To Jack’s front, the men in the long ranks pulled their muskets into their shoulders.
‘Let’s kill them Yankees!’ hissed the company captain in the pause between orders.
‘Aim! Fire!’
As one, the regiment opened fire. The sound was tremendous, the great roar deafening as hundreds of men fired at once.
And Jack laughed.
He did not mean to, but the sound escaped his lips before he could hold it in. He saw heads turn, the scowls and glares sent his way enough to silence him.
‘Load!’
The regiment stuck to their routines, the series of commands they had learnt now being used in earnest for the first time. Jack peered through the cloud of powder smoke that now smothered the line. What he saw confirmed his first thought. The enemy was too far away for the volley to trouble them. The men were wasting their powder, the muskets they carried useless at any distance over one hundred yards. He had laughed because the men were fighting so earnestly and with such great seriousness. Yet they were pissing into the wind, the long-range volley as effective as a small boy trying to hold back the tide by flinging stones into the waves.
More orders followed. The men lurched back into motion, moving out of the cloud of foul-smelling powder smoke their volley had left behind. The tang of rotten eggs lingered in Jack’s mouth as he followed; he leaned far out in the saddle and spat. The stink was just as he remembered.
Ahead, blue-coated soldiers were forming a line of battle across the path of the Confederate advance. Jack could see tents in the distance behind them. The Confederate army might not have achieved complete surprise, but it was clear that they had caught the enemy unprepared.
The newly formed Union line disappeared behind a cloud of powder smoke, the roar of their first volley reaching Jack’s ears a heartbeat later. A moment after that, the air above his head was stung repeatedly by fast-moving missiles.
‘Lie down!’
The command came from the captain commanding the rightmost company. The men did not need to be told twice, and they went to ground, the command and the action repeated along the length of the line until the whole regiment was lying on the damp earth.
Jack stayed in the saddle. The enemy were far away and he knew there was little chance of his being hit. He could not help chuckling as he watched the distant Union line reload. The day was starting strangely. It was as if both sides were going through their drill like actors trying to squeeze in a last-minute rehearsal before the curtain went up. That could not last. They were there to fight; to kill or be killed. Neither side seemed ready to grasp that bitter fact.
He was still pondering the strange notion when the first artillery shell roared past overhead. The sound was tremendous, like an express train thundering down the line. He saw men around him flinch, but for Jack, the noise brought on a feeling that he could only describe as happiness. The oddness of the sensation made him laugh again, louder this time. Men turned to stare at the madman behind them, but he did not care. He was back where he belonged. He was back where he was master.
A shell landed a dozen yards to the right of the line, throwing up a great fountain of earth, the violence of the impact shocking. More enemy fire pattered past, the shots zipping through the air around him. And still Jack laughed.
Another shell landed, smashing into the company directly to his front. It hit with appalling destructive power, tearing men apart as easily as it churned the soil beneath them.
Jack heard the cries. Men shouted the names of those hit, whilst the wounded screamed as their flesh was ripped and torn apart. The smoke cleared to reveal the mangled, twisted bodies. One, a boy, lay spread-eagled on the ground, his arms thrown out beside him. His upper body, head and face were untouched, yet the entire lower portion had been reduced to so much offal. His hat lay on the ground beside him, the bunch of violets still in place in the band that ran around the centre.
Jack pulled on his reins and kicked his mount into motion. It was time to move on and continue the search for his quarry. The sun was up and the day’s dying had begun. And he had never felt more alive.
Jack rode through chaos. He forced his horse into a canter past the right of a Union line that was trading volleys with a Confederate regiment coming against its front. In the confusion, neither side seemed able to grasp where the other was. It was quite unlike any other battle he had seen. Much of the action was hidden from view, the trees and thick sprawls of heavy undergrowth blocking lines of sight so that men fought not knowing that an enemy unit advanced no more than a few hundred yards away from where they stood. There was no great battle line this day, no grand spectacle covering miles of open parkland. This was a brawl on poor ground, men fighting and dying where they happened to be, rather than as part of some premeditated plan.
He slowed as he reached a Union encampment. There was no sign of the men in blue uniforms amidst the ordered lines of canvas tents. Instead Confederate soldiers ran around in disorder as they ransacked the place. He brought his mare to a halt and watched men stuffing rations into their haversacks and taking Union equipment and uniforms, either as souvenirs or, for many, out of necessity.
He rode away from the disorder, following a road to the east. Yet he could not escape the bedlam. Regiments were hopelessly intermingled, and whilst some advanced, others sat by and waited. All the while there came the sounds of battle, the roar of cannon fire and the rattle of musketry now ever-present.
Jack came off the road and attempted to steer around the confusion as best he could. As far as he could tell, the Confederates had forced the Union line back, but from the sound of it, the Union soldiers were not giving in and were fighting hard.
‘Where’s the cavalry?’ he shouted at a courier who was mimicking his own actions by picking a path around the fringes of the infantry columns. ‘I have a message for General Forrest!’
‘Thataways!’ The man was moving in the opposite direction to Jack, but he still flung out an arm and pointed back the way he had come. ‘On the right flank, least they were an hour or so back.’
Jack pressed on, hoping that he would be lucky enough to find Lyle’s Raiders on this flank and not the other. He had passed the worst of the scrimmage so returned to the turnpike. He now found himself riding alongside men going in the same direction. The men were fresh to the fight, their bright faces free of the stain of powder smoke. He had no idea why they would be heading east when to his mind they should be going north and pressing home the attack. Yet little was making sense that day and so he rode on, picking up the pace as and when he could, his mind set on one thing and one thing alone.
Lyle.
Jack stood in his stirrups and peered over the heads of the men in front of him. He saw no way through. There were too many of them, and they blocked the turnpike entirely. He faced a choice. He could go north towards the fighting, or south away from it. Or he could turn tail and return the way he had come.
He made the choice instantly. He was a soldier. He would go where the fighting was hardest and hope to find the cavalry doing the same.
He rode north, picking his way through a thick clump of trees then kicking his mare as it slowed on some softer going. Within minutes of leaving the road, he caught glimpses of the rear ranks of a Confederate regiment advancing in column. They were moving fast, their equipment thumping against their bodies as they double-timed. Jack watched their flags lead them on. One was clearly the regiment’s own unique colour, whilst the other was a flag he had not seen before, even at Bull Run. It was square, a blue St Andrew’s cross with white borders against a blood-red background. On the blue cross were twelve white stars. To his eye it looked rather poorly made, and he could not help wondering what condition it would be in when the day was through.
‘Forward!’ An officer shouted the encouragement as he double-timed alongside his men. His sword was drawn, and now he pointed it forward as he called for them to advance.
Jack followed, drawn to the action. He could see
a little of the Union position about to be attacked. The area had once been a dense thicket with heavy brush underneath, but it had been chopped low by the storm of canister and rifle fire that had come from the defenders. Ahead, he could just about make out what looked to be a farm track, its fringes lined with tangled undergrowth and a scattering of timber. It was a natural strongpoint, and it did not take a military genius to know that the Union army held a good defensive position.
The regiment he was following was moving faster now, and he knew they had to be launching an attack. They were not the first to do so. The ground they began to cross was already littered with the dead and dying, the sickening sight evidence that the Union line was gutting any unit that came against it. The bodies lay in the grotesque poses of the dead and the soon-to-be dead, backs broken, flesh ravaged, arms and legs ripped from torsos.
Jack reined in as the regiment launched their attack. It was only then that he recognised them. It was the same regiment he had watched march into Corinth. It took him a moment, but he located Denton, the officer he had spoken to. He was with the regiment’s colour party, and Jack saw him raise his sword and shout to the men around him.
The regiment charged, the undulating rebel yell breaking out as they pounded forward. It was bravely done. The men would be able to see the bodies of those who had gone before them, just as they could see the Union line waiting for them. Yet they did not hesitate, ploughing across the broken ground, their ranks becoming more and more disordered as they charged.
Then the Union line opened fire.
Jack had not spied the artillery that waited on the farm track. The guns boomed out a heartbeat before the first volley of rifle fire. Men in the attacking column were cut down as the storm of canister and Minié balls ripped through their ranks. Whole lines of men were scythed down like wheat.
The screaming began.
The men in the column pressed on, clambering over the bodies of the dead and the dying. Yet the momentum of their assault had been shattered.
Jack caught sight of Denton. The major was hauling the regiment’s colour from underneath the body of the man who had carried it, his mouth working furiously as he called for his men to keep going. They did as he asked, stumbling forward, their bodies bent over as if they advanced into the teeth of a gale, the high-pitched yell increasing in volume until it drowned out the shrieks of the dying.
The Union line saw them coming and poured on the fire, striking man after man from his feet. Still the Confederates advanced, a display of raw courage the like of which Jack could not recall seeing before. Denton went down. The major would surely have known that taking the regiment’s colour would draw fire towards him, yet he had still carried out the brave act, and now he had paid the price. He crumpled to the ground, the flag falling so that it shrouded his body.
The men around him could take no more. They had given everything in the attack. Now those left standing turned and ran. The Union line fired on without mercy, killing without pause as their enemy fled. Jack saw a man grab the flag from Denton’s corpse. That man died a moment later, a Union rifle bullet buried deep in his spine. Another took the colour before it even hit the ground, the men refusing to forsake their pride even as they broke.
The Union fire finally died away as the remnants of the regiment went to ground in a thicker area of woodland, the men who had tried so valiantly to take the farm track joining the survivors of the other regiments that had already failed to complete the same bloody task.
Jack turned his mare around, thinking to ride away and press further east. It was only when he was on the point of kicking back his heels that he saw a familiar face amidst a huddle of men sheltering behind a thick tangle of brambles wrapped around a fat tree trunk.
Corporal Hightower of the 65th Virginia stared back at him.
It was Hightower who glanced away first, breaking the momentary contact. He turned his head and looked at one of his men. Jack followed his gaze and saw a slight young soldier with his head buried in the crook of his arm. He was small, frail even, the musket he hugged close to him far too large for his tiny frame.
The young soldier looked up as he sensed the scrutiny.
‘You!’ Jack could not hold back the exclamation.
Martha stared back at him, her eyes bright against the powder streaks on her skin.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Jack fired the question at her.
Martha got to her feet. Her uniform was filthy. ‘Doing my duty. Same as these men.’
Jack slid from the saddle and stalked towards Hightower. ‘You know who she is?’
The corporal said nothing.
‘You know she’s a woman?’
‘She wanted to fight,’ Hightower replied in a flat tone.
‘And you didn’t tell her no?’
‘Didn’t think it was my place to stop her.’
‘What about her husband? Didn’t he have something to say about it?’
‘It’s not up to him to tell me what to do any more,’ Martha interjected. ‘He lost that right the last time he blackened my eye.’
‘Shut up!’ Jack gave the order without turning his head. ‘I asked you a bloody question, Corporal.’
‘Her husband don’t know she’s here. Least I don’t think he does.’
‘Christ on his bloody cross,’ Jack muttered. He was not given a chance to say more.
‘On your feet! Come on now, boys.’ An officer was rousing the men who sheltered along the treeline.
Jack glared at Martha. The fury he felt was all-consuming. War was no place for a woman. He grabbed her arm and hauled her to one side. She came easily. She weighed nothing.
‘You shouldn’t damn well be here,’ he hissed. ‘Get yourself away. Now!’ He twisted her around before shoving her in the direction of the rear.
Martha stumbled, the weight of her musket almost dragging her down. ‘Don’t you dare tell me what to do!’
There was fire in her words. But he did not care. He would not let her stay. He would not allow her to be sullied by the same filth that contaminated his own blackened soul.
‘Go away! You hear me, Martha? Go away!’
‘I ain’t going nowhere.’ She stood her ground.
‘You there.’ An officer came towards them, pointing at Hightower. ‘Corporal, get these men on their feet and fall them in.’
Jack ignored the man and kept his eyes on Martha.
‘On your feet. We’re going to whip them Yankees, you hear me, boys? They won’t stand. Not again.’ The officer was moving quickly, stirring the men. All along the line, other officers were doing the same.
Hightower did as he was told and got slowly to his feet, followed by half the men around him. ‘You heard the officer. Come on, boys, let’s get this done.’
Jack took a step towards Martha. ‘Get away from here, Martha, you hear me? You can’t be here.’
‘Why the hell not?’ Martha hissed the words, keeping them for him alone.
‘This isn’t the place for you.’
‘Yes, it is!’ Her eyes blazed with passion. ‘Don’t you see? I believe in what I am fighting for, same as these men here.’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘You’re wrong. You think I spent my whole day in that there ditch? I’ve been with these fellows all morning. I was with them when we pushed back the Yankees south of here, and I was with them when we tried to cross that goddam field.’ She searched Jack’s gaze, her eyes flickering back and forth. ‘I’m not leaving them now.’
‘On your feet! Let’s go! Form up!’ The officers rallying the troops barked the orders one after the other. Already men were gathering around them, their ranks ragged. The smaller column was joined by what looked to be a fresh brigade: four unbloodied regiments forming up in the thickets and swathes of brush too far from the Union position to have been destroyed by canister and rifle fire.
Hightower looked around his small group. ‘Come on, boys. Time we were going.�
� He said nothing more as he led them towards the ranks that were growing with every passing moment.
Martha moved as if to go with them. Jack gripped her arm.
‘Let me go, Jack.’ She did not fight him.
‘You can’t go out there. Not again.’ He tried to understand the emotions surging through him.
‘I can and I will. I ain’t afraid of dying.’ She kept her tone calm. ‘Now let me go. Let me do what I want to do. Don’t you be like him, don’t you be like my John. I ain’t yours to control. It’s up to me what I do now.’
Jack held her there. ‘You want to fight, is that it?’ Anger spewed forth, violent and uncontrollable. ‘You want to see this war? You want to kill a man?’ He shrugged his knapsack off his back and dumped it on the ground. He would not need it where he was going. ‘Well, come on then!’ The fury had taken him. He moved, grabbing his repeater from its sheath then hauling her after him. He did not care that men stared. He did not care that an officer shouted a command at him. He cared only for the fight that he was choosing to make his own.
He frogmarched Martha towards the column, then shoved her forward. ‘Get in there.’ Paying no heed to the men he barged past, he buried her deep in the column several ranks from the front, then pulled her to him so that her face was inches from his own. ‘You want to be here? Then fine. Stay. Die if you want to, I’m not going to stop you.’
He released her then. But still he stared at her. ‘I’ll see you in hell,’ he hissed, then turned on his heel and forced his way out of the ranks.
‘You boys want to fight?’ He yelled the question. ‘I said, do you boys want to fight?’ He turned to face the ranks.
‘Hell, yeah!’ The first voices answered him.
‘You want to whip them Yankee sons of bitches?’
They roared back at him louder this time.
‘You want to kill them? You want to send them running back to their goddam fucking mothers?’
THE REBEL KILLER Page 30
