Rally Cry (2 page)

How could he return to the quiet of
Bowdoin
College
, now that he had tasted of the blood-filled chalice?

So he had returned to command the 35th. It was now a shattered regiment, yet a regiment of men who somehow felt a perverse pride for the killing he had done to them.

It was a regiment that he led through the Wilderness, and finally into the scorching trenches before
Petersburg. And all the time the nightmare voice had whispered to him that they were all damned. That the fighting would go on until finally they were all dead. Dead by his shouted commands, until only he alone would be left, blood-dripping sword in hand.

And, God help him, somehow he loved it so. For here, thin and bespectacled, a slender, frail slip of a man with a body near shattered, he felt himself truly alive.

Through the rain-swept shadows his boys, boys of eighteen and twenty years with the eyes of old men, passed before him and filed aboard the ship that would take them to yet another battlefield somewhere down on the North Carolina coast. To a battlefield yet unnamed where he would be forced to feed more boys like John into the furnace.
Boys whom he had come to love.
Their dark smiling faces, forever changing to be replaced by new faces, yet always the same, looking to him and him alone, for he was, after all, the hero of
Gettysburg.

Reining his mount off to the side of the road, he sat in silence and watched his men march
past,
boarding the ship to whatever destiny the fates had laid out before them.

"Say,
Hawthorne, there's the ship."

Vincent Hawthorne raised his eyes from the back of the man in front of him and saw the shadow of his commander and the ship awaiting them.

"Wonder how many of us bloody Keane will kill this time."

"Come on, Hinsen, he ain't that bad," Vincent replied.

"All officers are bastards," Jim Hinsen snarled. "Look what he did to us at
Gettysburg, and in the Wilderness for that matter—plugged us right in the middle of the fight, the bastard did."

"Shut up, you little cuss, you damn whining cur!" Sergeant Barry snapped in his high staccato voice, coming up beside them. "You two weren't even there! You're nothing but fresh fish, damned draftees and bounty boys, so don't say 'us' when you speak of this regiment, until you've seen the elephant and earned the right."

"I didn't say anything against him," Vincent replied softly.

"Well, I'd better not hear it," Barry responded, "and if I were you I'd stay away from Hinsen here."

Without another word Barry pushed forward to help guide the men onto the ship.

"Bastards, they're all bastards," Hinsen mumbled, his voice barely heard.

Shamed, Vincent didn't respond. It was true that he was a fresh fish, joining the regiment only within the last month. But how could he explain that as a Quaker, he had joined only after a long moral fight within as to the evil of killing versus the need to end slavery? And besides that, he could not help that he was only seventeen and had had to commit the sin of lying about his age in order to get in.

He stole a sidelong glance at Hinsen, who was still cursing beneath his breath. He shut out the curses, and silently thanked God that at least the twenty-mile march was over, and he had survived it without the shame of collapsing from the exhaustion that in the last mile he thought would come near to killing him.

"Some of them don't sound too happy."

Andrew nodded as Emil Weiss, the regimental surgeon, came to stand by Andrew's side. Andrew looked down at the bald pate of the doctor, barely able to see the ruddy face, wreathed in a flowing white
beard, that
was usually lit up from a little too much medicinal brandy.

Andrew swung down off his mount. He handed the horse over to a staff orderly, who took Mercury off for loading.

"If they weren't complaining I'd start to worry," Andrew
said philosophically. "I'm just glad Hans didn't hear that bttle exchange Barry got into or there would have been hell lo pay."

"Mother Hans, clucking over his killer chicks," Weiss chuckled.

"All your medical supplies in order?"
Andrew asked.

"Never enough," Weiss grumbled. "Dammit, son, never enough bandages, and that tincture of lime, can never seem to get an adequate supply."

Weiss had joined the regiment shortly before
Gettysburg, a fact which Andrew was forever thankful for. In spite of what the other surgeons said about the 35th's "crazy Jew doctor," Andrew and the men swore by him, a rare thing in an army served more often than not by half-trained country physicians and butchers.

Weiss had studied in
Budapest and talked incessantly about an unknown doctor named Simmelweiss who had figured out something called antisepsis back in the late '40s. Andrew had listened to some of the debates Emil had, his fellow surgeons calling laudable pus a good thing, and saying infection was simply a fact of wounds. Emil would always wind up roaring that they were medieval butchers, and infection could be stopped by boiling the instruments and bandages along with hand-washing between operations with tincture of lime.

Whatever it was the doctor knew and used, the men of the 35th were found to have nearly twice the chance of surviving a wound as men from the other regiments.

Andrew again touched the stump of his arm and felt he could claim loyalty to Weiss from very personal experience. Since
Gettysburg he didn't even bother to correct Weiss for calling him "son." After all, the man was twice his age, and for that matter every man in the regiment, including the much-feared Hans, was addressed that way by Weiss, even when the old doctor was in one of his typical bad tempers.

"The last of the men are aboard, sir," Hans reported, strolling up to join the two officers who stood by the edge of the dock.

"How are the piles, sergeant major?" Weiss asked, as if inquiring about the gravest of injuries.

Hans deftly shot a stream of tobacco juice that barely missed the old surgeon.

"Perhaps our good colonel here should order you in for surgery—I could clear them up for you in a jiffy."

"With all due respect—like hell, sir," Hans grumbled.

For the first time in days Andrew threw back his head and laughed at the
embarrassed
discomfort of his sergeant and friend.

"Well, gentlemen, shall we get aboard? I think it'd be best not to keep our good captain waiting."

Not looking forward to what he knew would be life with an unpleasant ship's
captain,
Andrew strode up the plank, following the last of his men. Besides that, there was the other problem as well, for like Hans he suffered violently from seasickness, and the thought of it made him shudder.

"Colonel Keane?"

A young naval officer stood upon the deck of the steamer waiting for him.

Andrew nodded in reply as the sailor saluted.

"I'm Mr. Bullfinch, sir. Captain Cromwell awaits you and his officers in the ship's wardroom. I believe, sir, the rest of your officers are already there."

"Well, gentlemen, we must not keep the captain waiting," Andrew said evenly, and they followed the young ensign aft.

"Ah, so the good colonel has at last deigned to join us," Cromwell growled as Bullfinch led the three into the narrow confines of the officers' mess.

Andrew looked about the room. His company officers were all present, but his second in command, the regimental quartermaster, and the rest of his headquarters staff were not there.

"Your
staff have
already left with General Terry."

Andrew recognized the remaining men of the 44th New York Light Artillery and nodded a greeting to Major O'Donald, their burly red-bearded commander, who with mock severity raised a glass of wine in his direction.

"Into their cups already," Weiss whispered.

The reputation of the 44th was well known. Recruited from the Five Points district of New York, they were considered some of the hardest drinkers and brawlers in the army. Their only saving grace was that no matter how hard they brawled among themselves and with anyone who wandered near them, they were ten times harder on the rebs.

"I'm going to make this short. I still have to see to the rest of our delayed loading," Cromwell said, looking

accusingly
at Andrew, who stared back evenly at this man who seemed to be going out of his way to make an enemy.

"Aboard this ship, I rule and you follow. Your men are to stay out of our way. Any problems between your men and mine, I handle it."

"The 35th takes care
of their own,
" Andrew said softly.

"Aye, lad, and the same for the 44th," said O'Donald.

Tobias looked from one commander to the other.

"Regulations state—"

"I know the regulations, captain," Andrew said, his voice pitched so low that those in the far corner of the room could barely hear him. "But I will not surrender authority of my command over to you. I acknowledge your right to run this ship. I would not consider interfering, but likewise I shall not accept
your
interfering in my command. If there is a problem between your people and mine we shall both look into it according to military law."

"Like I already said," O'Donald retorted, coming around the table to stand by Andrew's side.

Tobias looked from one to the other, aware of the barely suppressed grins from the other infantry and artillery officers, who, unlike Tobias, knew what could happen if their respective commanders were aroused.

Tobias started to speak and then fell silent.

"If there is a problem," he finally replied, "then it'll be your responsibility, for I plan to put your statements into my report."

"By all means do so," Andrew stated. "We must, of course, follow the proper procedures.
As I likewise shall do."

There was an icy silence that held for what seemed like hours but in fact was only a matter of seconds.

"Well, we understand each other then," Tobias replied, suddenly changing to a display of bluff comradely spirit.

"Before sailing, General Terry left you written orders which I believe you are already aware of."

Andrew merely nodded.

"There's a nurse from the Christian Sanitation Commission aboard this ship. She missed her transport, which left earlier," and as he spoke he gave an obvious grimace of disdain. "I don't like women aboard this ship—it's nothing but trouble. I've quartered her in my cabin, where a guard has been posted. I think we're in agreement that her quarters are strictly off-limits to both enlisted and commissioned personnel."

"I am sure we can trust that all here will observe the necessary proprieties," Andrew replied sharply, "as I am sure your men will as well."

Tobias stared at Andrew coldly.

"We sail within the hour then," Tobias continued. "Weather being good, we should make the passage down the James River and into the
Chesapeake before tomorrow evening. Out into the Atlantic it'll be another twenty-four hours to our rendezvous point off
Beaufort,
North Carolina
, and from there we proceed to our station off
Fort
Fisher
.

"As you know, the men of the 24th Corps are already trained in amphibious operations and will take the beach and piers where your people will be unloaded. From there on
you're
no more concern of mine."

"A situation I'm sure we are all looking forward to," O'Donald replied.

"Yes, I am sure of that," Tobias replied icily.

Without another word Tobias turned and left the wardroom, his officers falling in behind him.

"Well, lads," O'Donald laughed as the door slammed shut, "I'd say it's time for another round," and with a roar of approval his officers and some of Andrew's people gathered around the towering red-headed artilleryman.

Going to the far corner of the room, Andrew pulled off his rubber poncho and stretched out on a narrow sofa. Leaning back, he was soon lost to sleep, in spite of the uproar around him.

There was a blinding flash of light, another, and then yet another. But strangely there was no report as the white puffs of bursting rounds exploded around him.

Clouds of smoke swirled past, obscuring everything, blanketing him like a fog rolling in from sea. There was a shadow in the fog which gradually took form.

"Johnnie!" he cried, rushing through the white mist.

"Andrew, I'm afraid," and his brother came up to him, his eyes wide with fear, arms outstretched like a small boy looking for comfort.

Andrew couldn't reply. Reaching out, he took his brother's hand and started walking back in the direction John had come from. Through his hand (strange, it was his left hand) be could feel John trembling.

The sulfurous smoke parted, and there before him was a blood-covered field, filled with a carpet of dead that stretched to the far horizon, blue- and butternut-clad bodies mingled together for as far as the eye could see.