A Blaze of Glory (34 page)

“I started to run, Sammie. Not gonna run now. Swear to you.”

“I’ll be watchin’ you. It’s about to get nasty up there. You wait. That fight we heard weren’t no church social. I done shot down a dozen of those devils, killed most of ’em right where they stood. They try to crawl off, I fix that, too. This is my third musket. Damn things get fouled.” Willis paused. “It’s gonna start all over again, or we wouldn’t be standing here. You load your musket?”

Bauer knew he had, but looked at the percussion cap, the sign the weapon was ready to fire.

“Yep.”

“Good. Remember to aim low. Shoot at their knees.”

Bauer had heard that too often, but he knew that Willis was right, knew, too, that they would hear it from the officers.

Behind him, Champlin.

“Shut up! Wait for orders! Be ready to advance!”

Bauer was desperately happy Willis was there, no matter the odd display of energy for the fighting, for the
killing
. Willis’s words stirred something uneasy inside of him, but the cold came again, the fear and the shaking in his legs. The entire formation seemed to pulse, anxious and tired men staring ahead across the small field. They were blind to what lay to the front, more of the woods they had learned to despise, and they stood in line with a hum of growing anger, fear, and fury, waiting for the order to march toward whatever might be in front of them.

Allen rode closer to them, one aide close behind him, the other officers and the great flag riding away. The colonel looked down his lines of men, the hasty gathering, no real organization at all. He seemed to measure them, and Bauer saw confidence. He drew his sword and pointed the way.

T
he new fight exploded to the northwest again, past distant trees to the right of them, as though the enemy had no idea these men were here at all. Bauer stared that way, the men around him doing the same, saw a low haze of smoke swelling up, maybe a quarter mile away. But the sergeants were acting like sergeants again, their orders passed along by the lieutenants, and Bauer heard Sergeant Champlin, moving along the line, directly behind him.

“Watch that ground in front of you! Nothing to see over there!”

Bauer tried to obey, but the fighting was growing more fierce, just as before, a clash of armies that seemed to swallow the air around them. Bauer wanted to know, to ask what was happening, who … but he knew better, looked ahead at the trees, thick brush, silence, shivered, thought, soon enough. They’re coming. Sure as hell.

The bugle sounded again, Allen and the captains leading them forward. The flags were many now, and Bauer saw a small pond, rusty water, thin trees and heavy brush beyond. The lines shifted to slide around both sides of the pond, and Bauer saw a fence line, Allen ordering forward the first line to pull down the rails. Bauer was there, helped by others on both sides, the fence only pieces now, the men continuing to move forward. Bauer looked to the right again, the fight still there, heavy artillery in every direction, shells shrieking toward what seemed to be a single patch of ground. In front of him, the officers were shouting, pulling the men forward, and Bauer saw one lone farmhouse a couple hundred yards to the right, saw the men that way drive past it, their officers keeping them from bunching up behind it in the obvious cover. He cleared the brush line, and in front of him was a grove of peach trees, thick with white blossoms, small gnarled trees, their flowers like so many tents pitched a foot above the ground. The men were ordered down, beneath the peach trees, and Bauer was crawling now, Willis close to one side, Champlin behind him, pushing them, keeping every man in line. Now the order came to halt, and Bauer was directly beneath a single white canopy, hundreds of white flowers close overhead. He caught the fragrance, sweet and amazing, a small flicker of decency in the great horror that seemed to grow even louder down to the right. An officer crawled out in front of him, Company C’s captain, Patch. He sat upright, beside a lieutenant Bauer didn’t know, Patch’s voice hoarse and ragged, just loud enough to be heard over the din.

“You see that brush out past these trees? That’s where they’re gonna be coming from. Hold your fire until you hear the lieutenant’s order! No sooner! Any man shoots too soon gives us away!” Patch paused. “Give ’em hell, boys. They’re just rebels, and this morning they dragged your flag through the mud. Time to get some revenge! But hold your fire! And dammit, shoot low.”

The volleys to the right were quieting, that fight exhausting itself yet again. Bauer peered up, nothing to see but flowers and flattened men, the peach trees hiding any sign of what had to be a vicious confrontation. There were single pops from muskets, and now the artillery began again, but only a few, batteries mostly back behind them, some very far away to the right. Bauer curled his knees up slightly, rested his musket against the crooked trunk of the tree, measured the tree, no more than four or five inches, not much protection. The artillery was slowing now as well, a few thumps coming from far across the ground in front, ground he couldn’t see. He stared at the brush, thought, fifty yards, maybe less. Awful close.

And now he heard the drums.

The men around him grew silent, faces forward, even the officers quiet. The drums beat in a slow, steady rhythm, and far out beyond the brush they could hear shouts, orders, the same calls of the sergeants and lieutenants that followed them into every march. Slowly, Champlin moved up beside Bauer, said to as many as could hear the hard whisper, “Wait until you
see
them! Aim low!”

Bauer leaned the musket hard against the tree, a steady aim, nothing to see yet, no targets. The drumming grew louder, and now he saw the tips of flags, close, the crunch of brush under the footsteps of marching men. His heart beat furiously in his chest, men around him making small nervous grunts, every musket forward, every man taking aim. The brush began to stir now, flecks of color, the voices continuing, one man calling out, “Keep forward! Prepare to fire!”

The rebels stepped closer, the brush giving way to a dense line of men, every type of uniform, no uniforms at all, an officer on horseback, flags, the drums louder, and from one side, Bauer heard the single command.

“Front rank! Fire!”

The front line of men beneath the peach trees emptied their muskets in one crashing eruption, smoke and flame bursting straight into the lines of rebels. Bauer pulled the trigger, too quickly, no target, but the smoke blew thick in front of him, filling the low trees. Another order, “Second rank! Fire!”

The second volley blasted past him, men behind with few targets, just firing into the smoke. But the enemy was too close and too many, and even the poorly aimed shot found its mark, the sudden screams of wounded men blending in with the order for another volley. Bauer felt the shock of a musket firing close behind him, the deafening roar driving a sharp pain into his ear, smoke engulfing him. Bauer cried out, but no sound could measure what now swirled around them, the rebels responding with volleys of their own. Bauer stayed behind his one small tree, struggled to reload the musket, rolled over flat on his back, could hear the cracking slaps against the trees, the rebel muskets mostly shooting high, oblivious to their targets lying so close, flattened out only yards away. He fought to pour powder into the barrel, tilting the musket up slightly, felt a burst of splinters against his arm, a musket ball blowing through the tree. He pulled the arm tight to his body, but the musket was still not ready, and he raised the barrel again, with a desperate hope that the powder had stayed inside. His hands were shaking wildly, and his fingers gripped the lead minié ball, and with a single rapid motion, he stuffed it into the muzzle, then slid the ramrod out of its cradle. Beside him the ground was punched by a ball, and he felt a sting in his arm. He pulled his arm in again, tried to make himself smaller, looked at the tear in his shirtsleeve, a small trickle of blood. He tried to ignore that, jammed the ramrod into the barrel, then pulled it out, set it aside, no time for the one-two steps of the field drills. He fumbled for a percussion cap, mashed it down hard on the nipple at the musket’s breech, let out a hard breath, rolled over to his belly, tried to keep his head behind the tree. Through the smoke he could see the rebels, very close, some standing, aiming into the peach orchard, many more down, some firing prone, as he was. Others were just bodies, heaps of dead men offering some help to the living by providing a shield of flesh.

Through the moving smoke he saw one man aiming straight toward him, and he rolled again to his back, behind the tree, the musket ball slicing the air directly above his face, a dull crack behind him, a man crying out, then squirming, twisting wildly on the ground. Bauer froze, stared at the man’s agony, felt the terror grabbing him, and he looked to the side, saw others firing through the twisted trees, reloading, firing again. The muskets of the rebels responded, sheets of lead slicing through the peach trees, churning the ground. All around him, he watched as the white blossoms were cut down, a steady shower that seemed to drift down on the soldiers. He stared at one man, Willis, his filthy blue coat flecked with the small flowers, the flowers on his hat, and Bauer’s paralyzing fear began to change, something else calling him away, the bizarre and beautiful image, so many men doing their deadly work, and yet there was a peacefulness, the firing so steady it seemed like a hard wind, and all the while, the air around them seemed to bring that piece of home. It looked like a snowstorm.

He stared for a long moment, saw Willis reloading, another man beside him lying still, blood on the man’s head. The musket fire continued, and Bauer fought through the terror, yelled at himself, a long loud cry, driving away the demons that kept him from moving. He rolled back over to his belly, his face close to the tree, slid the musket forward, took aim again. Men were still standing, as though invulnerable, oblivious to the threat, and Bauer chose one, the man loading his own musket, thoughts screaming through Bauer’s brain, not this time! No more for you! He aimed low, at the man’s waist and pulled the trigger. The rebel lurched backward, his limbs splayed out, his musket falling slowly down across him. A voice, close to him, Willis, “Good shooting! You got him!”

ASSAULT ON THE “HORNET’S NEST” AND THE PEACH ORCHARD

Bauer looked for the man to move, and for a brief second, he hoped the man was alive, felt a strange horror, get up …
just run away
. He noticed now that the firing had slowed, and then, voices, all around him, Willis again, others, calling out.

“They’re running! They’re hauling it holus-bolus!”

More men took up the call, some muskets still seeking a target, and Bauer could see through the smoke now, the dense brush trampled flat, saw the backs of men, some in a full run, one man turning to fire, a wild shot, suddenly cut down. The orders came now, behind them, and then, in front, “Up, men! Bayonets! Charge them! Don’t let them get away!”

Bauer slid forward, clear of the shattered branches of the tree, stood, saw more men around him, up, ready, bayonets fixed, and out front, the rebels, some still trying to form a line, officers on horseback, one falling, flags waving, someone’s feeble attempt to rally their men. The charge began, the men in blue driving forward from the orchard, but it was weak, no order, no time to form a hard line. Some of the Federal troops broke into a run of their own, chasing down their enemy, the slower rebels caught, the work of the bayonet, others just knocking the rebels down, tackling them, lunging fists and muskets swung like clubs. Bauer jammed his bayonet onto the musket, pushed out of the orchard, but the charge seemed to end before it began, men already coming back, some hurrying, as though understanding that the enemy might come again, the soldiers seeking protection in the orchard. Out front Allen was there, sword high, but the colonel seemed to understand what his men already knew. For now, this fight was over.

Bauer felt a surge of emotion, as though he had missed something, the enemy disappearing into far trees. Some men in blue were still far out in the field, but their fight was over as well, and they drifted back, shouting out a final curse, challenges and taunts. One man suddenly dropped, cut low by a far distant musket, and many of the others took the meaning of that, quickened their pace, once more to the orchard.

Allen was riding to one end of the orchard, northward, beyond the farmhouse, now riddled with holes. After a short minute, the colonel returned, the sword still high, waving slowly over his head, his words coming now: “Prepare yourselves! They’ll come again! Get ready! Reload!”

Bauer watched him as he rode past again, toward the other end of the orchard, then beyond, more men far beyond what was left of the peach trees, protected as well by thickets of brush. Bauer slipped back through the peach trees, searched for his own tree, and he saw Willis now, kneeling, tending to a fallen man, Willis moving away, and Bauer saw the man’s face, the hat, Michigan, saw a black, bloody hole in the man’s forehead. Bauer looked away for a long second, noticed now that so many of the peach trees had been stripped and blasted by the shower of lead that had ripped the limbs to splinters, and beneath them, more of the dead and wounded. Throughout the orchard, the flowers had covered much of the ground with a carpet of white, some men seeing that as he did, sharing the odd peacefulness that seemed suddenly to settle on them all. Bauer looked again to the dead man close to him, began a prayer, but something stopped him, and he turned to the front, where the brush had been, the grass and briars replaced by a thick mass of rebel troops. He stared for a long moment, a voice close to him, Willis.