“Thanks for showing up,” he said, yanking at the halyard. The sentries covered their ears. The cannon didn’t fire.
Jesse didn’t even look at him. He said: “Company-forward march.” The men marched off across the field toward the blue formation marching at them. Roy, on the end with Gordo at one elbow and Sergeant Dibrell behind, heard Earl yelling, “Why the fuck won’t this bitch fire?”
“Was it my turn to put in the powder?” said one of the sentries.
Another boom from the Yankee guns smothered Earl’s reply. The blue lines halted and fired, front and second ranks simultaneously, puffs of smoke blooming from the mouths of their muskets.
“Where’s our drummer boy?” Gordo said.
“Little League,” said Dibrell.
Roy laughed. Did his laughter go on a bit too long? He made up his mind right then to drive back home as soon as he decently could.
“Company-halt,” said Jesse. They halted.
“Firing by files, from the left,” Jesse said.
“That’s you, Roy,” said Dibrell.
“Ready.” Roy raised his carbine, looked through the V-shaped sight, swept it along the blue line.
“Aim.” Sergeant Vandam came into the V. Roy steadied on his bearded face.
“Fire.” A strange thing happened to Roy’s vision at that moment. It sharpened, not just a little but acutely, as sometimes happens when a drop of water from the shower slides across your eyeball. He could see that Vandam was talking, could see his teeth, even the tip of his tongue, pink in the sunlight. He fixed on that little pink flap and squeezed the way Lee had told him. The gun kicked, but not as hard as it had firing real bullets. Vandam kept coming. Despite everything, Roy was a little surprised.
“Company-forward, reload.” Roy pulled the lever, half cocked the hammer, bit open his cartridge, stuck it in the breech, set a new percussion cap in place, kept going; a complicated series of maneuvers performed without a slip, without even a thought.
The wind had died down now and clouds of smoke hung in the air, smelling of burned powder. The blue line was less than a hundred yards away now, the two lines closing fast, but without any special effort, at least that Roy felt, as though he were walking on one of those moving ramps at the airport. The drum beat faster, the boy missing with his sticks now and then, sending a sharp cracking sound off the metal rim.
“Company-halt.” Roy halted, had his gun up before the next command.
“Firing by company,” said Jesse. “Ready.”
“All together, now, Roy,” said Dibrell.
But he’d already guessed, was ready for someone’s musket poking over his right shoulder from the back row.
“Aim.” Roy got Vandam in the V.
“They should start falling now, according to plan,” Jesse said. “If you’re clearly hit, don’t be an asshole. We want to get invited back.”
The hyperclear vision returned. Roy could see that Vandam was taking aim right at him, his off eye shut tight. Roy’s gun, the Sharps carbine with death on the stock, moved in a little arc. That was the way it seemed to Roy: he didn’t move it. The barrel swung, as though under its own control, or the control of someone else. It swung, and fixed on another target: the boy.
“Fire.”
Roy squeezed that little toothpaste squeeze. The drummer boy kept coming and so did Vandam, his eyes on Roy, but another Yankee staggered, doubled up, shrieked in pain, staggered some more, spun around, went down on one knee, raised his hands, held them there like Christ on the cross, slowly pivoted so the crowd on the other side of the field got a frontal view too, and slowly, slowly subsided in the grass.
Applause.
“Company-charge bayonets.”
The two lines ran at each other, ran at full speed-Lee and Jesse leading the rebels, but Roy closing fast-reached the firing limit. A Yankee aimed right at Gordo, pulled the trigger. Bang.
“Missed me,” said Gordo.
Peterschmidt shot at Gordo with his pistol, inside the limit now.
“Saved by my belt buckle,” said Gordo.
“Lie fucking down,” Lee said.
Gordo lay down.
The two lines came together.
“Hand to hand, now. No injuries.”
Someone tried a rebel yell, nothing like Roy’s, just a yell. A man in blue grunted, pitched forward, lay on the ground crying, “Surgeon, surgeon.” Peterschmidt pointed his pistol at Lee. Jesse dove at Peterschmidt, tackled him gently. Lee raised his gun, brought the butt down lightly on the ground, a foot from Peterschmidt’s head. Peterschmidt said, “Nice job,” and went still. A man in blue screamed, “Mother of God, I’m hit.” A man in gray fell beside Roy and moaned, “Tell my wife that I’ll always…” He bit down and red liquid came drooling between his lips. Gordo said: “Just a flesh wound.” Vandam rose up, swinging his gun by the barrel at Roy. Roy was quicker, stepped inside, jabbed the muzzle of the Sharps into Vandam’s gut, as though it had a bayonet, but barely touching him.
“You’re dead,” Roy said, and as he did, the memory of play fighting in the barn long ago with Sonny Junior awakened in his mind, ready to come alive in form and color.
“No bayonets on a carbine, you dumb reb,” said Vandam, and the butt of his gun cracked Roy just above the ear.
NINETEEN
”This here’s for taking off arms and legs, amputations and the like,” said a Southern voice.
”Got an edge to it, I’ll grant you that,” said a Northern voice.
“Sharper the edge, sooner it’s over,” said the Southerner.
Roy opened his eyes. It was dark, a gas lantern hanging from the shadows above shedding flickering, smoky light on the walls of a tent and two men, one in blue, one in gray, standing with their backs to him. Roy’s vision wasn’t good, everything fuzzy as though some knob needed adjusting, but he could make out the yellow serpents on their sleeves, and the shiny instrument they were examining under the lantern. The shininess hurt his eyes. He closed them.
“Any anesthetics in the kit?” said the Northerner.
“Chloroform, long as it lasts,” said the Southerner. “Whiskey after that, less’n someone’s got into it.”
Roy opened his eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with my arms and legs,” he said.
They turned to him.
“So put that thing away.”
“I think he’s awake,” said the Northerner.
“Are you awake?” said the Southerner.
Roy sat up. That made the pain in his eyes spread through his head but he stayed sitting up, even considered standing.
“Whoa, there,” said the Northerner. “What’s his name, again?”
“Roy,” said the Southerner. “He’s a new recruit.”
“Why don’t you just lie back down, Roy,” said the Northerner.
“I’m fine like this,” Roy said.
“The major wants to examine you,” said the Southerner. He patted Roy gently on the shoulder. “Heard a lot about you, Roy. I’m the surgeon with the Twelfth Georgia-everybody calls me Doc.”
“You haven’t put that thing away, Doc,” Roy said.
The lantern shone yellow on the pointed teeth of the instrument. Doc laid it in a wooden box at his feet, giving Roy a quick glimpse of other sharp things inside. “I was just showing the major some of my things, Roy-he’s a doctor with the Second Connecticut.”
“Lie back down, son,” said the major. “This won’t take a moment.”
“No need,” Roy said, standing up instead, but the lantern light got unsteady right away, and Roy sat back down, maybe with some help from Doc.
“Easy, Roy,” he said. “You got dinged pretty good there.”
Roy raised his hand, felt the bandages around his head. His first thought was a weird one: Sonny Junior. Then he smelled piss. Then it started coming back to him.
“Might have a slight concussion,” said Doc.
“You a doctor?” Roy said.
“How do you mean?” said Doc.<
br />
“How do I mean? I mean a real doctor.”
“Real in the sense of…?”
“What you do for a living-that sense.”
“When I’m not with the regiment?”
Roy nodded. It hurt.
“I’m currently between jobs,” Doc said. “But I used to be a bartender at the downtown Ritz.”
“So what makes you think I have a concussion?”
“The major said so.”
Roy turned to the major. “You’re the maitre d’?” he said.
The major laughed. No way he was the maitre d’. Younger than Doc, who was kind of distinguished looking, with those wings of silvery swept-back hair long-ago movie stars had, the major was scruffy; unshaven, with acne scars and a blackhead on the tip of his nose. “I’m a neurologist at Columbia-Presbyterian,” he said.
“Where’s that?”
“New York.”
Roy sensed some kind of conspiracy. “You know Dr. Nordman?”
“Who’s he?”
“Grant Nordman. Another doctor from New York.”
The major shook his head. “There are thousands of doctors in New York.”
“This one beat you to the punch,” Roy said.
“I’m sorry?” said the major.
“Never mind,” Roy said. But that wasn’t strong enough, and besides, his eyes hurt and his head hurt. He revised it to: “Never fucking mind.” He gave the major a look.
“Maybe you should lie back down for a minute or two,” the major said.
“How stupid do you think I am?” Roy said.
“I don’t think you’re stupid at all,” the major said.
“Then why would I trust a Yankee doctor?”
The major and Doc exchanged a glance. “Think he’s still in character?” said the major, lowering his voice.
“Because of the blow to his head?” said Doc, lowering his even more.
“Exactly.”
“Wouldn’t that be something?” said Doc. “Like a whole movie, right there.”
“I think it’s been done,” the major said. They gazed down at Roy. “Ever play football?” the major asked Roy in a normal voice.
“Tight end,” said Roy. “I had a touchdown against LSU but they called it back.”
“LSU?” said Doc. “Who did you-”
“Ever get your bell rung?” said the major.
“Yeah.”
“How many times?”
“One or two.”
“Three or four, maybe?”
“I refuse to answer any more questions,” Roy said.
He lay back. The lantern began to swing slightly. Or maybe not: maybe it was just the shadows of Doc and the major sliding back and forth on the canvas walls. Or maybe something else. Roy closed his eyes. He saw black clouds in an orange sky. Smoke and fire. Atlanta.
Silence, except for the faint sound of the burning wick, like shredding cloth, far away. Then an owl hooted, very near. When had he last heard an owl? Roy couldn’t remember-possibly never, except on TV. He listened hard, hoping to hear it again. That effort, of listening hard, led him to imagine some connection between the owl and him, as if they were in this together, and the owl knew it too. He felt one of those strange new moments of almost being at peace coming over him.
“He’ll be all right,” said the major. “Time for the pig roast.”
“Dinty Moore for us,” Doc said. “More authentic.”
“Dinty Moore?”
“Authentic looking anyway.”
“Like that lantern’s authentic?” the major said.
“They had lamp oil,” said Doc.
“Not in the field. Much too heavy for the sutlers to cart in. But they did have pigs.”
“Maybe you,” Doc said. “We were starving.”
The wick made its shredding sound.
When the major spoke again, his tone was gentler. “Sorry about Vandam,” he said. “He pulled a stunt like this last summer at Antietam.”
“What’s his problem?”
“He and a few of the hard-core guys overdo it sometimes. They spend the winters getting all worked up at a bar he’s got in Hoboken.”
“What’s that like?”
“Hoboken? Kind of happening now, in parts.”
“I wonder if he’s hiring,” Doc said.
The owl hooted, a long, drawn-out sound that ended in a coo. Roy thought he heard owl breath after that. Then silence.
He felt something cool on his forehead. He pictured a hand, a cool hand: his mother’s when he was home sick.
“Roy? Are you awake?”
A woman’s voice: Marcia? Oh, that would be nice. But it wasn’t Marcia, wasn’t a woman he knew.
“No,” Roy said.
“I thought I heard you singing,” she said. “Something about the Milky Way.”
“Not me,” Roy said, and opened his eyes. He realized at once that he’d been dreaming this whole exchange, because no one had a hand on his forehead, and there was no woman in the tent, just Lee, sitting on a stool beside him, lantern light glowing in his eyes.
“Are you in pain?” Lee said.
“I’m fine.”
“We all feel bad.”
“Accidents happen.”
The shape of Lee’s nose changed for a moment, the nostrils widening, the bridge sharpening: he looked almost fierce. “That’s what I was thinking.” Lee drew something shiny from his belt; for a moment, his vision still fuzzy, Roy took it for one of Doc’s instruments, and not the fat-bladed knife it was.
“No bayonets on a carbine?” Roy said.
“Course not,” said Lee. “Carbines are for cavalry.”
“Now I know.”
Lee laid a sharpening stone in his lap. “Earl’s writing a strongly worded letter,” he said, “but I’m with you.”
“You are?”
“Accidents happen.” Lee worked the edges of the knife over the stone, back and forth.
Roy didn’t get what Lee was driving at, just watched: the stone, the knife, Lee’s small, symmetrical hand-all without defects, all performing perfectly, pressure, speed, and angle perfect. He could almost feel the sharpness of the blade against the ball of his own thumb.
“You’re going to miss the barbecue,” Roy said.
“Barbecue? That was hours ago, Roy. It’s two in the morning.”
Roy looked around. “Where’s Jesse?”
“Asleep. This is the medical tent.”
“Why aren’t you asleep too?”
“Couldn’t.”
“How come?”
Lee rose, slid the knife in his belt. “Want anything before I go?”
“Where are you going?”
“You must be thirsty.”
He was. Lee handed him a canteen. Roy drank. Good water: cool, with just the right amount of dustiness, flint, and metal in the taste. Was this the water of 1863, how water was before everything got fucked up? Roy didn’t ask, didn’t want to hear that it was Poland Spring or whatever was in the convenience store cooler on the drive up from the city. By the time he’d slaked his thirst and was done thinking all those thoughts, Lee was gone. The tent flap made a few wavy motions, went still.
Roy got up. He was a little wobbly, his vision fuzzy, the air in the tent smoky from the lantern. This was a moment for air supply problems, and Roy got ready for them. But nothing happened. He raised the flap and went outside.
A full moon shone down on the camp. Then two moons, which Roy worked down to a moon and a half and finally back to one. The tents stretched in silver rows toward the woods, like a nighttime convoy under sail. There wasn’t a sound, and nothing stirred except a shadow beyond the farthest tent, almost in the woods. Roy followed.
The shadow merged with the trees and Roy lost it almost at once. He kept going; not only going, but going fast, soon among the trees himself. That was strange-he was no tracker, no woodsman, plus his head hurt and he wasn’t seeing well-but he sped along through the forest as though on a path he’d
been taking all his life. Not only that, but speeding along in silence. He listened for sounds of himself, heard none-not his feet on the twigs, needles, and leaves of the forest floor, not the swishing of his woolen uniform, not his breathing. He did hear a tiny crunch, like a hard clod of earth disintegrating beneath a heel, somewhere ahead, and caught a figure in a little pool of moonlight between trees, almost flowing, then disappearing in darkness. Lee, for sure: the size, the way he moved, and the silver flash of the fat-bladed knife on his belt.
Roy was flowing too, no doubt about it, an easy mover, all of a sudden, in the night. He knew, absolutely knew, that the owl, his owl, was hovering over him, just above the trees, and he also knew that his owl was the descendant of the owls of 1863, owls that had gazed down with their huge eyes on Roy Singleton Hill. He was ready, despite a little bit of dizziness in his head, a little bit of fuzziness around the edges of his vision, for anything.
Ready, for example, for that campfire in a tiny clearing in the middle distance. He didn’t creep up on it, just walked to the edge of the trees, invisible. Two men sat by the fire, both with blankets over their shoulders, but Roy could see that one wore blue, the other gray. The man in gray drank from a silver flask. The man in blue said, “Fifteen two, fifteen four, and a pair is six.”
“You’re the luckiest son of a bitch I ever met,” said the man in gray, a little drunk-Roy could hear it. The man in gray a little drunk, while the man in blue sounded sober: it pissed him off.
Last of the Dixie Heroes Page 19
