by Jeff Shaara
Beside him, a man responded, “Pretty place. No wonder they liked it up here. You can see all the way to home.”
“Eyes front! The enemy is just over the hill!”
The voice belonged to Willis, and Bauer stared ahead, saw only smoke on the next rise, the men moving farther downhill, pants legs snagged by low thickets of briars. Willis called out again, “Make ready! Climb together, no straggling!”
Bauer could smell the smoke now, a thick haze passing overhead, no gazing out to the open ground. The talk began now, the nervous chatter, men swearing, praying, eagerness, terror, the slow march up the hill taking them straight into the smoke.
Men were coming toward them now, their own, an officer, a color bearer, the man holding a pistol, a handful of soldiers, walking wounded. There were more wounded now, scattered beneath the brush, some lying flat, stretcher bearers bringing more off the hill. Bauer tried not to look, wouldn’t see the wounds, not yet, not with the fight so close. The lines were halted now, the young lieutenant obeying a command Bauer didn’t hear, the boyish face showing fear of his own, holding the sword up above his head, facing them, looking back toward the officers. Bauer stopped, felt the energy of the men beside him, behind him, the halt only delaying what they knew was coming. He strained to hear their talk, but the roar of firing swept away the voices, the officer pointing back up the hill, animated, Moore listening, nodding, looking now to his men. The other company commanders had moved up close, Willis as well, and Bauer saw Moore still listening, thought, That fellow’s brass, for sure. Outranks the colonel. Telling us what to do. I guess … somebody has to. Moore spoke to the company commanders now, and Bauer saw Willis give a short, quick nod. Willis looked back at his own men, seemed to count them, measuring what was left of his company. More companies had moved in beside them, behind them, and Bauer felt a wave of relief at the added strength, saw several hundred men pushing forward, crowding along the crest. Willis was still scanning the men, his eyes catching Bauer’s, no emotion, no acknowledgment, and Willis turned, pointed his sword to the front, and once more, they began to walk.
He coughed through the smoke, felt the burning in his eyes, saw flashes of fire to one side, screams of the wounded coming from every direction. The first man he had seen was a rebel, part of a dozen men kneeling, an officer standing beside them, but that man went down with the first volley, most of the rebels down as well. But across from them, the bald hill showed more men in blue, the rebels between them, and the volleys grew quiet, the fight closing up between men who used the bayonet, who grappled and clubbed and struck out with fists. The line had come apart, the men not following Willis or anyone else now. The rebels came at them, men alone, men in pairs, in small bands. The fight seemed to explode in front of Bauer in waves of shouting, the only other sounds the cracking of bone, the thump and smack of muskets across skulls. Bauer held back, had never fought hand to hand, was engulfed by terror, a quick desperate glance at the cap on the musket, still loaded. But the weapon seemed useless, too many men in blue, the best tool the bayonet, training few took seriously. He kept pushing forward with the men close beside him, sharing the fear, the horrific sight, a man’s head split open by a sword, another punched down by a pistol shot to his face. He stood in silence, felt very alone, a spectator, heard men shouting every kind of word. The fight spread closer to him, men wrestling, falling to the ground, a rebel with an enormous knife. To one side, a flash of blue, and Bauer saw the man leap into the fight, the bayonet into the rebel’s back, the knife tucked into a belt, ghastly souvenir, or a weapon still to be used. The man swung around, as though searching for another target, and Bauer saw the face now, the raw animal madness, the big man, black eyes. It was Owens. Owens caught his eye, yelled something to him, waved to him, threatening him with the bloody bayonet, and Bauer felt more afraid of Owens now than anyone around him. He stepped forward, others doing the same, a line of rebels suddenly coming out of the smoke, moving at them from the side. Bauer heard the first terrifying scream, saw the man’s mouth open, the single voice, others with him joining the chorus. The man pushed a bayonet in front of him, pointed at another man close beside Bauer, and Bauer felt the iciness again, cold and frozen. The rebel lunged forward, the bayonet knocked away, the men locking together, a hard fist finding jaw, the soldier collapsing, the rebel down on him, more fists, and now the other rebels were there, choosing their targets, a sword flashing, the fire from a pistol. Bauer saw one man come straight toward him, looking at him, cold hate, their eyes locked, as though no one else was there. The man slowed, and Bauer saw a smile now, the man holding a musket back like a club, a step closer, and now the high-pitched shout. Bauer tried to step aside, stumbled, nowhere to go, too many men pushing back at him, and he held the bayonet out straight, waited for the blow, his musket firing, magnificent surprise, a blast of smoke and fire into the man’s chest, the rebel collapsing at Bauer’s feet. But there were more now, all around him, another man in front of him, the glaze of hate in the man’s eyes, a bayonet, pointed at Bauer’s face, the man jumping forward, and Bauer slapped at the man’s musket with his own, both weapons knocked away, the man still coming, fists up, and Bauer raised his hands, felt a crushing blow to his jaw, another, the man on top of him, hands at Bauer’s throat. He grabbed the man’s arms, pulled in a desperate struggle, the rebel’s fingers digging into his neck, crushing strength. Bauer fought to breathe, raw panic, and now the man jerked to one side, rolling off him, the hands gone. Bauer fought to get air, gasping, felt men tumbling across his legs, another fight, but he saw the face now, his savior, looking down at him, a bloody sword in the man’s hand.
“Get your ass up! Grab your bayonet! We’re not done here!”
It was Willis.
Willis moved away now, blending into the mass of fighting, bodies moving around Bauer still, men down under his feet, blood in muddy pools. The shouts seemed to change, orders, pulling men up, and Bauer saw now, there were fewer rebels, a hundred or more in a rapid retreat, moving away. Willis was there, still the sword, looked at him with a gleaming smile, and Bauer saw blood on Willis’s hands, a wound in his shirt. Willis was watching him still, let out a hard shout, no words, nonsensical, the fire emerging from the man’s heart. The rebels who could had withdrawn, and Willis waved the sword, orders now, the men responding, some rising up, rebels at their feet, some of the rebels still with a fight to give, the men making quick work of anyone who tried. Bauer kept his eyes on Willis, thought of the stern lesson, no such thing as friends, this from the man who so loves … this. You saved me, Sammie. He wanted to say the words, but Willis was on to the next duty, orders coming to find muskets, to reload, make ready for another drive by the rebels, or some order that would turn the push the other way. Bauer searched for a musket, picked one up, bent bayonet, but it was Union, and he pushed a shaking hand into his cartridge box, retrieved a load, still shaking as he reloaded the weapon. Willis was looking away now, raised his sword toward the retreating rebels, a taunt, something Bauer had not heard before. Another officer was there now, the young lieutenant, the young man’s face a bloody smear, and he moved out close to Willis, reached for Willis’s shoulder, then dropped to his knees, rolled to one side. Bauer moved quickly, others, offers of help, and Bauer saw one eye gone, blood pouring out in a small river from the young man’s mouth. A hand had him, pulling him up, and Bauer saw the face of Owens.
“Leave him be. He gave his piece.” Owens looked at Bauer, the yellow toothy smile. “Good fighting, eh? Gave ’em all they needed. Looks like they’re forming up on that hill over there.”
Bauer looked that way, saw Willis in front, staring out, others coming together, the formation organizing once more. Moore was there now, and Bauer felt relief at that. Other officers moved through the men, a quick check of the wounded, some of those men able to stand, to move off the hill, some crawling to tend to the others. Moore was shouting out orders, putting the men into line, and Bauer focused on him, the musket in one hand, han
ging down beside him. He felt swallowed by exhaustion, his brain protesting, no energy for a fight, too many thoughts, the bloody memories drifting through his brain. Hand to hand. We can’t do this again, not like that. We need help … reinforcements.
Moore was talking to Willis now, and another captain, the colonel pointing out toward another hill down the ridgeline, then back, to where the rebels had run. Bauer’s head was clearing and he saw the wide-open ground to the backside of the ridge, the rebels pulling together, making their stand on a smaller hilltop. Bauer looked down into darkening brush, saw a wide slope, the ground off the ridge rolling, small hills and thickets. The daylight was nearly gone, and he heard commotion, looked toward the officers, saw what seemed to be an argument, another officer there now. From behind he heard horses, another surprise, another officer, older man, more horses, color bearers. The argument was expanding, but the man on the horse quieted them, his words reaching Bauer.
“Stand down, Colonel. This is all for today. We’re to make camp along this ridge. General Sheridan is down to our left, and he is pushing the enemy farther back, but they’re holding to some artillery still, and it’s a risky affair.”
Moore spoke up, pointed toward the rebels, still visible on the next hill to the rear, gathering, as though watching the scene. “Sir, the enemy is in retreat. We can press them!”
“Yes, we have pressed them, Colonel. We’re holding this ridgeline, and they’re whipped. Have your men patrol this stretch of the ridge. Gather up weapons, anything useful. There are some rebel batteries still farther up the ridge, might be ripe for the taking. No campfires, but we’ll try to find rations.”
Moore seemed resigned to the orders, and Bauer watched Willis, saw raw anger toward the officer, but Moore pulled him away, a hard word Bauer couldn’t hear. Willis moved back toward Bauer, slid his sword into the scabbard at his side, drew the pistol, began to reload with jerking motions.
“Damn them all. It’s getting dark, so we go to sleep. The enemy’s right out there, and if we give them a shove, they’ll be ours.”
“You saved my ass, Sammie.”
“Shut up. Might not happen again.”
Beside Bauer, Owens had moved up, said, “Look there. We can go get us a reb cannon. Maybe a whole battery.”
Bauer looked that way, the hill that held the rebels, saw men in motion, the darkness hiding them, heard the crack of a musket close by, another, men not accepting that the fight was past. Bauer felt the urge, knelt, aimed the musket, and Willis jerked it up, said aloud, “No more! Save it for the morning.…”
The flash erupted on the distant hill, the sharp screaming whistle blowing right past Bauer, the hot wind, a burst of fire out behind. He felt a searing punch in his leg, screamed, fell back, twisting agony, looked up at Willis, the pain still ripping through him. Willis kept his stare out toward the enemy, then turned slowly, looking down at him, smiling eyes, bending over. Willis put a hand out toward him, and Bauer saw now, Willis’s arm was gone, a spray of blood from a hole in his neck. His hand came down, fingers reaching toward Bauer still. Bauer fought to move, to grab the hand, but Willis turned away, tumbled down heavily on the ground close beside him. Bauer heard screaming, his own voice, the name of his friend. Men were there now, hands on him, pulling him, his own hands trying to grab for Willis, touching only dirt, ripping through briars, wet and bloody. But there was nothing to hold, nothing there at all, and he stared up into dark treetops, skeletons against the night sky, the stars blurred by the tears in his eyes.
TUNNEL HILL—NOVEMBER 25, 1863—5:00 P.M.
The Yankees had pulled away, punched back once more by the hard defense Cleburne put in their way. The latest assault had come just after three, and just as before, Sherman’s troops had driven hard straight into men who would not give ground. The assaults had gone both ways, counterattacks, some led by Cleburne himself, some by officers he had never met. Hardee had done as much as Cleburne could have hoped, had sent additional troops northward both to lengthen and strengthen what Cleburne had on the ridgeline. Throughout the last hours of daylight, little had changed except the casualty counts, both sides badly bruised. But Cleburne knew that Sherman had suffered a far greater cost, the ground out in front of Tunnel Hill littered with the bodies of his men.
Late in the day, as Sherman’s forces pulled back once again, Cleburne continued to maneuver, shifting units into weaker places, bringing up caissons to resupply the big guns. He had no reason to expect Sherman would just sit tight, to concede that Cleburne had won the day. But with daylight beginning to fade, the men around him showed more confidence, the men breaking into cheers, a soldier’s instincts that his enemy had given all he could. Cleburne still feared there would be another wave, had to expect that with Sherman’s overwhelming numbers, the Yankees would come again. Even with the darkness filling every low place, Cleburne kept tall in the saddle, scanning the distant hills and thickets for some sign of movement, the first signs that Sherman was determined to accomplish in the darkness what they could not achieve throughout the day.
To his right, a single gun fired, a flash of light, the ball streaking red out toward Billy Goat Hill. He jumped at that, nervous still, wondered if those men had seen something threatening, if an observer had spotted movement through the brush below. But the blast was followed now by more cheers, and he kept his eyes that way, could make out hats in the air, realized now, it was the day’s final salute. The ammunition is almost gone, he thought, and I should scold them for wasting powder. But they are entitled to a celebration. They did extraordinary work today, and no one should forget that. Certainly not me.
He leaned heavily on the nose of the saddle, stared out with tired eyes, saw the first campfires springing up far out in the Yankee lines, no real effort to mask them, as though Sherman was sending a message, that there was precious little in Cleburne’s caissons to interrupt a Yankee dinner, even Cleburne’s sharpshooters with mostly empty cartridge boxes. In that, he thought, Sherman is correct. There will be no bombardments, no careless aim toward the enemy’s camps. Cleburne thought of Sherman now, had seen him on the far hill several times throughout the day. What is he feeling? Is he beaten? Will he skulk away in the night, conceding this ground? No. That’s not how he came to be here, not why Grant has come to rely on him. He was sent up here to break this flank, and if he had been successful, there might not have been any chance for this army to stop him at all. Certainly, he knows that. So, tomorrow, he will try again.
The idea broke through his weariness, and he thought of the ammunition train, far back behind Chickamauga Creek. There must be wagons sent forward, he thought. Bragg will see to it. Even he knows what we have done here today, and he will be prepared for what could happen tomorrow. Hardee will not let him ignore us.
He moved the horse to the side, rode slowly along the front edge of the hill, could hear men down below, the artillerymen seeing to their guns, the troops repairing and strengthening the logs and earthen walls that had served them so well. They are surely more tired than I am, he thought. They require rations. I will see to that immediately. He turned, saw staff officers gathering behind, thought, Their work is not yet done.
“Captain Buck, here please.”
He could see the weariness in Buck’s eyes, the man riding the horse slowly his way. He’s done his share today, Cleburne thought. More than his share. His and mine. They all have. Something else I will not forget.
“Sir?”
“We must send word to General Hardee. We have great needs out here. Rations and ammunition.”
Behind Buck, he heard the hoofbeats, saw the shadowy figure moving up quickly. Buck said, “Courier. That’s Hardee’s man, Newell.”
Cleburne felt a calm satisfaction, thought, Hardee wishes to know how we fared. This shall be a delight.
Newell reined up the horse, saluted, said, “Sir! General Hardee offers his respects, and orders you to take any troops you can afford to remove from your lines, and march them with al
l haste to the south. The enemy has assaulted the center of our position with considerable strength. General Hardee insists in the strongest terms that you provide any forces not now engaged.”
Cleburne stared at the man, saw nervousness, the man breathing heavily, and Cleburne said, “Repeat that, Sergeant. The enemy has done what, exactly?”
“Sir, did you not hear the artillery? The enemy assaulted the center of the ridge with substantial force. General Breckinridge is in considerable difficulty. General Hardee orders you to march those troops you can spare, and have them support his forces as quickly as they can be put to the march.”
He saw exasperation on the man’s face, knew Hardee would not waste anyone’s time with this kind of urgency unless it was necessary.
“We heard nothing of any fight, Sergeant. We had noise enough right here. Very well, return to General Hardee, and advise him that I will lead those men myself. At present, there is no fighting on this front, and thus far, the enemy is making no preparations to strike us again this evening.”
“Yes, sir. If I may return to the general, sir.”
“Yes, of course. You are dismissed.”
Newell spun the horse, was gone quickly, and Cleburne saw Buck, uncertainty, questions rising up in his own mind.
“What do you make of it, sir?”
Cleburne looked out southward through the treetops. “What I make of it, Captain, is that we are expected to move with haste. Let’s do so. Send word to General Cumming’s brigade. He is on our left flank. I will go directly to General Maney, and instruct him to fall in behind Cumming’s men. This is unexpected, to be sure. But we can pose our questions to General Hardee later.”
The columns fell in quickly, and Cleburne pushed out to the front, expected to hear some distinct signs that the fight was ongoing. He heard thumps of artillery, but not many, and no musket fire at all, the ground too undulating for the sounds to carry beyond the next hill. He crested a rise, saw low drifting smoke far out to the east, behind the ridge, and along the crest, scattered troops, no organization, most of the men drifting east, away from any fight. He felt a stab of caution, thought of Hardee. He would not panic. He would not send a courier who panicked. But I hear nothing of any general engagement.
