The Union cannons opened up first, adding their black smoke to the morning mist. The Rebel artillery gave a throaty roar of retaliation.
A corporal in a Confederate cavalry troop was decapitated by a five-pounder cannon shot. His body continued to ride upright in the saddle for several moments after his blood-dripping head fell among a group of young infantrymen and panicked them into a charge.
It was the first blood to be spilled on the second day of the battle.
From the cover of some trees on high ground at the left flank of the Rebel’s attack, Hedges witnessed this mutilation without flinching. Behind him, ranged in a line of echelon, the six wagons were ready and waiting, each with two saddle horses hitched to the tailgate. These horses and those comprising the teams, snorted and stamped, unused to the sounds and smells of the battlefield.
The short intervals between the deep-throated roar of the cannon became filled with the crackle of rifle fire as the opposing armies came within short range of each other. Men screamed and pitched forward or sprawled backwards, weapons, and sometimes limbs, sailing away from them.
A second wave of Rebel troops moved forward in the tracks of the front-liners, not pausing to help the hideously wounded men who screamed and pleaded for their help.
“It’s gonna be okay, Bob,” Forrest called from the seat of his wagon, grinning towards the city-suited, trembling New Englander who had charge of the next vehicle in the line. “We sit here long enough they’ll fight every frigging battle left in the war and won’t be a shot comes within a mile of us.”
Seward, on the next wagon, giggled. Douglas, heavy-eyed from lack of sleep, toyed nervously with the reins of his team. Bell licked dry lips and fed a shell into the breech of his Spencer. Scott, the driver of the last wagon in the formation ran the back of his hand over the stiff bristle on his jaw. Then he glanced over his shoulder and saw the grinning face of the bald-headed Manfred. The Negro was crouched behind the repositioned Gatling gun, its vicious barrel pointing out over the tailgate. Scott grimaced and turned to face front, feeling a warm itch between his shoulder blades.
He was in time to see Hedges moving back from his surveillance of the battlefield. The Captain climbed up on the seat of the lead wagon and snatched the Spencer from Forrest’s outstretched hands.
“Time to roll?” the sergeant rasped,
“For a strike,” Hedges answered.
Forrest slapped the reins across the backs of his team and kicked off the brake. “This sure ought to bowl them over!” he yelled as the wagon jerked forward and gathered speed.
The six wagons burst out through the trees and swept down the slope in a wide curve which put them on a line to clash with the heavily-manned left flank of the first two waves of the Rebel attack. There were only yards between the Confederates and Union men now and the gray-uniformed soldiers were too concerned with pressing their advance against the enemy in front of them to be aware of events at the rear.
But the men lower down the slope, awaiting the order to surge forward and consolidate the ground won, saw the headlong dash of the wagons and were surprised, then stunned.
“What’s a Goddamn supply train doing up there?” a grizzled corporal demanded. Then he did a fast double-take and blinked at the reflected sunlight.
“Jesus, look at the wheels!” a gunner yelled.
The cause of the dancing sunlight and the artillery man’s horror was the result of Rhett’s work with the Negroes the previous night. For lashed to the wheel hubs of each wagon was a saber, its curved blade glinting evilly as it whirled.
It took the watching Rebels several moments to assimilate the fact of the blades and only then did surprise plunge into horror. For by that time the swaying wagons had swung on to a line aimed towards the rear of the attackers.
“They’ll be slaughtered!” a suddenly pale lieutenant yelled, and whirled around to scream orders towards the cannon emplacements.
But the gunners had their orders already — to pound the Federal troops waiting in the woods to back up the advance defensive line. Then it was too late. As the Confederate cannon arced deadly shot and canisters across the battlefield, rifle and revolver fire crackled to a halt. The bloodied and battered Union troops, reeling under the attack, saw the line of six wagons careering up the slope and thought they were intent upon scything into the ranks of blue. They could not think otherwise, for the wagons were racing out of Rebel-held territory and all but one driver was clad in Confederate gray.
But it was not the drivers who held the Union men’s horrified attention. It was the thundering hoofs of teams, the trundling wheels of the wagons and the vicious glinting of the whirling sabers: death and mutilation threatened in three ways.
A few of the blue uniformed figures exploded one or two shots towards the wagons before fleeing. Most simply turned and ran.
Elation gripped the Rebels in forward positions as they sensed a rout. As they rose to give chase, holding their fire, roars of delight ripped from their throats, drowning the shouts of warning from behind them. Then, in turn, their voices against the thud of artillery were covered by the din of the racing wagons.
“Holy mother of God!” a grizzled infantryman screamed as he looked over his shoulder.
The lead horse of the team under Forrest’s control smashed the man to the ground. The impact killed him: thudding hoofs pulverized him; and iron wheel rims cut him in half.
A hundred other soldiers, cavalry and infantry, felt their blood turn to ice as they cast backward glances. Up on the box seats of the wagons, drawn into an almost straight line of headlong advance, the Union troopers gave vent to high-pitched war cries as they ploughed their vehicles into the helpless Rebels.
Hedges joined his men in exercising his lungs in an expression of evil delight. But his narrowed eyes were ice-cold as he swung the Spencer to left and right, squeezing the trigger in a measured cadence to pick off panicked Rebel troopers. On the other wagons, kill-crazed ex-slaves showed themselves beside the white drivers to rake the ground ahead with deadly rifle fire.
As Hedges had ordered, they concentrated on cavalry troopers, blasting the men from their saddles before they could heel their panicked animals out of the path of the thundering wagons. Those Negroes who were not good shots pumped lead into the rearing horses, which rolled and catapulted their riders to the ground.
Infantrymen fled to the front and sides or stood rooted to the ground among their own and Union dead and wounded. Many were trampled in the manner of the first man to perish. Others fell victim to the wicked slashes of the sabers. Some of these died instantly as they crouched or dived to the ground. The less fortunate had their legs cut literally from under them. These suffered long seconds of excruciating agony as they lay on the ground, twisting in pain and honor at the sight of their stumps.
Then the merciful shadow of death fell across them. For, as the wagons thundered onwards, the ground behind was sprayed with Gatling gun fire and rifle shots from the Negroes crouched at the tailgates. Bullets thudded into dead and dying flesh, erupting new blood. Sweating, bug-eyed Negroes had neither the skill nor the inclination to draw a distinction between the writings of blue and gray-clad figures sprawled on the red stained grass.
In the same way, the men driving the wagons were in no mood and had no opportunity to differentiate between the enemy and those Union men too badly injured or not fast enough to keep up with the retreat.
“Please?” a Union sergeant screamed, sitting on the ground, holding a stomach wound inflicted by a Rebel musket bullet.
Bob Rhett, the saliva of fear coursing down his jaw, made no attempt to veer his wagon on to a new course. A whirling saber, already dripping a trail of warm blood, slashed across the sergeant’s throat. The severed head sailed into the air and thudded into the chest of a Rebel corporal. The corporal was hurled to the ground and his own head was crushed to a scarlet pulp beneath the trundling wheel of Forrest’s wagon. Rhett was sure he was going to be sick, but what emerged wa
s a raucous belch. He began to hiccough wildly.
All along the line of wagons, death struck without favor. The cost to the men under Hedge’s command was two lives. A Rebel trooper was thrown from his tumbling horse and got off one revolver shot before Billy Seward, his body trembling with excitement, ran the man down and ground him into the grass. The wild shot entered the throat of the Negro who had climbed out on to the seat beside Seward. The man twisted and fell off the side of the wagon. His body folded around the saber on the wheel hub and was tossed aside with entrails spilling from the yawning wound across his stomach.
A few seconds later, the bloodied and horribly mutilated bodies of the Rebel front-liners were behind the wagons. The shocked men who were to have comprised the back-up attacking force suddenly realized that the forward left flank had been annihilated — that they could fire at the wagons without fear of hitting their comrades.
The first fusillade crackled in the instant before then-targets raced out of range. A Negro in the rear of Scott’s wagon was hit in the shoulder and tumbled over the tailgate. He was only superficially wounded and sprang to his feet to chase up the slope towards the woods. A hundred Rebels, frustrated at being unable to hit the wagons and their occupants, turned rifles towards the sweat-sheened back of the running Negro. His flesh exploded countless wounds and he died without a sound, his fall assisted by the many pounds of lead buried in his body.
“Stop, for Christ’s sake!” Hedges roared as he realized the murderous race was won.
Ahead of the wagons was the tree line on the sloping ground reaching up the side of Missionary Ridge. Between the trunks and among the brush were a thousand stunned Federal troops, still unable to believe what had happened. On the open ground below the tree line, the Union survivors of the clash with the Rebels and the vicious wagon charges lumbered towards safety. But the wagons were closing with them at breathtaking speed.
Forrest, Rhett and Seward heard the Captain’s order and slammed on the wheel brakes as they hauled back on the reins. Douglas, Bell and Scott heard only the crack of rifle fire: and two more fleeing Union infantrymen were cut to ribbons by the wickedly placed sabers before the troopers realized it was over.
All the wagons skidded to a halt in the same echelon formation they had adopted at the start of the attack.
“Hold your fire!” Rhett screamed towards the trees as he leapt to the ground and began to run for safety.
Hedges and the other troopers sprang from the box seats and raced off in pursuit of the business-suited New Englander. The ex-slaves were only feet behind the white men. The Rebel artillery ceased to roar for a few moments, but then opened up again, on a different range. Cannon balls and canisters rained down upon the wagons and exhausted teams. Within moments, the line of wagons had become shattered wood, running parallel with the broader strip of mutilated men.
Along the line from the Confederate left flank, the fighting went on as the Rebels pushed all before them. But on the left, as the cannons completed their destruction, there was an eerie lull. While the Rebel soldiers listened to their officers’ new orders, Hedges, his men and the Negroes were forced to a halt before a row of leveled rifles. Exhausted and terrified men from the first line of defense crawled, panting and weeping, behind the safety of their comrades’ weapons.
“Boy,” an infantry Captain muttered as he surveyed the motley group of white and black men. “When you desert, you sure desert.”
Rhett belched and wiped spittle from his jaw.
“We ain’t deserters!” Forrest shot back angrily. “We’re Union.”
“Busted out of Andersonville,” Bell supplemented.
“Yeah!” the infantry officer said wryly.
Hedges glanced over his shoulder, across the carpet of scarlet-stained flesh towards the Rebel positions at the foot of the slope. He looked back at the captain and held his eyes with a cold stare. “Those big guns open up again we can continue this discussion with St. Peter as referee” he drawled.
Rhett hiccoughed. “Man, I need a doctor,” he muttered miserably.
From the rear of the Union line a dozen bugles cut a strident note through the crackle of gunfire. It was the first note of the call to retreat.
The artillery on the Rebel left roared into action again, and heavy shot began to crash through the trees. Men screamed in terror or pain. The infantry officer stayed calm, detailing a two-man guard for each of the troopers and the Negroes.
Rebels began to swarm up the hillside, the sight of their dead spurring them to greater speed. A Union holding party was assigned to cover the rear as the remainder joined in the retreat of the entire length of the line.
“Where the hell’s Rhett goin’?” Hedges demanded as he saw the New Englander and his two escorts hurry ahead and then veer to the side.
“Field hospital’s over that way, Cap,” Bell called.
“He get hit?” Hedges yelled, needing no prodding from the rifles of his guards to urge him forward as bullets whistled around his head.
“No, just feeling queer again,” Seward giggled.
*****
The town was once called Somewhere. It was perched on the side of a high valley in the depths of the Black Hills. It was not much of a town: just a cluster of timber and mud shacks built along one side street. On the other side was a stream and beyond this a series of openings giving access to mine tunnels burrowed through the hill.
It had been called Somewhere by the score or so silver prospectors who had established the settlement many years previously — because the story which all of them had heard indicated that there was a rich silver lode, ‘somewhere’ deep in the valley side. Almost half the prospectors had died trying to find the lode. All the rest, save one, had left. They had confined expression of their disappointment to a simple act—painting out the first four letters on the town marker and adding two more, so that it read NOWHERE.
The man who stayed behind did not repaint the sign, but continued to refer to the wretched place by its original name. His own name was Marshall and in between digging in the tunnels for the lode he was certain existed, he acted as lawman. He was past eighty, scrawny thin and quite mad. But not too insane to realize that it was better to be lawman in a town without people rather than one with.
So he had welcomed the three black outlaws who selected the town as a hide-out. Had he not done so, he would have died under Clay’s shotgun. For their part, the trio of gunmen played along with Marshall’s fantasies; since the crazy old man was a good hunter and could cook passably well. They even, with much glee, promoted him from sheriff to marshal.
He had breakfast ready for them when they rode into town with the loot and two prisoners from the stage hold-up. It was mid-morning and hot. A wind was blowing from the south-west but it was not a cool one. It lifted and swirled dust from the parched valley. The men rode with bandanas over their mouths and nostrils but Elizabeth Day, slung across Clay’s horse, and the boy riding on the cantle behind Will had no protection. They coughed and their eyes streamed with tears sprang from irritation as much as fear.
Marshal Marshall heard their approach and ran from his filthy shack, leveling a Winchester.
“Okay Marshal, put down the gun. First let’s eat and then have some fun,” Clay chanted as he reined his white horse to a halt and slid from the saddle.
The crazy old man cackled with laughter as he saw Clay lift down Elizabeth, his fingers digging into her breast and thigh.
“You scored okay then, Clay?” Marshall said, lowering the rifle from the aim as Will swung from the saddle, his leg knocking the boy to the ground.
The boy began to cry, but stopped abruptly when the man with the pock-marked face and dead eyes lifted him bodily by the hair and back-handed him across the cheek. Elizabeth struggled to tear free of Clay’s grasp, but he tightened his intimate hold on her, his handsome face split into a broad grin. His deep voice was heavy with menace, belying his expression.
“Don’t make it worse than it is
, lady,” he warned.
“But that pervert’s going to—”
Elizabeth started, her voice frail, her green eyes wide with terror, red-rimmed by irritating dust.
“Will earned his reward,” Clay rasped. “And me and Henry reckon we’re the same.”
Elizabeth started to tremble. Despite herself, fear for her own fate swamped pity for the boy. Then she was set on the ground and thrust forcefully towards the cackling old man.
“Put her under arrest, marshal,” Clay ordered. “No grub. I like my females on the lean side.”
“Like mine on their backs,” the outlaw named Henry said with a laugh as he dismounted, staggering under the weight of the stolen express box.
Clay whirled on him, snatching the shotgun from where it hung over his saddle horn. His grin was wiped away, as if by the hot wind, and his mouth took on a cruel line, backed up by evil emanating from his eyes. “You’ll wait your turn, man!” he snarled. “And that’ll come when I say so.”
Henry’s eyes expanded with fear and his thick lower lip trembled. “Sure thing, Clay,” he blubbered. “I wouldn’t touch her not ’less you said it was okay,”
Clay nodded and whirled around to face Marshall, who had a scrawny arm locked around Elizabeth’s waist. “Same goes for you, old man,” he rasped. “You lock her up and don’t you touch her more than you have to.”
Marshall didn’t like it. He was supposed to be the law in this town, and so he ought to give the orders. But he recognized the glint in the handsome eyes of Clay. The last time he had not backed down when faced with that expression, Clay had shot him. Only in the hand, but he had lost two fingers because of it.
He showed toothless gums in a parody of a smile and tightened his grip around the girl’s waist. “Sure, Mr. Clay,” he agreed. “Feels like she’s got a lot of spirit in her. Reckon there’ll be enough left over for me when you and Henry get through with her.”
Clay gave another emphatic nod and allowed the shotgun to point at the ground as he turned towards Will. “The kid’ll keep as good as the lady,” he said pointedly.
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