The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (63 page)

Down to one side, an officer sat curled up as he was, no orders, no attempt to rally the men for anything more than what they were doing, seeking shelter any way they could. He saw other men, lying flat just outside the log wall, more desperation, but the artillery shells were finding them as well, the air blasts spraying hot iron into those men more easily than the men in the trench. A horse rode past, just out from the logs, a surprise, and Bauer wanted to rise up, to see, knew better than to try. More horses thundered past, some of those moving out away from the works, back the way they came, and Bauer could see through the openings in the logs that the horses had no riders. He felt a jab at that, thought, Officers on horses … never seemed very damn smart. Or maybe, they just dismounted, drove the horses away. Damn kind of ’em. Especially if they’re not dead.

Another shell tumbled in heavily to one side, impacting down into the line, ripping through the huddled men, then erupting in a blast of fire and flesh. Bauer closed his eyes again, the thoughts driven away by a sudden wave of panic. He kept his head down, the words coming out in a hard shout few could hear.

“What are we supposed to do? We can’t just stay here!”

Others took up the cry, the men beside him, strangers mostly, one man yelling out, “We gotta get the hell out of this place!”

Hell
. Bauer was struck by the word, the place. Yep. This has to be close. He heard splattering against the wood, musket balls ripping close past his head, a volley fired from high above. He looked again through the gaps in the logs, could see across the flat ground they had come from, wondered if another line of troops was moving up in support, that wonderful sense of strength, reinforcements, salvation. Somebody else for the rebels to shoot at. But the ground to their rear was churned up, smoking, few men but the wounded, no stretcher bearers yet with the courage to wander out into wide-open spaces. He felt cramps in his legs, forced himself to roll over, his face pushed against the dirt, and officers were shouting now, an order barely above the sound from a pair of shells coming down close behind him.

“Get up! Get to the hill! Find cover there!”

“To hell with you!”

The words came next to him, echoed in Bauer’s own head, others
responding, some picking up the call, the men understanding there was no safety here, no real protection. Another shell tumbled into the trench, a hissing fuse, a man screaming, pushing back with his feet, a desperate scramble to get away. Bauer covered his head with his arms, useless effort, the fuse going silent, the shell not exploding. Another man rolled over, hoisted the shell up, rolled it out past the logs, then dropped back down, and just as suddenly, the shell erupted, logs tossed up on one end, smoke and fire, hard shrieks from the men close by.

Another order came, another officer, a different direction, “Up! Get to the ridge! Climb! Let’s go! Rebs are way up the hill, pulling back!”

Bauer knew Willis’s voice, couldn’t ignore that, had to see, to know what Willis was telling them to do, had to see himself if the rebels had truly gone. He removed his hat, healthy precaution, jabbed his head up a few inches, a quick scan of the ground toward the ridge, saw a handful of bodies, wounded men, others not moving at all, not all of them in blue. He felt a hard grab on his back, surprising, terrifying, heard the words yelled into his ear.

“Get up! Move to the hill! Get up! Find cover!”

It was Willis.

He watched Willis slide past him, grabbing at the men, the shouts continuing, the heavy impact of his voice pulling the men together, muskets drawn up, men preparing to move. The men closest to Bauer were from the 15th, strangers, but Willis affected them as well, a voice of authority everyone seemed to need. Bauer watched him, saw Willis pull his pistol, standing upright in the trench, pointing out toward the hill. He was gone now, a quick climbing leap upward, still shouting, and Bauer rose up, saw Willis running hard, falling now against the slope, heavy brush above him. Others followed, climbing up, some hesitating, others bursting up and away, faster now, more of the men understanding that this cover was no cover at all. Bauer gripped the musket hard, couldn’t watch Willis in the open, wouldn’t see what might happen. But the air ruptured close overhead, the shell blowing straight into the logs, a shattering blast that tore a wide opening, the ground behind him suddenly open, clear. He rolled over, stared that way,
back
, ignored the wounded, looked out toward
small stands of trees, the slight rolling ground, the trampled grass from the feet of a thousand regulars, the men who had taken the enemy’s works, and now suffered for it. He felt the quivering in his chest, the ice in his fingers, searing heat on his face, a fire to one side, the logs starting to burn. He didn’t move, kept his eyes on the open ground, felt suffocated by the raw terror pouring from his brain, no thoughts but one.
Run!

He started to move that way,
back
, out of the earthworks, the convenient hole blown in the logs, saw the tree line far out in the plain, safety, sanctuary. He heard more shouts, a high-pitched yell, saw men down the trench from him rising up, climbing, pawing their way out through the embankments, some crawling, then up, running. But they were moving
forward
, obeying Willis and their own officers, scrambling out toward the steep slope, toward the fire from the enemy. Bauer tried to move, his legs frozen, icy paralysis, his eyes still caught by the ground behind him, farther from the shelling. He fought against the terror in his brain, struggling to move, cursing against his own fears, the word rolling into him now, a voice in his brain, a voice from every fight, the worst curse of all, one part of him turning inward, the single word drilling into him.
Coward
.

The tears came now, his fingers cramped around the musket, the hard breathing, his heart racing. He watched more of the men crawl up, gone, the trench still holding men who hesitated, who sat frozen as he was, consumed by the fear, the awful terror. He heard orders again, shouts from an officer, saw Captain Haymond, the battalion commander, out behind the logs, trying to rally the men who stayed behind. Bauer curled his knees up tightly again, sobbing now, but the ice broke free in his brain, and he thought of Willis, had a sudden vision, clarity, knew that Willis would die, that Bauer would never see him again. But Willis was out there, had gone … where? I can’t let him know, I can’t let him ever see this.
Coward
.

He rolled over again, on his knees, pushed the hat down hard on his head, moved the musket out on the dirt, pulled himself up. The flat ground was littered with bodies, bloody stains, torn pieces of men ripped by canister. He climbed up, stood for a long second, the musket balls zipping past, more blasts from artillery coming down behind the trench line. He saw the men in motion now, spots of blue, some pausing, hugging the ground on the hillside, then crawling upward, some of those men running uphill, hunched over, making their way along paths, shoving through brush. He searched for Willis, but there were too many, and he saw now, all across the ridge, out to the left, as far as he could see, a half mile, men doing the same, swarms of blue ants, all of them moving up the hill. He gripped the musket to his chest, looked up toward the top of the ridge, hundreds of feet, the smoke blowing out in a dirty cloud. The artillery was firing steadily, the blasts still aimed downward, sideways, along the hill, the gunners sweeping men away, men too slow to find cover. Bauer stared at that for a long second, heard a musket ball sing past his ear, another, impacting at his feet. He took a deep breath, fought through the paralysis, no thoughts of the ground out behind him, of leaving these men. He moved one leg, then the other, the slope so far away, two hundred endless yards, dirt thrown up, another whistle past him, musket fire from above, and he saw the backs of men, all of them climbing, pushing up into rocks and thickets and he began to run.

The first hundred feet up the hillside was thick with cut timber where the rebels had taken down trees, the logs used to build their fortifications. Now the treetops and limbs made a brushy tangle, the men struggling through. But there was one great advantage to the obstacle. The brush gave cover, hiding the men from the gunners above. The artillerymen didn’t seek perfect targets, knew only to sweep the hillside as closely as the aim of the big guns would allow. Those men kept up their fire mostly to the side, the slope just below them far too steep to allow the artillery to aim downward. But out to both flanks, the gunners along the crest turned their artillery to the side as much as the ground would allow. In the brushy thickets below, whatever cover the men in blue could find was no barrier to the canister and exploding shells, the sloping ground ripped, the brushy limbs shattered into splintering projectiles.

Bauer kept flat, his legs pushing against loose dirt and rocks, any kind of foothold. Gradually he made his way upward, followed the churned-up dirt, the small gaps in the brush where men had gone before him. The effort was agonizing, his legs exhausted, burning in his lungs from the strain and the smoke. But above him and out to both sides, many more men were doing the same, no talk, their voices silenced by the effort, by the ongoing fire, the blasts and musket fire still sweeping through them. Bauer grabbed a fat limb, pushed the brush away, saw now, the ground above the brush line was open, dotted with crags and rocks, cut with small ravines, slices in the earth. There were rifle pits above, rebels standing, the quick firing of the
musket, then down, reloading. The new earthworks were nearly halfway up the slope, piled dirt and logs that extended in both directions as far as he could see. He saw the heads peering up, quick shots, bursts of smoke from the barrels of a hundred muskets. Around him, men were returning fire, most of that useless, impacting straight into the dirt that protected the rebels. Bauer watched one man right above him, the rebel slow moving, a
target
, the man’s musket coming up, aiming, but Bauer was in no place to make a shot, and he rolled to one side, the sound of the man’s musket erased by so many others. He lay still, fought for air, wiped dirt from his eyes, could see men in blue now on every side of him, some coming up from below, many more up above, still moving up the hill. Most of those men were finding cover, filling every hole, sliding up behind every rock. Bauer glanced up toward the rebel works again, fifty yards above him, angry at himself, no way to take aim without standing upright. Not now, he thought. Let’s get someplace better than this. He took a breath, spit dust from his mouth, dug his feet into the soft dirt, lunged upward, his feet slipping, then grabbing, a hard struggle for a few feet higher. He wouldn’t stop, pushed harder, his feet catching rock, better traction, saw flashes from above, the rebels making their effort, but the men in blue were closing the distance, some of them waiting for opportunity, for the rebel to show himself, the hard crack close by Bauer, a rebel falling over the dirt, another rising up beside him, suddenly punched backward.

He kept pushing himself higher, felt the hot breath of wind, canister blowing past him, peppering the hillside below him, pushing him farther, faster, his eyes in a mad search for any safe place. The shouts were more audible now, men calling out from the good cover, bringing others in with them, the men stacking up, banding together. Bauer pushed against a small rock, anchored in the dirt, the boost pushing him farther up, a flat, narrow shelf, big rocks above him, men in a thick line around him. He fell in among them, no one cursing him, the men shoving aside, making space. He tried to shrink himself, to give room, but it was nearly impossible, the men crushed together in what seemed to be a haven, heavy cover. He was on his side, slid the musket upward, still no place to aim, heard the talk now, the men huddled together, sharing their fear, their fury. Bauer tried
to see faces, saw mostly hats, men of the 15th, and his own, no one asking for officers, no officer seeking order. The musket fire from close above seemed to slow, men down below Bauer taking aim, picking targets. He felt the eagerness at that, his job, his talent, but not now. Now, what? He looked around, finally an officer, the man standing out to one side, Captain Haymond, then hunkering down, doing his job, searching for the next move, the best route they should take. Men were crawling past, just below, some with eyes of desperate fear, others seeking friends, offering names, units, as though any company commander would care just what boulder his men had called their own.

Close beside him, the stink of sweat and blood, a wound on a man’s arm, the blood staining Bauer’s coat, and Bauer grabbed the man’s shoulder, said, “Hey! You’re wounded. Let me stuff a handkerchief into that.”

Bauer pulled himself up, saw now, it was the boy, Hoover, saw teary-eyed fear, and Hoover said, “I’m killed! They done killed me!”

“No, they just shot you. Just your arm. Here, hold this tight.”

Hoover grabbed at Bauer’s hand, wild animal eyes, and Bauer pushed the boy’s hand onto the cloth, knew it was all he could do. Beside the boy, a man Bauer didn’t know, a handful of others, men from the 15th, a few from the 18th. The faces showed every emotion, fear and anger, exhaustion, relief, men finding their strength, and now Bauer heard the familiar voice, the growling curse, Willis, crawling along just below them.