Sweetsmoke (46 page)

    "Say,
I heard you boys killed Turner Ashby, that true?"

    Cassius
sat up. Jacob had ridden with Ashby, and had revered the man.

    You
killed Colonel Ashby? Cassius said to McLaren.

    "Sure
enough," said the sixteen-year-old. "Ashby of the Confederate Black
Horse Cavalry. Bucktails got him. Maybe it were you?"

    "Naw,
warn't me," said McLaren. "They say it was Bucktails, but some New
Jersey Cavalry picket been talkin like he did it. Since New Jersey said he
didn't know who it was he shot that day and didn't find out Ashby was dead till
the next day, and only then decided it was him, I guess I'll stick with the
Thirteenth. We were there, all right, outside Harrisonburg. Reckon it was early
June."

    "June
sixth," said the sixteen-year-old.

    "And
I reckon you know a little something about Ashby," said McLaren.

    The
boy looked sheepish. "I used to read about his exploits."

    "Well,
then, you probably know he was General Ashby that day. Made General couple days
before."

    The
men were silent, as if that ironic observation was the way of the war. Time and
again when something good happened for a man, it was but prelude to his death.

    "My
favorite part of that day was old Sir Percy," said McLaren.

    "Sir
Percy?" said the sixteen-year-old.

    "Sir
Percy Wyndham. Soldier of fortune, Britisher. Boasted that morning that he was
going to 'bag' Ashby. Word got back to Ashby on that. I met Old Percy once, he
was a braggart and an adventurer, but not a bad soldier. Sir Percy charged
Ashby's rear guard, but he neglected to notice he was charging all by himself.
His men hadn't followed, and then Ashby bagged him. I did love to hear that.
Comes the end of the day, Ashby had Virginia and Maryland infantry sent over to
him, gave an order to charge, they all get up and they're running and we shot
his horse down, but Ashby, he's right back on his feet to lead the charge on
foot, waving that shiny sword, and a bullet went right through his heart just a
few feet from his horse."

    Again
they were silent, staring at the fire between them.

    "Same
day that Colonel Kane was captured. That was some hard day. We got him back in
August, I fought with him at Second Bull Run. Hear they might make him a
general for that skirmish at the bridge. What day is it?"

    "Sunday."

    "Sunday.
Maybe I'll sleep now."

    On
the morning of the 15th of September, they caught up to the rear echelon of the
Union Army of the Potomac at Turner's Gap in South Mountain. A fierce battle
had been fought the day before and the Union had broken through for the first
notable Northern victory that summer. Cassius saw the detritus of the battle
spread across the rock-strewn ground, and it was a bad sight. Men were burying
bodies under the hot sun, digging on the spot and dropping their friends into
holes. He looked forward to where they were headed and saw both armies in the
distance, no more than fifteen miles away.

    McLaren
came upon the body of a friend and stopped to bury him. The sixteen-year-old
went on, anxious to catch up to the battle that he thought was sure to start at
any moment. Cassius found a shovel and worked alongside McLaren.

    They
spent the night at Turner's Gap and in the morning set off to cover the
distance to Sharpsburg. It was hot and dry, but Cassius read the sky and
thought the weather was about to turn.

    By
late afternoon they had come upon the two enormous armies camped up against one
another on a rolling, confusing ground that hid whole regiments from his view,
exposing them only after he had walked past them. He and McLaren walked by rows
of tents that stretched out and vanished beyond a rise, only to reappear
continuing on but smaller in the distance. They passed wagons and food and
horses, they smelled food and burning campfires. There were cannons and more
cannons, and shells piled up alongside the cannons, dropped off by supply
wagons. Cassius saw things that he would not have imagined in his most
extravagant dreams. How could this Federal army be so large, how was it
managed, how did it move? How could the Confederates put up a fight against so
many men? The ocean of blue jerseys stretched on and on, in all directions
around him. He would not have been surprised to find them under his feet or
flying overhead. To see this many men in one place was more than impressive, it
was positively daunting. He had been hearing a distant tink and crack
throughout the afternoon, and now he knew it was the incidental burst of musket
fire. But was this the sound of war? It was so puny compared to the manpower
arrayed around him. No, he decided, the majority of the two armies were not
engaged at this time. The clashing occurred in snarling pockets of rage that
began and ended suddenly. This was but prelude.

    The
ground was confusing; they walked on land that had appeared continuous from a
distance, but suddenly dropped away to reveal a creek and an arched stone
bridge.

    The
afternoon light was almost gone with low clouds moving in, and he and McLaren
crossed the bridge, dodging wagons and troops. He stopped for a moment to look
down at the small creek that flowed below him, some fifty or sixty feet across.
They asked after the 13th Pennsylvania, but usually before they could speak
their question, men were pointing, having seen McLaren's hat, sending them off
the road along the river up a modest hill. They reached another road and were
told to make a hard left.

    "Just
stay on Smoketown Road," someone advised.

    They
heard rumors of a skirmish that had just ended, that the Bucktails now had
partial control of a patch of woods just ahead. The news put McLaren in high
spirits until he saw bodies of men with whom he was acquainted being littered
back to the creek, one with his bucktail hat resting on his chest. McLaren's
mood darkened.

    They
reached the woods and located his unit, and it was then McLaren discovered the
price that had been paid to take that ground. Twenty-eight Bucktails killed,
including Colonel McNeil. Sixty-five wounded. McLaren was angry, and he spoke
of McNeil as a fine and noble officer. He was not alone, as the Bucktails to a
man were in great despair over the death of an officer they admired. McLaren
was ready to enter the fight then, but his friends spoke words to cool his
passion and said that tomorrow would be soon enough. Cassius recognized
recklessness in the man's rage and moved away from him.

    He
picked his way to the far side of the woods, found what seemed to be a good
spot, and settled down to sleep. The night was filled with pickets firing,
small pockets of distant cracks that would come in a burst, then stop, followed
by the occasional explosive sound of a nearby musket or rifle firing in retort.
He lay on his back, and through the heavy tree foliage above he saw, through
the open patches, artillery shells flying, as sparks of their burning fuses
glimmered against the low clouds. Cassius heard the men around him restless in
their attempts at sleep. He planned to cross to the other side once he
understood the lay of the land in daylight, so that he could be behind
Confederate lines in the morning before the battle began. Then he would look
for Whitacre. If it still mattered after that, he would look for Jacob.

    Cassius
woke just as the sky was growing light. He had slept poorly, between the late
night drizzle that had turned to rain before dawn and the sounds of the
occasional musket shot, which gave the night an unending offbeat rhythm.
Throughout the night he had sensed that the men around him were awake. He rose
and was hungry. The sky was brighter and he saw he was on the edge of an area
of woods by a cornfield. He still intended to cross the line to the Confederate
side, but first his belly wanted to know if the corn was ripe. He heard a
closer shot this time, then another closer still. Fog hugged the ground, the
rain had stopped and the trees dripped.

    He
entered the cornfield at the same time as two Union soldiers. The stalks
reached over his head, and he was comforted by the familiar crop. He waded in
deeper and found the corn ripe. Faced with this bounty, he became choosy and
moved from one stalk to the next. He was dimly aware of a handful of others
wandering nearby. He glanced at them in their dark blue coats and saw eyes
glazed with fatigue, rifles carried in the crooks of their elbows. The morning
fog kept him from seeing little more than a few feet in any direction, as if
swathed in a cloud. He moved slowly under the not unpleasant burden of
sleeplessness. His fingers tested the sheathed, unpicked corn until he hit upon
a substantial ear and twisted it free. It was satisfyingly plump in his palm.
The drowsy corn stalks rustled. The fog would burn off, the day would be hot,
and the predawn rain would bring humidity, but for now he was content. He took
hold of the corn silk at the top of the ear and pulled down to reveal white
nubs perfectly aligned. He smiled, looked at his neighbor to share the
perfection, and saw the closest man wore a gray jacket. Cassius hesitated,
knowing something was out of place, and it was a moment before he identified
what it was. He looked back at a blue coat a few feet away, and the blue had
not seen the gray, just as gray was unaware of blue. The light was diffused and
the colors were gorgeous in the fog shroud, the leaves and stalks near him
vivid green and true, while a few feet away, the haze softened the color to a
subtle greenish gray. The soft light toned down the deep blue Federal coats and
made creamy the butternut gray of the Confederate coats. Cassius held his
perfect ear of corn and turned in a circle, losing his sense of direction as he
saw another gray coat just visible there, then watched vanish two blue coats in
the murk and stalks behind him.

    A
series of overlapping extraordinary booms sucked the air, the sky shrieked, and
from above a huge sudden stunning concussive burst squeezed his skull and
slapped his body flat against the ground, knocking his breath completely away.
Deaf, dirt-mouthed, desperately fighting for air, ears filling with a gush of
rushing white river noise that quickly narrowed into a high-pitched whine. His
alarm urged him to flee but his body was unable to move. Slowly, precious
breath came and filled him, his sluggish ears cleared and he made out tinny
crackling gunfire. After a moment he knew that the whine in his ears was real
and not the ringing aftermath of artillery. His head was stupid, aching, his
hands explored his body to know if he was still of a piece. Artillery boomed
close and splattered him with dirt and corn, his chest and legs and bowels
quaked and he dug his fingers into the soil and knew the ground shuddered
beneath him. On hands and knees he scrabbled back to the woods, throwing
himself down. Bucktails were cramped behind logs and stones, aiming

    Sharp's
rifles and firing, dense clouds of smoke blinding, then consuming them after
each shot, the smoke hovering, thickening the local fog. Return fire came from
within the woods, too close. An inconsistent shiver gripped the leaves around
him as minie balls chopped through them. Bucktails cracked their smoking
weapons open in the middle, grabbed from a small box a whitish linen cartridge,
shoved it into the bore, raised the breechblock which sheared off the back end
of the cartridge, brought the rifle back up, and fired, all in a matter of
seconds. Cassius had never seen a breechloader in action. Astonishing the
speed, the accuracy; indeed they were dangerous marksmen who well deserved
their reputation. He heard and felt the whiz and zing, then the sickening
thumps that he hoped were projectiles drilling trees but knew to be the impact
of bullets smacking men's bodies.

    Artillery
was constant, a gross thunder that raged from both sides and encircled him no
matter which direction he turned. The plan to find Whitacre blew out of his
brain, as how could anything survive the very air being shredded to bits? He
thought of birds and squirrels and insects, and wondered where they would hide.

    A
piercing cry rose up around him, a violent wildcat yell, and the Bucktails were
up and flowing past, firing as they moved. He saw Confederate skirmishers rise
from their positions right there, not twenty yards away, to turn and run out of
the woods and across the road. The Bucktails drove forward to the snake-rail
fence bordering Smoketown Road and settled in and continued their terrible
accurate firing.

    Artillery
shells blundered overhead, some crashing high up into the trees, and giant chunks
of shagbark hickory and black walnut and green ash came thundering down,
killing a man not ten feet from him. Splinters sprayed and a four-inch sliver
stung his shoulder and stuck deep. He eased it out, felt it bleed, and knew it
was time to move. He rushed forward in a crouch, dodging bodies and branches,
to where a line of Bucktails shielded themselves behind the low fence along the
road. Cloaked by woods' edge, he took in the landscape. He was south of the
line of corn with an open clover field to his right. The clover field bordered
the road on its north side; below the road were a farm and a plowed field. The
entire vista revealed an undulating land of tricky rises and swales. The
Bucktails sent their accurate fire into Confederates hunkered down in the
plowed field, who also endured artillery shelling from the far side of the
creek to the east. His eyes followed Smoketown Road southwest up a grassy
rolling swell to a small white building turned bright orange by the rising sun,
heavy woods beyond it. Confederate artillery sat upon the rise and great blooms
of smoke burst from the snouts of their big guns, the sound coming after, the
clouds spreading and merging with the smoke of the other guns, all of it
rolling down the hill toward and past him to the creek. The natural fog
dissipated and this new fog replaced it, borne of muskets and cannon.