It took three staff officers an entire day to sober him up to a point where he could understand that he had received a commendation from General Ulysses S. Grant. This was in recognition of the attempt to assassinate the Confederate President and for successfully leading his unit of troopers back to safety. There was then a week for Hedges to regain complete equilibrium and for the men to be rounded-up before the parade at which Grant personally presented the honor.
Then the big push to Atlanta got underway. Hedges was given command of a full cavalry troop, all of the men as experienced and hard-bitten as the six who had fought under him for so long. The troop was assigned to the army of General William T. Sherman and were with him when he smashed his way into Atlanta. They took part in the ruthless evacuation of civilians from the city and then did more than their share of the fire-raising that left Atlanta little more than a burned-out shell.
The memory of the old woman faded in Hedges’ mind as he watched his own troopers and the men commanded by other officers re-affirm their places in hell. In full-scale battles and unimportant skirmishes, and during the long, brutal march to the sea at Savannah he witnessed slaughter so harrowing that the death of one old woman became insignificant. But then came a two-month period of relative calm, from Christmas 1864 until the mid-February of the New Year when Sherman’s army moved out towards a victory at Columbia. And, in that interlude, the accidental killing in The Wilderness weighed heavily on Hedges again. But, at least, the image of the ancient face at the window was growing blurred.
With Georgia and the Carolinas almost secured for the Union, Hedges’ troop was among those transferred to the command of General Philip H. Sheridan who was destined to lead his army into the final major campaign of the War Between The States.
March ran its course and April opened. Sheridan’s cavalry came down from the Shenandoah Valley and the transferees from Sherman’s army joined the near twelve thousand mounted men at Dinwiddie Court House. And, on April Fool’s Day, the massive well-armed and well-provisioned column moved out to take the important road junction and railroad link known as Five Forks.
Hedges’ troop formed a part of the left flank attack and the men were in high spirits as they cantered their horses across the soft-textured Virginia countryside under a warm spring sun.
‘Hear tell this war’s gonna be over and done before the end of the month,’ a tall, thin corporal said to his neighbor.
‘Make’s a friggin’ change from Christmas,’ a sergeant at his side answered, but without sourness.
Rhett, riding ahead of the two men, grinned at Bell beside him. ‘You reckon that’s right, Rog?’ he asked. ‘I been hearin’ a lot of that talk.’
‘Could be,’ Bell replied.
‘Yeah,’ Seward called over his shoulder. ‘Could be the last chance you’ll get to blast guys in the back and not hang for it, Bob.’
But nothing could deflate the New Englander’s optimistic mood concerning the strong rumors that the war was drawing to an end. ‘Only way you can blast the Johnnie Rebs, Billy,’ he shouted. ‘On account of they’re always runnin’ away when we show up.’
Riding out at the head of the column, just in front of Forrest and Douglas, Hedges did not order the men into silence. As a mere Captain, with a field rather than a staff command, he had received no official briefing on the state of the war. But he had heard the same rumors as the non-coms and enlisted men: rumors that were so strong they had to be true. However, he knew that a soldier had as much chance of dying in the final battle of a war as in the opening one. And, if a man was destined to be killed, it was good he should be in high-spirits before it happened. So he allowed the bantering to continue, aware that the men’s good mood would not detract from their determination to give of their best in the coming fight. Rather, their belief that this could be the final opportunity to slaughter with impunity would act as a spur to such men as these.
The major commanding the left flank of the attacking forces ordered a halt, but there was no dismount. The men sat in their saddles and looked with excited expectation towards the cluster of buildings that squatted around a crossroads to the north. Beyond Five Forks they could just make out the tracks of the Southside Railroad which was the Rebel supply route they were required to cut. In front of the tiny community of such strategic importance, the Confederate army under General Pickett was dug in.
The opposing armies faced each other, out of firing range, and waited. Noon came and the Union men grew disgruntled with the inactivity. Hedges cursed as much as anybody, aware that with each passing minute, the men’s fighting edge was being blunted. Then word came to dismount and eat. The messengers who delivered this order also carried, unofficially, the news that Phil Sheridan was awaiting reinforcements in the shape of a corps under the command of Brigadier General G. K. Warren, who had been ordered to Five Forks by Grant.
‘What you think, Captain?’ Forrest asked with a half-grin as the two men finished eating and smoked cigarettes, both peering out towards the objective.
Hedges spat. That Sheridan ain’t as hot as he’s cracked up to be, sergeant.’
Forrest’s grin expanded into a harsh laugh. ‘Reckon we got the makin’s of a paint-Phil-yellow-club here, sir. We could send them Rebs on the run with half the men we already got.’
‘But that ain’t our decision, is it?’ Hedges grunted, and fixed the Sergeant with a warning stare.
Now Forrest spat, and added a shrug. ‘More’s the friggin’ pity. This war could’ve been over years ago if they’d picked the right guys for the generals.’
Hedges showed a frosty grin. ‘That sounds almost like a compliment, Sergeant,’ he growled.
Forrest looked away, out of the trees in which they were waiting and towards the strongly defended community. ‘I’ve had respect for a lot of guys I’ve killed,’ he said evenly. ‘You’ve done good in this war. We both know that, ’cause we’re both still alive.’
‘You’ll have me weeping on your shoulder in a minute, Forrest,’ Hedges told him. ‘I get your point, and thanks. Now get back to where you belong before they start talking about us.’
The Sergeant stood up with a nod. Then he grinned again. ‘Got no worries there, sir. Every man in the troop knows Rhett’s the only guy they got to take rearguard action against.’
‘Whereas we see every side of a man except one, uh?’
Forrest looked perplexed, then laughed. ‘Right, Captain,’ he agreed. ‘You got a lot of sides that interest me. But not the back.’
‘Get there,’ Hedges ordered, and jerked his thumb towards where the troopers were finishing their meal deeper in the timber.
Forrest rejoined the men and Hedges continued his survey of the Confederate defenses of Five Forks. But his thoughts were not concerned with planning a strategy to beat the Rebels, for such scheming was not up to him. Instead, he stared at the arena of the battle to come and wondered if the events to take place there would once and for all wipe out the dimming memory of the old woman he had killed. Or whether, if he survived the battle and it proved in fact to be the final fighting in the war, he would carry to his death the haunting image of her dying face. As a punishment, perhaps, for the brutality and atrocities he had committed or condoned in the name of a long-forgotten cause.
Then, at mid-afternoon, as the messengers sprinted away from Sheridan’s command post, the Federal artillery barrage opened up: and there was no time for remembering the past or contemplating the future. The orders were delivered to the subordinate commanders and the battle was on. Warren’s corps had failed to arrive and Sheridan had sensed the demoralizing effect the waiting was having on his men.
‘Mount ’em up, Captain?’ Forrest yelled above the deafening roar of the big guns screaming cannon-shot, shells and mortar bombs into the Rebel positions.
He had seen Hedges listening to the breathless words of a runner and waited until the corporal had sprinted off before anticipating the order. For a few moments, Hedges said nothing. He simply
went to where his horse was tethered and slid his newly-issued Henry rifle from the saddle-boot. Then he unbuttoned his holster flap and drew his saber before facing the expectant faces of his men.
‘Seems Sheridan’s sick of the saddle!’ he yelled. ‘We’re back acting like infantry again. Let’s move!’
He whirled and broke into a fast run out of the trees, saber extended in front of him. All along the front, other junior officers were setting the same example to their men: racing out of solid cover towards the insubstantial screening of smoke and spraying dirt exploded by the heavy artillery barrage. And, behind each leading man, the troopers turned foot soldiers burst into sight, venting full-throated battle cries to add to the din of the big guns. Within moments, the crack of small arms fire augmented the tumult of war. The Rebel picket lines fired first, the men panicked by the weight of the advancing army.
Blue-uniformed figures pitched to the broken terrain in welters of blood, and the tone of their comrades’ yells altered from excitation to anger. Without waiting for the order, Union troops sent rifle and revolver fire towards the Rebels’ advance positions. Hedges was among them. He saw a young lieutenant, twenty yards on his left, take a bullet in the leg and begin to tumble. Before the officer hit the ground, two more bullets had ripped into him. Blood sprayed from his right ear and throat as his scream of agony ended. Hedges felt nothing personally for the lieutenant. The death of the man merely acted to trigger the familiar exhilaration of battle. All else before this had been too remote. But now death had struck close at hand and released adrenalin to power through Hedges’ body.
Without breaking from the run, he thrust the saber into its scabbard and started to rake the Henry back and forth, pumping the action and squeezing the trigger. Other men joined in the wild firing and made it effective. Rebel pickets, safe from the artillery barrage which arced over their heads, leapt from their dug-outs and turned tail from the hail of lead exploding out of the seemingly solid wall of blue-uniformed figures racing towards them.
Hedges saw a dozen Rebels pitch to the ground with ghastly red patches blossoming on their backs. He didn’t know whether any of his own bullets had found a human target. His first chance of a certain kill came as he dived into a dug-out in which four Rebel pickets had been positioned. Only one was there now: a boy no older than seventeen who was crouched in a corner, crying with terror and stinking from when he had fouled himself as the attack was launched.
‘Please don’t kill me, sir?’ he begged, pressing himself close against the moist earth. He threw his rifle at Hedges’ feet.
Two other blue-uniformed figures lunged into the dug-out as more big guns exploded their full-throated roars across the battlefield. Great clods of earth exploded from the surrounding ground to show that the new barrage came from the Confederate artillery.
‘I’ve been a prisoner, kid,’ Hedges grunted as he ducked under the spraying dirt. ‘You wouldn’t like it.’
But it was Forrest’s Colt that exploded before Hedges could bring the Henry to bear. The centre of the kid’s forehead exploded blood and shattered bone and he became an inert pile in the corner of the dug-out.
‘You said he wouldn’t like being no prisoner, Captain!’ Seward yelled in defense of Forrest as all three squatted to reload.
‘The Sergeant’s real helpful,’ Hedges muttered.
‘Just wouldn’t like for you to have no more innocent victims on your conscience, sir,’ Forrest said with an evil grin.
Hedges shot a narrow-eyed glance at him and the Sergeant shrugged. Then all three threw themselves full length on the bottom of the dug-out as two exploding shells hurled dirt and twisted metal at them.
‘Brought a dame up to your hotel room back in Washington, Captain,’ Forrest said in a low voice as they rose, brushing dirt from their heads. ‘But you were smashed out of your mind and rantin’ about another dame. Killin’ that kid wouldn’t have helped none.’
Then he was up and out of the dugout, zigzagging fast through the drifting smoke and the whining bullets. Seward was hard on his heels and Hedges saw other men going full-tilt into the advance. He recognized many from his own troop - Rhett, Scott and Douglas among others.
‘You bastard!’ he rasped, directing his hatred at Forrest as he clawed up out of the trench and joined the charge again.
It was obvious the Sergeant thought he was cracking up and he resented this. Resented it primarily because he had his own doubts about his state of mind but thought he had been able to hide this from the men. But Forrest knew, and maybe he had put out the word to the others. Or perhaps they had even reached the conclusion on their own. Since that month-long drunk in Washington, Hedges had fought in much the same manner as when he was a raw lieutenant at the start of the war: killing as a last resort and only when it was absolutely necessary. All the men in his troop could well have noticed this. And, if they had, it would not be long before Forrest would claim a victory over him. It was even conceivable that Forrest had issued a veiled warning of this back in the trees when he said: You’ve done good in this war. Past tense. Not: You’re doing good. A warning that the battle of Five Forks was a last chance for Hedges to prove himself the better man.
He lengthened his stride and ran in a straight line to overhaul the men who dodged from left to right to make themselves harder targets. He saw Douglas for the first time since the charge began and thus knew that all six of his war-long comrades were still alive. On seeing the Corporal, he decided to strip the man of his chevrons for allowing himself to be talked into disobeying orders back at the farmstead in The Wilderness.
But first there was something vastly more important to take care of. Above all else, he had to prove himself - to himself and to the men. He had to prove that the blood-pounding exhilaration was not self-deception. Prove that, had Forrest not taken the life of the terrified, unarmed kid in the dug-out, he would have squeezed the trigger of the Henry. For, as he lunged out ahead of every other Union soldier on the battlefield, he did not know if he would have - could have - killed the boy.
Bullets cracked around him and some even snagged at his uniform. But a volatile mixture of anger, hatred, resentment and self-doubt clouded his sound judgment as effectively as swirling gun smoke blanketed the battlefield. He ran through the hail of flying lead with utter recklessness, the skin on his lean features stretched taut, his teeth bared and his slitted eyes glinting like strips of bright blue precious gems.
Six Rebel riflemen crouched in a trench saw him lunge out of a pall of black smoke and stared at him as though they thought he was the angel of death. But he was merely the instrument.
He saw the six pale faces from a distance of four feet, and the Henry exploded twice before he leapt over the mound of earth and into the trench. One Rebel took a bullet in his gaping mouth and fragments of his teeth were washed out with a gush of blood. A second was flung back against the rear of the trench, fountaining a crimson cascade from where his right eye had been. Three bullets were crashed towards Hedges, but he was already going down hard into the trench and the shells whined over his head.
The muzzle of the uncocked Henry jabbed forcefully into the throat of the soldier immediately in front of him and the man crumpled, screaming his agony to a high pitch.
Hedges released the rifle and snatched out the Remington revolver with his right hand and the saber with his left. He was aware of men emerging from the smoke pall, to look down upon him the mound of earth displaced in the digging of the trench. He caught just a glimpse of them: enough to be sure their uniforms were blue. Then he fired the Remington. The single Rebel in front of him took the bullet in his belly, folded forward and sat down hard, dropping his rifle and adding his screams to those from the man clawing at his throat.
‘Captain!’ Bell’s voice.
‘Shaddup!’ From Forrest.
Hedges whirled. One Rebel was four feet away, leveling a Spiller and Burr six-gun. The other man was behind this one, trying to get a shot from his Sharps. Hedges
lunged forward, into a crouch, swinging the saber. The Rebel’s handgun exploded to belch smoke, flash and lead. The bullet struck the chambers of Hedges’ Remington and sent the gun spinning out of his numbed hand. Then the saber’s edge slashed across the front of the man’s thighs. The man staggered backwards, dropping his gun and crashing into the man behind him. The Sharps exploded to bury a bullet uselessly into the side of the trench. The injured man sank to the ground, losing a massive amount of blood from the gaping wounds in his thighs. Now he began to scream and the venting of agony from the trench covered every other sound of the battle.
The Rebel with the Sharps struggled to wrench the rifle from beneath the weight of the man who had spoiled his aim. But, as he straightened, he died. Hedges had flicked over his wrist and started the saber on another swing. The blade bit into the side of the man’s neck, angling downwards. The blow had enough power to drive the honed edge clean through the flesh and muscle to the top of the spine. Thus, as the dead man fell, his head flopped forward to display a ghastly, blood-frothing wound that drew a cheer from the watchers on the earth pile above.
‘Leave ’em!’ Hedges heard Forrest snarl as he whirled around to survey the wounded, who continued to scream and groan their agonies.
He saw the men above more clearly now, as his anger turned from hot to cold. And he recognized them as the six men to whom he most desperately wanted to prove himself. He saw Rhett and Seward lower their rifles in response to Forrest’s order. Then he devoted his attention to the three surviving Rebels, as the audience sank into comfortable squats.
The man with the slashed thighs was sitting upright, hands clawed over his gaping wounds as if trying to hold the flaps of flesh together. He had his eyes tight closed and so didn’t see the saber driving towards him. The blade went between his arms and sank deep into his stomach. The feel of the metal tearing into his entrails shocked his heart into stopping and his screams ended. Hedges left the saber buried into the dead flesh and lunged towards his next victim, hand streaking to the back of his neck to draw the razor. This was the Rebel who had felt the Henry muzzle crashing into his throat. He saw the Union Captain coming for him and terror galvanized him into action. He turned and tried to clamber out of the trench. Hedges kept his hand low, then swung it up. The razor flashed between the pumping legs of the would-be escaper. His screams rose an octave as he fell back into the trench. Hedges jerked his hand away and it was slick with bright crimson. The Rebel’s hands reached for the source of his greater agony as he fell full-length into the bottom of the trench. This left his bruised throat exposed for Hedges to slash the bloodstained razor across it.
EDGE: The Final Shot (Edge series Book 16) Page 12
