The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (62 page)

“You mean, we’re gonna help out Sherman by doing a
pretend
attack?”

“I didn’t say we won’t fight. There’ll be reb skirmishers out there,
for certain, and they’ll put up a scrap. Not sure what else we’ll find. Our orders are to scare the devil out of the rebs in front of us. Look, Dutchie, it’s not my job to explain every damn thing, and it’s not your job to figure things out. Just do what you’re told.” Willis strapped on his pistol. “Let’s go. I gotta pass along these orders to the company. The long roll’s gonna sound in about ten minutes.”

Bauer looked around the tent now, was suddenly curious. “Hey, Sammie, where’s Henry? Your rooster. Boy, he really riled up the camp this morning.”

Willis moved out past him, the word coming in a low growl. “Dinner.”

The drums brought them together, the lines forming up two deep. Bauer hated the drums, had wondered why the army used them, had heard the steady beats in every fight he had seen, rumbling through the ranks of both sides. If there was supposed to be inspiration from that, strength from the steady rhythm, Bauer had already learned that the rebels took as much from that as the men in blue. It just tells ’em you’re coming, he thought.

He stood upright, the musket on his shoulder, the others in their standard formation out to both sides of him. Out front the 15th Regulars had fallen in, would lead the way, some of the men around Bauer griping about that already. Bauer had never felt any particular honor in being the first man to be a target, but he also understood that if those men took it hard, were swept down, he would see it all, would know exactly what might happen next.

An officer moved out front, the beardless face of Lieutenant Jasper, a man younger than Bauer. Down to one side, he could see Willis, sword in hand, a hard glare toward the men, no particular glance at Bauer. Doing his job, he thought. Does it better than anybody in this army, I’ll bet. And we’re going in right with him. No better place I’d rather be.

He wasn’t completely sure of that, said it to himself again, trying to find strength, to erase the hammering thunder in his chest, the cold, quivering fear of what this formation meant. He kept his eyes on Willis, heard the lieutenant shout out something, the usual clamor for
straight lines, no gaps, everyone moving together. He glanced around, realized Owens was right behind him, and Bauer nodded, unsmiling, saw no acknowledgment from Owens. Bauer turned, heard the sergeant yelling out, repeating most of what the lieutenant had already said, his words a harsh bellow that drowned out the drums. The talking was done now, the men silent, the lieutenant facing forward, sword in hand, Willis doing the same, a breathless minute. Bauer stared out to the men in front of them, a hundred-yard gap, horsemen, a flag, a solid blue line. The first line.

From far behind them, back to the left, Bauer heard the hard thump of a cannon, then another, another, six in all. He knew not to look, nothing to see, but there was meaning there, and now, out to the front, a bugle sounded. The men of the 15th began to move, the singular motion of marching legs, pushing out through the grass. Bauer waited for the command, closed his eyes, thought of the bugler, the least popular man in camp, stealer of sleep, messenger of mindless formations. The notes came now, distinct, clear, Willis raising the sword, others down the line doing the same, the lines stretching a half mile to the left, many fewer to the right. The flank. We’re the flank.

The words flowed through him, meaningless distraction, his legs moving now, by themselves, his brain no part of the drill. He moved in perfect unison with the men on either side of him, felt the presence of Owens behind him, could smell the man, too familiar. He stepped to the rhythm of the drums, the bolt of clarity through his brain. That’s why they use drums. It had never occurred to him before, and now, more nonsensical jabber rolled through his thoughts, more distractions. He glanced up, saw a huge bird circling above, and beyond, one wispy cloud, heard now the calls of the young lieutenant, the words every man in these lines had heard before, hoped that when this day was past, they would survive to hear those words again.

The first skirmishers had been swept away well to the front, a few chattering shots that seemed very far away. The men of the 15th had not paused, kept up their advance without firing,
no volleys necessary. Bauer marched in the footsteps of those men, trampled grass, scrub brush, the occasional tree. He kept his eyes to the front, but his brain was alive with questions, meaningless talk, the fear inside him swelling into terror, his flickering courage held in place by the sheer bulk of the men around him.

The ground rose slightly, then dropped back down, more trampled footsteps, and Bauer saw the telltale signs of skirmishers, flattened bare ground, logs piled up, brush gathered for disguise. There were cast-aside backpacks, canteens, used cartridge boxes, scraps of a man’s time spent staring out toward the enemy who stared back. Trading tobacco, he thought. Stupid. Never do that. One man decides to make his war personal, and while you carry out your little sack of coffee, all smiles and happy handshakes, he bushwhacks you, cuts your throat. Not me. Just … don’t like those fellows.

He passed a row of shallow entrenchments, dug like an afterthought, no real protection. The same cast-off equipment was there as well, signs of men who were long gone. They skedaddled, he thought. Heard us coming … hell, they
saw
us coming. No place to hide out here. Don’t need drums to tell nobody nothing. He glanced down, caught his legs in motion with the man beside him, the boy, Hoover. There was no talk, Bauer keeping his thoughts silent, glanced at the boy, thought, You scared? Bet you’re scared to hell. Or maybe you’re too fresh, too dumb. Anybody’s done this before knows exactly why he ought to be running like hell the other way. Can’t do that. Sammie would kill me. Owens would kill me. Worse, they’d hate me for it.

The first artillery shell came overhead now, a harsh whistle that impacted somewhere behind. He focused on the ridgeline, as though seeing it for the first time. Puffs of smoke popped out all across the top, and more, halfway down. He could see the firing from the rebels all down the long ridge, drifting smoke, the faint chatter, and, now, more thunder, blasts of fire from well up the hill, the balls arcing downward, heavy thumps, one shell erupting with a fiery blast between the two formations. More shells fell to the left, where most of the men were advancing, solid shot tumbling past, tossing up the soft earth. The firing blew past him, a sharp zip past his head, more, some impacting the dirt in front of him. The musket balls were mostly
spent, but there was death in the sounds, and he saw the line in front staggering. The officers came to life now, shouts and orders, the men keeping their lines tight, the 15th shifting position, closing up the gaps torn through their formation. In seconds he saw the men who had been struck down, blue and red, white faces staring up, men calling out, agony, suffering, and no stopping to help. He kept up the march, heard the whistle and zip again, a volley from far out front, smoke rising well beyond the front lines. The gaps in the lines in front of him were wider now, but still the men of the 15th kept together, pushing forward, Bauer and the men around him following.

He watched as more of the men to the front fell away, the sounds growing, a steady roar of musket fire, smoke rising in a vast cloud all across the ridgeline, smoke everywhere, the crest high above coming alive, as though on fire. The 15th suddenly stopped, more men collapsing, but they answered, firing a volley of their own, then rose up again, still moving forward. Bauer watched with shaking hands, the thunder of his heartbeats, shouts of the officers reaching him, the lieutenant close by, voice like a girl, and he looked out to the side, saw Willis, steady steps, sword high, no stopping, no pause. Bauer passed more wounded, one man shot through his forehead, his eyes wide, staring up with surprise. Bauer had seen that before, couldn’t ignore it, felt the tug of sickness, but Owens was still behind him, the frightening push Bauer felt in his mind, no stopping, no hesitating. The ridgeline seemed alive, thick lines of smoke from muskets up the slope, the hillside bathed in thin fog now, the cannon fire blowing through with fiery bursts. To one side, the ground erupted, a blinding flash, deafening thunder, dirt sprayed over him, men ducking, but no one halted, the sergeants screaming at them, needlessly, the men knowing what to do.

The musket fire was much closer now, and Bauer saw the first line enveloped in smoke, firing their own volleys, and now a horseman rode past, close to Bauer, a hard yell at Willis, the man riding on, orders to more of the officers. Willis turned toward him for the first time, a flash of recognition, and Bauer saw the fire, the look he had seen at Shiloh, at Vicksburg, in every fight Willis could make. His voice broke through the din in front of them.

“To the double-quick! Forward!”

The men responded, other companies down the line doing the same. Bauer ran into a wave of smoke, fought to breathe, was past it now, saw the ridge, steep and tall, saw men scrambling to climb up, some of them shot down. There was a deep earthwork spread out to both sides, a hundred yards or more from the base of the hill, the men of the 15th settling in, seeking some kind of protection. Bauer jumped down, saw men he didn’t know, wide-eyed terror, grim fury, red eyes, tears. The earthworks filled now, heavy with blue, and Willis was there, screaming at them, pointing the sword up the hill. The men responded with their muskets, the men on the hillside tumbling backward, some just collapsing, caught by rocks and rubble and brush. Bauer stared for a long moment, a charge up the great hill, but it was no charge at all. It was escape. The men were rebels.

He was deafened by the blasts from the artillery, the rebels on the ridgeline above him dropping shells in a high arc, the only way to impact anyone so close to the ridge. But far out to either side, rebel artillery had the angle, could fire in a flatter trajectory, those shells sweeping close to parallel with the trenches now holding the blue troops.

Around Bauer, the men pulled themselves as low into cover as possible, but the earthworks and log walls had been built to face outward, toward Chattanooga. The parapets and ditches that faced the hillside were low, flimsy, and Bauer could see, from his spot in line, that the base of the hill was nearly two hundred yards away. That span was mostly flat, grassy ground that offered little or no cover. Some of the men had dared to rush out that way, seeking the protection of anything they could find, a rock, tree stump, a cluster of brush. But the officers screamed them back, the orders barely heard above the amazing din of the ongoing fire from the heights above them.

Across the way, Federal guns had responded to the barrage of rebel artillery fire, the shells streaking past, impacting with rock-crushing blasts high up on the face of the hill. The rebels responded, but their
targets were human, and very close, and so their fire continued downward, the vicious attempt to swat away the vast wave of Federal troops who now filled their own earthworks.

Bauer curled into a ball, his back against the dirt wall, the stacked logs to his front. The smacks of lead seemed aimed into the logs themselves, the rebels high above taking aim at any movement they could find. But the artillery was far worse, the shells overtaking any threat from the muskets. He pulled his head down between his arms, tried to hear more than the blistering screams from canister, sprays of dirt and rock blown over him, more shrapnel whistling past from fiery shells bursting high overhead. He kept his knees in tight, eyes closed against the smoke and splattering dirt, felt numb, the terrifying helplessness of where he was. One shell burst just behind him, hot metal tumbling, bouncing overhead, thick smoke, searing heat. He glanced to the side, saw other men doing just what he was, some of those men carrying wounds, struck by the shrapnel, by bits of metal from the canister or the lucky shot from a rebel musket. There were shouted orders, but no words he could hear, just the roar of the big guns, the shelling in no kind of pattern, no rhythm, the guns seeming to erupt over them from every part of the ridge, more shells coming in from their own guns a mile away. In the works, the men who dared to move at all were crawling, some seeking a deeper hole, but the rebels had dug their trench with care, uniform depth, a good solid stack of logs facing outward. There were transverse trenches, but not many, the defensive line not so well constructed as to hold away a major assault. I guess we were a major assault, he thought. Had to look pretty damn impressive coming at them from way across that open ground. So they ran. Maybe not so many of ’em down here this low. If they’d have been thick in this ditch, they could have busted us up real good. If they’d have had cannon down here, it might have been a whole lot worse. But doesn’t much matter now. Here we are. The question rose up inside of him, the orders Willis had told him about. Take these lines, and then wait to see what happens next. This is all about some other fight, up the other way? Sherman? What’s he doing, anyway? If we’re just out “demonstrating,” what else are we supposed to do? I ain’t demonstrating a damn thing but keeping my head down.