by Marc Graham
“Shot load,” I heard myself say, and the men moved automatically to obey.
“Our men have the field, Captain,” Sergeant Newton reminded me as I ordered the gun turned toward Izzy’s murderer. “Captain?”
I judged the distance and spun the elevation screw for the proper angle. Newton laid a hand on my shoulder, and I spun around, drew my revolver and pulled back the hammer.
“Step back, Sergeant,” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re fixing to shoot at, Captain,” Newton said calmly, not seeming to mind the .36-caliber barrel just inches from his forehead, “but today’s fighting is over.”
“Not yet it’s not. Primer,” I ordered the private at the breech of the gun, and I could feel his and the other men’s wide-eyed stares. “Now.”
I heard the metallic rasp of the handspike as it ran through the breech vent, the crunch of gunpowder as the charge bag was pierced. The young private set the primer in place and pulled the lanyard taut.
“Ready, sir,” he said in a faltering voice.
Newton sniffed and spat a dark stream of tobacco juice.
“You want to commit murder today, Captain?” he said, his tone dispassionate. “That’s fine. I suppose you have your reasons. But don’t make this boy a part of it.”
His reasoning broke through my rage. I nodded slowly, thumbed down the hammer on my revolver and cleared the trigger.
“Thank you, Private,” I said to the boy as I holstered the sidearm and took the lanyard from his shaking hands. “My apologies, Sergeant,” I offered, then bent over the breech of the gun to verify the aim and tugged on the lanyard.
I felt the scratch of the friction powder, heard the hiss of the ignition as fire filled the breech of the gun. Two and a half pounds of mortar powder erupted, and the expanding gases welled up like the rage and grief in my own chest. In a great release, the twelve-pound iron ball burst from the barrel, taking with it my hatred and fury.
It took four seconds for vengeance to be carried out, five beats of my heart before I stilled that of another. When the shot found its target, it did so with deadly precision. The young soldier leaned back on his elbows, one leg crossed over the other as he studied his new boots. If he sensed Death coming, he never showed it. The ball arced toward the boy—he was probably about Izzy’s age, I guessed—and tore through his gut before burying itself in the earth.
By now, Confederate officers were beginning to corral their troops and herd them back behind the lines. The guns at Fort Negley resumed their deadly hail and our men raced from the field, deaf and blind to the pleas of the wounded, their arms filled with bloody loot. When they reached the safety of the earthworks, they left behind a sea of crimson-stained blue, spotted only occasionally by flecks of grey and butternut.
“Captain Robbins,” a voice called, and I turned to see a young lieutenant on horseback. “New orders, sir. You’re to cover the withdrawal.”
“Withdrawal?” I said.
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid General Stewart’s men didn’t fare as well as y’all did today.” He handed me the orders, saluted and reined his horse away before I had time to respond.
I scanned the papers, shoved them into my jacket and reverted from murderer to warrior.
“Shell load, seven-second fuse,” I ordered the men. “Let’s give our boys some cover.”
A cold night had fallen by the time my battery reached our new position, some two miles back and on the extreme left of the Confederate line. This end of the line had been flanked by the Union troops during the morning’s fighting, with Yankee bullets tearing into our men from behind before reserve troops could shore up the breech. With the retreat of that line, several guns had been lost, which I fully expected would be turned on us come morning.
With my battery securely in place, I ordered our wagons turned toward the road south, should we need to make a hasty retreat. The easy victory of Cheatham’s Corps had been overcome by Stewart’s rout, and my men’s confidence was shaken as we prepared to face an emboldened enemy.
I had the men build their fires in the lee of a hill so as not to backlight our emplacement and direct the Union gunners to their first targets of the new day. After a quick meal of hardtack and dried meat, I crept into the frozen darkness between the lines to get a feel for the terrain.
From the middle of the field, I traced the stretch of Cleburne’s Division and took note of any weakness in our defenses, places where the enemy would have an easy target. I then stole closer to the Federal line—in some places only a couple hundred yards from our own—to see what we’d face come dawn. The waxing moon was low in the sky, and gave enough light to survey the emplacements while casting the hollow between the lines into deep shadow.
A shot rang out and I dropped to the ground. The gunfire came from the Southern side, and the shouts and scrambling among the nearby Yankees told me that our sharpshooters were doing their part to weaken the Union line. Keeping close to the ground, I crept farther westward until the field between the armies widened out to about a half mile. A narrow stream cut through the no-man’s-land, and I followed the creek bed while I picked out more targets.
A splash in the creek stopped me in my tracks, and I quietly lowered myself to the frozen ground. I peered into the darkness, but could make out nothing more than the reflection of pale moonlight on the ripples in the water. Then I saw the pattern of the ripples change, moving from one side of the stream to the other. I traced the tiny waves upstream until I could barely distinguish a figure darker than the night itself. The shadow edged across the creek with movements so subtle I could only see them from the corner of my eye.
The coming battle looked to be hard enough without a Union scout carrying back information on our position. As quietly as possible, I gathered some pebbles from the edge of the creek and eased myself into a kneeling position. I tossed the stones over the shadow’s head. They clattered to the ground a few yards beyond him. The man froze and melded into the rolling landscape. I held my breath until he started moving again, this time in my direction.
With agonizing slowness, the scout drew closer and finally passed between me and the Confederate lines. I eased my short sword from its scabbard and—when the shadow was only five yards away—hurled myself at the enemy.
I clamped one hand over his mouth and pressed my blade to his throat with the other, then pulled him to the ground and dropped my full weight on him. Wide eyes shone in the moonlight, the fear and surprise gleaming brightly. His face was smeared with soot but, up close, could not hide the humanity behind the mask.
The smart thing would be to draw my sword through the man’s throat, to make one less soldier that might try to kill me in the morning. But, as I looked into those human eyes, saw myself reflected in them, I knew I’d had enough killing.
“Not a sound,” I warned him, then lifted my hand from his mouth, the blade still at his throat.
“Have mercy on a poor widow’s son,” he whispered.
My eyes opened wide at the words, and I pulled my sword away and rolled off the man.
“What’s your name?” I said.
The scout seemed as shocked as I was that the plea had worked, and he stammered, “Dave. Dave Perkins.”
“Well, Brother Perkins,” I said, recovering some of my wits, “it would appear you’ve lost your way this night. I believe your camp is over yonder.” I jerked my head toward the Northern lines.
“True, but my job is over here.”
“Not any more, it’s not.” I tapped his chest with the tip of my sword to drive home the point.
“I ain’t gonna beg,” he said, resignation taking the place of fear. “Just have done with it.”
I looked back at him, heaved a sigh and muttered, “Aw, hell.”
I rose and sheathed my sword, then jerked the other man to his feet and spun him in the direction of the creek.
“Get out of here,” I commanded, and pushed him toward the water’s edge.
He staggered
a couple of feet before he regained his balance, then turned to look at me.
“I won’t forget this,” he said in a low voice.
“You heard me,” I said, and stepped menacingly toward him. “Get.”
The man turned, and I planted my boot against his backside to speed him on his way. I heard him splash through the water and scramble up the opposite bank.
“God speed,” I whispered after him, then headed back toward my battery for what I hoped would be a dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER NINE
Davidson County, Tennessee—December 16, 1864
“Incoming!” I shouted to my crew. “Take cover.”
The still morning air was rent by the shrill scream of the approaching missile. I dove toward the inner wall of the revetment where my men already huddled together, bodies tucked into tight balls and arms wrapped over their heads. The enemy shell landed short of our position, its lethal shrapnel tearing harmlessly into the side of the hill between the battery placement and the entrenched troops below.
“Shell shot, percussion fuse,” I ordered as my men raced back to their guns.
I peeked over the edge of the low dirt wall, willing the cloud of smoke and dust to clear. As the field emerged into view, I gauged the point of impact and the pattern of debris to work backward toward the source of the attack.
“Three-quarters degree elevation,” I shouted as the crew wrestled the gun into alignment with my outstretched arm. The engineer in me balked at firing blindly into the morning fog, but the warrior insisted that the Federals would eventually sniff out our position if we didn’t find theirs first. “Fire.”
The gun roared and I cocked a ringing ear in the direction of the shot. A second and a half later the shell’s journey came to an explosive end with a flash of light, followed by a rumbling echo that rolled back across the field of battle. Behind the concussion rose the muted cries of pain and anger from the enemy soldiers caught within the blast. There were no metallic sounds, meaning I’d found the Union troops in their entrenchments, not the guns that would be farther up the opposite hill.
“Reload same,” I ordered, and twisted the elevation screw to raise the gun barrel. “Fire.”
For the second time in a minute the gun gave its belligerent roar, answered moments later by the explosion of the shell. This time, the blast was followed a half second later by a huge eruption as an enemy ammunition wagon was ensnared in the carnage.
“Target,” I shouted over the cheers of my men, then passed the coordinates to the other gun crews. “Case shot, second-and-a-quarter fuse—load.”
Followed by the other guns, we rained fire and brimstone on the heads of the Yankees. The sulfur and coal-tar filling of the case shot arced out in fiery tendrils clearly visible through the thinning fog. At only a quarter-mile’s distance, the cries of the men under the barrage were just as clear.
We pounded the enemy for nearly twenty minutes. The Federals shot back, but each muzzle flash only gave my guns a fresh target. When we ran out of targets I ordered the barrel swabbed, and the bronze tube guttered and fumed as the water-soaked sponge slaked the hot metal. Through the hissing steam and thinning fog I scanned the Union lines with my field glass.
With satisfaction, I noted the wreckage of several guns and caissons, willing myself blind to the burned and mutilated bodies that lay around and upon the mechanical carnage. Less satisfying was the fact that several of the guns bore Confederate markings, having been captured from Stewart’s Corps the day before. We’d miss the service of those guns before the day was out, I thought, but at least they could no longer be used against us.
“Fine shooting, Captain,” a voice said behind me.
“Thank you,” I replied automatically, then lowered my glass and turned to see who had spoken. “Thank you, sir,” I corrected myself as I recognized General Govan, the brigade commander. I resisted the urge to salute, given our exposed position on the hilltop. “I’m afraid that won’t be the last of them, though.”
“No, I don’t believe it will,” agreed Colonel Green, the senior regimental commander under Govan. “I suspect they’ll be bringing their own guns into battery soon, seeing as they’ve wasted ours now.”
“Colonel.” A winded lieutenant rushed up the hill to join the commanding officers. “Major Hamiter’s regards, sir,” he blurted, forgetting himself as he raised his hand in salute. “Scouts report a picket on foot, approaching from the south, Colonel.”
At that instant, a puff of red erupted from the back of the colonel’s uniform, spattering my tunic and face with blood. Green tottered, a look of irritation on his face as he studied the red stain on his chest. A second later, the report of the shot caught up with the high-velocity round.
“Cover,” I shouted to the men on the guns, then helped the wounded man to the ground.
The young lieutenant was ashen-faced with the realization that his salute might have given the unseen Yankee sharpshooter his target.
“Sir, I-I—”
“Little time for that now, son,” General Govan said, not unkindly. “How far out were those pickets? Lieutenant,” he barked when the young man failed to answer.
“Just inside the edge of the woods, sir,” he finally managed, and indicated the line of trees that bordered the southern edge of the hills.
“Very well. Tell the major to extend his position left around the flank and hold as best he can. Do not let them inside our lines,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir,” the young man replied, remembering not to salute as he turned to crawl back down the hill toward his post.
“We could use some cover in that direction, Captain,” Govan suggested.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Sergeant Newton.”
“Captain?” Newton answered as he scrambled over from his gun’s position.
“Have our left-most guns slew toward the south. We have reports of enemy infantry coming about the flank. Shell and grape shot, I should think.”
“Agreed. Sir?” the man spoke with uncharacteristic hesitancy. “Our left guns are Lieutenant Marshall’s.”
“Take over the gunnery,” I said without a moment’s thought. “If he has a problem with that, tell him I need his assistance here.”
“Yes, sir,” Newton said, then hurried to the farther gun emplacements.
General Govan looked at me for a moment through narrowed eyes, then cracked a slight grin and gave me an approving nod.
“Keep up the good work, Captain,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” I took that as my dismissal and turned to rejoin my crews.
I raised my glass to survey the changing enemy lines just as the opposite ridge erupted with multiple blooms of smoke, their deadly seeds sprouting ugly blossoms of dirt and debris as the shells were planted in the hill beneath my position. At the same instant, a cry arose to the left as scores of riflemen poured from the bordering tree line to charge our left flank.
So sudden was the assault, so well timed, that our dug-in infantry could offer but little resistance. I watched in horrified fascination as the charge developed. The enemy loosed a devastating round of rifle fire, then rushed our lines with their bayonets. As our flank was gouged by the surprise attack, the main line of Federal troops rushed across the field in a frontal assault.
“Maintain your fire on the field,” I shouted to my rightward crews. “Case and canister. Traverse left,” I ordered my own gunners to bring our weapon in line to support Newton.
I assumed the flanking maneuver to have been just wide enough to sweep around the end of our position, but was appalled to see the blue line extend half a mile farther beyond.
“Case shot, one second fuse, load,” I ordered when the gun aligned with the extreme third of the enemy advance. “Fire.”
Even as the gun belched out its deadly load, the approaching riflemen swept over the farther hill where Newton and Marshall were. I watched as their cannon cut through the charge with a deadly hail of canister shot. Dozens upon dozens of lead balls tor
e through the enemy, but the sheer number of Union troops overwhelmed the opposition of the two guns.
“Canister,” I murmured, my breath taken away by the spectacle.
“Sir?” a corporal asked.
“Canister,” I repeated more forcefully. “Zero elevation. Fire.”
The hail of death shot out from the Napoleon gun and slashed into the handful of advancing soldiers. The main body of the skirmishers had stopped at Newton’s emplacement, tipping over wagons and caissons and positioning the guns as a bulwark against the rest of our artillery. Thus sheltered, they fired into the unprotected backs of the infantry dug in below the hill.
“Shot load,” I demanded, enraged at the brutality of the engagement and the foolishness that had, again, allowed us to be flanked. “Fire, reload same.”
The cannon balls tore into the makeshift barricade and I nodded with grim satisfaction as, little by little, the protective barrier was broken down. The Yankees turned their attention from slaughtering our troops to strengthening their position.
My single gun continued to tear into the occupied hill while the rest of the battery fired on the field to drive back the frontal assault. Before long, help arrived in the form of reinforcements, who drove the Union troops off the captured hill.
Our flank was secure, but the reinforcements were fewer in number than the men who had originally lost the position. Nonetheless, with their advance troops driven back, the main body of the Federals retreated to the safety of their earthworks. To my relief, a second brigade of reinforcements soon arrived to further shore up our flagging left.
I ordered my gun back around to face front, then polled the other crews on their ammunition stores. Enough remained, I calculated, to repel one more assault. If we failed in driving the Yankees back with that, our guns would be useless without resupply. I dispatched a corporal to corps headquarters with that message, then focused on the shifting Union lines. Without fresh orders, it fell to me to try to read the enemy’s mind, and I positioned my guns as best I could to counter the next move.
