The Smoke at Dawn: A Novel of the Civil War (32 page)

“Glad to see you, too, Sammie.” He caught the reaction on Willis’s face, had gone through the scolding before, his casual lack of formality. “Sorry. Captain Willis, sir.”

“They told me you had signed up for this, that the colonel approved it. So you want to be a regular soldier. You know what that means, Dutchie? It means you’ll be expected to
like
this. They’ve got officers in this unit who went to West Point. That corporal out there? Toughest hombre I’ve ever seen. I watched him rip a rebel’s arm out of his shoulder at Chickamauga. Took the fellow’s head off with a knife. The rest? Well, they know how to fight. Been at Stones River, and most everywhere else Buell and Rosecrans decided to put ’em.” Willis paused. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. It’s different now, that’s all. Just not so damn scared anymore. It’s a job, Sammie. Captain. Damn.”

“It’s okay. We’re alone. Some of those older gents out there don’t pay much mind to rank anyway. They made me prove I was tougher’n nails before they’d pay a bit of attention. Colonel Moore’s a good man, they listen to him. He gave me permission to smack any one of ’em if I didn’t like the way they looked at me. Only did it once. Broke a fellow’s jaw. Big talker. Not so big anymore. Made my point, so now they pay attention. Most of ’em still don’t salute, except maybe toward the colonel. The generals? They stay the hell out of here. And woe be to the stupid volunteer who wanders through this camp by mistake.
These boys love their reputation, the
legends
, all those tall tales about regulars. It’s all bull, but the volunteers don’t know that. They think we’re over here ripping trees out of the ground with our teeth, gnawing on horse bones. So far, not one cannibal in the bunch, at least so I’ve been told.” Willis laughed again. “And this is where you want to be?”

“Yeah, Sammie.”

“They fight like hell, Dutchie. There’s no bull about that, I promise you. I’m the tough-assed company commander now, but I tell you what. I used to want to be out front so I could kill the first rebel, lead the way into hellfire all by myself. Still want to, I guess. But these boys … only difference between me and them is the rank, the bars on my shoulder. It’s like most of these boys hope this war never ends, that we can keep killing rebels, or Mexicans or Indians or whoever else sticks their nose in our business. One day, all those volunteer regiments will toss off their uniforms and run home to their mamas. But these boys will still be out here eating dirt. Like I said, Dutchie. They
like
it.”

“That’s why you came here, isn’t it? You like it, too.”

Willis looked down between his knees. “I came over here because this is my home. Figured it out a while back. I’m gonna die a soldier. Only thing that matters to me. I’m gonna kill every rebel who stands up in front of me, until one of ’em gets lucky enough to get me first.”

Bauer hesitated, one thought rolling through him. He took a long breath. “What about … home, Sammie? What about your boy?”

Willis kept his stare on the ground. “Knew you’d ask me that. She took him. Ran off with some … shopkeeper, banker, not even sure. Wrote me not to look for her. Headed to someplace west, California maybe. Might as well be on the moon. I got no son, Dutchie. Maybe best I never seen him. Maybe best she’s got a man can give them more than I could.”

Bauer felt a cold horror. “My God. How could she.…”

Willis jerked his head up, a hard, cold stare Bauer had seen before. “Let it go, Dutchie. It’s done. The closest thing I got to a son … to family … is these boys. And now,
you
. God help me.”

There was a hint of humor in Willis’s words, and Bauer felt relief, watched his friend for some sign of sadness. But Willis was as stoic as he had always been.

Bauer slipped the backpack off his shoulders, said, “That corporal … he sleep here?”

“When he sleeps at all. You heard him. There’s a space in here ’cause we lost a man … few days ago. Rebel picked him off poking out too far past the picket line. Thought he’d go fight a little bit of the war by himself. No patience for that, no matter how tough these boys think they are. Official word went back to the colonel that he was picked off bathing in the river. Didn’t want some high-brass jackass coming in here chewing us out about protocol.” Willis paused again, looked hard at Bauer. “You sure this is what you want?”

“I’m here, ain’t I? I’ll not let you down, Sammie. Not once. I came here to be a soldier, just like you. It feels like I been given a gift. You know that. I’m good at killing a man when he don’t even know I’m on this earth. Don’t know why it’s happened that way. Can’t believe God would do that.”

“God gave us this war, Dutchie. It’s our job to fight it the best way we can. For you, that means blowing a man’s brains out. I prefer seeing him up close.”

There was grim certainty in Willis’s voice, something else Bauer had seen before.

“Look, Captain. I’ll kill as many rebels as it takes, as many as you, or some general or President Lincoln, wants me to.” He paused. “Last week … I killed a reb officer back at Bridgeport. Four hundred yards, maybe. Did it … for sport. Impressed the heckfire out of those Pennsylvania boys. Bothered me at first. But those Eastern fellows … you shoulda heard them cheering me. Yep, they were impressed.
I
was impressed. Tough shot, took the fellow right off his horse. And ever since then, it’s all I can think about. I see wounded men, and it makes me sick. Wounds and chopping up people ain’t the best way to end this war. It’s gonna take folks who can shoot straight. No matter how scared I get, no matter how many rebels come at us, by God, Sammie, I’m itching to do it again.” He paused. “God help me, too, Sammie, but I
do
like it. Just like you.”

Willis stood, brushed dirt off his pants. “All right, Private. Bugle sounds at four thirty. There’s bacon and coffee. Your tent mate, Corporal Owens, will be up long before that, and if I was you, I’d keep to his good side. So don’t roll around in your sleep, and keep your hot
wind to yourself.” Willis paused, hands on his hips, looked out over the top of the tent. “General Grant’s running this army, same as Vicksburg. You wanna kill rebels, I’m pretty sure you’ll get your chance. But that doesn’t change what I said.” Willis bent low, stared at him with a hint of a grin. “You’re still as dumb as an oyster.”

He followed three other men, the small squad assigned by Willis to find out just what was so exciting about the supposed bounty some of the men were pulling from the murky waters of the Tennessee River. The energy for this particular mission had come from the company’s cooks, curious to try their hands at a different fare than what the commissary was providing. Bauer had no problem with the food they had now, ample supplies of ham, beef, dark bread, coffee that actually tasted like coffee. But Willis had heard talk from other commanders, that with so little activity along the front line, especially the wide band of water that separated the two armies, there was no harm in anyone testing out their skills at harvesting a dinner few of these men had enjoyed for many months.

Bauer had no interest in fishing, had rarely done any of that in Wisconsin. There the tales ran tall, his father’s friends bragging about the huge hauls they brought in from Lake Michigan, or from the cold-water lakes to the north. There the prize catch was pike, a fish with the kind of bones that impale a child’s throat, and so Bauer’s mother repeated that lore with enough vigor that his father had given
up ever bringing home a fish at all. Bauer had never known any of his childhood friends who had suffered that catastrophic malady, and questions to his mother always produced the same vague response, that it had been some boy somewhere else, a neighbor’s friend, some distant cousin of a boy she could never actually name. But the fear had been planted, and Bauer had avoided eating fish most of his life. Now he was on a mission to catch as many as the men could haul, and if they couldn’t find the means, the poles and lines and hooks to do the job, they were told to barter with those skilled fishermen who might be interested in sharing. To Bauer, this was the most ridiculous assignment any officer had given him. From the cheerful gleam in Willis’s eye, it was obvious to Bauer that Willis felt the same way.

They pushed through a brush line, brief nods to a scattering of skirmishers, men who lay on flat rocks and soft beds of grass, no attempt at disguise, no cover at all. The day was warm and clear, what seemed to be a rarity in this part of the world, and the men along the picket line seemed fully intent on capturing as much of the sun’s rays as nature would provide them.

They could see the river now, brown water sliding past, and Bauer’s instincts made him cautious, the hard itch spreading through him, that standing in the wide open could only invite trouble. The men in front of him kept moving, down a gentle slope, closer to the water’s edge, but Bauer stopped, close enough to the brush that he could make a quick dive into cover. Across the river, Lookout Mountain rose up tall to his right, and to the left was a wide green valley, the low ground that spread out between the mountain and Missionary Ridge. Directly across the river was the mouth of a wide creek, and Bauer froze, the musket pulled in tight to his side. On both banks of that stream were a handful of rebels.

He saw the others who had come with him looking that way, no one speaking, and now a sergeant rose up, said aloud, “Don’t go getting all excited about nothing. Any man here fires his musket answers to me. We got us an understanding with those fellows, and I don’t need nobody messing that up.”

The sergeant settled back down into a grassy bed, his hat down over his eyes. Bauer kept his eyes on the rebels, counted a dozen men, maybe more, none of them paying any attention to the Yankees who
spread along this side of the river. He gauged the distance, the river no wider than an easy musket shot, thought, Somebody over here needs to keep a close eye. All it takes is one officer with a burr in his backside, and there’s a skirmish. He glanced behind him up the sloping hill, saw men huddled around small fires, no one holding a musket at all. He looked toward the sergeant again, saw the man stretched out flat on his grassy bed, heard a hint of a snore. He still felt uneasy, fought a laugh, thought, Maybe this is the right way to fight a war. Everybody just takes a nap.

He pressed on past the last of the brush, saw more men in blue out to both sides, some right along the water’s edge. And every one of them was holding a fishing pole. The scene was idyllic, low, quiet talk, and Bauer looked again toward the rebels, saw the same scene, a scattering of men along their side of the river, their fishing poles extended out over the water.

To one side, another of Willis’s men, younger, and the boy Bauer only knew as Hoover. Hoover leaned low behind the man, said, “What kind of fish they got here?”

The man looked back at him, shrugged. “Hell if I know. Some of ’em stink pretty bad. Some eat better than others.”

Bauer moved closer, saw the man’s bare feet covered in mud, studied the crooked pole, saw a string tied to the far end, dangling loosely in the water. The line ended at a piece of stick, a makeshift float, which moved with the current, drifting down to the right, the man now raising it out of the water, swinging the line out, dropping it again upstream. Bauer caught a glimpse of the bait, something white dangling from a hook. He moved up beside Hoover, said to the man, “What you using?”

The man looked back at him again, seemed suddenly suspicious. “What’s it matter? Family secret.”

Bauer saw the man’s hat, Missouri, thought of the provost sergeant. They gotta be the most unfriendly bunch in the army. Bauer watched the other three men spreading along the riverbank, joining in beside other fishermen, more men from Missouri. The conversations began now, some of the fishermen bragging about their catch, one man holding up a fish the size of Bauer’s forearm. Bauer moved that way,
stared at the fish, saw a small cluster of whiskers along its mouth, the gills in motion, the fish still alive. The man looked at him, obviously proud of himself.

“Catfish. So they tell me. River’s full of ’em. Carp, and some little pissants, too. They’ll all eat better than hardtack.” The man eyed Bauer now, suddenly concerned. “You get your own. I caught this fella fair and square.”

Bauer backed away, had no idea how to begin.

“I got no pole. Captain just sent us down here, didn’t tell us what to bring. Said we could maybe trade you fellows for the right equipment.”

“Got none extra. You got nothing I need, anyways.”

To one side, a man called out, “Hey! The reb got one. A beauty, looks like.”

Bauer followed their gaze across the river, heard a whoop, the rebel holding up the fish, clearly for the benefit of the Yankees. Beside him, the fisherman said, “Dang it all. He does that every blessed day. I catch one, he catches one better.”

Bauer couldn’t help the question. “Who? You know him?”

“Guess so. Names Goofby, or something like. That whole bunch hails from close by, Tennessee boys. No fair. They growed up fishing in this here place. Looks like I owe that scoundrel another sack of coffee.”