He lay on his back, three bloody holes in the mud-splattered white coat, head turned to the right, mouth open, a small pool of blood mixing with the mud and grass. At least his eyes were closed. His white trousers, always too long for him, looked even more comical, the bottoms of the wretched legs covering his brogans, blackened with thick mud. Ryan started to kneel, but Sergeant Rutherford’s harsh voice stopped him.
“He’s done for, lad. Come on. Let’s kill some more of Lincoln’s hirelings.”
* * * * *
They moved through the woods, at first stepping around or over the dead, but soon unable to avoid it, and no longer caring.
“Hey, whereabouts you from?”
Ryan turned toward the molasses-soaked voice, spotted a toothless man puffing on a corncob pipe. He’d never seen the soldier before.
“Texas.” He wasn’t certain how he should answer. “Place called Cedar Bayou. It’s near Houston. Second Texas Infantry.”
The man, his face masked in gunpowder and dirt, removed the pipe. “You fellers fit like the devil. Was y’all at Manassas?”
Ryan’s head shook.
“We was.” The soldier, dressed in patched gray trousers, moth-eaten muslin shirt, and battered straw hat, tapped the cob against the handle of a massive knife sheathed at his side, and tucked the pipe in a pocket.
“This is our first engagement.” Ryan’s voice sounded hollow.
“Well, we didn’t fit none at Virginy. Spent the winter there, then a-come home with fifty dollars on furlough. After we spends all that money, Capt’n a-sends us to Memphis, and here we is. Yep, this be our first battle, too, and it’s been a hot one. So I reckon you and me has both seen the elephant now.” He stuck out a filthy hand. “Name’s Dick Hinton. Hail from Drew County. We’s with the First Arkansas.” He hooked a thumb to a blood-spattered man with a beard that looked like metal bristles.
“Ryan McCalla.” Briefly they shook hands.
“I’m with the Sixth Tennessee!” someone else called.
“Fourth Louisiana.” At least that’s what Ryan thought the voice had yelled.
“Well, you’re in the Second Texas now!” Captain Ashbel Smith snapped, and everyone cheered.
They moved past some Wheelock Prairie boys from Company E, a corporal mounted on a cannon like a horse, slapping the barrel with a black slouch hat. Yankee prisoners sat on the ground, hands clasped behind their heads, guarded with bayonets at their throats.
“Hey, fellas!” one of the Rebels bragged. “We captured ourselves a cannon!”
A corporal spit out tobacco juice, nodding. “Didn’t even fire a shot.”
Another cheer, and they marched past the captured artillery piece.
Weapons blasted to the right, and Colonel Moore hurried over: “Captain Smith!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Assist Captains McGinnis and Christian. General Chalmers’ Second Brigade needs some Texas-size help.”
“You heard the colonel!”
With the others, Ryan pivoted. He expected the two guys from Arkansas to join them, but the pipe-smoker sniggered and said, “I ain’t helpin’ no Mississippi sidewinders,” and they kept marching north.
They moved at a double-quick pace, through a section of woods that had been shattered by musket blasts, grapeshot, canister. It was like walking through a cotton field that had been cropped. Minié balls whistled overhead. Other shots kicked up soil and débris. Men moaned for water. Beside a stump, a dying Yankee mumbled a psalm. They marched on. Muskets blasted ahead. Bark flew off those trees that had not yet been stripped by grapeshot and bullets. A Texian dropped to his knees, crying out: “Fare thee well, boys, I am killed.”
Out of the destroyed woods, they moved toward the Mississippi brigade, feet stepping on dead Union soldiers instead of earth. Wheeling westward, Ryan realized they were marching through another Federal camp. This time, however, no one stopped to plunder the tents or steal any food. They climbed out of the ravine, onto a hill.
Deafening and deadly musketry greeted them, killing many, wounding scores.
“On the ground, boys! On the ground!”
Ryan was already dropping to a prone position. A ball spit mud into his cheek. He aimed at a cloud of smoke, pulled the trigger, rolled onto his back, tried to reload. Balls whistled over his head.
Thud!
He looked to his left, saw a stranger—maybe the guy from the Sixth Tennessee—the top of his head blown away.
Thud!
Thud!
Thud!
Forgetting about reloading, he pushed his way back down into the ravine, rose, staggered ten yards, twenty, not stopping until he was fifty yards away. Other men scrambled into the ravine, breathing heavily. Quickly Ryan finished reloading the musket.
“Re-form the ranks!” Captain Smith ran down the line, waving that wrist-breaking saber of his. “We’ll charge with bayonets.”
He was moving, climbing back up the ravine, out of the woods. A row of Union cannon greeted them. He saw Yanks pull the lanyards, watched the muzzles belch flame and smoke. Shells roared overhead. Others exploded in the field. Men screamed as if their bodies were engulfed in burning oil.
They moved past the cannon. Some of the boys stopped, tried to turn around those artillery pieces, to fire at the fleeing Yanks. Infantry approached, another line of blue forming another barrier, a deadly wall.
“Charge bayonets!” someone ordered.
The Federal line fired. A ball tore off Ryan’s hat. Dropping to their knees, the Texians returned fire. A man wearing a blue frock coat galloped into the open field, screaming, waving his hat furiously.
“For God’s sake, boys. Stop firing! You are killing your friends!”
Rising, the Texians continued on, most of them not bothering to reload.
From the Union line came a cry: “Colonel! Those are Rebs!”
Too late, the man on horseback realized his mistake. In a panic, he pulled on the reins, spinning his horse, raking its flanks with spurs. Muskets roared, dropping horse and man in a heap.
Rebel yells rose above the din. Ryan ran harder, screaming, watching the bluecoats turn, skedaddle.
One Yankee officer jumped into a phaeton, began lashing out savagely with a whip, too crazed to realize the horse lay dead in its harness. When he finally realized that, he stood, only to be shot off the buggy.
Not every Yank ran. An officer walked back, waving a battle flag in his right hand, screaming, trying to rally his men. Soldiers stopped, turned. Canister ripped the earth, dropped several men on Ryan’s left. He would concede one fact about Grant’s soldiers. They were as brave, as resolute, as Colonel Moore’s Second Texas.
He pulled the trigger, realized he had left the ramrod in the barrel.
Minié balls filled the air. He could hear them pass so close. One buzzed his ear. He pitched aside his rifle, stopped to pick up one in front of a dead Confederate.
They cleared another field, went through more ravaged woods.
Onward they moved, reloading now. Union bodies littered the ground. In their white uniforms, now soiled, the Second Texas marched through the slaughter like ghosts.
“Where’s Captain Smith?” someone asked.
“Took a ball in his arm.”
“How is he?”
“Looked mortal to me.”
Ryan almost stopped, but Sergeant Rutherford barked: “Forward. Keep driving those yellow Yanks.”
Spotting Little Sam Houston, Ryan hurried and caught up with him, tried to think of something to say. Even had he been able to come up with pointless conversation, he couldn’t talk. His tongue was swollen, blackened with gunpowder, grit, mud.
Cannon roared behind them. Murderous shells ripped the blue lines. At last, the Second Texas and stragglers from other regiments stopped. Finally Ryan remembered his cantee
n. He pulled it over, uncorked it, lifted it, dropped it. Two balls had shattered it. It was bone dry. He pulled it over his head and shoulder, let it fall on a dead Yank.
“Here.”
Sam Houston Jr. passed him his canteen, and, greedily, Ryan drank.
“Colonel! Over there!”
Ryan turned to the voice, saw a Federal officer step out of the woods waving a white flag.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Ryan knelt, brought the rifle to his shoulder, drew a bead on the Yank’s chest. Behind him, he heard Little Sam cock his musket.
“Corporal McCalla. Houston. Hold your fire,” warned Sergeant Rutherford, who brazenly stepped forward, positioning his back in front of Ryan’s musket barrel.
Muttering a curse, Ryan eased down the hammer of his musket, and pushed himself to his feet. He and Little Sam flanked Sergeant Rutherford, watching Captain Hood of Company G ride out to meet the flag-waving Federal. He couldn’t hear the words because of the continuous blasts from Confederate artillery, but, after a moment, Captain Hood returned, dropping an armload of swords at Colonel Moore’s feet.
“They’re surrendering, Colonel.” Ryan read Hood’s lips.
The colonel asked something. Sergeant Rutherford said: “Look!”
Confederate cavalry had surrounded the Yanks, and began leading them away.
“That’s just like a horse soldier!” Rutherford snapped. “We win the battle. They take the prisoners and glory.”
“Hey!” Sergeant Jardine shouted. “These cornfields and woods are littered with dead infantrymen. I’ve yet to see one dead cavalry trooper, Southern or Yank!”
Ryan joined the laugher. He tried to remember the last time he had laughed. Shaking his head, he returned the canteen to Little Sam.
Other bluecoats staggered out of the woods, from behind the tents, hands raised. Many of them bawled like newborns. Others begged not to be shot. One promised that, if they’d let him go, they’d never see hide nor hair of him in Dixie again.
A blond-headed Yank stopped in front of Ryan, speaking in some harsh language Ryan didn’t understand. He and Sam Houston Jr. just walked past him, Sam mumbling: “Surrender to somebody else. We’re still fighting.”
“Where are we, Colonel?” a lieutenant asked frantically.
“Lord knows,” Moore replied with a short chuckle, “but we’re marching that way. To the sound of guns. Press on, men. Press on!” Moore stepped over the surrendered swords, moving north again, toward the Tennessee River. Ryan joined the procession, entering another forest.
When they exited those woods, more Yanks stood waiting.
“How many Yankees can there be in this here world?” someone asked.
These men stood across a road, standing behind a split-rail fence, a few other buildings.
“Hey, Ryan?” He glanced over at Little Sam.
“How much ammunition have you?”
Quickly he opened his cartridge box. Blinking, he let out a sigh. “None.”
“Same here.”
Sergeant Rutherford had overheard the conversation. “You’ve got bayonets, don’t you? Give them the steel, boys! Charge!”
He was running again, yelling like a banshee, feeling lead fly around him, over him, under him. A cannon ball blasted a portion of the fence, sending chunks of wood rails and Yankees in every direction. Little Sam leaped the fence. Ryan ran through a newly made hole. He found a bluecoat crawling, looking up, mouth agape, eyes wide. Ryan prepared to thrust the bayonet into the boy’s gut.
“Please!” the Yankee cried.
Ryan breathed. Blinked. Shifting his musket, he stepped over the petrified Yank, and tried to catch up with the rest of the Second.
He ran across dead men, rounded a burning caisson, letting his yell echo those coming from the mouths of the charging soldiers in front of him. He wondered what time it was, how long he had been fighting.
Then, a bullet tore through his thigh.
Chapter Eighteen
April 6, 1862
Pittsburg Landing, Tennessee
Caleb pushed through the woods, trying to fight down the panic rising in him. Bullets thudded into the trees all around him. Men fell. Several dropped their weapons, crying, and ran. Officers tried to rally their men. One got knocked over for his troubles.
Voices, orders, shouts, prayers mingled together.
“Where’s Captain Clark?” … “Mother! Mother!” … “Almighty and everlasting God, who hatest nothing that Thou hast made …” … “Back there. Shot in the head.” … “Has anyone seen Lieutenant Hudson?” … “Captain, where is your company?” … “Was he wounded?” … “Boone! Boone Masterson, where are you?” … “… and dost forgive the sins of all those who are penitent …” … “Ma, what am I doing here?” … “Major, this is all that’s left of my company, sir!” … “My arm’s shattered. Benji, don’t let ’em cut off my arm!” … “Boone! Do you hear me, Boone?” … “The devil with this, I ain’t waiting around to get killed.” … “The lieutenant was trying to help Captain Cooper but, last I seen, he and the captain both was surrounded by a bunch of graycoats.” … “… we, worthily lamenting our sins and acknowledging our wretchedness …” … “Form a line here!” … “Company G, here, lads, right here!” … “… may obtain of Thee, the God of all mercy, perfect remission and forgiveness …” “Why are we stopping?” … “Oh, Doris, I never shall feel your lips on my cheek again.” … “… through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
A mile or so later, they came out of the woods, dipping into a road, then moving up a ridge on the other side of the sunken pike. Captain Stults directed the remnants of his company to find a position in the forest, ordered them to reload.
“Which company are you with?” the captain screamed in Sergeant Masterson’s face.
When the sergeant only blinked, Caleb answered: “Captain Clark’s Company E.”
“Clark took a ball through the head back at camp, is likely dead.” Stults’ eyes narrowed. “I know you, don’t I?”
Caleb nodded. “You know my father, I think. We farm in Putnam County.”
Smiling grimly, Henry P. Stults put an arm on Caleb’s shoulder. “I wish we were back in Putnam County now, son, don’t you?” The softness left him immediately, and he turned, pointing. “Welcome to Company B. There. Find a spot there. Stand ready.” His voice softened once more: “God willing, maybe some of us will live to see Missouri again.”
To his right, he saw Lieutenant McEfee, once a quartermaster sergeant before being promoted to second lieutenant, directing ten or so of Company E’s boys into the thicket. Caleb thought about joining them, but Sergeant Masterson sat down underneath an oak tree, pulled out a knife, opened the blade, began cleaning his fingernails. Caleb decided he’d stay with Company B for a while.
General Prentiss loped down the road, shouting orders, jerking the lathered horse to a stop. “Where is the Sixty-First Illinois?” No one answered. Prentiss swore. Someone asked him something. He pointed down the road, barking: “Join the Twelfth Michigan. Hurry!” Prentiss kicked the horse into a gallop.
“Lie down.” Captain Stults crept behind the men. “Prone position. Hold your fire until they are on this side of the road. Then we’ll allow them to make Satan’s acquaintance.”
Caleb loaded and capped his weapon, snuggling into the bed of damp, rotting leaves and twigs. Beside him, Sergeant Masterson kept cleaning his nails, once stopping to turn and shout out: “Boone! Boone Masterson, where are you?”
“Shut up!” Caleb bellowed. He tried to slow his heartbeat, tried to steady his breathing. Looking across the road, he waited.
Faces flashed through his mind. Folker and Boone, now dead. Captain Clark, with a bullet in his head. The last he had seen of Seb Woolard, the lout was running for the river. Rémy Ehrenreich? He couldn’t recollect seeing him since this morning.
&n
bsp; Morning? He rolled over, tried to find the sun through the thick trees and brush. Failing, he let out another breath, and got back into a prone firing position.
All around him came the sounds of cannon and musket, that piercing, horrifying yell of the Secesh. In front of him, however, there was nothing but an empty road, and woods.
“Why don’t they come?” someone whispered.
“They’re likely eating our breakfast!”
“Maybe they’re trying to flank us.”
He looked left, right. Nothing.
“Maybe they’ve gone back home.”
“Quiet! Quiet, men!”
All whispers ceased.
Pounding hoofs in the mud, the plowing of wheels digging through mud. Caleb looked, held his breath. Before he noticed they were bluecoats, other Federals down the line cheered, and Caleb watched cannon and caissons race down the road, disappearing around the bend. Somewhere down there, Prentiss barked orders at the artillery commander.
“Now, we’ll show those Rebs!”
“Be quiet!” an officer yelled.
Silence.
Then … the sucking sound of boots in mud, the cracking of limbs and branches … a curse … laughter … the jingling of canteens. Butternut-clad men stepped out of the woods and onto the sunken road. Soldiers in gray joined them. They cautiously looked down the road, kept coming.
“Fire!” Stults shouted, and Caleb’s musket barked. He rolled on his back, trying to block out the sounds of men crying. A bullet clipped bark off the oak. Something whistled over his head. He drew the ramrod, found a paper cartridge, tried to reload while on his back.
“Boone!” Sergeant Masterson said. “Boone, that you, cuz?”
“Fire at will!”
The Rebels sang out that ruinous shriek. Caleb rolled over, capping the nipple. A branch fell across the front sight, clipped by a Southern ball. He shook the barrel, watched the slender branch disappear, stared, found a brass breastplate against a butternut coat in his sights, pulled the trigger.
“They’re falling back!” came a cry that was answered by a rousing cheer up and down the Union line.
And There I’ll Be a Soldier Page 15
