The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (26 page)

The sergeant stood over him, stared out toward the distant rocky hill. “Not like you, Dutchman. Ain’t never seen a reb could take a man down at that distance. They’s cavalry, anyway. Do their work with a saber, all that whoopin’ and hollerin’. Been watching us for a week, mostly up in those rocks. Nobody’s messed with ’em until now. I bet they haul tail out of here. They done lost one of their big brass. Hee-hee.”

It had surprised him as much as it had the officers, as much as his friend Sammie Willis, that Bauer had a serious talent for marksmanship. Once the fight at Vicksburg had settled into the dull routine of a siege, it was the sharpshooters who kept it interesting, trading wickedly accurate strikes into the lines of their enemy, splitting skulls
and breaking ribs of careless men who never knew they were being watched from so far away. It was a talent that officers appreciated, as much as they feared it, every man on a horse very aware that, out there, someone might be watching
him
.

Bauer looked now toward the cluster of officers, a Stars and Stripes hanging limp on a flagpole, held by a young aide. They seemed only to be curious, Bauer’s display offering a moment’s entertainment. He didn’t seek that, had only let on about his gift through the paperwork he had gone through, questions about his experience, his talents, whether he could cook or sew or draw maps. Most of the army’s training emphasized massed formations, firepower in great quantities. Marksmanship was a skill the army rarely counted on. It had been Lieutenant Crane, the adjutant to Colonel Malloy, who had pushed Bauer to add that detail to any answers the army hoped to hear. Bauer had no idea if marksmanship would help his application to the regulars, or whether it might persuade the Wisconsin officers to keep him close, to refuse his request to enlist in the regular army. But, then, after an agonizing week, the papers had come back with the army’s approval, and with that, his orders:

The Army of the United States hereby orders Private Fritz Bauer to report to 18th United States Regulars, 2nd Battalion, Captain Henry Haymond, Commanding. Assignment to Company C, Captain Samuel Willis, Commanding. Orders to be carried out by 1 November, 1863, after which time, Private Fritz Bauer will be considered Absent Without Permission
.

He had been overjoyed and terrified. The question of just how and where he was to report had been handled by the adjutants, and for now, Bauer was an unofficial part of the 109th Pennsylvania, part of the Twelfth Army Corps, which, by the rumors that flew through the camps, was about to move toward Chattanooga. All he was doing was hitching a ride.

The crowd around him spread out, men returning to whatever mundane task was at hand. Some kept their gaze on the far rocks, and Bauer smiled at that. Sure, he thought. Brave men with big talk. But rebs can shoot, whether any of you believe that or not.

He heard hoofbeats now, saw two dozen horsemen galloping out from the far end of the rows of tents, realized they were cavalry themselves,
someone’s thoughtful notion that if there was a dead rebel officer out there, somebody ought to take a look. I bet that bunch is long gone, he thought. Took their corpse with them. He caught himself, didn’t like to think about that. A man. No, it was a rebel, a target. Gray hat, field glasses, gray coat. That’s all. It was the same dance Bauer performed often, erasing any image of a man’s face, never close enough to see the expression, the look in the eye. There was no purpose to it, no need to think about the target being anything but.

The cluster of officers began to scatter, but a small group rode toward him, the Stars and Stripes coming along. Bauer was still sitting, suddenly realized they were coming straight at
him
. He stood quickly, musket planted by his side, the instinct of training. He focused on the officer leading the way, a huge man on a massive horse, the man’s face adorned with the largest beard Bauer had ever seen. Bauer glanced to one side, the sergeant still there, coming to attention, a hard whisper.

“We must be in for it now. He never comes out here.”

Bauer responded through closed teeth. “Who?”

“Shut up.”

The horsemen were close now, stopped, and the sergeant tossed up a formal salute, Bauer doing the same. He looked past the big man, saw a familiar face, Captain Gimber, the regimental commander. But Gimber stayed back, seemed to know his place.

The older man stayed up on the horse, towering above Bauer, casting a shadow that blocked out the daylight.

“You make a habit of that, Private?”

Bauer ran several responses through his head. What’d I do this time? But there was something deadly serious in the question, not the time for humor.

“I have been known to, sir. Once in a while.”

“Where?”

“Vicksburg, mostly, sir. I served Wisconsin regiments since Shiloh. Been in a few scraps.”

“Sharpshooter, then?”

“At Vicksburg, yes, sir.”

The big man leaned low, held out his hand, pointed to the musket. “Mind if I take a look?”

Bauer reached down, handed it to the man butt-first, saw now the shoulder straps on the man’s blue coat, the embroidered star of a brigadier general. The captain spoke now, pointing to Bauer.

“We’d love to keep him, sir. But he’s not ours. Just along for the march, at the request of General McPherson’s people last week. I put it in the duty log, sir.”

The larger man examined the musket, sighted down the barrel, handed it back to Bauer. “Regular issue. Nothing fancy. Thought you might have had one of those English rifles the rebels are using. Whitworths. I wish we had a pile of ’em, but they’re pretty scarce, pretty expensive. Appears you don’t require one. Nice shooting, son.” He looked at the captain now. “My adjutant has the duty log, Captain. I’ve got more things to worry about right now.” He looked again at Bauer. “I’m General Geary, son. This is my division. I knew you weren’t one of ours, from your hat. Regular army, right?”

“Yes, sir. Just enlisted. I was ordered to your unit, to make the march east. Transferred over from the Seventeenth Wisconsin volunteers.”

Bauer stopped himself, thought, He doesn’t care a whit for your life story. Geary looked out toward the distant rocks.

“Yep. Good shooting, Private.” Geary studied the hat. “Eighteenth Regulars, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll make somebody happy out there. But don’t take it for granted. Sharpshooting can be the safest duty in the army. Sit back where it’s all cozy, and lay those rebels out one at a time.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Geary looked down at him, a grim stare. “Not a compliment, son. Most of these boys will never know what it feels like to kill a man, not unless they stick a bayonet through a man’s chest. I’ve seen volleys of a thousand muskets blow through a brigade front, and watched fewer than a dozen men hit. Some say it’s instinct, that a man won’t purposely aim to hit another man if he can help it. Not sure I believe that. Rather think it’s poor training. They don’t teach these boys anything about shooting. Where’d they train you to shoot so well?”

“Didn’t, sir. It just … came to me. Didn’t even much hunt when I was a boy.”

“Hmm. Well, I’ll tell you something about your particular skill, son. Unlike most of these boys here, when
you
hit a man, you know it, you watch him fall, you have time to watch his buddies gather around. You
feel
it, son. At that moment, you’re the most alone you’ll ever be. You kill a man like that, there’s no place to hide it. I hope you can live with it. Some can’t.” Geary paused, pointed out to the rocks. “Who was that fellow over there?”

“I don’t know, sir. Didn’t think about it. Maybe an officer.”

“Oh, he was a cavalry officer, no doubt. Stood up there in those rocks like he was surveying the whole world. They’ve been watching us for a while. I sent those horsemen to check out what they might have left behind, maybe find out who they were. But that’s not your business, and you best keep it that way. In a few days, that officer’s children will find out they lost their daddy. A piece of advice, son. Don’t you ever go looking for prizes. Leave that alone. I was at Gettysburg. Somebody just like you killed John Reynolds, maybe the best commander in this army. Real
trophy
that was. But if that reb was smart, he didn’t ask who he shot down, didn’t have a bunch of boys like these slapping his backside. You start looking for trophies, parading yourself like some kind of hero, you start finding out the names of who you killed, things like that … it’ll change you. You’ll lose that aim, that steady hand. Make you as worthless as the freshest greenhorn here.”

Bauer was beginning to dislike this man intensely. Geary sat back in the saddle, still looked at Bauer.

“We’re marching out of here pretty quick. They’re giving us a job to do. Happy to have a good eye along with us, even if it’s only a few days. Keep sharp, son. The rest of you … learn from this man. More aim, less caterwauling. You can crow about all the rebels you killed when you go home. Nobody’ll believe you anyhow. And they’ll be right. Captain, let’s ride. No time for this.”

Geary turned his horse, the color bearer close behind him, the horses all moving away. Bauer felt the musket heavy in his hands, felt a gloom from Geary’s words.

Beside him, the sergeant said, “I guess he knows what he’s talking about. Have to, to be a general and all. But there’s something about him always struck me … strange.”

“Maybe I ought not have shot that fellow. Why’d he go and tell me about the man’s children?”

Bauer felt the man’s hand on his shoulder.

“Leave that alone, dammit. That was just a rebel. An officer to boot. You wanna feel all curled up about that, it’s your business. But I was told that’s why we’re out here. Kill rebels. They sure as hell wanna kill us. Seen that at Gettysburg, too many times. You got a gift, Dutchman. Make good use of it. That’ll help out every damn one of us, maybe get us home quicker.”

Bauer tried to believe the man, said, “I guess so.”

“Hell, yes. The general gave you some good advice. For your sake, I hope he doesn’t stick a hot poker through your paperwork and decide to make you a Pennsylvanian. You impressed the hell out of him.”

“Well, he impressed me, too. Made me feel awful.”

More of the Pennsylvania men were moving through their camps, orders shouted out, the sergeant’s platoon commander trotting up, a lieutenant younger than Bauer.

“I heard about your marksmanship, Private. You sure you don’t wanna stick with us? Sergeant Burnett here can’t hit a barn from inside the damn thing. We could use a good rifle.”

“Sorry, sir. I’m just hitching a ride. My enlistment papers are right here.”

He tapped his pocket and the lieutenant nodded.

“Yep, I know. We’re just your five-thousand-man escort. Sergeant, get your squad up and ready. General Geary’s aide just passed along marching orders, and there’s already a lot of jabbering about what we’re doing. Expected we’d move east, stay on our side of the river. But General Geary says we’re crossing over, to the south side. That’s gotta be trouble. Strike the tents, be set to march in an hour.”

“Yes, sir. Sounds like trouble to me.”

The officer walked away quickly, and Bauer absorbed the sergeant’s comment. Trouble. Well, sure. That’s what generals are good for. He watched the regiment coming alive, more regiments beyond, spread all along the north bank of the riverside town. Nearby, men were scrambling into tents, then back out, carrying backpacks and bedrolls. Bugle calls came now, a group of horsemen moving past, an intense urgency that always gave Bauer goose bumps.

The sergeant stood with his arms crossed, said, “Army’s always in a damn hurry. Well, looks like the whole division is making ready to get our feet dirty. You, too, Private Regular Army. Don’t worry about the general. He’s probably got a lot in his head. His boy’s close by, a lieutenant in one of the artillery batteries. I see him hanging around the general’s tent every so often. Wouldn’t care for that myself. My son’s just turned ten, back in Philadelphia. If he was out here with the rest of us, I’d be pretty damn edgy about it. No, sir, wouldn’t care for that a’tall.”

Bauer stared up toward the rocky hill, saw the blue horsemen spread out across the hillside, some men down, searching for … what? A dead man with a pair of field glasses? The gloom had surprised him, something contagious that Geary seemed to carry with him, and Bauer thought of the man’s son, serving right under his father’s command. I guess that’d make me nervous, too.

The gloom was easing now, Bauer looking at the musket, a flick of his thumb to knock away the spent percussion cap. He felt the energy returning, bolstered by the activity around him. The 109th were veterans, something Bauer could see in their eyes. They knew what was coming, that a march through the rebel countryside wasn’t for sightseeing. It’s the job, he thought. My job. They know that now. Glad to see that. Just like all those Micks. They appreciated the good aim, made their bets, too, just like these boys. It’s my job, after all. Like the sergeant said … kill rebels. Too many boys didn’t have a chance, went down because some damn rebel was better at killing than they were. That’s Sammie’s lesson. Don’t just learn how to
do
this … learn how to
love
it. That reb out there … he was just a target. He said it again, a low voice out loud.

“Just a target.”