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The snowfall grows heavier and I am wending my way back to camp. Giving the secret response of the night to the sentry. Nosing along E Avenue between the tents. The colonels and the majors and such are in the big officers’ wickiup. The shroud of canvas glowing dimly. Indeed they have real lamps burning within. The officers are sitting in silhouette and their backs are turned blackly to the opening. The picket standing mute outside in the new issue of snow. I can hear their low voices. Talking of family or war I cannot tell. The night has plunged into
proper darkness and the pitch core at the centre of everything is in command. The whippoorwill calling over the tents of the sleeping men. Short note, long note. The whippoorwill will call forever over these snowy meadows. But the tents are temporary.

We’re moved up towards the river and are bound to establish winter quarters. Guess no man knows who hasn’t endured it the wretched boredom of those times. You’d rather risk a battering of canisters and grapeshot. Alright or nearly. Me and John Cole is mighty amused when evenings of blackface is put together for amusement. It’s knowed we’ve worked the halls but here we sing together as two boys and give an Uncle Tom or Old Kentucky Home and leave it there. Union boys in blackface maybe strange. Kentucky got both toes in the war so we have to tread softly there. Dan FitzGerald goes innocent into a dress one night and though he’s blackface he sings an Irish Colleen song and by God but the proclivities of a dozen men’s aroused. Starling Carlton says he wants to marry her. We leave that there too. Otherwise can’t get your damn feet warm and since there ain’t a scrap of news getting in the world could of ended and the last trump sounded for all we know. Messengers come pushing through only when the cold lifts its hand. Cases of fever plague the men and some of them go clear off their heads. Even the bad whisky runs out and if the supply wagons ain’t made it you is going to be eating your boots. Paymaster never comes neither and you’re wondering are you still a living man or has Death converted you till you be now a shivering ghost. When spring comes the ground is still hard and yet we are turned to digging out long rifle pits and redans for the guns. Seems this part of
the river hides a ford under the present flood. When it shortly reappears we will be tasked to guard it I guess. Starling Carlton says he’s glad he’s a sergeant now and don’t have to dig. Says he wonders why he ever came east and sure misses Fort Laramie and killing Injuns. Don’t you wish to help the black man, sir? says Dan FitzGerald. What you now saying? says Starling. Help the black man get his freedom and keep the Union, sir? says Dan. What’s this about niggers, says Starling Carlton, I ain’t doing nothing for niggers. He looking clear bemused. Don’t you know why you fighting? says Lige Magan, by God, I don’t believe you do. I know, says Starling Carlton. In the tone of a man who don’t. Why you fighting then? says Lige. Why, because the major asked me, says Starling, as if this were the clearest fact in Christendom. Why the hell you fighting?

Here come back the warblers and the goddamn butterflies and now also the high-up officers who just the damn same as the warblers went off at that first hint of snow. Can’t expect toffs to sit in camp like cabbages. Colonel Neale he tried to get west before the most awful of the snows but he only got as far as Missouri he says. Worried now about the twins and Mrs Neale. Gets some reports of trouble over yonder but expects the army will handle it. The war has thinned out troops in the west and citizen militias took their place somewhat. He don’t like citizen militias, Colonel Neale. Confederate militias the worst, roaming about and shooting ducks in barrels. He says wherever a gap opens you’ll find trashy men to fill it. General news seeps into camp. The war is widening everywhere. But the clock of the day turns just the same. Bugle and barked order. The big supply wagons
dragged by oxen hove into camp. Well we was nearly eating bullets. Got a little boneyard full of the winter’s haul. Fr Giovanni likes his brandy but he always does the honours. The bugler with his frozen lips sticking to the mouthpiece. Raw with little wounds he don’t have time to give to healing.

Soon we hear tell that the big army’s coming south and will cross at the ford. Our captain opines they want to go on to a spot called Wytheville and cross the Blue Ridge Mountains. Bring grief to the Rebs in Tennessee, Captain Wilson says. That might be true and that might not be true. But the water has dropped and the two-foot shallows are yellow and brown from the stones below. New recruits arrive in a batch to fill the empty places, Irish just the same as always. City dregs, says Starling Carlton. But as they come in we give them a cheer all the same. Good to see new leaves and new faces. Everything’s astir and we ain’t feeling so bad now. Sap rising in men too.

Guess the Rebs believe if they can wipe us off the bank they can hold the ford and stop the Federals pushing through. Now we know there be a huge force of them approaching up the right bank of the river. Ten miles off a blind man can see the dust and ruckus of men. Must be ten thousand. At least a division of those hole-in-the-trousers boys. We’re only four thousand but we’re dug in like prairie dogs. Rifle pits galore a mile wide and all set in devious vees and on each flank full batteries and we got so much shells they rival the pyramids of Egypt. We got a regiment to hold a line behind and we have a nice rabble of companies on the right flank. Starling Carlton says two to one only fair to the yellowlegs. Lige says Starling can’t count. Starling says Lige
is a lying Tennessee traitor. What you saying now? says Lige. Ain’t you a Tennessee boy? I am. Well, why ain’t you fighting for the Rebs since you smell the same as them? My pa’d shoot you dead hear you talk like that, Starling, says Lige, guess you don’t know nothing so you can’t say nothing about Tennessee. I know a back-stabbing turncoat when I sees one. Then why don’t you step over here and say that to my face? says Lige. I am saying it to your face. Your face is two feet from my mouth. Goddamn it, Lige. Then the two burst out laughing as is their wonted manner. Just as well as up to that point they was looking like assassins.

Colonels lurking on the holding line behind and sergeants coming down with orders. Getting to be all business and here we go. Lige has a piece of paper with his name and farm wrote on it and he always pins it to his chest before battle. Don’t want his body going in a pit nameless and his pa never hearing. His pa is eighty-nine year old and must be teetering on the brink of life, who knows. Then Lige falls back and tends to the colour detail. Gets our flag up with the shamrock on it and the harp. Green as an April leaf but dusty and torn too. Takes the river wind and shows its shape. There’s a huge noise being made by the approaching Rebs and it must be allowed we is nervy now and sick even. The faces are turned to the south to see what it all looks like. There’s all these little humpy hills and stands of scrubby trees and then the full dark river pouring south on our left. Friendly, protecting river. Colonel Neale appears now on his horse and talks down a few moments to Captain Wilson but no one can hear what they saying. Sounds humorous anyhow.
Then the colonel goes trotting along the ranks and he’s nodding to the men. We got a big company of cavalry on our right but they’re back in the trees and you can’t say if they’ll be used. Might have to rush down if the Rebs break through some place. We don’t intend to let that happen and we’re full of salt pork and hardtack and we ain’t wanting any story of defeat going north. These are little simple things that sit in your head. There is also that queer terror that begins to swell in your belly and men sometimes suddenly need a shit and the sinks are too far back. You’re belching and the food comes up your gullet like it wants to say hello to the world again. Let’s not forget the pissing into your trousers. It’s a soldier’s life. Now we can see the Reb troops better, we can see the regimental banners here and there and they got cavalry too coming up slowly with them, and now they are spreading their forces wide and you can imagine the colonels trying to keep a hold on all this. The first cousin of an order is chaos. Cousin chaos himself. We can nearly feel the ground under us trembling and poor Starling Carlton though he is making sure men are in the right position throws up his pork in a violent expectoration. He don’t lose a breath though and he don’t care much who sees it. He wipes his grimy mouth and don’t miss a beat if he can help it. Terror is just the cousin of courage too. I hope so because I feeling it. We are watching the Rebs and by God ten thousand might be a short sum. More like a goddamn full army. We can see the horses cantering the guns up on two sides and we can see the battery men getting range and then it don’t seem like two seconds later the first of the shells go whining like God’s screaming infant over our heads.
They’re going to throw about four thousand infantry at us in a terrifying wodge of men at centre and here they come. Before we know what is going on we have range on them with our guns and off go a hornet cloud of shells towards the Rebs. Blooms and sudden trees of smoke and fire appear among the myriad troops coming on. We can hear above the din our gunners shouting orders and sergeants and captains are barking words and you can feel your whole corpse gathered up into one tight fist of fear and fright. Holy mother of the Jesus good-natured God. A rich black fog of blown ordnance drifts out across the river like a river fog. Starling Carlton since his breakfast is gone is standing laughing beside me. Why he is laughing not even he knows or he least of all. The captains give the order to fire and a thousand muskets give voice and fling their round shot towards those walking demons. Johnny Reb with his skinny legs and his butternut rags and all he thinks about and thinks good carried under hats of all descriptions. South don’t got uniforms, grits, or oftentimes shoes. Half of these fierce-looking bastards in bare feet. Could be the denizens of a Sligo slum-house. God damn it, probably are, some of them. On they come. I can see the regimental banners now better and this damn one at centre coming on has shamrocks and harps just like ours. Usual crazy fucking war. There’s at least ten colour details I can see. That’s all the orders a simple soldier needs. Once you can see your banner you’ll go. Not going to leave that to the blasted foe. Other things I see are how thin these boys are, how strange, like ghosts and ghouls. Their eyes like twenty thousand dirty stones. River stones I’m thinking and I’m getting crazier by the second.
I’m so frightened and crazy the piss runs down my army-issue trews freely. Bursts forth and floods my legs. God damn it. Like a mare staling in a field. Well, polish my boots. Our first round drops maybe two hundred men. Johnny Reb going to have plenty of burials. We see some cavalry come down east of our barricades and five hundred horse go running at the left flank of the Rebs. God knows whose guns are dropping some of them. Shells not finding range and so much smoke now and shouting and screaming the whole vista is erased. Goodbye Virginia and hello only ruckus and turmoil. We’re reloading as fast as our fingers can let us. Bet Starling Carlton wishes he had that nice Spencer now he wanted to kill Caught-His-Horse-First for. Wish I owned it myself. Takes two three minutes to ready your musket. God damn it. Fire again and make it count. Fire again and make it count. Now the advance is broken and the Rebs are pulling back. They can’t take fire just in that way from the breastworks and the redans. Can’t shoot enough of us and can’t get near enough to o’erwhelm us. Engulf us like a river flood and drown us in death. Can’t do it. The cavalry now veers to centre running at the retreating men. They’re slashing at backs and heads with their sabres and now their own cavalry is running at ours. Holy good Jesus. They come together like writhing devils, turning and raising the sabres, and firing off pistols into faces as freely as you please. Dozens and dozens falling. Such a blather of terrified runners and horses rearing up and throwing riders and God knows what else of perils. Then the cavalry galloping back and let the damn Rebels find the little hills. God damn it, no. They have another regiment of cavalry running up
through the retreating men and they almost got to turn again because they’ll be trampled by their own. Here they come on again. We’re firing like lunatics possessed. Firing and firing. The whole sea of them turn again and you’d swear old Canute must be working the miracle he could not of old. The tide of men goes back. We seen them go for about a quarter hour and a cheer goes up among us and we are standing and kneeling, panting there like waterless cattle. God burn the world but Starling Carlton leans on the parapet and rests his big face wholesale on the earth like he was kissing it. But he is exhausted as a hunting dog been hunting for a day. He’s run his big form so heavy he’s fallen over like a killed man. I can hear him muttering into the earth, his mouth and face plastered in mud. The day is as dry as a furnace but his sweat makes mud enough to throw a pot. John Cole come over from his detail and kneels at my side. He leans his head against my right arm at the top and seems to sleep for a moment. Seems to fall into a sleep. Like he was a baby after a lullaby. Suddenly the whole body of men seems to be sleeping. No force will ever rouse us again. Our eyes are closed and we are asking for our strength returned. If we got Gods we’re praying to them. Then it seeps back. No thankful speech of any captain could be so deep as the relief of it.

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