, it would be the first.

  A bugle sounded to the rear as others came up to join their company. For now, their line had held. Cannon thundered from behind him, and a shot whistled over his head to strike somewhere in the ranks of the rebels. The artillerymen were firing blindly at this point, but soon they would find their range and do real damage. In moments he heard the drum-like booming of artillery ahead of him; now that the Confederate surprise attack was well underway, the other side was free to unleash its guns. The shot sailed far to his right, but did not explode. The next one would, and the one that followed. He heard the cries of men as the screaming shot tore into them.

  The center of their line stayed rooted to its position. The fight ebbed and surged around them, Sam in the midst of it with ten others. As rebel fire would take one, another would replace him. They returned worse than they got. Yard by yard they made progress across the wide grassy field, driving the Confederates backwards. After two hours, or perhaps three, they stumbled into a broad, waist-high ditch, water trickling through it towards the distant river. They crouched down for a moment, resting their backs against its muddy wall as they loaded their rifles and drank deeply from their canteens, refilling them with the rainwater that ran at their feet. Clouds still hid the sun, and more rain threatened overhead. A boy came running up with bags of shot and powder; Sam took his share. Fighting was fierce to both sides, but somehow, just around them, it was still.

  Without warning, a trio of grey-clad soldiers leapt the ditch ten yards to their left, oblivious to their presence. One was hatless, his long, tangled brown hair streaming out behind him like a shotgun blast. Two wore no shoes. The ragged cuffs of their grey trousers were sodden with mud. Sam's company took aim as one; their quick gunfire formed a single long note like the rolling of a kettledrum. Two of the soldiers pitched forward, face-first, not knowing what had felled them. The third, a shoeless one, spun towards them, hands clasped over his chest. He dropped his rifle and took four or five pitching steps, finally collapsing almost at Sam's feet. Sam stepped quickly aside as he fell. His open eyes stared blankly at heaven. He took a last sharp breath and his head rolled backwards into the water in the bottom of the ditch.

  The Union soldiers clambered up the low mud bank, ready for a wave of Confederates to follow the three that had already come. To their amazement, none appeared; rifle fire crackled to their right and their left, but they moved in a narrow corridor of shelter. They ran forward at full speed, covering the remainder of the open field where the attack had begun at sunrise. They passed small cedar trees, then taller pines, the trees dividing one man from the other as they moved among them. Fallen needles crunched underfoot. A tree limb, struck by a cannonball, smoldered overhead. The ground grew rough, chunks of white rock slowing their pace. Low, rocky slabs stretched out ahead of them. Evergreens clung with widespread roots to the crevices between. Sam turned, eyes searching for fellow soldiers coming up behind him. He saw none.

  The company ascended a short, steep upgrade of flat stone. They could not see what lay beyond.

  When they heard the thunder of many hooves, they shouldered their rifles. They fired as the Confederate cavalrymen came into view, their leader raising his saber to order the charge. Two horses skidded to earth, their legs flailing wildly, and a rider was plucked from his horse by a bullet. The rest continued, closing the distance faster than the Union troops could reload. They were upon them in a hail of gunfire. Most fired pistols, some carrying one in each hand, the reins held in the crooks of their arms. The small group of blue-jacketed infantry made an easy target. Sam's companion to his left fell, then, with a loud cry, the man to his right. Sam knelt, raising his empty rifle, its fixed bayonet angled upwards towards the charging grey horse just ahead of him. Its rider hauled back on the reins to leap the crouching Union soldier, but too late; the long blade plunged home into the shoulder of the horse. Its powerful momentum pivoted Sam onto his back as the rifle was ripped from his grasp. Kicking backwards as it came to earth, the wounded animal's rear hoof found Sam's leg and shattered it.

  For a few moments he was blind, his eyes shut tightly, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He rolled onto his uninjured side. His left leg was useless. His mind exploded with scarlet bursts of pain. Facing towards the way he had come, he saw the Confederate cavalry that had swept over them galloping onto the open field that he had fought all morning to gain. In the near distance, Union troops met them, and they exchanged fire. His ears were deaf to it. Recovering his wits, he thought to move away from the path of battle; more riders might follow the first wave, and they would kill him. He searched for his fellow soldiers. None were ahead of him; craning his neck over his shoulder, he saw none behind. He tried to stand, but could not. He tried to crawl, but when he lifted himself onto his knees his leg collapsed, and the pain caused his breath to catch in his chest. He panted, and gritted his teeth together, and began to drag himself forwards by his elbows. Two of his companions lay in his path. They were dead.
r />   He saw a little overhang in the rock outcropping ahead, a shelf of rock only a foot or two from the ground that extended outwards, forming a sort of roof. Tall grass grew in front of it and the limb of a tree had fallen against it. There he might find temporary safety until the rest of his forces reached him. He had lost his rifle and was useless for fighting. His best hope was to stay alive until help arrived. He headed towards the opening, inches at a time, his elbows digging into the pine needles beneath him, his leg throbbing and burning. Long, painful minutes passed before he reached it.

  When he did he took his haversack from his shoulders and found that he could slide on his back underneath the rock ledge with a little room to spare. It was dry there. The wind had blown a carpet of pine needles into the tiny space. With his right hand he took hold of the fallen pine bough that lay in front of the ledge and pulled it close so that it covered the opening. It was large, branching into many smaller limbs. Tufts of pine needles still clung to it. Turning his head, he could see out. It would be difficult to see in. For the moment, it seemed the best place to wait for the rest of Butler's army.

  His eyes fixed on the smooth rock just overhead. His vision began to spin, then to blur. Quickly, mercifully, he slipped into darkness.

  It was not the noise of battle that awakened Sam Dreher, but the strange silence that followed. Raising his hand to touch the stone roof above his face, he remembered where he was, and turned his head to peer outside his makeshift shelter. All was quiet. He had no sense of the time of day; the clouds had lifted to a high overcast, but the sun still hid behind them. He listened intently for the sounds of battle. Where was Butler's army? Had they passed him on their way to Richmond, while he lay unconscious? He scanned the pine woods around him, leading downwards to the field of battle, but saw no one.

  He was desperately thirsty and his mouth tasted of bitter metal. Reaching for the haversack beside him, he opened his canteen, grateful now that he had filled it earlier. He drank, spilling a little water on his hand and wiping it on his eyes. There was hardtack and a piece of dried beef in his pack as well, but he felt no hunger. His stomach was uneasy. His leg throbbed; he was certain that the fleeing horse had broken it. He had been kicked by horses and cattle before, but always as he leapt out of the way, and never with such power. This time, pinned as he was behind the animal, its strong hind leg had caught him with its full force. He felt his thigh. It was swollen far larger in size than his right leg. The skin was painful and tight. He pressed his heel against the floor of the cave to test the strength of his leg. Even that small effort made him wince in pain, bright lights flashing in his closed eyes. There would be no return to the battle for him. He hoped that the siege of Richmond was underway. He would splint up his leg as best he could and seek out the rear guard. He raised himself up on his elbows so that he could leave his shelter.

  At that moment he heard a faint call, one man shouting to another. “Up here, John!” Sam stared through the curtain of pine needles to find its source.

  “Ho!” a deeper voice responded.

  A small figure appeared, head covered by a broad hat. Behind him followed a taller figure, pulling a wagon by a rope handle. The first man stooped to the ground very near where Sam had fallen, coming up with a rifle in his hands.

  “This one's got blood on the bayonet,” he said, turning to his companion, who glanced at the weapon before tossing it in the wagon. He tugged the wagon forward. Its wooden wheels creaked and clattered over the stones. The shorter man took off his hat and wiped his brow.

  “Smoke a pipe?” he said.

  “Aye,” replied the other. They dropped to the ground not ten yards from Sam's hiding place, leaning against a tall pine. The larger man sat with his back to Sam. He could see the other in profile. He was young; thirteen or fourteen perhaps, and very thin, with long uncombed hair. He filled a clay pipe with tobacco from a cloth pouch and lit it. He puffed on the pipe as blue smoke curled into the air. His shoulders drooped. He relaxed against the tree, smoking, face pointed skyward. He did not wear a uniform as such, but all his clothing was grey.

  “How far you think they got by now?” he asked.

  “Hard to say. Th’ sergeant that I spoke to said the federals just up and pulled back all of a sudden. Didn't say why—or p'raps he didn't know. They don't bother to tell me much. 'Just go get the rifles,' they say, and that's it.”

  A chill ran down Sam's spine. He lay completely still.

  “But we got 'em on the run, do we?”

  “Oh, we do for certain. They won't be back today.”

  “They won't never come back, after that lickin!”

  The two laughed, and smoked in silence. Sam struggled to comprehend what he had just overheard. It could mean only one thing: Butler's army had been driven back towards Bermuda Hundred. The south had carried the day. How was it possible?

  “You got enough rifles to make a run back to Jeb with ‘em?”

  “Believe I do. Must be fifteen or twenty now, with those we just picked up here.”

  The two puffed away. A crow cawed loudly overhead, and took wing from a high branch.

  “Them crows'll be comin' around, now,” said the boy.

  “And the black vultures, later.”

  “I shot one last week, y'know.”

  “Any good?”

  “Naw. We was low on rations so I figured I'd give it a try. Never cooked one up before. Awful tastin’ thing. Rather eat beans.”

  The boy knocked out his pipe on the heel of his shoe, then ground out the embers on a stone. “Let's haul them rifles back to Jeb, then.”

  “Aye.”

  They left the way they had come, the noise of the wagon wheels receding into the distance.

  Sam's mind raced. The army had pulled back. Would they counterattack tomorrow? If the rebel attack had accomplished so much, a quick recovery seemed impossible. Butler had relied on the strength of his numbers. They had been told that their assault would be a crushing blow; once they took the fort at Drewry's Bluff, they would storm Richmond. The rebel force must have been far larger than anyone suspected. The fighting Sam had seen was fierce, men dying all around on both sides. He had heard his share about General Butler's methods from the veteran soldiers. They told him he was cautious; he certainly proved that when he sat them down in the rain for three days, just a few miles short of their destination.

  In an instant, Sam Dreher knew: the army was gone. He was on his own. Reaching for his haversack, he withdrew his knife from its sheath and laid it close to his right hand. If they found him he would not be taken prisoner, but go fighting. God willing, he would slip past them and find a way back.

  He lay in the cave as the light dimmed, drifting in and out of sleep as the pain in his leg allowed him, gathering his strength. A half-moon rose, the first moon he had seen since stepping on land a week before. The clouds parted, revealing a deep blue sky. A breeze cleared the mist from the spring air. Sam could see no movement outside. No fires glowed in the forest. The Confederate army was pursuing Benjamin Butler somewhere far ahead. The moon cast enough light to navigate; his best chance was to move quickly. Whatever the odds, he was not a man to wait when he had the chance to act. He scraped away the lawyer of pine needles from the floor of the cave. Beneath them was a layer of rich black earth. He scooped up handfuls of the mossy-smelling dirt, rubbing it deeply into the skin of his face and his hands. He would make himself harder to see.

  Pushing the pine bough aside, he dragged himself from the protection of the cave. The night air was sweet. The pain in his leg was tolerable enough if he did not put weight on it, it. He had to brace it somehow if his escape were to succeed. There wasn't time to waste. At any moment a patrol might happen by. God willing, they were all occupied elsewhere.

  He propped himself up against the stone ledge. Taking the pine bough in both hands, he found the right size branch. With effort he snapped it free. The crack resounded in the air and he froze, ready to retreat to the cave, ears straining
to hear the approach of anyone who might have been attracted by the sound.

  All was still. The branch had been half-split by time and weather; a fissure ran down its length, extending deeply into the wood. It was exactly what he needed. Forcing his knife into the crack, he twisted it sharply, prying the two halves of the round branch apart little by little. At last it split cleanly, leaving him with two lengths of wood, each flat on one side. He lay them in the mouth of the cave. He pulled himself forward to the place where he had found his two comrades lying dead. The boys foraging for weapons had not disturbed them. He lifted them the haversacks from their shoulders, pulling the straps from underneath their faces. Their necks were stiff and unmoving. Silently, he prayed for the souls of the two men who had fought beside him earlier in the day. He did not know their names. Their packs slung around his own neck, he returned to the cave. He found some rations, which he stowed in his own haversack, and a canteen, half-full. It would help until he found water again.

  With his knife he cut the lacing that held the straps to the haversacks. He wrapped the two long strips of leather several times around his leg, one as high as he could, and one just above his knee. Pulling the laces through the straps again, he joined the two ends, tightening them around his leg. It hurt him, but he could bear it. He slid the two halves of the pine branch through the straps, high and low, one on each side of his thigh, and tied off the laces. He had splinted his broken leg. He hoped it would be enough.

  Taking up the pine bough again, he found a sturdy branch that was nearly his height, and followed it to the place where it joined the heavier bough at an angle. He whittled away at the junction of the two. When he was finished he had a long, straight length of pine with a crosspiece at its top end that extended a few inches fore and aft: a crutch. He fitted it under his left arm. It was too long. A few more minutes' labor with his knife and he had shortened it to fit. Sam sheathed his knife, shouldered his haversack, and lifted himself to his feet using the crutch he had made. He took a few tentative steps. It worked. He could walk.