Gone for Soldiers

by Jeff Shaara

  He watched Pickett probing his stomach, in obvious discomfort, as he seemed to drift away, shaking his head sharply, a mess of ruffled curls.

  “Hmmph. Well, anyway, we had this bottle of fine brew, and naturally, not being gluttonous, I determined to save a good portion of it for … a future encounter. And now, some soldier has taken it! And I’ll find it, by damned!”

  He looked at the faces around the fire watching him, glared a menacing frown, as if to confront the thief.

  Longstreet smiled, said, “Now, George, don’t you think it’s possible the young lady decided to keep the bottle for herself? There’s plenty of, um … brew around here as it is. Your half-empty bottle is hardly enough cause to convene a court-martial.”

  Pickett looked at him, and the anger seemed to slip away. He shrugged, said, “If you say so, Pete.” Pickett rubbed his stomach again. “That brew went down a good bit smoother last night. There seems to be a protest this morning.”

  Pickett rubbed his hands together. “That coffee any good? Anybody got a cup they aren’t using?”

  Pickett stepped closer to the fire and a cup was offered, the routine from the officers who knew that Lieutenant Pickett was rarely carrying anything useful. Longstreet saw his uniform now, thought, My God, he’s a disaster.

  “George, your coat’s on inside out.”

  Pickett looked down, the men around him laughing out loud now, and he stepped back, tossed the full cup aside, pulled at the coat.

  Longstreet smiled still, said, “At least it’s your own uniform.”

  Pickett straightened, wearing a wounded look. “Enough of this, gentlemen. I shall not be your source of amusement. I must go to my men, prepare them for battle.”

  Longstreet watched him move away with a slight waver in his step. He sipped at the coffee, thought, How did you ever make it through West Point? At least I know where you’ll be when I need you.

  The quiet returned to the campfire, low conversations resumed, and he backed away, moved toward his rumpled blanket gathered on the soft ground. He knelt down, rolled the blanket into a neat coil, wrapped it around his pack. Catching more of the food smells, the lines at the wagons growing now, he moved that way, thought, Something to eat. Probably a good idea. He felt a soft grumble, the familiar spasm low in his gut. No, please, not today. He waited, and the feeling passed. He filled a tin plate with steaming meat, bacon, some black bread, put the bread in his pocket, thought, This could be a good thing later. It could be a long day. He moved to a low, flat rock, sat, ate everything in fast bites, the food gone before he noticed the taste. He stood then, a hand on his belt, probing. No more problems. Thank God.

  Looking to the east, he could see the jagged horizon, the sky a dull gray behind the mountains, and now there was a bugle, the familiar call to Fall in. He put his hand on his pistol, an old habit, and moved past the wagon, tossing the plate into a pile. He could see the men flowing together, moving into line, the sergeants already beginning the angry ritual, shouting into the faces of their men. Longstreet moved past the formation, saw the flag lashed to a small tree. He untied the rope, wrapped his fingers around the wood of the staff, heard a new sound now, turned as they all turned, looking back, the batteries well behind, the bright flashes of the artillery opening the dawn.

  THEY FACED A THICK GROVE OF CYPRESS TREES, THE REGIMENT standing in battle line while in front of them the smoke from a thousand muskets was already beginning to rise. He stood alone, holding the regimental flag upright in front of him. Behind him the three lieutenants were spread out in formation, each in front of their own company of troops. He had guided them into place, paying special attention to Pickett, could not help a smile, a small break in the awful tension. Pickett’s uniform was perfect.

  He stared down into the trees, at a drained swamp, the sounds of the fight rolling back toward him. It was Pillow’s division, the first wave of the assault, pushing straight into the grove of ancient trees, to sweep aside the resistance, the Mexican soldiers who had been sent forward as the first line of defense. Behind the grove was the final hurdle, the walls of Chapultepec.

  His mind was filled with sounds, the pop of a single musket, the shouts of an officer, the sudden zip of the stray musket ball above his head. He focused on the trees, the ground, made himself think about the details, what they would do first, what he would have to make them do after that. He looked at the ground, the first of the trees, thought, A swamp, it could be muddy. Please, no mud. Hard ground.

  He glanced to the side, saw more units, more troops with flags, waiting, as he was. He thought of the talk, the nervous chatter as the men moved into line. There were no jokes this morning, none of the catcalls toward the enemy, the careless boasts, the loud voices of men who were trying to mask their own fear. Since Churubusco, the mood had been different all through the army, and even the fear had been replaced by something else, the grim clarity of veterans. The fear came from the unknown, the unexpected, the sudden panic, the worst of it before the first guns began to fire. But they were all veterans now, the men on both sides, and those who were left would not run from the fear. Longstreet thought of the men who had gone down beside him, in front of him.

  Now, when a man dies by your side, you don’t expect the man who replaces him to survive either, you don’t even want to learn his name. And now, when you march into the guns, you accept that this time it might be you, as if it’s already decided, God has made his mark on those who will not come back. If it is not your time to die, then there is only one other choice, one other duty. You do everything in your power, bring all the energy and hate and fire you can to those fellows over there. You make sure it is their time to die.

  Men were pulling back out of the trees now, some wounded, some carrying men who could not move themselves. The men behind Longstreet began to make a sound, and he knew what it meant. Their instincts were taking hold, the call inside each man to rush forward to help, each man watching the worst that could happen. He turned, said aloud, “Hold the line!” The call was repeated, the sergeants moving behind the men, prodding them with mild curses.

  He saw a horseman now, the man ducking low as he rode along the line of troops. He reined the horse close to Longstreet, said, “Lieutenant, are your men prepared for battle?”

  Longstreet felt the punch of annoyance, the staff officer who questions the obvious. Leave it alone, he thought, he’s more scared than anyone here. “We are prepared, Captain.”

  The man looked down the line, and Longstreet could see his freckles, his youth. The young man flinched, ducking from the sound of the musket ball. “Colonel Clarke advises that you will advance with the brigade at the sound of the bugle. General Pillow is down. The field is now commanded by General Worth.”

  Longstreet nodded. “The Eighth is ready, Captain.”

  The young man looked around, anxious to leave. “Colonel Clarke instructs you to press through those trees and assist General Pillow’s efforts. The ladders will be waiting for you at the wall.”

  Longstreet saw the man flinching again, said, “Sir, you may tell Colonel Clarke that we will meet him inside those damned walls.”

  The young captain did not respond, spurred the horse, moved away down the line, pulling up close to the next flag. Longstreet watched him, thought, Pillow is down? Generals don’t … fall. He began to feel the anxiety now, focused again on the musket fire in the trees. What is happening up there? Ladders? That was to be Pillow’s job, some handpicked infantry. If we don’t have anybody inside that fort by the time we get there, we’ll be bunched up outside, a nice fat target. He gripped the flagstaff tightly. All right. Enough of this. They can blow that damned bugle anytime now. We need to be … out there.

  The smoke hung over the trees in one low thick cloud, and the smell of the fight, sulfur, drifted back toward them on the light breeze. He felt his heart beating, his hand sweating against the wood of the flagstaff. From behind the line came the sound of the bugle, a short quick blast, the familiar n
otes they all recognized.

  He turned, looked at the lieutenants, saw Pickett staring to the front, and Longstreet shouted, “Route step! Forward … march!”

  He raised the flag slightly, held the staff close to his belt, began to walk forward. He did not look back, knew what was happening, the line advancing in a slow wave, the men finding the rhythm, the sergeants keeping them tightly together. He heard other shouts, officers down the long line, pulling the entire division down the slope, straight into the trees. He stepped around a group of wounded men, saw more coming up toward him, staring at the fresh troops with wide-eyed shock, the line opening up in small gaps to pass them by.

  The smell was filling him now, and he blew hard to clear the smoke from his lungs, felt his eyes beginning to water. He blinked it away, looked at the first of the trees, picked out the path he would take, moved in steady rhythm into the smoky darkness.

  There was no underbrush, the ground soft, giving way beneath his steps. He could see more trees to the front, flashes of light and motion, could hear the musket balls flying close now. He saw a man lying flat, and he stepped over the blue uniform without looking down, looked into the fog in front of him, heard the voices, screams, blending with the sounds of the muskets. He saw more uniforms, men kneeling to fire, others in a small group huddled behind a massive tree. There was a shout close by, and he saw an officer, his face bloody, a stain growing on his shirt. The man was yelling to his troops, a raw, hoarse scream, pulling them out into line, driving them forward.

  Longstreet shouted, “Here! We’re here!” but his voice was drowned by the noise. He waved the flagstaff until the officer saw him and the line of fresh troops coming up behind him. The officer yelled something Longstreet could not hear, pointed to the front. Longstreet looked back for the first time, saw the men tightly together, slipping between the trees, still one line, one good strong mass. He waved the flag again, saw Pickett looking at him, and Pickett smiled before he turned to his men, waved his sword, pulling them deeper into the trees.

  Longstreet still moved forward, stared to the front, thought, Yes, he knows. They all know. They are damned fine soldiers.

  He tried to see beyond the scattered men in front, the smoke now low to the ground, drifting in small clouds between the trees. He could see the officer again, the man’s back a few yards in front of him. He was still collecting scattered troops, pulling them into line, moving them forward. Longstreet turned, looked back to his men, saw them still together, no one firing, and he said aloud, “Good, hold your fire, stay together! Get closer!”

  He stepped over more bodies, passed another huge tree. A great flash erupted in front of him, men in blue kneeling, a volley of fire going forward. He moved through the smoke again, felt his heart jump, saw the officer again, pointing his sword, calling the men to advance. The musket fire was all around them now. Men stood behind trees, firing and reloading on their own. He looked back, saw Pickett watching him, waiting for the order, and Longstreet shook his head. Not yet. He pointed toward the officer in front. Keep moving.

  He saw the officer still waving him forward, the troops around him stopping to fire again. Then another flash of light scattered across the dark trees in front of him, and he heard the lead balls smacking the tree beside him, whistling past him into the lines of his men. Longstreet turned and yelled, saw his men falling away, the line breaking up in the trees, some of the men firing on their own.

  He shouted, “No! Move forward! No firing!” There was no order as men caught sight of the enemy, began to find their own target. Longstreet looked to the front again, saw the officer moving his men into a ragged line, frantically cutting the air with his sword. The officer spun around, his bloody face turned toward Longstreet then away. He was down. Longstreet stared at the empty place for one frozen moment, then yelled again, a new sound, fury. He waved the flag over his head, knew his men could see, thought, There, we need to be … up there.

  He moved quickly, stepping over another body, this one wearing gray and white, looked down into the face of a dead young Mexican. He stepped forward again, saw more bodies, colors of both sides scrambled together, some men locked arm in arm in the last good fight, face-to-face, struck down together by a shower of musket fire.

  More blue troops had taken positions in front, men in some kind of line behind a fallen tree led by another officer. Suddenly they were up again, moving forward in pursuit of a retreating enemy. Longstreet looked back, waved the flag again, shouted, “Advance! Don’t fire! Advance!”

  He hopped over the tree, could see motion in front, a glimpse of gray, men moving away, blue troops pursuing them, bayonets, muskets swinging wildly, clubs, hands reaching out to grab any piece of the enemy.

  The sounds seemed to slow, and he coughed through the smoke. In front, light came through the thinning trees. A swarm of blue still moved ahead of him, more men emerging from their cover as the Mexicans pulled back. He still moved forward, saw how the Americans had poured into a small earthwork, a shallow trench, just beyond the trees, an abandoned Mexican defensive line. The men lay low to the ground, firing at will at the enemy, who still scrambled away.

  Longstreet’s men were all around him now, and he waved the flag, shouted, “Hold up here! Form a line.…”

  His voice faded, and he looked out beyond the trees, to where the last of the Mexicans climbed over some low timbers, a long row of cut trees and brush. He saw that the defensive line was backed up against the great white stone wall. A row of muskets pointed out from the top of the wall, firing intermittently, each man picking his target from the mass of blue gathering below. He felt a sudden rush of dread, thought, My God … the wall … it’s huge.

  He turned, looked for the lieutenants, saw a sword pointing forward, the man holding his troops together, order returning in the lull. He moved along the line of troops, saw more coming up behind, the line strengthening. The musket fire from the works in front of him was slow and scattered. The men in blue aimed carefully, choosing their targets on the wall with deadly accuracy.

  There was a sharp explosion from the base of the wall, and he turned to see a mass of his men blown aside, creating a sudden gap in the line. The deadly pieces of scrap metal from the Mexican canister ripped the bark from the trees behind them. He dropped down, felt his heart in his throat, thought, You are not hit, but … we can’t just stay here. Men in blue were crouching low all around him, some still firing their muskets, the enemy behind the brush. He looked over the heads of the men in the shallow trench, saw a broad flat space, and beyond, a wide ditch in front of the works, below the mouth of the cannon. We must get there. If we drop down low, we can take out the gun.

  He heard an order coming from an officer he could not see, but the men in front of him suddenly surged forward, rising from the trench, running hard across the open ground toward the ditch. The cannon fired again, and he crouched low until he heard the screams. He looked up and saw a horrible carpet of twisted men, but beyond, many others who had reached the ditch were dropping down, some already firing up into the brush.

  He held the flag upright, shouted, “On my signal! Advance to the ditch!” He waited, took a long hard breath, pulled himself up to his feet, said, “Forward!”

  He jumped over the small trench, heard the roar coming from his men, swarming out of the trees behind him. He stopped, waved them forward, watched them move past him across the final few yards of the open ground, closer to the wide ditch. The cannon fired again, but the men were too close, the deadly storm of canister blowing past them. They began to drop down behind blessed cover, a thick blue mass filling the wide ditch, waiting for the next order. He looked back to the trees, saw more of his men still moving into the clearing, but now there was a new line of troops, men filling the trench again, already firing up over his head, toward the muskets on the wall. Across the strip of open ground, a mass of blue came out of the trees above him, more strength rolling straight up to the fat wall. Men began to crawl up out of the ditch,
still moving forward, some going up and over the thick line of brush, throwing themselves straight into the Mexican defense. The cannon fell silent, the quick work of the bayonet. More men in blue filled the Mexican works, safe for the moment, too close to the base of the wall for the enemy above to take aim.

  Longstreet waited beside the ditch, waved the slower men forward, saw more officers holding their men together, the woods behind them alive with thick lines of blue. Then he began to hear one word, carried by the shouts of the officers, and each man picked up the cry. “Ladders!”

  He saw them now, brought forward all along the clearing. He had not thought of this moment before, what would happen next, had kept it from his mind. The men pulled the ladders across the ditch, swung them up until they slapped hard against the stone. The Mexican muskets reached out over the wall, firing straight down. The first man on the ladder drew their fire, while behind him a dozen muskets fired at the enemy on the wall, sweeping him away. He felt his throat tighten, thought, This is … utterly foolish. How can this work?

  More men began to climb up, the first man reaching the top of the wall, vulnerable to the bayonet, falling away, more musket fire from both sides. There were ladders close by now, more coming up out of the woods, and he saw them pass over the wide ditch, saw an officer shouting, pointing to the wall, and another ladder swung upright, then two more down to one side. Now it was time for his men, and he waved the flag in a tight circle, shouted, “Up! To the ladders! Go!”

  They surged up out of the ditch, and he watched the first man climb up, the musket fire coming from behind him, keeping the Mexicans back. The man went over the wall, disappeared, followed by another man, and he wanted to shout again, Faster, but the progress was agonizing, one man at a time.

  He looked out along the wall, could see the ladders full of men in blue, a steady stream reaching the top, pouring over to the other side. He looked at the ditch, thought, Get across, you have to go up … and he felt a sharp stab, a hard jolt punching his right leg. He fell forward on his knees, felt the biting pain in his thigh, the wetness, was amazed at the sight of the dark blood, the hole in his pants, thought, Not there … I never expected it … there. Then he was falling, rolling to one side. He tried to balance himself, leaned his weight on the flagstaff, felt a strong hand under his arm, heard the voice, saw that it was Pickett.