[Chapter 1, continued]
“Where the Hell is the Second
Massachusetts?” Grant had to shout in
order that his aide be able to hear him.
The man was only a sword’s-length away from him, as close as their horses
would get to one another, but the cannonade had steadily increased in volume
until now the sound of it threatened to inflict pain. “We’re supposed to be advancing!”
“I don’t know, sir!” The young lieutenant was clearly upset, and
his horse, aware of the man’s anxiety, shied nervously. “I rode all the way back to our baggage
train, and they’re just not there! And
they’re not anywhere on the way!”
“Well, they can’t have just been lifted off
the face of the earth!” Grant was
leaning forward in the saddle, about to launch himself in pursuit of the
missing regiment, before he got control of his anger. Settling back, he pulled a pencil and his
notepad from his pocket, as the metallic din of the cannonade suddenly ceased. He and the aide—the only member of his staff
not busy trying to find the missing regiment—were in a small clearing, chosen
as brigade headquarters mostly because it was the closest cleared space to the
line from which the brigade was supposed to assault the Confederate
position. Grant couldn’t see either of
the regiments whose location he was sure of, but if he’d placed himself with
one of them, he wouldn’t be able to see, or easily reach, the other save by
exposing himself to Confederate fire.
Siting himself this far behind the line wasn’t recommended, but he
judged it better than the alternative.
“Go to the Fifth Illinois,” he told the aide, scribbling an order. “They’re going to have to join the First New
Jersey instead of staying in reserve; I can’t do my part in the assault with
just one regiment.”
As the aide, saluting, rode off with the
order, Grant shook his head. Idiots
can’t even follow the most basic of orders, he thought. How the hell are they going to hold
firm long enough to charge that Confederate line?
A fresh spatter of musketry burst from the
woods ahead of him, to the right of his brigade’s position. “Ransom!
No!” Grant shouted, as if Brigadier-General Ransom would ever be able to
hear him. “Not yet, God damn it! Wait until my men are up!”
There was nothing for it: he spurred his
horse forward, into the woods.
* * * *
Stewart realized that he made an
irresistible target just before he heard Fitzgerald’s voice rise warningly
above the musket-fire. Taking care not
to appear anxious in front of the men, he stepped down from the fence. As he thanked God for keeping him from a
stupid death, he realized what that new group of Federals in the woods
meant. "Sergeant!" he
called. Fitzgerald was there in an
instant. "They’re getting ready to
come at us," Stewart said.
"Have the corporals take position." "Position" meant that the
corporals—and the sergeant and lieutenants—would stand a couple of paces back
from the men. Their primary job in the
coming moments wasn't to fire at the enemy.
It was to keep an eye out for, and discourage—at point of bayonet, if
necessary—anyone trying to drift backward.
"We have to hold this line."
"Right away, captain." Fitzgerald smiled, and Stewart felt a small
thrill at having given what was obviously a sound order.
A profane oath from down the line caught his
attention, and he turned. One of the men
was aiming his rifle. "Steady,
Humphries," he said. "Wait for
my order."
"One of those bastards near to hit me,
Captain!" Humphries lowered his
rifle, but turned to look pleadingly at him.
"I know I can put a ball through him if you’ll let me try."
Stewart looked out at the skirmishers. Most of them were down on one knee; only
their upper bodies could be seen above the young corn. It might help to settle the men down, he thought. "One shot, Humphries," he
said. Raising his voice, he added,
"Hold your fire until I give the command!" He nodded at Humphries.
The man smiled, turned back to face the
Federals, and raised his rifle again.
After a moment, Humphries fired.
The explosion seemed unnaturally loud in the close, warm air. Stewart
waited for the smoke to clear, then looked for the man who’d been Humphries’
target. The Federal continued to load
his musket, seemingly unaware that he’d been fired at. "You’ll have to do better than that,
Humphries," Stewart began.
Then there was a smack, like the sound of
leather hitting wet horseflesh, and Humphries was staring at the red spot on
his breast. Stewart stared too, horrified, until without a sound Humphries
began to subside earthward. Stewart had once seen an old barn collapse in on
itself that way.
Now the noise, which for a moment had seemed
to vanish, rushed back into his ears, and Stewart heard the men’s shouts of
anger and fear. He also heard a
brittleness in their voices that worried him.
Then Fitzgerald was there, chivvying two of the men to pull Humphries
back. Too many of the men turned to
watch as Humphries was dragged away, and Stewart was reminded of the colonel’s
warning about how quickly panic or defeatism could spread among unblooded
troops. He could see it beginning to
happen here; if he didn’t do something quickly he might lose them.
"Eyes front!" he shouted. The men didn’t exactly obey the order, but at
least they were looking at him now, and not at poor Humphries. "Boys, you’ve got to stand firm!" He tried to keep his voice firm,
authoritative. "You’re from
Virginia—you’re not going to be pushed back by a bunch of pasty-faced
Yankees!" The men cheered—a bit
raggedly, it was true, but at least he’d brought them back from thinking of
wounds and death—and now they turned to face the Federals. There were a lot more blue coats in front of
the far wall now, and their lines were beginning to show a disconcerting depth.
Stewart turned to see Fitzgerald beside
him. His eyes put the question he couldn’t
voice, and Fitzgerald jerked his head.
His voice was just as abrupt.
"He’s not dead, but he will be soon. And don’t fret yourself, captain, ‘cause he
won’t be the only one today."
There was nothing to say to that. "I think you’d better get back behind
us, sergeant," he said instead.
"The boys are still nervous, and I don’t want them trying to move
back away from this fence."
"Don’t worry about that,
captain." Fitzgerald’s expression
made it clear that the men had more to fear from him than from the
Federals. "What about the
bluecoats, captain? You going to wait
for their first volley?"
"Absolutely not," Stewart said,
watching the blue lines ripple as they were dressed for the advance. "We out-range them, so we should take
advantage." Our
reloading time is slower than theirs, he reminded himself. We have to open fire early if we want
to get three volleys out before they reach us. "As soon as they start to move—"
As if on cue, the Federals let loose with a
cheer—a mighty thin-sounding cheer, Stewart noted with relief—and their first
line stepped into the cornfield.
"Here they come!" someone shouted.
"Boys, this is it!" Stewart told
them. "Let’s tell them they’re not
welcome here!" The men shouted
their agreement and, at his command, brought their rifles up and took aim. Stewart held them there until he guessed that
the Federals had moved about fifty yards into the cornfield. "Fire!" he screamed, wondering at
the tremendous release he felt as the volley spat out on the tail of his words.
When the smoke had cleared to the point where
he could see, the Federals were still advancing. There were no gaps at all in their ranks;
either they had closed up with remarkable effectiveness, or the company’s first
volley hadn’t hit anyone. There was
something odd about the advance, besides the fact that the Federals seemed
unaffected, but Stewart didn’t give himself or his men a chance to wonder about
the advancing line. As Fitzgerald and
the corporals chivvied the first rank into reloading, Stewart had the second
rank fire—those who hadn’t jumped ahead and fired with the first rank, anyway.
It took longer for the smoke to clear this
time, and when it did the Federal line was still intact and moving through the
cornfield.
Some of the men paused from the slow work of
forcing lead down the narrow, rifled barrels, and as they looked up they seemed
to freeze, fixed on the sight of the advancing blue line. "Reload!" Stewart screamed, aware
now that fear was beginning to replace anger in his blood. "Stop watching them and get your rifles
loaded!"
The next volley had as little effect as the
first. At least this time Stewart could
see evidence that some Federals had been hit; as the smoke thinned the
bluecoats were still bringing men up to the first line and closing up. But the advance continued, smooth and regular
as if on a parade ground.
Now the blue line paused, and shimmered a
second as hundreds of men brought muskets to shoulder. For an awful moment the roar of the
battlefield seemed to quiet, and then the Federals disappeared behind a sheet
of flame and smoke, and there was a clattering like the sound of a
Devil-spawned hailstorm. Stewart
flinched in spite of himself. Over the rattle
of the firing came a higher-pitched sound, like flags whipped by the wind. He’d closed his eyes, Stewart realized. He opened them.
The company was still there—every last man,
it seemed. The line was still intact,
though there was a looseness about it now, as the men furtively examined
themselves for wounds they had not incurred.
There was opportunity here, Stewart realized. "They’re afraid of you!" he
shouted. "Now really give them
something to fear! Another volley,
boys!" The men straightened their
line—their backs seemed straighter too, in Stewart’s eyes—and the first rank
loosed another volley toward the bluecoats.
It was almost impossible to see the effect of
the fire, the smoke was now so dense. It
hadn’t got so thick, though, that Stewart couldn’t see the flash of a second
Union volley. Again, the report was followed
by that curious ruffling sound. What was
disturbing wasn’t the sound, though; it was the fact that the Federals had
fired two volleys in the space of time it took his men to reload once. Rifles didn’t seem such a fine idea now,
especially in light of his men’s failure to hit the Federals in any significant
numbers. Of course, the northerners
hadn’t done him any damage either, but the closer that blue line got the more
accurate their muskets would become.
Very soon he’d be losing men.
Stewart turned to look for Fitzgerald, hoping
for advice or at least inspiration. A
shower of leaves caught his eye. At
first he stared at them, unseeing; leaves weren’t supposed to fall in May. Then, looking up, he felt his spirits lift
even as the last of the leaves dropped.
The trees behind his men had lost many of their upper branches and
foliage, and Stewart knew how it was that both sides had managed to fail to
inflict any serious casualties.
"You’re firing high, boys!" he
shouted. One or two of the men closest
to him turned to look, but most of the second rank was still intent on aiming
into the smoke. Stewart shouted again,
and still no one seemed to hear. Time
was running out; there was no guarantee that the company would be able to
deliver another volley before the Federals reached the stone fence. He had to find a way to keep that last volley
from going high.
There was only one thing to do. Balancing himself with outstretched sword,
Stewart jumped up onto the top of the fence.
Now the men looked up, curious.
Fitzgerald rushed up to the fence, shaking his fist. "Captain, don’t be an idiot!"
"I know what I’m doing!" Stewart
shouted back. Crouching so the older man
could hear him, he said, "They’re firing high, Fitzgerald! If they don’t hit something this time, we’ll
have to stand up to a volley from close range, and then a bayonet charge. I’ve got to get them to keep from raising
their rifles as they fire. Up on that
fence, I can get them to pay attention to me.
You and the corporals come into the line to help me. Understand?"
Fitzgerald smiled broadly, then laughed. "I’ll be damned," was all he said
before running off.
Stewart got back to his feet. "Listen to me!" he shouted. "This next volley has to count, so
forget about ranks. Everyone with a
loaded rifle stand forward." A
cheer floated in from the cornfield; the Federals were dressing their line for
the charge.
"Now listen to me," Stewart
said. "I want you to rest your
rifles against the top of the fence before you fire. You’ve been firing high, and I won’t have
it. Fire low! Understand me?" A few men yelled confirmation.
Suddenly, a rage filled Stewart. He was risking his life here, and the men
weren’t even listening to him. "Do
you understand me?" he screamed.
"I want you to FIRE LOW!"
Some of his anger seemed to get through to the men, and the response
this time was a shrill scream that chilled some of the heat from his blood.
Crouching down, Stewart slapped the flat of
his sword down on the rifle barrels nearest to him. Some of the men at least would not fire
high. Looking down the line, he could
see Fitzgerald and a few of the corporals doing the same. "Wait for my word!" he called. I want to see what happens, if I can.
"Here they are." Stewart couldn’t identify the voice, but the
words were said matter-of-factly, as though the man had just spotted company
coming through the front gate. Twisting
himself, Stewart caught a glimpse of the Federals emerging from the smoke of
their volleys. They seemed horribly
close; had any of his friends been marching with those men, he could have
picked them out of the crowd. Now,
Stewart thought.
"Fire!"
Deafened by the firing, Stewart couldn’t hear
his men cheering. Seeing the fierce joy
in their eyes, however, he shifted around on his perch. Huge gaps had opened in the Federal line,
gaps that were visible even through the smoke.
The men still on their feet had stopped moving forward. The Federals seemed to hover in the center of
the pale gray smoke cloud, passively waiting for some external force to give
them impetus. He could be that force,
Stewart knew.
"Hit them again!" he screamed, the
words echoing weirdly inside his blast-deafened ears. "Fire as fast as you can!"
The men began firing singly or in small
groups, but now that they’d tasted blood they were firing straight into the
Federal line rather than over it. Rushes
of smoke from the right of the company showed him that Wilson’s men—and
possibly the entire regiment—had joined in the firing, now that the Federals
were within musket-range.
Stewart saw a shimmer of movement in the blue
line, a sort of side-to-side shuffle.
Then, suddenly, the Federals were no longer there. They’d been swallowed up by the smoke; an
eerie, low moan rising from the cornfield during pauses in his men’s firing was
the only evidence that they’d been there at all. After a second’s disbelief, Stewart realized
that the assault had collapsed and the Federals were retreating back to the
woods.
And now he realized what had nagged at him
during the advance. The Federals—two
regiments? A brigade?—had been on their
own. They’d advanced without the support
of any of the other regiments or brigades in their line.
"Cease fire!" He straightened up, waving his sword. For another second or two men continued firing
into the smoke, but the sound of the rifles quickly gave way to cheers as the
company celebrated its achievement.
Stewart, a fierce and unexpected pride jostling with relief at his
having survived, joined in the yelling.
After a moment, though, he saw that the men
were beginning to look expectantly at him, and it occurred to him that they
were waiting for new orders. No sooner
had he realized this than he knew what it was he wanted them to do. "Sergeant!" he called. "Prepare the company for an advance."
Fitzgerald hurried forward, looking up at him
with an expression that mingled concern and incredulity. "Begging the captain’s pardon," he
said, "but shouldn’t we wait? And
shouldn’t you get down from there?"
Stewart ignored the second question; he was
enjoying the position. "They’re
brittle, sergeant," he said, pointing into the smoke. "If they intended a full advance against
our line, they didn’t get it. The men
who attacked us attacked too soon. If we
hit them now and hit them hard, they’ll break, and maybe their whole line with
them."
"We’re a wee bit brittle ourselves,
sir," Fitzgerald said quietly.
"Advancing without support would not be a good idea."
"I don’t propose to do it
unsupported," Stewart said, having intended to do just that. "Radford!" The runner approached, saluted. "Give my compliments to Colonel
Jackson," Stewart said, "and inform him that we have repulsed the
enemy charge. Then tell him I suggest
that an advance now, before the Federals recover, could drive them completely from
the field. Hurry!"
As the runner sped up the slope to Jackson’s
position, Stewart turned to look again at the cornfield. The smoke had nearly cleared, and he could
almost see across to the woods at the far side.
"They're still on our side of that far wall, sergeant," he
said. "We have to hit them
now!"
"God help us," Fitzgerald
said. Then he was shouting, chivvying
the men into lines in front of the fence they'd been defending. Stewart could hear faint cheering from up the
gentle slope, where the rest of the regiment had no doubt seen the Federals
slinking backward.
The company, formed into line, looked a touch
ragged. Stewart hoped that their
enthusiasm would compensate for the lack of time for drill. He took a last look back behind the fence, and
was pleased to see just a handful of bodies there, and most of those only
wounded.
Stewart jumped down from the wall and worked
his way through to the front of the company's line. "Boys," he shouted, "you've
done great work so far. Now I want you
to do one more thing for me." He
paused for dramatic effect. "We're
going to clear those people from those woods.
Are you with me?"
The men roared their agreement. From the restless way the line seemed to
shiver, Stewart could tell that, given the chance, they'd be running for that
far wall in a second. But that wouldn't
do. He'd have to keep the advance slow,
measured, so that Colonel Jackson would have the chance to get the other
companies moving forward in support. He
nodded to Fitzgerald. "Let's go,
sergeant."
As the company marched steadily into the
corn, Stewart was relieved to see, off to the right, the men of C Company
beginning to move forward as well. Good
old Wilson must have started forming up as soon as he saw Stewart's men emerge
from behind the wall. That was the kind
of initiative, everyone said, that made a southerner a match for any ten
city-dwelling northerners.
It seemed to take forever to move through the
cornfield, an eternity made worse by his discovery of torn, bloody bodies underfoot
when he reached the place that marked the farthest extent of the Federal
advance. Even when he had stepped over,
and then beyond, the bodies, no matter how many cadences Stewart counted he
couldn't see the far wall and woods getting any closer. His vitals seemed to be dancing inside him,
and he was breathing much more heavily than his exertion justified, even on a
day as warm as this.
"My God," Fitzgerald said, coming
up beside him. "Captain, would you
look at that? They're just standing
there. Why aren't they getting behind
their wall?"
"It's as I told you, sergeant. They're brittle. Maybe their leaders are dead or wounded. Or drunk.
Or hiding. I don't care. Are we close enough to charge yet?"
"Not really, captain." Fitzgerald's voice sounded guttural and
tight. "But let's do it anyway,
before they get any ideas."
Stewart drew his sword and waved it over his
head. "Let's get them, boys!"
he shouted. "Charge!" Almost as an afterthought he drew his
revolver. He might need it.
The men howled as they ran forward, an eerie
ululating screech that raised gooseflesh on Stewart's neck. He hoped it was having the same effect on the
Federals.
Apparently it was; as Stewart and his company
closed the range, individual bluecoats began leaping the wall. Instead of crouching behind it, though, they
lit off into the woods. No sooner did
this good news register on Stewart than the trickle of panic turned into a
flood. In a flurry of dust and flying
muskets, the Federals abandoned their weapons, their position and their
honor. Stewart's men howled for blood,
and small explosions testified to their beginning to fire into the backs of the
running defenders.
Then they were at the wall. Stewart leaped onto it and, turning to the
men behind him, thrust his sword in the direction of the Federal retreat. "Don't let up!" he yelled. "Chase them back to
Washington!" From somewhere behind
him he heard distant yelling. He hoped
that was the rest of the company, moving forward at last. He turned to look forward as the first of his
men vaulted the wall.
And saw the cannon.
* * * *
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