Novel 1963 - How The West Was Won (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  *

  CAPTAIN LINUS RAWLINGS lay face down in the orchard studying the situation before him. The peaches were in bloom, and along the creeks there were thickets of redbud, their darkly handsome branches clustered with magenta blossoms.

  It was Sunday evening, April 6th, and what he had seen that day he would like to forget, but he knew he would never forget it. Of the two armies who came together near the little church called Shiloh, eighty percent were green troops, commanded by officers who were, for the greater part, without battle experience,and committed to the noble but foolish adage that soldiers should “stand up and fight man-fashion.”

  The lesson that Washington had tried to teach Braddock was still, after one hundred years, unlearned by the military. And the fault lay on both sides, and with all the commanding generals.

  Sherman had informed Grant there were only twenty thousand Rebel soldiers facing him. Actually, there were forty thousand. The untrained, poorly commanded troops had walked into a slaughterhouse.

  Perhaps never in the history of the world had there been so many officers assembled who knew more about the art of war and less about fighting. For there is a difference, and the difference is written in blood.

  Battles are initiated by generals; they are won by company, platoon, or squad actions, and it is an Alice-in-Wonderland feature of all armies that soldiers are taught hours of meaningless maneuvers on the drill field until they move with beauty and precision…almost as well as a group of chorus girls. Nobody ever thinks to teach them to fight. That they must learn in the field, if they survive long enough to learn. Linus had learned and he had survived, but he had learned against the Plains Indians, perhaps the greatest fighting men the world has known.

  Now he lay carefully studying the terrain before him. He had been given a mission, and he intended to carry it out—with as little loss of life as possible.

  His company lay scattered among the trees behind him, sixty-six men in all, including a few stragglers from other outfits who had survived the destruction of less ably commanded units. They liked the tall, quiet, former mountain man and they understood his way of fighting.

  Throughout the long day, Linus had led his men with care, using every bit of available cover, aimed riflefire, and made slow but persistent advance. Occasionally they had dug in to await a more favorable moment to go forward. As a result, their casualties had been low.

  His had been one of the detachments that stopped General Cleburne’s advance across the cocklebur meadow when Cleburne lost a third of his brigade in the face of murderous riflefire. Zeb had been right in thinking, as Corporal Peterson had, that the superior marksmanship of the western boys would make the difference.

  Turning on his elbow, Linus gave the arm-signal that brought up his men, and they came into position by crawling through the grass, taking no chances. Rising from the grass he led them now, for time was of the essence, in a long skirmish line across the field and into the trees. The knoll they had been directed to occupy and hold against the coming day lay just before them.

  Grant was patching up his front line and the knoll was a key point. Linus moved warily. The knoll was believed to be unoccupied, but he was not one to take chances.

  What led the enemy to charge, he never knew, but suddenly they came out of the trees, running fast, bayonets held low down. They didn’t come yelling, but came with no sound but the swish of their feet in the grass. Had the charge come a few minutes later, with the distance much less, it could have meant complete destruction for Linus’ men. As it was, there was time.

  Dropping to one knee, Linus shouted, “Fire at will!” And even as his voice broke from his throat he laid his pistol on the chest of a big soldier with a shock of corn-yellow hair, and squeezed off his shot. The man toppled forward to his knees on the slope, then over on his face.

  Around Linus all his men were firing up the slope into the charging men, coolly and with precision and with fearful destruction.

  Then the charging ranks, ripped by the red tongues of riflefire, closed with his own men, and for brief minutes there was a fierce, silent, deadly struggle among the soft beauty of the peach blossoms. Men fell, shedding the bright crimson of their blood upon the grass under the trees, their bodies lying like thick gray compost upon the ground. Here and there a rudely shaken tree dropped its pink petals on the fallen men.

  Above them the sky was painted scarlet and rose with the sun’s last rays, and around them shadows huddled under the trees, or reached out to touch the dying men with tentative fingers.

  Linus fired, then fired again. A soldier fired at him and missed, then charged with the bayonet. From somewhere off to one side a bullet struck Linus, and he felt its impact but took it standing. The soldier with the bayonet came on,and Linus fired. He saw the man’s chest suddenly blossom with crimson, and as he fell, the charging soldier threw his rifle like a spear.

  The hard-thrown bayonet took Linus full in the chest and went in to the guard; then the heavy butt of the rifle fell to the ground, ripping Linus’ chest as it fell.

  Linus caught hold of a tree branch and turned to Sergeant Kelly. “Occupy the knoll, Sergeant. Hold it until relieved.”

  “Captain, you…you…”

  “Tell my wife…tell Eve…” His voice weakened and died, and he toppled over to one side, the bayonet still clinging to his chest by just the tip.

  He could smell the warm earth, the grass, and somewhere far off he heard a voice calling, a voice like Eve’s, calling him to supper.

  He clutched the grass with his fingers and dug deep. Distantly, somebody seemed to say, “You’re going to see the varmint, Linus. The varmint!”

  Faces…so many faces. He felt hands turning him onto his back. A voice said, “He’s hard hit.”

  “Bridger,” his voice rang out, loud and clear, “you’re a liar. I’ll be up…” His voice trailed off into a mumble, while the sergeant crouched beside him under the redbud. “That’s prime fur,” Linus said, almost casually; then plaintively, “Eve?…Eve?”

  A soldier knelt beside the sergeant. “What’s he sayin’?”

  “Callin’ on Eve. His wife more’n likely.”

  “Sometimes it ain’t their wives they call on,” the soldier said cynically.

  Linus opened his eyes and saw clearly. “Sergeant! The hill!” Then more calmly: “You must occupy the hill, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir!” Kelly sprang to his feet and started on, calling to the men.

  Linus lay quietly upon the grass, fully conscious. His momentary delirium had passed. He looked up at the sky where clouds floated with the last touch of sunset upon them, and then he seemed to fall, down, down, down into a black, swirling pit, with water at the bottom.

  “I’ve seen the varmint,” he said aloud. “I’ve seen the varmint!”

  Over him then, for a brief while, there loomed a great shadow. It might have been the shadow of a tree, but had there been eyes to see, it might have looked like a huge bear, a bear that looked down upon him with a curious understanding, for death comes to the hunter as well as the hunted.

  Above him, and not two hundred yards away, Sergeant Kelly clung to the earth. He had occupied the hill. The men were arranged in a careful perimeter of defense, and each had dug a shallow trench in which to shelter himself. The sergeant was worried…had he done everything he could? What else might Linus have done? He was not worried about his men; he was worried about himself, for there is no burden like the burden of command.

  *

  BY CANDLE-AND lantern-light in Shiloh Meeting House the surgeons worked. About them lay the wounded, the dying, and the dead, helter-skelter, on the floor, on cots, and in the pews themselves. Men cried out in the half-light that reeked of chloroform.

  The surgeons worked with quiet desperation, saving a life here, seeing one pass there, saving an arm or a leg, or amputating one. It was bloody, it was awful, and it was filled with shuddering cries of pain and the anguished sobs of men who would never walk aga
in, or see.

  Litter-bearers dumped the body of Linus Rawlings upon one of the bloody tables. The surgeon lifted an eyelid and shook his head. “You wasted your time, boys.”

  The stretcher-bearers rolled the body from the table and immediately another was put in its place.

  Throughout the night the lantern-bearers searched the field of Shiloh for the dead, sifting the chaff of ruined bodies for those who might yet live, or those whom it was possible to identify. Some lay sprawled grotesquely upon the grass, others were heaped together like debris washed upon some strange beach.

  Among the dead the lantern-bearers prowled and peered, each a dark Diogenes searching with his lantern among many now honest men. Here and there they recovered valuables, letters, occasional weapons capable of further use, or other prized possessions. Some of these would be sent home to relatives, some kept by the finders.

  Sometimes the searchers called out as they wandered among the human flotsam. “Anybody here from the 12th Michigan? The 36th Indiana? Who’s from Birge’s Sharpshooters? 16th Wisconsin, answer here!” Their chants became a weird litany to the dead, but one by one the lanterns vanished as the searchers grew weary of the thankless task.

  Yet the voices did not go entirely unheard. Zeb Rawlings heard them, and slowly, using his one good arm, he pushed himself into a sitting position. For a moment he stared about in confusion. It was dark and cold, and something was wrong with his arm or his shoulder.

  He felt for his rifle but it was missing. All he had left was his bayonet and his canteen. Catching hold of a tree, he pulled himself to his feet, watching the lantern-bearers weaving their macabre ballet among the dead. He heard their questing voices, and occasionally a faint reply. Nearby a plaintive voice cried out in the darkness: “Water! Water! Will somebody give me water?”

  The voice was close by, the lanterns far off. Stumbling, Zeb went to the wounded man and knelt beside him. “Here y’are soldier. It ain’t much, but you’re welcome.”

  The man drank in eager gulps, emptying the canteen. “I sure thank y’,” he gasped hoarsely. “Hate to take your last drop, but that there was mighty fine.”

  “I’ll send somebody,” Zeb promised. He moved off across the field toward a group of men who were digging a mass grave. He could hear the sound of their shovels as he approached, and he saw two stretcher-bearers lowering the body of a man to the ground near the edge of the grave. He told them of the wounded man.

  As they turned away, he started off, and the light from their lantern fell across the face of the dead man on whom Zeb had already turned his back.

  It was his father. It was Linus Rawlings.

  Chapter 13

  *

  CARRYING HIS EMPTY canteen, Zeb Rawlings made his way through the trees. The smell of death mingled with the scent of peach blossoms and the cool dampness of night.

  He almost fell over the body of a dead man and had scarcely recovered his balance when a voice near him spoke. “You tasted this water yet?”

  “No.”

  “Try it.”

  Zeb cupped his hand in the pool where the spring emptied and took a tentative swallow. He heard others coming through the woods toward the spring and the creek into which it flowed.

  “Taste funny?”

  “It does…sort of.”

  “I seen it before sundown. It was pink, pinker’n sassafras tea.”

  Zeb gagged, drawing back from the water. He hung his empty canteen back on his belt, and the soldier came nearer.

  “Don’t seem fittin’ a man should have to drink water like this. In fact, it don’t seem fittin’ a man should do a lot of the things we done today. Did you kill anybody?”

  “I don’t think so,” Zeb said. “We had just run up when a shell exploded, and when I could see for the smoke and dirt I’d lost my gun, and then a horse soldier stuck me in the arm with a sword…up by the shoulder, here. The rest is all mixed up. Somebody hit me with the butt of a gun, and when I came to, the fightin’ was over.”

  “I ain’t kilt nobody neither, and I don’t aim to. Where you from?”

  “Below the falls of the Ohio.”

  “This fool war started back east. What’s us westerners doin’ in it, anyways?”

  “It ain’t like I expected. There ain’t much glory in seein’ men’s guts hangin’ out. Where you from?”

  “Texas.”

  Zeb drew back slowly. “Say, you ain’t a Reb, are you?”

  “I was this mornin’. Tonight I ain’t so sure.”

  “Seems like I oughta be shootin’ at you.”

  “You got anything to shoot with?” the man asked mildly. “I got a pistol. Took it off’n a dead officer.”

  “I’ve got a bayonet.”

  “Look…why don’t we skedaddle out of here? Leave this here war to those that want it.”

  Zeb hesitated. “They say there’s no war in California.” His thoughts returned to his mother, and he remembered her trying so desperately to make him listen, that letter from Aunt Lilith in her hand. And all the time she knew he had to go.

  Together they moved away from the river. The Texan leaned closer to Zeb. “There’s a spring over yonder. I seen some Yankee officers drinking there.”

  Once they paused to let some stretcher-bearers pass, and afterward, hearing voices, they stopped at the edge of a clearing. Two men with their backs to them were seated on a fallen log some distance away. Even in the dim light there was something familiar about them to Zeb.

  “I’m planning to move Rousseau’s brigade to this place. They can be situated well before dawn. Do you approve?”

  “I’ll approve any dispositions you want to make. If you hadn’t held the flank today we’d have been whipped for fair.” The speaker hesitated. “Sherman, there’s something I want to say to you.” He paused again. “You may find yourself in command here.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve seen some of the despatches the newspaper correspondents filed today. They’re saying I was taken by surprise this morning.”

  “You weren’t taken by surprise. I was.”

  “No matter. They’re saying I was drunk again last night.”

  “Were you?”

  “No, but a man can’t fight enemies on both sides. Win or lose tomorrow, I intend to resign.”

  “Because of the newspapers?”

  “Because,” Grant replied, “of their complete lack of confidence in me.”

  Zeb and the Texan remained silent, listening. Zeb could see the two men in the firelight that flickered on their bodies from campfires beyond the trees. Evidently they had walked to this place, a few yards back of the camp, for a quiet talk. He had seen both men before, and even in the half-light he could recognize Grant’s square figure and the battered hat he customarily wore.

  “Don’t you think I’ve felt that way?” Sherman asked. “A month ago they were saying I was crazy. Today they call me a hero. Crazy or a hero, I’m still the same man, so what difference does it make what people think? It’s what you think, Grant.”

  The Texan grabbed Zeb’s arm and whispered: “Y’ mean that’s Grant?”

  Zeb nodded, straining his ears to hear.

  “You know this war’s going to be won or lost in the west,” Sherman said, “and you’re the one man who knows how to win it. Everything you’ve done proves that.”

  The Texan undid the flap on his holster, with great care to make no sound, then drew his pistol. Zeb, whose full attention was centered on the two men seated on the log, did not notice.

  “A man has the privilege to resign only when he knows he’s wrong,” Sherman argued, “not when he’s right.”

  The Texan lifted the pistol and aimed directly at the back of Grant’s head, and for the first time Zeb saw the gun.

  “What d’ you think you’re doin’?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper.

  “But it’s Grant!”

  Zeb grabbed the gun with his one good hand, twisting it down and around, forcing the Texan off b
alance with his sudden attack, and throwing his shoulder into him. Briefly they struggled, making no sound, then Zeb drew his wounded arm from its improvised sling and reached down for the bayonet.

  The Texan was wiry but less powerful, for years of farm work had built uncommon power into Zeb’s muscles. It was only that superior strength that enabled him to hold the Texan long enough to draw the bayonet.

  As they struggled silently, Zeb heard Grant say, “I’ll think it over. You may be right.”

  A match flared briefly as Sherman lighted his pipe. “You know this army is better off with you than without you,” he said. “There’s nothing to think about.”

  Zeb felt his grip on the pistol slipping, but as the Texan twisted him around, the bayonet came almost naturally from its scabbard, and just as the Texan tore his gun hand free the blade went home.

  The blow was a short, wicked thrust with a blade that Zeb had himself honed until the point was fine as a needle, the edge like a razor.

  The Texas soldier gasped and fell back, tearing the hilt of the bayonet from Zeb’s hand. The hilt pointed downward from the Texan’s diaphragm. He was dead before his body touched the ground.

  Stooping, Zeb took the pistol from the dead man’s fingers. “Why’d you make me do it?” he asked brokenly. “Why? I’d nothing against you.”

  When he finished searching the dead man for pistol ammunition, Zeb got to his feet. Sherman and Grant had gone, unaware of the brief, desperate struggle that had taken place only a few yards behind them in the darkness.

  Zeb’s mouth was dry and his shoulder was hurting him. The Texan had said there was a spring somewhere around, and he went on through the trees, listening for the sound of water.

  Finally, he heard it. A mere trickle it was, falling from a pipe somebody had thrust into the rocks to conduct the water into a basin about the size of a washtub. He knelt and filled his canteen first, not knowing what might happen to drive him from the spot; and then he drank. The water was cold and clear. He drank, and drank again, and then sat down in darkness.