[Continuing chapter 18]
Patton turned around. The two three-pounders were being wheeled forward by their crews; a thin cheer rose from the column as the guns passed and rumbled down the gentle slope. Patton smiled as the first of the guns came to a stop directly behind the small crater left by the first cannon-shot. Somebody with that gun crew was operating on the assumption that lightning wouldn’t strike twice in the same place.
“All right,” he said. The words were inaudible to all but the handful of men closest to him, but that didn’t matter; he’d meant them for himself. To the company he shouted, “Dress that line and prepare to dismount!” Some of the men cheered in response, but the cheer didn’t sound all that enthusiastic. You boys deciding you don’t care for soldiering after all? he silently asked them. He checked himself; you should be ashamed of yourself for thinking that. Another, more recently born part of himself replied, you should truly be ashamed of yourself for being here at all.
Still, it would appear he’d done his job properly; Wheat’s company obediently dismounted, responding with similar efficiency when the appointed one man in four took the horses back to safety. Patton fought against the desire to be with the horses; it would be a tragedy to die in a cause as distasteful as this one had become, but a soldier couldn’t afford the luxury of philosophy once the balls were flying. Instead, he busied himself taking the Currie repeater out of its sling, and making sure that his belt-pouch held a sufficient quantity of balls, powder and caps. As he sent his horse back with the others, Patton couldn’t resist a glance to the left, where Fontaine’s company remained astride their mounts, stubbornly refusing their captain’s increasingly blasphemous commands to move forward.
Wheat took his place at the left of the line, and Patton walked across the front to the right end. He didn’t bother with words of encouragement; at this point he didn’t care whether anyone respected him. He just wanted the day to be over with.
He turned to see Wheat watching him; Patton waved his rifle to show that he was ready, and Wheat signaled the advance. For a moment, nothing happened. Patton saw Wheat turn to face the men, shouting something that was inaudible over the sound of another cannon-shot hitting somewhere behind them. “Forward!” he shouted to the men nearest him. “The faster we do this, the less we have to stand around getting shot at!”
That seemed to do the trick; slowly, with an almost palpable reluctance, the company shifted forward. When nothing bad happened, they picked up the pace a bit. Soon, they were reveling in their collective motion and momentum, and even generated a ragged cheer.
The first of the three-pounders began firing, and again the men cheered—though a moment later it was clear that the guns not only weren’t able to hit the Texan gun, they weren’t close enough even to hit the men on the bridge. Patton was calculating how much further the guns would have to move forward when he heard a harsh, buzzing whistle and something smacked him on the side of the head.
He was on his back, his ears ringing. Something wet ran down his cheek; looking, he saw his coat and trousers spattered bright red. Hurriedly, he ran his hands over his chest, belly, thighs. Just because you felt no pain at the moment didn’t mean you hadn’t been hit.
There was no wound; the blood belonged to someone else. Patton looked for his Currie, used it to lever himself to his feet. Two—three—four men lay on the ground beside him, twisted in ways a human body wasn’t supposed to be. The grass was red, shiny as the blood reflected the afternoon sun. Ahead a few paces, the company had stopped. Men looked behind them, at the indentations in the tall grass that marked where their companions had fallen.
The mathematics of the battlefield, inculcated in so many sessions with General Jackson and the other instructors at the Institute, took over, relieving Patton of the need to think. A quick count of the body-shaped impressions in the grass, and of the men who staggered or crawled back with hands pressing on shrapnel-wounds, told Patton that the company had lost nearly more than a tenth of its men to that one shell.
He knew that the survivors were doing their own calculations, and that the results wouldn’t be positive for Walker. Sure enough, when the ringing in his ears stopped enough, Patton heard Wheat shouting at the men to move forward. He’d evidently been doing it for some time, yet the men continued to stand. One or two shouldered their rifles and let off shots in the direction of the bridge, as though the motion might be enough by itself to drive the Texans away.
Patton tried to walk forward, heard a roaring of blood in his ears and suddenly was back on the ground again, sitting awkwardly, legs splayed in front of him. Get up, he told himself. You’re needed on the line. For what? another part of himself asked. He stayed on the ground.
A blur of white caught his attention. Turning slowly, he saw a company of Mosby Parsons’s Texas infantry moving forward and around the shattered right of Wheat’s line. Parsons was actually at its head; for a moment Patton was sure he saw the colonel sneering at him, at the mercenaries who now sullenly refused to do their part. The insult was enough to get Patton to his feet again, and this time he stayed up. No pompous, self-important hick of a Texas colonel, he thought, is going to make me think that his sausage-eating Germans are superior to a born-and-bred Virginia gentleman.
When he reached his place on the right of the line, Wheat was there to greet him. “Damn, but I’m glad to see you back on your feet,” Wheat said. There was no evidence of a grin on his face now; sweat and dust had turned to mud that enhanced lines and wrinkles Patton hadn’t previously noticed, making Wheat suddenly look twenty years older. He pulled Patton back a couple of steps, leaned in so he could be heard. “They won’t listen to me. Think you can get them to move?”
“They’re scared, Captain.” Patton nodded briefly at the bodies behind them. “They can calculate the odds as well as I can; a few more shots as lucky as that last one and we’re all dead or dying.”
Wheat pointed back to where Walker was moving Nelson’s company forward. Even Fontaine had somehow persuaded his men to move forward. “We’re moving up, just like Walker planned,” he said. “Except that my boys aren’t moving at all. That bastard Parsons is going to steal my thunder, damn it. So don’t tell me they won’t move. Tell me how I can make them move!”
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter TwelvePatton turned around. The two three-pounders were being wheeled forward by their crews; a thin cheer rose from the column as the guns passed and rumbled down the gentle slope. Patton smiled as the first of the guns came to a stop directly behind the small crater left by the first cannon-shot. Somebody with that gun crew was operating on the assumption that lightning wouldn’t strike twice in the same place.
“All right,” he said. The words were inaudible to all but the handful of men closest to him, but that didn’t matter; he’d meant them for himself. To the company he shouted, “Dress that line and prepare to dismount!” Some of the men cheered in response, but the cheer didn’t sound all that enthusiastic. You boys deciding you don’t care for soldiering after all? he silently asked them. He checked himself; you should be ashamed of yourself for thinking that. Another, more recently born part of himself replied, you should truly be ashamed of yourself for being here at all.
Still, it would appear he’d done his job properly; Wheat’s company obediently dismounted, responding with similar efficiency when the appointed one man in four took the horses back to safety. Patton fought against the desire to be with the horses; it would be a tragedy to die in a cause as distasteful as this one had become, but a soldier couldn’t afford the luxury of philosophy once the balls were flying. Instead, he busied himself taking the Currie repeater out of its sling, and making sure that his belt-pouch held a sufficient quantity of balls, powder and caps. As he sent his horse back with the others, Patton couldn’t resist a glance to the left, where Fontaine’s company remained astride their mounts, stubbornly refusing their captain’s increasingly blasphemous commands to move forward.
Wheat took his place at the left of the line, and Patton walked across the front to the right end. He didn’t bother with words of encouragement; at this point he didn’t care whether anyone respected him. He just wanted the day to be over with.
He turned to see Wheat watching him; Patton waved his rifle to show that he was ready, and Wheat signaled the advance. For a moment, nothing happened. Patton saw Wheat turn to face the men, shouting something that was inaudible over the sound of another cannon-shot hitting somewhere behind them. “Forward!” he shouted to the men nearest him. “The faster we do this, the less we have to stand around getting shot at!”
That seemed to do the trick; slowly, with an almost palpable reluctance, the company shifted forward. When nothing bad happened, they picked up the pace a bit. Soon, they were reveling in their collective motion and momentum, and even generated a ragged cheer.
The first of the three-pounders began firing, and again the men cheered—though a moment later it was clear that the guns not only weren’t able to hit the Texan gun, they weren’t close enough even to hit the men on the bridge. Patton was calculating how much further the guns would have to move forward when he heard a harsh, buzzing whistle and something smacked him on the side of the head.
He was on his back, his ears ringing. Something wet ran down his cheek; looking, he saw his coat and trousers spattered bright red. Hurriedly, he ran his hands over his chest, belly, thighs. Just because you felt no pain at the moment didn’t mean you hadn’t been hit.
There was no wound; the blood belonged to someone else. Patton looked for his Currie, used it to lever himself to his feet. Two—three—four men lay on the ground beside him, twisted in ways a human body wasn’t supposed to be. The grass was red, shiny as the blood reflected the afternoon sun. Ahead a few paces, the company had stopped. Men looked behind them, at the indentations in the tall grass that marked where their companions had fallen.
The mathematics of the battlefield, inculcated in so many sessions with General Jackson and the other instructors at the Institute, took over, relieving Patton of the need to think. A quick count of the body-shaped impressions in the grass, and of the men who staggered or crawled back with hands pressing on shrapnel-wounds, told Patton that the company had lost nearly more than a tenth of its men to that one shell.
He knew that the survivors were doing their own calculations, and that the results wouldn’t be positive for Walker. Sure enough, when the ringing in his ears stopped enough, Patton heard Wheat shouting at the men to move forward. He’d evidently been doing it for some time, yet the men continued to stand. One or two shouldered their rifles and let off shots in the direction of the bridge, as though the motion might be enough by itself to drive the Texans away.
Patton tried to walk forward, heard a roaring of blood in his ears and suddenly was back on the ground again, sitting awkwardly, legs splayed in front of him. Get up, he told himself. You’re needed on the line. For what? another part of himself asked. He stayed on the ground.
A blur of white caught his attention. Turning slowly, he saw a company of Mosby Parsons’s Texas infantry moving forward and around the shattered right of Wheat’s line. Parsons was actually at its head; for a moment Patton was sure he saw the colonel sneering at him, at the mercenaries who now sullenly refused to do their part. The insult was enough to get Patton to his feet again, and this time he stayed up. No pompous, self-important hick of a Texas colonel, he thought, is going to make me think that his sausage-eating Germans are superior to a born-and-bred Virginia gentleman.
When he reached his place on the right of the line, Wheat was there to greet him. “Damn, but I’m glad to see you back on your feet,” Wheat said. There was no evidence of a grin on his face now; sweat and dust had turned to mud that enhanced lines and wrinkles Patton hadn’t previously noticed, making Wheat suddenly look twenty years older. He pulled Patton back a couple of steps, leaned in so he could be heard. “They won’t listen to me. Think you can get them to move?”
“They’re scared, Captain.” Patton nodded briefly at the bodies behind them. “They can calculate the odds as well as I can; a few more shots as lucky as that last one and we’re all dead or dying.”
Wheat pointed back to where Walker was moving Nelson’s company forward. Even Fontaine had somehow persuaded his men to move forward. “We’re moving up, just like Walker planned,” he said. “Except that my boys aren’t moving at all. That bastard Parsons is going to steal my thunder, damn it. So don’t tell me they won’t move. Tell me how I can make them move!”
Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
No comments:
Post a Comment