A Blaze of Glory (47 page)

“Everybody up! Get ready! Aim low!”

He glanced up, his eyes barely above the fattest limb, sat upright now, was amazed to see Captain Patch moving his horse directly along the line. Patch had a strange fire on his face, a hard, cold steel as though fighting through the horror in his own mind. But there was a job to do, and Patch was drilling that into his men. Bauer shifted his knees, rose up, could see now what the job was to be. Beyond the carpet of bodies, the woods were in motion, a wave of color, men coming at them quickly, no more than three hundred yards away. He stared, hypnotized, but around him men were shifting position, finding a place to aim the musket. The sergeants were clambering over the fallen timbers, quickly, sliding snakelike through the men, their own muskets and carbines settling into the good place, seeking protection in the cover. To the left, a volley of musket fire erupted, too soon, someone’s nervous impatience, the line of rebels not affected. All along the line, both directions, the calls came, but the men knew what to do, had done this before. The rebels came on, the only sounds now coming from them, the volume of their voices rising, a great wave rolling forward. A musket fired, close to his left, terrified impatience, and Bauer tried to fight that, angry at himself, shouting silently at the shaking in his hands. He had a different panic now.
Is it loaded?
He glanced down, saw the percussion cap, yes, good! The roar of voices was closer still, strange, unreal, something in his brain giving way, a story he heard, campfire at night,
the scream of the Banshees …
and he fought that, pushed back at the terror, the desperate need to leave this place, to stand up, drop the musket, run …

“Fire!”

The muskets around him blew out their charges, and he stared at the smoke, had done nothing, no aim, his finger fumbling for the trigger. The men behind him fired now, more smoke, the blasts close above his head, men all around him scrambling to reload, more useless shouts from the sergeants. He aimed, cursing the smoke, the shaking in his hands slowing, waited, some glimpse, the order to one side, “Fire at will!”

The chorus of shouts coming toward them was louder still, and he saw them through the smoke, a man with a thick black beard, strange floppy hat, red shirt, twenty yards. He pulled the trigger, musket jolting his shoulder, smoke in a burst in front of him. He didn’t wait to see, the routine taking over. He dug frantically into his cartridge box, shoved the musket down beneath the log, the barrel toward him, paper in his teeth, ripping, the taste of powder, pouring it into the barrel, the ball, shoved in, the ramrod, push … hard, pull the musket up, roll it over, hammer back, percussion cap in place. He looked out, saw a man step up on a log, a small gray hat on the man’s head, gold braiding, gold buttons on his chest, the man holding a pistol, looking back, waving it, then forward again, pointing, firing, to the left. The man seemed to search, looking manically, his eyes finding Bauer, but Bauer’s search had ended. The pistol moved, a single smooth motion, the man aiming, and Bauer pulled the trigger, the musket making an odd sound, belching smoke. He grabbed for another cartridge, began the routine again, saw the rebel officer standing fixed, looking down, the pistol gone, his hand moving to his chest. Bauer saw it now, the ramrod,
his
ramrod, driven through the man. The officer stepped back off the log, then dropped to his knees, still stared at the arrow that had impaled him, then fell to one side, disappeared into the debris of the timbers.

“They’re pulling back! Fire at will!”

Bauer felt an odd panic, no, what did you do? His hand searched frantically, the ramrod not in its place, nowhere around him. He looked out to the field, saw the rebel line pulling back, men still dropping, shot down from the muskets of the men close to him.

“Up men! Charge them! Don’t let them get away!”

A dozen men closest to him took the call, rose up from their good cover, stepping forward awkwardly, stumbling, moving out into the open ground. But an officer held them up, forming them into line, and Bauer stood, tried to climb out of his hole, his legs stiff, frozen, and he looked out again into the field, fresh bodies in the grass, men stacked on top of men. Close in front of him, he saw the ramrod, pointing straight up from the debris, forced his legs out over the log, eased himself that way, hesitated, his brain holding to the image of the man’s pistol, the black hole of the barrel. He held the bayonet ready, peered quickly over the debris, saw the officer, blood in a small stain on the man’s gray coat, the ramrod halfway buried in the man’s chest.

“Well, pull it out! Let’s go!” Willis was there, rapped him hard on the back. “You practicing archery? Here, I’ll do it.”

Willis grabbed the ramrod, put a foot on the man’s ribs, gave a tug, the thin steel sliding out, a small fountain of blood following it up from the hole. Willis laughed.

“You do that again, just remember … there’s plenty of these damn things lying around here. But it ain’t the smartest way to kill a reb. You mighta bent this one a little. C’mon. Load your damn musket. We still got work to do.”

“Move! Advance!”

Champlin was there, gave Bauer a shove in the back, noticed the rebel officer now.

“Well, look what you got here. A captain. Good shooting, Private.”

Willis slapped him again.

“Yeah, he’s a regular sharpshooter.”

“Let’s go! Join up with those fellows over here. Form up!”

Bauer followed, looked again to the graycoat, heard Willis say something about the man’s pistol …
a keepsake
. Bauer ignored him, stared out to the field, the men forming into line, Captain Patch again, more men down the way, more strength, the line stretching all along the edge of the woods. The men were stepping forward, picking their way through the bodies, and Bauer felt that as well, some odd logic, the rebels just killed not as respected, Bauer stepping on a fresh body to avoid an older one. He slid into line, saw a small wound on the captain’s horse, heard Patch call out, “Look at it, boys! Look at how many we are! Brigade front! We’re going after those damn rebels! The colonel’s damn tired of this! We’re not waiting for ’em to come to us!”

Patch waved his sword, the bugler giving the call from somewhere down the line, and Bauer began to step through the scattered and heaped bodies, stared down at the mass of flesh around him. He avoided what he could, saw men farther out in the field, wounded rebels, some trying to crawl away. Bauer suddenly absorbed Patch’s words …
we’re not waiting for them to come to us …
and one thought rolled through his brain, one question:

Why not?

T
hey had moved forward again, past another field littered with dead. Bauer squatted low, a nervous shaking stare at the line of rebels who stared back at him. Behind him, more men were standing, and now the order came, Captain Patch to one side, still on the horse.

“Fire!”

The entire line erupted, and down to the side another order was given, another volley. Across from Bauer, the rebel line seemed to waver, too many men going down, some pulling away. The musket fire came toward them now, sharp zips that tore the air in all directions. Behind Bauer, the second line fired their volley, while Bauer reloaded, the bend in his ramrod ignored, the bloodstain from the rebel captain long wiped away. Across the field, the rebels began to melt away, many of them down, falling still, a third volley tearing their lines, Bauer joining into that, searching the smoke for anyone standing, the aim at the legs, the jolt into his shoulder. The smoke hid the rebel retreat, most of it, some men still standing tall, but not for long. Bauer had seen that too often, at the peach orchard, near the awful bloody pond, and now, in the open fields. They stood as though deaf to the sounds of the lead in the air, as though on the parade ground, fire, reload, fire again. But the strength in the Federal lines was far too great, and the brave rebels, the men Bauer had begun to admire, were far too few to hold back the wave of blue that poured toward them.

The order came now, a hoarse shout through the lull in the firing.

“Advance, double-quick!”

Bauer obeyed, as they all did, their line strengthened by a fresh regiment coming out of the woods behind them, moving up quickly. Few turned to see them, no one really caring who they were, what state, what flag. As Bauer stepped forward, he breathed in the smoke, his eyes and lungs burning. But no one held back, few ran away, the sergeants keeping order without the brutality, the cursing jerks on the coat collars. Bauer appreciated that moving forward was a far simpler maneuver than pulling away, that if there was any kind of contagiousness spreading through these men, it was the best kind, the certainty that they were driving the enemy back, that they were
winning
.

They drove through another stand of timber, more of the cracked and broken trees, obstacles and cover, slowing the line. But the men around Bauer were used to this now, filed through the openings in good order. Bauer fought the watery eyes, the coughs, ignored the others around him, suffering the same ailments he was. He pushed past a wounded man, a rebel with blood on his face, a quick glance, searching for weapons in the man’s hand. That was new, the wounded still dangerous. As they pushed past more of the fallen rebels, some of those men had suddenly taken their last chance, a bayonet lunging upward, a pistol discharging the last round. If there had been pity before, there was none now, and many of the men who marched beside Bauer stepped past the wounded with a flash of the bayonet, no one stopping them, the wounded not wounded any longer. Out front the officers kept up the pace, one lieutenant suddenly stumbling, a single sharpshooter making good his last round. The fallen officer caused a roar of anger that spread through the men who followed him, draining away a small piece of their exhaustion.

In the field, the rebels waited, but they were not many, and Bauer fought to breathe, pain in his ribs, the exhaustion of yesterday returning. He slowed, others near him doing the same, the line of rebels taking aim, a volley blowing out toward them. Bauer had seen the rebels aiming, had dropped low, simple instinct now, the balls flying high, one man crying out, the one man who reacted too slowly. They were up again, the sharp command, the rebels drifting back, leaving more of their own in the field. Bauer tried to keep the pace, but no one was moving quickly, many men stopping, as Bauer did now, staring out with blackened faces, powder-coated shirts, some with small wounds, torn shirts for bandages. The officers knew what their men had done, how far they had come, and so the orders didn’t come, the men on horseback focused more to the front, seeing what so many of the infantrymen could not. In the woods beyond, where the backs of the rebels showed one more retreat, the field was speckled with white. Some of the tents were still standing, though many more were ripped down, either by the rebels or by the artillery fire the Federal batteries now poured toward the rebel lines.

Bauer leaned on his musket, didn’t know if he had reloaded, and for the moment, he didn’t care. The enemy had faded away in front, and in some weary place in his mind, he knew they would stand up again, face them again, the next field, the next patch of forest. He saw Willis, down on one knee, but there were no words, nothing to say, no energy to say it. The artillery continued out to the right, a hot fight, but in a few short minutes, that quieted as well. The sudden lack of firing seemed to catch them all by surprise, the men standing again, few speaking, and heads began to turn, Bauer with them, hearing the chatter and thumps far to the right, where the other Federal divisions had driven their way forward. No one around him, none of the officers, not even the colonel had any idea what was happening on those far distant fields, in the ravines and gullies and stands of blasted trees. But here the officers knew they had to get their men up and moving, had to keep the pressure on the retreating rebels. Bauer saw Patch ride out in front, saw the sword come up again, could see the other horsemen, the line stretching to both ends of the field. He saw motion, far to the left, the end of the field, the woods there suddenly alive with blue, another line rolling forward, coming at an angle into their flank. For a long moment, the two lines halted, officers in a gallop toward each other. The meetings were brief, and Bauer saw a larger flag, the breeze showing the Stars and Stripes,
brass
, someone who must know what was happening. Colonel Allen rode back toward his men now, Patch and Captain Pease close beside him, aides trailing behind, blood on the flanks of the horses. The men around Bauer knew what was coming, and they hoisted their muskets, Bauer doing the same, a quick glance at the percussion cap, knew he had reloaded, no memory of that. Behind them, the bugler was there, ever present, the man Bauer almost never saw. The call came now, Patch’s sword pointing the way, and once more, the blue lines, feeling the strength, the power brought to them by so many fresh troops, obeyed the order and began to march.