March Toward the Thunder (9 page)

“Pack up yer gear, lads,” Flynn said. “We're to take a bit of a walk in the dark. And, for the love of all the powers of heaven, be as silent as little mice. Nolette, seeing as how ye have the eyes and ears of an owl, ye'll be leading us out.”

The sergeant paused to scratch his left forearm. Then he cursed and swatted his shoulder.

Fleas
, Louis thought.
Lice don't move that fast.

“And where might we be going, you ask? Well, we and the rest of the Irish Brigade will wade across the lovely river there,” Flynn pointed, his index and middle finger held together like the barrel of a pistol, “and then make our way on up to that hilltop to the right of the bulge in the enemy lines. The whole of Second Corps behind us. Sure and if the luck of the Irish is with us, we'll have a few thousand rifles pouring lead into the Rebels from the side when the Sixth Corps attacks their middle at dawn.”

The sergeant lifted up his beefy hand as if in benediction, though his sausagy fingers were quite unlike the delicate digits of the company chaplain. “Saints preserve ye.”

Then he was off. Corporal Hayes nodded at them once, stroked his mustache, and followed Flynn.

Scarecrow Dedham took off his cap to scratch the straw yellow cowlick that always stood up like a rooster's comb when he was bareheaded.

“I swan. What'd all that mean?” the lanky farm boy said, a confused look on his face. Scarecrow was always the one who had the hardest time figuring out Flynn's flowery speeches.

“It means,” Happy Smith growled, “we're going out to get our heads blown off in the dark.”

Scarecrow grinned over at him. “You are a right caution, Happy,” he said, poking his friend in the ribs.

For some reason, though their personalities were like night and day, Dedham and Smith were almost always together now. Louis had no doubt that would be true tonight. Like David and Jonathan in the Bible, Scarecrow and Happy would be side by side, watching each other's back, even in the darkest dark.

And the night that settled in proved to be just that dark. No moon or stars could be seen, blocked out by the clouds that had begun gathering at dusk.

Rain coming
, Louis thought.

Despite Flynn's admonition, the men around him were far from being as silent as mice as they climbed over the top of the trench. Brush cracked, boots thumped. All in all, though, they were quieter than Louis had expected. Every man had remembered to tie down his canteen and shovel and whatever else might clank or clatter as they made their way down to the river. And no voices were heard—aside from the occasional soft curse as a man banged against something or stumbled over a hesitant comrade's feet.

Can I do this?
Louis thought. Then he remembered his father's words.
You climb a mountain one step at a time.
He nodded.
First step, find the river.
He began crawling forward.

It was no more than a hundred yards from their trench to the riverbank, but it seemed as if a hundred years passed before he smelled its warm waters and heard its rippling flow. He felt more than saw the shadowy shapes of the other men of his company close behind him. He reached back to pat the bony shoulder of Scarecrow, letting him know they'd reached their first objective, and should pass the signal back to Happy and from him to Merry and so on—a ripple of touch through their whole company.

Louis took a deep breath.
Can I do this?

He wasn't afraid of what would happen to him. His deepest dread was that he would lead those other men, who'd placed their trust in him, the wrong way. He'd rather die than do that.

Nothing to do but go forward
.

Lifting his rifle in both hands up above his chest, Louis swung his feet around and lowered them in. The water that rose around his ankles and filled his boots was almost as warm as blood. His feet didn't sink in so deeply that it mired him down, but the smell of rotting plants rose up as he waded deeper. Splashing sounds came from behind him. Hundreds of others were entering the river less quietly than he had. There was even the sound of what had to be someone falling in headfirst.

Louis gritted his teeth, waiting for the first volley of .58-caliber slugs to sweep through them like a scythe through grass. But no shouts or shots came from the Confederate lines that were surely only a few hundred feet from them. He reached back and tugged at the sleeve of whoever was behind him now.

The water stayed shallow, no more than waist deep in the middle. Then only to his knees, to his ankles. Across the river now, moving up the bank in a crouch. Could he find the outline of the hill that was their objective? He looked up at the gray sky and then slowly down. There it was.

He tugged again at the sleeve of the burly man in back of him now, who passed the signal to shadowed shapes of other men acting as scouts to either side just behind him. He shifted the rifle in his hands as he moved forward, a slow step at a time as the ground rose in front of him.

Minutes passed.

Or was it hours?

Finally, a lifetime later, Louis stopped.

A large hand grasped his shoulder from behind.

“Fine, lad,” Flynn's voice whispered in his ear, “'tis the exact spot. Above and t' the right of their line. Now it's dig in and wait till dawn.”

There was no way to hide the sound of shovels chunking down into soil and stone. But still, to Louis's amazement, no shots came their way.

His arms and his back ached, but he kept thrusting his short spade in to lever out more earth and gravel. At last he could dig no more.

Deep enough,
Louis thought. He put down his spade.
I'll close my eyes for just a moment.

When he opened them he saw three things.

The first was that the dawn light was breaking.

The second was a mockingbird. Was it that same one he'd heard singing until dusk the day before? The bird was perched on a little branch that hung no more than a hand's width from his nose. It cocked its head at him, then cheeped, spread its white-banded wings, and fluttered off down the hill.

As his eyes followed the bird's flight, Louis saw the third thing.

A chill went down his back. He understood why there'd been no response from the enemy to the sounds of their digging.

The fortifications below them were no simple rifle pits like the ones E Company had dug during the night. Rebel engineers had designed a massive earthwork, a great line of heavy logs backed up by tons of earth. Those fortress walls stretched for miles in both directions. Eight feet high with loopholes cut out near the bottom for riflemen to shoot from. And set back from that line Louis could see several gun batteries. Four twelve-pound Napoleons in each battery. When the battle began they'd be dropping four shells a minute on the heads of the attacking Sixth Corps.

The two thousand men of the Union's Second Corps might now be to the side and above this Rebel salient. But those Gray soldiers were so dug in you could hardly even get a sight of anything more than rifle barrels sticking out of loopholes.

Not only did the Rebs have that awe-inspiring fortification and all those cannons, but in front of the wall was a deep ditch backed by a fearful obstacle. Countless trees had been laid down side by side and staked in place, their branches sharpened so they stuck out like daggers.

A shiver went down Louis's back

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THROUGH THE RAIN

“Seems to me,” Devlin said, “that Chief here has granted your wish, Joker, me boy.” He pushed up the rubber ground cloth that had been fastened to the headlog at the top of the parapet so that it formed a slanting roof over his part of the trench. The rain that had pooled on it ran down into the ditch next to him. “Ain't you going to thank him for this fine rain?”

“Rain?” Timmy Kirk said. “This is Noah's blessed flood. All I wanted was a few drops to cool my blistered feet. Possum, wouldn't you say Louis overdid it with his rain dance?”

Possum Page looked over, grinned, and nodded his round head.

Louis didn't say anything. It was just as he'd expected. He'd done nothing to encourage the rain pouring down from the sky with no sign of letup. He was not about to take credit for it, even jokingly. But if he denied it, the men with him might tease him even more or, worse, take it as a sign of modesty for his meteorological accomplishment.

Much as he felt bonded to the men around him, as close to brothers as any men he'd ever known, he found himself wishing again that there was another Indian he could talk to. Someone who understood what it was like to be such a figure of fascination or fun—sometimes both at once—in the eyes of his friends.

Because he was so quiet, his friends even seemed to think that nothing bothered him. They thought he was calm and didn't share their fears about failing or dying. Because he never cracked a joke back at them they thought he was serious and deep. Not just another boy who had no other choice but to pretend he was a man.

Louis wiped the rain off his face and readjusted his own ground cloth.

He ducked out from under the cover of the ground cloth and stepped up onto the tread, the earthen shelf that raised a man high enough to peer through his rifle notch cut in the headlog.

“Any sign of anything out there?” Belaney said, leaning over toward him. Just like all the others in the company, Bull assumed that Louis's eyes were better than anyone else's.

Just because I'm an Indian,
Louis thought,
they think I can see more than they do.
Then he laughed at himself.
Well, as a matter of fact, I can.

It was the simple truth. For whatever reason, Louis's eyes really were better than any of the others. But right now all he saw was that the steady shower had finally washed away the blood that had reddened the ground between the lines of Blue and Gray.

A full day had passed since the first Union assault on the U-SHAPED salient that jutted out of the Rebel lines like a mule's shoe. As planned, the men of Louis's company and the rest of Second Corps had laid down a steady enfilading fire from the right. Then the Sixth Corps had attacked head-on.

Cannons roared from both sides. Smoke obscured the battlefield. The Union artillery tore a hole through the abatis.
Abatis
. Another new word for Louis. It meant that deadly tangle of sharpened tree limbs set up in front of the Confederate line.

But the Reb cannons had been just as well-aimed. Shells poured down on the Union men as they tried to force their way through the breech. In the end, the fortified Gray line held. After a day of pitched battle, the Sixth fell back.

Now it was quiet. Maybe too quiet.

Louis wiped his eyes, shielding them from the rain with his hand as he tried to see a pattern of shapes back behind the salient.

Someone moved up onto the tread next to him.

“Something's missing,” Louis said. A spyglass was placed in his hand.

“Use this, lad,” Sergeant Flynn said.

Louis took the spyglass and raised up to get a better angle, leaning his elbows on the headlog. Clear weather, it would have been a risky thing to do, but the rain was like a curtain between them and the eyes of anyone who lacked Louis's keen eyes.

He scanned the slopes. Yesterday there'd been no fewer than five Rebel batteries of four guns there, each with the usual gun crew complement of dozens of officers and men for each field piece—officers, drivers, cannoneers. Twenty cannons roaring out their dragon's breath of fire and shot. But now there were none. Even the horses that pulled the batteries—six per gun and twice that number more to draw the battery wagon and the field forge—and the ordnance wagons of ammunition were nowhere in sight.

“The guns are gone, sir,” Louis said.

“Excellent, me boy! Yer eagle eyes are a blessing to us.” Sergeant Flynn slapped him on the back with such enthusiasm that Louis almost fell forward over the headlog.

“Corporal,” Flynn called over his shoulder, “take the word back. It's just as we hoped. Dear old General Lee thinks we've given up here and called a retreat. He's moved his bleeding Napoleons to another part of the field.”

Sergeant Flynn looked down from the tread at the men of the company who had begun to assemble below.

“'Tis no time now for any fine, flowery speeches, lads. I'm not about to be like King Henry on Crispin's Day or to boast of what the Brigade did in years past when they broke the infantry of the Prince of Hesse and decided the fortune of the day. Nor will I remind you of the glory which the men before you achieved upon the plains of Ramillies, at the gate of Cremona, or on the plains of Fontenoy. I'll just point out to you that those examples of our Irish valor, regulated by discipline, are ones ye fine brave lads may at least try to imitate today.”