by Jeff Shaara
“Yes, sir. With all respects, sir, we have men posted near the Yankee depot at Stevenson, and near the water at Bridgeport. The talk there is considerable, and I do not believe the enemy is attempting to mislead us in any way. They are claiming that General Grant has been given command of this theater, and that he is now in Chattanooga. We do know that General Sherman is en route through northern Mississippi with a considerable force.”
The man was breathing heavily, aware of the gravity of his report. Brent said, “Sir, I do not wish to dismiss this man’s word, but how can we be certain that Grant has come?”
Bragg was smiling now, felt rejuvenated, a surge of excitement he had not felt in a very long time. “I do not doubt you, Lieutenant. Not at all. It is perfectly reasonable. Washington understands the value of Chattanooga, as they understand the force now threatening their precious Army of the Cumberland.”
“But, sir, we should seek further confirmation.”
The horseman seemed to bristle at Brent, said, “Sir, I witnessed the man from no more than a hundred yards’ distance.”
Bragg rubbed his chin. “Fancy dress uniform? Brass band following close behind him?”
The man seemed puzzled. “No, sir. Nothing like that. He was barely in a uniform at all. Plain dressed, no band, certainly. His staff was carrying him through the worst holes, ’cause of his leg. He was injured, it appeared.”
Bragg smiled now, looked at Brent. “This man knows what he saw, Colonel. And so do I. Grant hasn’t changed since Shiloh, and it makes perfect sense that those biddies in Washington would send him here.” Brent was puzzled, and Bragg kept the smile. “Don’t you see? I expected this. The enemy has only told us what we already believed. This is the place where they are most afraid. What we do here could turn this war completely in our favor. A great victory here could be the first step in driving the enemy completely out of Tennessee, cutting him off in Alabama and Mississippi, leaving him a single option. They will be forced to retreat to the Gulf Coast. I can imagine that with perfect clarity, Colonel. They will scramble in panic on board their great warships, desperate to survive, as we rid this country of their noxious stain.”
He saw Brent’s stare, the man still not seeming to understand the magnitude of the lieutenant’s report.
“Sir, will you still be writing the president? Certainly, Richmond should be informed of this turn of events.”
For a single moment, Bragg had forgotten the itching torment, the aggravation driven into him every day by the presence of James Longstreet.
“Oh yes, Colonel. Richmond shall know exactly what I intend to do, and exactly who faces us across the way. But what we do here, we will do with this army alone. Longstreet came riding down here with every expectation that he would assume full command, my command, or that he would be independent of any authority. Well, on that I shall oblige him. Once he marches away from here, and assumes his new position at Knoxville, he may perform exactly as he wishes. And he will no longer be my problem.”
BRIDGEPORT, ALABAMA—OCTOBER 26, 1863
“You see him? Right above that rock.”
Bauer didn’t answer, felt his hands shaking, shouted silently at himself to calm down. The target was moving in every direction. The musket was jiggling in his hands, his grip sweaty.
“You got him?”
“Yes.”
He said nothing else, could feel the small crowd of men behind him, eyes following his, small voices distracting him, whispers and taunts. He kept his eye focused down the barrel of the musket, knew some of the men had bet against him, were trying to break his concentration, while the others, the ones who dared to risk a dime or a dollar, were only adding tension to his aim. He closed his eyes, tried to relax, opened again, blinked, focusing, the target still dancing through the iron sights, but slower now, less movement; his hands were more settled. He blocked out the sounds behind him, had done this so many times, his careful routine, strengthening and narrowing his focus. He slid the musket back and forth a few inches along the soft padding of the leather cushion. His hands pulled the musket tighter against his shoulder, anchoring it firmly, but not too firmly. The voices still engulfed him, men cheering him on with intense nervousness, a part of the game. They were testing him, after all, no surprise to Bauer. He was the outsider, the stranger, the only man among all these Pennsylvanians who was no longer a part of the volunteers.
“Come on, boy, take him down!”
The voice came from the sergeant, close behind him, Bauer catching the hint of whiskey on the man’s breath. He didn’t respond, kept his stare down the long barrel of the musket, found the target again, a wide gray hat, the man’s head and chest clearly visible, something small and black blocking the man’s face. Field glasses. Looking at what? Me?
His own voice took command now, calming him from inside, soft, intense, erasing the chatter from the others, his eyes and his brain settling onto the one place that mattered, on the head and the chest of the man in gray. He eased his finger into the trigger guard, then slowly, carefully wrapped his finger around the trigger, a minuscule space between his skin and the steel, putting no pressure on the trigger at all. His cheek rested on the smooth wood, and now he was alone, nothing else around him, staring out toward a far distant speck of color. Just me, just you. He spoke silently to the man in the distance, too far to see details of the man’s face, assumed from the uniform it had to be an officer. The field glasses appeared to drop, the man jostling just a bit, and Bauer hesitated, thought, A horse. He’s sitting on a horse. Definitely an officer. The black spot came up again, the field glasses obscuring the man’s head completely, nothing visible but the hat, the small patch of gray, the man’s upper body. Half hidden, he thought. Thinks he’s safe, protected by rocks. Thinks he’s clever.
Bauer centered himself on his own breathing, slow, steady, pushed his shoulders downward, a slight adjustment, to raise the iron sights, just above the man’s head. Four hundred yards, he thought. At least. Raise it a bit more. He was aiming higher now, two feet, three feet above the hat, and the voice in his brain grew quiet, no other sound reaching him, everything coming together into his eyes, and again, the slight touch of cold steel at the tip of his finger, his lungs emptying slowly, no movement at all.
The musket fired now, surprising him, as it always should. The smoke blew out in a thick white cloud, and Bauer let out the rest of the deep breath, didn’t move, felt the jarring shock in his shoulder, his cheek. It was the worst moment, always, the agonizing seconds when you couldn’t see anything, but behind him, the others were scattered out beyond the smoke, one man with field glasses of his own, the smoke now giving way.
“Hooeee! You see that? He fell like a sack of flour!”
The men were shouting now, moving in close, a hard slap on Bauer’s back, and he closed his eyes, another piece of his routine, a quick, silent Thank you. He didn’t have to see the target to know what he had done. The sights hadn’t moved. The musket was aimed perfectly; the ball should have thumped straight into the man’s chest. And it did.
“Dangdest shootin’ I ever seen! I give it to you, Dutchman. Didn’t think anybody’d be that dang good.”
The others joined in the grand congratulations, more slaps, Bauer opening his eyes now, the smell of the powder lingering. He rolled over, sat up, allowed himself to enjoy this part of it, the approval of the others, all the blue coats, smiling faces, shaking heads. Back behind the men was a cluster of officers he hadn’t noticed before, observing silently. Nearby, a handful of men were paying off their bets to the winners, those who believed in him, happier still. He rested his arms across his knees, said to the man with the field glasses, “Keep a good watch. They might have somebody out there send a ball this way. There’s some good shooters among those boys.”
The sergeant stood over him, stared out toward the distant rocky hill. “Not like you, Dutchman. Ain’t never seen a reb could take a man down at that distance. They’s cavalry, anyway. Do their work with a s
aber, all that whoopin’ and hollerin’. Been watching us for a week, mostly up in those rocks. Nobody’s messed with ’em until now. I bet they haul tail out of here. They done lost one of their big brass. Hee-hee.”
It had surprised him as much as it had the officers, as much as his friend Sammie Willis, that Bauer had a serious talent for marksmanship. Once the fight at Vicksburg had settled into the dull routine of a siege, it was the sharpshooters who kept it interesting, trading wickedly accurate strikes into the lines of their enemy, splitting skulls and breaking ribs of careless men who never knew they were being watched from so far away. It was a talent that officers appreciated, as much as they feared it, every man on a horse very aware that, out there, someone might be watching him.
Bauer looked now toward the cluster of officers, a Stars and Stripes hanging limp on a flagpole, held by a young aide. They seemed only to be curious, Bauer’s display offering a moment’s entertainment. He didn’t seek that, had only let on about his gift through the paperwork he had gone through, questions about his experience, his talents, whether he could cook or sew or draw maps. Most of the army’s training emphasized massed formations, firepower in great quantities. Marksmanship was a skill the army rarely counted on. It had been Lieutenant Crane, the adjutant to Colonel Malloy, who had pushed Bauer to add that detail to any answers the army hoped to hear. Bauer had no idea if marksmanship would help his application to the regulars, or whether it might persuade the Wisconsin officers to keep him close, to refuse his request to enlist in the regular army. But, then, after an agonizing week, the papers had come back with the army’s approval, and with that, his orders:
The Army of the United States hereby orders Private Fritz Bauer to report to 18th United States Regulars, 2nd Battalion, Captain Henry Haymond, Commanding. Assignment to Company C, Captain Samuel Willis, Commanding. Orders to be carried out by 1 November, 1863, after which time, Private Fritz Bauer will be considered Absent Without Permission.
He had been overjoyed and terrified. The question of just how and where he was to report had been handled by the adjutants, and for now, Bauer was an unofficial part of the 109th Pennsylvania, part of the Twelfth Army Corps, which, by the rumors that flew through the camps, was about to move toward Chattanooga. All he was doing was hitching a ride.
The crowd around him spread out, men returning to whatever mundane task was at hand. Some kept their gaze on the far rocks, and Bauer smiled at that. Sure, he thought. Brave men with big talk. But rebs can shoot, whether any of you believe that or not.
He heard hoofbeats now, saw two dozen horsemen galloping out from the far end of the rows of tents, realized they were cavalry themselves, someone’s thoughtful notion that if there was a dead rebel officer out there, somebody ought to take a look. I bet that bunch is long gone, he thought. Took their corpse with them. He caught himself, didn’t like to think about that. A man. No, it was a rebel, a target. Gray hat, field glasses, gray coat. That’s all. It was the same dance Bauer performed often, erasing any image of a man’s face, never close enough to see the expression, the look in the eye. There was no purpose to it, no need to think about the target being anything but.
The cluster of officers began to scatter, but a small group rode toward him, the Stars and Stripes coming along. Bauer was still sitting, suddenly realized they were coming straight at him. He stood quickly, musket planted by his side, the instinct of training. He focused on the officer leading the way, a huge man on a massive horse, the man’s face adorned with the largest beard Bauer had ever seen. Bauer glanced to one side, the sergeant still there, coming to attention, a hard whisper.
“We must be in for it now. He never comes out here.”
Bauer responded through closed teeth. “Who?”
“Shut up.”
The horsemen were close now, stopped, and the sergeant tossed up a formal salute, Bauer doing the same. He looked past the big man, saw a familiar face, Captain Gimber, the regimental commander. But Gimber stayed back, seemed to know his place.
The older man stayed up on the horse, towering above Bauer, casting a shadow that blocked out the daylight.
“You make a habit of that, Private?”
Bauer ran several responses through his head. What’d I do this time? But there was something deadly serious in the question, not the time for humor.
“I have been known to, sir. Once in a while.”
“Where?”
“Vicksburg, mostly, sir. I served Wisconsin regiments since Shiloh. Been in a few scraps.”
“Sharpshooter, then?”
“At Vicksburg, yes, sir.”
The big man leaned low, held out his hand, pointed to the musket. “Mind if I take a look?”
Bauer reached down, handed it to the man butt-first, saw now the shoulder straps on the man’s blue coat, the embroidered star of a brigadier general. The captain spoke now, pointing to Bauer.
“We’d love to keep him, sir. But he’s not ours. Just along for the march, at the request of General McPherson’s people last week. I put it in the duty log, sir.”
The larger man examined the musket, sighted down the barrel, handed it back to Bauer. “Regular issue. Nothing fancy. Thought you might have had one of those English rifles the rebels are using. Whitworths. I wish we had a pile of ’em, but they’re pretty scarce, pretty expensive. Appears you don’t require one. Nice shooting, son.” He looked at the captain now. “My adjutant has the duty log, Captain. I’ve got more things to worry about right now.” He looked again at Bauer. “I’m General Geary, son. This is my division. I knew you weren’t one of ours, from your hat. Regular army, right?”
“Yes, sir. Just enlisted. I was ordered to your unit, to make the march east. Transferred over from the Seventeenth Wisconsin volunteers.”
Bauer stopped himself, thought, He doesn’t care a whit for your life story. Geary looked out toward the distant rocks.
“Yep. Good shooting, Private.” Geary studied the hat. “Eighteenth Regulars, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll make somebody happy out there. But don’t take it for granted. Sharpshooting can be the safest duty in the army. Sit back where it’s all cozy, and lay those rebels out one at a time.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Geary looked down at him, a grim stare. “Not a compliment, son. Most of these boys will never know what it feels like to kill a man, not unless they stick a bayonet through a man’s chest. I’ve seen volleys of a thousand muskets blow through a brigade front, and watched fewer than a dozen men hit. Some say it’s instinct, that a man won’t purposely aim to hit another man if he can help it. Not sure I believe that. Rather think it’s poor training. They don’t teach these boys anything about shooting. Where’d they train you to shoot so well?”
“Didn’t, sir. It just … came to me. Didn’t even much hunt when I was a boy.”
“Hmm. Well, I’ll tell you something about your particular skill, son. Unlike most of these boys here, when you hit a man, you know it, you watch him fall, you have time to watch his buddies gather around. You feel it, son. At that moment, you’re the most alone you’ll ever be. You kill a man like that, there’s no place to hide it. I hope you can live with it. Some can’t.” Geary paused, pointed out to the rocks. “Who was that fellow over there?”
“I don’t know, sir. Didn’t think about it. Maybe an officer.”
“Oh, he was a cavalry officer, no doubt. Stood up there in those rocks like he was surveying the whole world. They’ve been watching us for a while. I sent those horsemen to check out what they might have left behind, maybe find out who they were. But that’s not your business, and you best keep it that way. In a few days, that officer’s children will find out they lost their daddy. A piece of advice, son. Don’t you ever go looking for prizes. Leave that alone. I was at Gettysburg. Somebody just like you killed John Reynolds, maybe the best commander in this army. Real trophy that was. But if that reb was smart, he didn’t ask who he shot down, didn’t have a b
unch of boys like these slapping his backside. You start looking for trophies, parading yourself like some kind of hero, you start finding out the names of who you killed, things like that … it’ll change you. You’ll lose that aim, that steady hand. Make you as worthless as the freshest greenhorn here.”
Bauer was beginning to dislike this man intensely. Geary sat back in the saddle, still looked at Bauer.
“We’re marching out of here pretty quick. They’re giving us a job to do. Happy to have a good eye along with us, even if it’s only a few days. Keep sharp, son. The rest of you … learn from this man. More aim, less caterwauling. You can crow about all the rebels you killed when you go home. Nobody’ll believe you anyhow. And they’ll be right. Captain, let’s ride. No time for this.”
Geary turned his horse, the color bearer close behind him, the horses all moving away. Bauer felt the musket heavy in his hands, felt a gloom from Geary’s words.
Beside him, the sergeant said, “I guess he knows what he’s talking about. Have to, to be a general and all. But there’s something about him always struck me … strange.”
“Maybe I ought not have shot that fellow. Why’d he go and tell me about the man’s children?”
Bauer felt the man’s hand on his shoulder.
“Leave that alone, dammit. That was just a rebel. An officer to boot. You wanna feel all curled up about that, it’s your business. But I was told that’s why we’re out here. Kill rebels. They sure as hell wanna kill us. Seen that at Gettysburg, too many times. You got a gift, Dutchman. Make good use of it. That’ll help out every damn one of us, maybe get us home quicker.”
Bauer tried to believe the man, said, “I guess so.”
“Hell, yes. The general gave you some good advice. For your sake, I hope he doesn’t stick a hot poker through your paperwork and decide to make you a Pennsylvanian. You impressed the hell out of him.”
“Well, he impressed me, too. Made me feel awful.”
More of the Pennsylvania men were moving through their camps, orders shouted out, the sergeant’s platoon commander trotting up, a lieutenant younger than Bauer.
