A Blaze of Glory

by Jeff Shaara

  Bauer had always been the peacemaker, felt the need for that now.

  “Look, they made officers out of people that got here first. Right? The bigwigs in every town who brought us all together. Besides, you can’t have a whole army of officers. Somebody’s gotta be out here to do the trigger pulling.” He looked at Willis. “Sammie, I bet they make you a lieutenant before this is over. Then you can bless somebody out, and it’ll be official. Like to see the sarge’s face if they put a gold bar on your coat.”

  He laughed, Patterson ignoring him, Willis nodding, easing away from whatever bad place he had gone. Bauer continued.

  “Besides, if somebody decides Patterson needs to ride an army mule … he’ll smell worse than he does now.”

  Patterson continued to ignore him, oblivious, said, “I bet I could sit down with General Grant …”

  Willis leaned back, his head settling in the grass.

  “Oh, for God’s sake. How did this mush brain get into the army?”

  Willis rubbed his stomach, and Bauer said, “You doing better? You haven’t been talking about it.”

  “My belly’s calmed down. Ain’t had to scramble my pants down all day.”

  Bauer had noticed that Willis seemed to feel better, the problems with the camp gripes easing off. There had been too many others who had succumbed to the sickness, and some of those had simply vanished, no word coming whether they were being tended to on the boats, or maybe just … gone. Bauer knew he had been lucky so far, tried to avoid drinking any water he couldn’t see through.

  “Glad to hear it, Sammie. You were giving me some worry.”

  Willis reached over, a quick slap on Bauer’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry about me, Dutchie. Just gotta get used to this grub they’re feeding us.”

  Across the fire, Patterson stood, said, “I’m plenty used to it. Gonna get me some more. Pretty tasty. Whole lot better than what they gave us on the boat. I got one good idea, though. They oughta take these crackers, this hardtack, and stick it on those gunboats out there. Make the best armor, whole lot tougher than that iron they’re using. See? Told you. General Grant could use somebody on his staff with good sense.”

  Bauer watched him leave, saw several others at the next fire doing their best to eat whatever had been ladled onto their tin plates. No one seemed to share Patterson’s enthusiasm. Willis watched Patterson as well, said, “Quickest way I know of to lose this war: put that jack hole in charge of something. He actually likes this grub. The hog swill they gave us on the boats could have killed all of us, but this stuff … not sure it’s that much better. Raw rice and raw beans? Every damn meal’s the same. How much of this swill they expect us to eat? I bet the enemy’s got it a whole lot better. They’re close to home. Got their mamas making cornpone or turnip stew, or whatever those secesh call food. Who can eat this stuff?”

  Bauer had already forced down as much of the tasteless meal his stomach could take, said, “My mother used to make white bean soup. Best stuff you ever had, especially in winter. Warm you all the way down. She really knows how to cook. Miss that.”

  Willis seemed to mellow, sat up again, stared at the fire.

  “I’ve had the best soup on this earth, same thing, white beans. My grandmother made it for us. Big pieces of ham, and thick soft bread. Soak it up like a pillow, stuff my gut so full I couldn’t move for hours. My wife could cook pretty good, too. Probably still does.” Willis choked off his words, sat in silence. Around them, the hum of the camp was quieting, another day of drill and marching passing under a darkening sky. Bauer stared out to the row of fires, a neat line in a wide corridor between the tents, reflections on a hundred faces, the tents stretching far across a flat field, great white cones in neat rows, more fires, more men. There was a curious beauty to that, and Bauer stared at the flames, the straight rows a testament to the precision drilled into them by the army. He looked over at Willis, who was staring down at his half-eaten meal, his tin plate sitting crookedly in the grass.

  “This stuff is just plain raw. It can’t be that hard to be a cook. Just boil the stuff for a while. Who can eat crunchy beans? Rice and raw beans ain’t fit for anything but hogs. Maybe the artillery boys can use the stuff. Fire it at the enemy. Those beans’ll do more damage than any canister. Maybe it is canister. I bet it’ll blow a ragged hole in my guts before the morning.”

  To one side, Bauer saw Sergeant Williams scraping the last of his meal from his plate, saw the same scowling menace on the man’s face he always saw. Bauer leaned closer to Willis, still wanted to lift the man’s spirits, hoped he would talk about the letter, what kind of news he had gotten from home.

  “You think anybody ever writes to the sarge? I can’t believe any woman would have anything to do with him. Just a scoundrel.”

  Willis shrugged, didn’t look that way.

  “Leave him be. Maybe his wife’s as mean as he is. Maybe meaner. Maybe she kicks him in the ass every chance she gets. Maybe right now she’s off with some jack hole bank clerk, and he knows it. Probably why he hates us. Hates everything. Mail call ain’t always what it’s cracked up to be.”

  Bauer didn’t have a response. To everyone but Willis, the mail call was the most revered custom they had, every man rushing to the wagons, canvas bags dumped out, a mad scramble for the sergeants to read out the names scrawled on the envelopes. Willis hadn’t received a single letter in more than a week, but Bauer had a half-dozen, kept them in his coat. They came from both his father and mother, and with nothing in the newspapers of any confrontations anywhere near Bauer, the letters were light and newsy, full of gossip and good wishes, mostly encouragement from his father, stern scolding about obeying the officers, learning the drill, being the right kind of soldier. His mother kept her fears between the lines, and his letters to her had helped that, long pages written to her on the steamboats of the mundane voyage, the awful food. Now he wrote her of the camp, about Willis and Patterson, and some of the others, all of it positive. On every page, he made a point of telling her that there were no rebels, no threats, nothing but woods and water, miserable weather and bad food. He made jokes of it, and it seemed to work, the anxious fears in her letters tempered now, her writing more about gossip, more about when he came home. So far, he had been mostly honest with her, nothing yet in his army experience that had been anything but a mundane and curious adventure. No matter what might have happened anywhere else in this war, the men who commanded this regiment had seemed perfectly happy to make life as routine and miserably boring as they could. From Madison to St. Louis to the long voyage on the wide, muddy river, it was still a strange dream. Now, in camp once again, the dream had not changed, all these men in their blue uniforms sitting out in some open field in some strange place no one had ever been before. He had already accepted Willis’s pessimism that the war would end without him ever actually seeing a rebel soldier.

  To the side, at another fire, Sergeant Williams suddenly rose, stretched, still the nasty scowl, looked at the men around him as though seeking someone to torment. Willis dumped his plate into the fire, and Bauer whispered, “I bet that’s why the sarge is so evil. He’s eaten a whole lot more of this hog feed than we have. It’s ruined his brain.”

  Willis rubbed his stomach, said, “Nah. He was just born evil. Even the officers are scared of him. Never heard anyone give him an order that didn’t sound like it had a please attached to it.”

  Bauer laughed silently, the fire bringing on a comfortable sleepiness. He shed the coat, the thick wool hot from the fire, and now the sergeant was there, had seemed to creep up on them.

  “You getting ready for bed, Private? You want me to help you with your nightshirt? Fluff up your pillow for you?”

  Bauer felt the usual fear, closed his eyes for a brief second, didn’t let Williams see that.

  “No, Sarge. Just warm.”

  “Well, soldier, looks to me like you’re grabbing too much of that good warm fire for yourself. So I tell you what. You need to
clear out of the way, so the rest of these boys can get as cozy as you. The lieutenant from B Company has ordered a guard detail to move out in those woods. He’s already chosen a dozen men to form a picket line. But I’m gonna offer him one more. So grab your musket and get moving. You fall asleep out there and I’ll have you bullwhipped.”

  Bauer slumped, slid the coat back around his shoulders.

  “Right away, Sergeant.”

  “Hold on, jackleg. The password out there is pisspot. In the dark, you forget that, and somebody’ll shoot you. Or maybe that’s not the password. Maybe I got it wrong. Well, that’s not really my problem. I’m gonna be sound asleep and I’m gonna use your bedroll. That way, I ain’t gotta go outside to use the latrine.”

  Bauer stood, had heard that kind of crude threat before.

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  There was nothing else to say, and Bauer knew it always went like this, that no matter the duty, Williams would make it as miserable as he could. It was just the man’s way of having fun. He went to the stacked muskets, pulled his away carefully, saw several men moving out into the darkness, the others assigned to the picket line. He followed, knew the musket wasn’t loaded yet, but the other men were already at the tree line, dropping down into total darkness, and it was no place for a man to get lost. He hurried his steps, thought, I’ll load it when I get there. There’s gotta be somebody in charge who’ll tell us where we’re supposed to set up. There hasn’t been a speck of noise from any of the pickets since we been here, so no point in getting all twisted up about it.

  The ground sloped downward, and he felt his way past the first of the trees, heard men in front of him, low murmurs, the footsteps mostly silent on the rain-soaked ground. The night was cool, getting cooler, heavy wet clouds, no stars, no moon. He glanced up, caught faint glimpses of the skeletons of the tree limbs, and he was startled by a harsh whisper.

  “This way! Move it! You’re late!”

  He couldn’t see the man, heard others moving by, coming back toward him, grumbles and curses from men who had been out here for … how long? Bauer didn’t know, hadn’t thought to ask the sergeant how long the duty would last. One man bumped him, unavoidable collision, and the man cursed, then said, “Out of the way! There better be some grub. I’ll shoot the cook if he’s gone to sleep.”

  The man was past him now, more grumbles, and another man moved close, startled him with a shout.

  “Hey! You keep an eye out! There’s ghosts in these woods! Big ones! Nasty critters. Don’t get scared! Big ole snakes, too! As fat as your leg!”

  The man chuckled, was gone, and Bauer suddenly slowed his steps. He had heard this kind of talk already, knew the one piece of truth in the man’s teasing was the presence of snakes. He closed his eyes, took a breath, opened them again, no difference, nothing to see. To one side, a voice, low and harsh.

  “Line up here. Stick close to this creek, but stay on this side of it. Form a line, keep ten paces apart. Make a sound, let the next man know where you are!”

  He could hear the creek, a low gurgle a few feet in front of him, the ground soft and wet. He stepped back, felt for a tree, his hand pushing through vines, a tree trunk more narrow than he was. He eased himself down, the vines cushioning him, and he shifted himself, tried to get comfortable. To his left, a hard whisper.

  “Here! You there?”

  Bauer assumed the man was speaking to him, responded.

  “Here! Against a tree. Creek in front of me!”

  The man didn’t respond, but behind them both, the harsh voice came again, the sound of a man in command.

  “Everybody know the password?”

  Farther down to the right, one man called out, too loud.

  “Ulysses?”

  “Shut up! You wanna let the secesh know? Somebody rams a bayonet in your gut …”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Anybody comes through here, anybody tried to cross the creek, you ask for the password! He doesn’t answer, or he says the wrong thing, you put a hole in him! I’ll be back here about fifty yards, and I’ll gather you up at dawn.” Bauer began to recognize the voice, thought of the lieutenant from Company B, older man, tough, somebody worth following. The questions were answered now, how long they would be sitting in these woods. But the final question had the answer he had suspected. Williams had given him the wrong password. Just for fun.

  He blinked hard, convinced he was awake, felt something crawling on his pants leg, slapped at it in a panic, some kind of insect, nothing larger. He didn’t like the thought of snakes, had seen only a few when he was a boy, hunting trips with his father. There were always the teases about rattlers, every small snake they ran across resulting in a mock scare, his father exaggerating the danger. He had no idea what an actual rattler looked like, doubted he had ever seen one. But the soldiers here were talking of them daily, the boggy ravines said to be full of them, or any other kind of terrifying creature the soldiers could dream up.

  Even as a child, he hadn’t really been scared of the dark. And then he went deer hunting with his father, and made the marvelous discovery that animals could actually see in the dark, no matter how blind you might be. To the curious boy, it made the dawn a time of enormous curiosity, the most tense time of the day, your eyes trying to figure out what that motion was, if that shadow in front of you had really moved. He had been convinced of that one time, when he was no more than twelve, barely able to hoist the old flintlock, and had taken careful aim at what certainly had to be a huge deer. The shot had knocked him backward off a stump, and when his father rushed to him, they discovered he had shot a bush. The teasing was unending after that, his father offering to take him hunting for haints. At first the boy had thought it to be some kind of animal, redemption for his foolish and embarrassing imagination. But then his father told the others, neighbors, that his son was a master at killing haints. Hain’t a damn thing. After that, the boy learned that when things moved in the dark, it was best to wait for daylight before shooting at it.

  He smiled, remembering the trips with his father, bitter cold, snow waist deep. He pulled his coat tighter, the night cooler now, nothing like Wisconsin of course, but the dampness of the ground beneath him had seeped up through his clothes. To one side, he heard snoring, was immediately annoyed, one man not doing the job. Bauer sat up straight, stared into the dark, thought of making a noise, something to warn the man, thought of his own sergeant’s threat. Yep, he’s good with a bullwhip. But I don’t see him out here. Never seen him do much of anything, really, except cuss and show off his meanness. From farther that way, he heard a sharp hiss.

  “Hey!”

  The snoring stopped, and Bauer heard a rustling, the man pulling himself awake. Good, he thought. This is too important to be that stupid. Bauer had never objected to guard duty, actually liked it, appreciated that the picket line was the eyes that would see anyone who didn’t need to be there. He knew of the grumbling, men marching out in a sulk, as though the duty was punishment, the picket line sent out as sacrificial lambs, the first men who might be killed. To Bauer, that just made the job more significant. He embellished the duty, even now, smiled at the thought that he was the first line of defense for the whole country, standing vigilant against the enemy. Well, he thought, sitting anyway. Standing gets pretty tiresome after a few hours. At least these vines are soft. He stared again, scanned hard into nothing. They all knew that the rebels were no more than twenty miles away, and rumors flew through the camps every day. Word had been passed that rebel cavalry had been sighted, and some of the pickets had actually fired at what they claimed were enemy troops. But no one had produced a body, or even a prisoner, and so the officers tried to keep that kind of talk quiet. He remembered the scolding phrase Captain Saxe had used. A camp is no place for facts. But still, he thought, they’re out there, and we’re here, and somebody must have figured out what’s gonna happen next. He wondered about that, too. It was something he kept out of his letters home, the nagging fea
r what he might do if a musket ball flew past his ear … or worse. Some of the men teased the others about running away, that those who talked so much about sticking a bayonet through a secesh were most likely the ones who wouldn’t stand up to them at all. But running away … that was the worst offense you could commit. They say they’ll shoot a man for that. For trying not to get shot. I guess that makes sense. Depends I guess on how good a runner you are. But … no, stop that. You ain’t running. You could never go home if you did that. Never look your father in the eye. Oh God, no, you could never admit to being that kind of man. Nope, no running away.

  He realized suddenly that he could see, a dark gray mist swirling past him, shapes forming, mostly tall and thin. Trees. He sat up straight again, worked through the painful stiffness, felt one leg numb, the harsh tingling now rolling through it. He flexed it, rubbed with his hand, the tingling worse, a thousand bees crawling on his skin. He sat back against the tree again, stared ahead, could see the curve of the creek bed, very narrow, a long step across. He thought of water, his canteen empty, wondered if this creek flowed close to a camp, or maybe from somewhere out beyond the troops, from woods that might be clean. His thirst grew, no fighting it, and he flexed the stiffness in his legs, crawled forward, toward the swirling rush of the water, and out in front of him, beyond the creek, he heard a loud snort. He knew the sound. It was a horse.

  He froze, could hear the steps now, more than one, and the mist began to clear, daylight easing into the trees, and the shapes were there, a half dozen, and on every horse, a man.