Fire Over Atlanta (3 page)

“It’s about time we won a battle,” Sergeant Pickens put in. He was a homely young man, a good friend of Leah Carter, and somewhat struck with her. He winked at Royal. “I got me a letter from your sister Leah.”

Royal grinned. “Are you still tryin’ to court her? I told you—she’s dotty about Jeff Majors.”

“He’s just an old Confederate,” Ira drawled. “Just let me get close to her again, and I’ll show you what courtin’ really is.”

Some catcalls went up at this.

And then Walter Beddows winked at Rosie and said, “Hey, Drake, how you doin’ with
your
courtin’?”

Drake had been eating steadily, but at Walter’s remark his face assumed a frown. “I’m doin’ all right,” he said.

“Is that right?” Walter continued. He loved to tease. “Why, I heard our sergeant has the inside track on that little ol’ Lori Jenkins.”

“Cut it out, will you, Walter!” Royal said. He and Drake were competing for Lori Jenkins’s hand, and he knew that Drake hated to be teased.

But Walter never knew when to stop, and he kept up his teasing until finally Drake said, “Beddows, shut up, or I’ll clean your plow!”

“Oh, he didn’t mean anything,” Royal said quickly. He hated to see dissension among his squad and shot a warning frown at Walter.

Drake, however, was extrasensitive. He got up and walked stiffly out of the mess hall.

“Hey, you left your pancakes!” Rosie called after him. “Do you mind if I have ’em?”

Drake went out, slamming the door.

“Whooie, he sure is powerful touchy, isn’t he, Professor?” Walter said.

“Too touchy—and you fellows lay off of him! You hear me? Especially you, Walter. You never know when to quit.”

Rosie commandeered the remains of Drake’s breakfast and consumed them with relish. “You’re right about that, Professor. I’ve known Drake a long time. If he didn’t have such a hot temper, he’d live longer. I been tellin’ him he ought to take some of my liver pills.” He swallowed the last bite and sighed with satisfaction. “Come to think of it, I better take some myself.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a huge bottle. He removed the top and shook out a handful of pills. “You fellows want
some?” he asked. Getting no takers, he took two and swallowed them easily without water. “Now,” he said, “that ought to calm my innards down a little bit.”

“They better be calm because we’re gonna be headin’ out of here any time,” Royal said.

“General Sherman tell you that?” Pickens asked with a grin.

“Everybody knows about it. We’ll be headin’ for Atlanta, and there’ll be plenty of fightin’ along the way.”

After the Confederates retreated from Chattanooga, General Sherman at once gave orders to follow them. He had three armies, 110,000 men strong; Gen. Joe E. Johnston’s Army of Tennessee had fewer than 65,000. The Union troops packed up and started out toward Atlanta.

During the march, Rosie asked, “What do you think about our strategy, Royal? How are we goin’ to whip them Rebs?”

The others listened avidly, for Royal was the only man in the squad who paid much attention to strategy.

“Well,” he said, “we’ve got to do two things. First, we’ve got to whip Johnston’s army. And the second thing is, we’ve got to capture Atlanta.”

“Why do we need Atlanta?” Drake muttered sourly.

Royal pretended not to notice Drake’s sullen looks. He knew Drake did not like soldiering. “Next to Richmond,” he said, “Atlanta is the most important manufacturing city in the South. If we can capture that, that’ll reduce their ability to wage war. They won’t have anything left to fight with.”

“What do you think the Confederates are going to do?” Walter Beddows asked.

“First they’re going to try and whip us. But being so outnumbered, I don’t think they can handle that,” Royal said. “I think they’ll retreat and try to trick us into some ground where they’ll have more of a chance. And, of course, secondly, they’ll hole up and defend Atlanta. But you know what they’re really tryin’ to do is stall for time.”

“Why they doin’ that?” Rosie inquired.

“Because, if the war keeps on going on, some of our folks back home might decide it costs too much. And if President Lincoln gets defeated next November, the war might just be stopped. So if they can just hold out, they’ve got a good chance of winning that way.”

The others listened, but Royal knew they actually paid little attention to theories.

However, they soon paid attention to the action. When the Federals arrived at a place called Resaca, they made an attack, and there was intense fighting. After this, they pursued the Rebels until they fought again. Johnston and his Confederate forces were waiting for them at Newhope Church, and hard battles were fought there.

Royal and his squad were sent on a wide, ranging sweep and, after a series of operations, found themselves in front of Kennesaw Mountain. The Northern army had come three-fourths of the way to Atlanta, and so far there had been only isolated pitched battles. But this time Sherman loosed the entire Federal force on Confederate positions.

Sherman’s troops took considerable mauling, and the general, fighter that he was, decided that Atlanta could not be taken by a frontal assault. The Union
forces then moved along the Chattahoochee River, and the Confederates eventually retired across the river to a strong position just north of Atlanta.

During all of the battles, Drake had fought with courage. He was a man who could endure almost anything except inactivity. He was a social being, loved parties, played the fiddle well, had a good singing voice, and had been very popular in civilian life. Now, once the armies were not fighting but simply waiting it out, he became restless.

Royal was careful how he spoke to Drake. He considered the man a friend even though the two of them were in fierce competition for Lori Jenkins. But being a responsible sergeant, finally he could overlook Drake’s malingering and laziness no longer. Approaching him one morning as Drake lay outside his tent while the other men were working, he said, “Drake, up and at it! Help the other fellas!”

Drake, unfortunately, had found some liquor the night before and had gotten drunk. He probably had a terrible headache, for he flinched at the impact of Royal’s voice. Without opening his eyes he said, “You don’t need me, Royal!”

Even as he spoke, an officer walked by, Lt. Harvey Logan, a hard man on any private who spoke back to his officer or noncom.

Alarmed, Royal said, “Come on, Drake, get with it!”

Drake, again without opening his eyes, cursed Royal and told him, “Get away and leave me alone!”

“
On your feet, private!”

At the rough voice of the lieutenant, Drake did open his eyes, and when he saw the anger on Logan’s face, he scrambled to his feet.

“If you don’t like to work, I’ll give you something better to do.”

“I think I can discipline him, lieutenant,” Royal said hastily. “If you don’t mind, sir.”

“I do mind!” the lieutenant said. “He’s been getting away with murder! Let him ride the horse. See if he likes that. After a few hours, he’ll be glad to go to work.”

The rest of the squad stood listening to all this, and some of them looked pleased. Royal knew they resented having to do Drake’s work.

“Get him on that horse!”

Royal had no choice. “Come on, Private Bedford.”

Drake had gone too far, but he was a proud young man and would never beg. When he got to the wooden “horse,” which was a rough pole six inches across and suspended six feet in the air by crossed legs, he turned a little pale. Men had been kept straddled on this apparatus until they cried for mercy.

“On that pole, Bedford,” Lieutenant Logan ordered.

Drake leaped up and straddled the pole. He held on with his hands in front of him and waited.

“Tie his feet under there!” Lieutenant Logan said, and with regret Royal obeyed the order.

“How long do I have to stay up here, sir?”

“I’ll tell you when you can get down! You can think about what a sorry soldier you are while you’re up there!” Lieutenant Logan gave Royal a hard glance. “You leave him there, sergeant, until I tell you to take him down.”

“Yes, sir!”

For the next six hours, Drake sat on the horse.
What was at first uncomfortable became literal torture after a while. He tried to shift his position, raising himself off the pole from time to time. But that was impossible for long.

Even worse than the torture were the snickers and laughter of the men of A Company who came by. “Ride ’em, cowboy!” they would yell. “You got him, Drake! Just ride him all the way back to Washington!” Such gibes infuriated him, but he could not do anything about it.

The lieutenant came by at dusk. “All right, sergeant, cut him loose.”

Royal slit the thongs binding Drake’s feet and said, “Let me help you down, Drake.”

“Get away from me!” Drake slipped off the pole, clinging to it to keep from falling until the circulation came back to his legs. Then he staggered off, his face set in an air of resentment.

“He sure doesn’t learn very good, does he, Professor?” Jay Walters remarked.

“He sure don’t!” Rosie put in. “He’s always shootin’ himself in the foot. Sure wish he would learn to be nice and easygoing. Maybe some of this new syrup I made out of hemlock will help him.”

Jay shook his head. “I don’t think any medicine is gonna help him. Just a change of heart.”

“He needs that all right. He’s a right good feller. He’s just got too much temper for one man.”

T
he road to Atlanta wore the Union army threadbare. Day by day the troops slogged forward, fighting battle after battle. The Confederates, led by the wily General Johnston, fought a masterful withdrawal. It was said of Johnston that on retreat he was like a savage wolf, the best general in either army at such tactics.

After many nasty little battles, Royal Carter sat in front of a sputtering campfire, studying the squad that he was charged with leading. A cold rain was falling, and the fire over which Royal and Walter Beddows were trying to cook bacon and make johnnycakes was a miserable failure.

“I’m tired of all this!” Walter complained. He suddenly sat back, and the muddy ground squished beneath him. “We fight, and fight, and fight—and those blasted Rebels just back up and hit us again from the sides!”

Walter had a tin plate in his hand and was hungrily awaiting breakfast. Now he pulled his poncho around his shoulders and tilted his forage cap forward so that the water ran down on his shirtfront. “I’d just as soon bore through to China as get to Atlanta.”

“It’s not so bad,” Royal said quickly, trying to keep up the spirits of his men. “We’ll make it, fellas. We just have to keep plugging.”

Drake and Rosie were staring morosely at the sorry attempts to put breakfast together. Rosie said, “If I don’t get some more of my liver medicine pretty soon, I’m going to die before I can get shot.”

“Well, if you die of liver trouble, you won’t have to worry about gettin’ shot!” Drake said irritably. He looked up at the sullen, gray sky where dark clouds rolled in huge thunderheads, some scattering as a wild wind drove them apart. “I wish this blamed
rain
would clear up!”

“It’ll probably clear off soon,” Royal said. “Let’s get some dry firewood under here and see if we can get this breakfast going.”

The squad struggled for some time to get their breakfast cooked but finally succeeded. They sat around eating hotcakes and bacon, and the rain did turn into a fine mist that soaked into their already sodden clothing. They were almost finished with the meal when Major Bates strolled past with several of his officers.

He looked purposeful, and Royal perked up at once. “It looks like there’s going to be some action,” he said.

“I hope not,” Rosie groaned. “My rheumatism’s acting up.”

Despite Rosie’s professed rheumatism, Royal saw the officers go off to Sherman’s headquarters.

That afternoon, Royal looked up to see Lieutenant Logan walking toward them. “He looks like he means business, doesn’t he, Walter?”

“Sure does,” Beddows said, “and I don’t like it when officers look like that. It means trouble for us.”

“Sergeant,” Lieutenant Logan said, stopping before Royal and Beddows. “We’re going to be attacking
in the morning. I want every man in your squad to carry a full pack, three days’ rations, and keep your powder dry.”

“What are we going to do, lieutenant?” Royal asked.

“I expect we’re going to hit the Rebels hard and wade right into Atlanta. Be sure the men are ready at dawn.”

Royal thought Lieutenant Logan looked half angry. He must have disagreed with his superior officers about the manner of attack and had been overruled, being merely a lowly lieutenant.

“I guess we’d better tell the rest of the fellas,” Royal said. He and Beddows gathered the squad together, and Royal said as cheerfully as possible, “We’ll be attacking in the morning. Going to take Atlanta this time.”

“Take Atlanta!” Drake stared at him. “Whose bright idea was that?”

“General Sherman’s, I suppose, Drake.”

“Well, it doesn’t make no sense.” Drake shook his head. “We’ve been nibblin’ away at the Rebels every day, and the harder we fight, the more they fight back. And now we’re going to try a head-on attack? It’s stupid!”

“It’s orders!” Royal said sharply. “Everybody get your equipment together. Be sure you’ve got plenty of ammunition. We’ll be leaving at daylight.”

“I got half a mind to turn myself in sick,” Drake muttered.

“I feel the same way,” Rosie said, “but I been on sick call so much they wouldn’t believe me. You can do it though, Drake. You ain’t never reported in sick.”

“Nope! If we’re gonna be fools, I’ll be a fool with the rest of you!” He suddenly grinned, reached over, and slapped his tall, towheaded friend on the back. “I got to look out for you, don’t I? I declare, you wouldn’t last a day without me!”

Dawn came, and it was a beautiful morning. The squad ate together as the yellow light in the east began to grow bright.

Royal was still trying to be cheerful. “Well, it’s a good day for it.”

“I don’t see what difference that makes!” Drake grumbled. “I’d just as soon have a bad day to get shot as a good one.”