illustration, but did not That was melodrama, posturing, as far too many did. What this man said had come straight from his heart, without artful reflection and seeking of some heroic end as if he were on the stage. It came as a tonic, a deep and profound reminder not just of his responsibilities, but of how he must continue to face those responsibilities to the end. That was his duty now, to not flinch, to not give back a single inch until it was done.
'You have my permission, Jim. I am honored to give it to you, and God be with you this day.'
He squeezed the man's shoulder, nodded, and then turned to walk out Jim, again the servant followed him, offering his top hat and shawl from the coat rack by the door, which Lincoln took without comment Jim opened the door and the two guards outside, who had been wearily leaning on their rifles, snapped to attention.
He looked around. A scattering of men were milling about, ghostlike in the mist and in the hissing glare of gas lamps that cast dull, golden circles around the porch of the White House and out onto the street A captain started to come toward him and he gestured with his hand for the officer to remain at ease.
He started to turn away from the door, to walk around the grounds, the captain softly hissing a command, calling on a detail to 'escort the president,' and then he heard it, a dull thump, like someone was beating on a carpet away off in the mists.
The captain froze in place, turning, cocking his head. Another thump, then another
and another, until it merged into a steady, continual rumble.
Men who had been sitting on the lawn were up on their feet, looking about A murmur of voices arose, tent flaps opened, men sticking their heads out
The rumble continued, growing, echoing.
He stood silent, hat in hand, shawl draped over his shoulders.
It had begun.
Chapter Six
In the predawn light Sergeant Major Hazner saw them coming back. One or two at first, then dozens, and now hundreds. Most were wounded, cradling shattered arms, dragging a broken leg, or staggering, bent over, clutching a stomach wound, which all knew was inevitably the beginning of the end.
Moving up to the starting position occupied by Petti-grew's division before they went in, the men of the Fourteenth South Carolina, along with the other regiments of Scales's brigade, had deployed into a shallow defile, cut at the bottom by a flooded stream, and there they had waited for more than an hour. All was confusion, the last mile of the advance through brush, an orchard, a farmer's woodlot. At least a third of the men in the regiment had disappeared in the advance, to be replaced by men from several other regiments. He had simply pushed them into formation with his own companies. They could fight now and sort it out later; he promised them that the colonel would give them affidavits confirming that they had not deserted or dodged the battle. Some of the men were strays from Pettigrew, and as they saw their comrades coming back, more than one expressed outright relief that they had become lost during the advance to the final line before going in.
The roar of battle ahead was continuous. When the first shots had been fired, a wild, hysterical cry went up, the rebel yell, but gradually that had been replaced by the more disciplined, almost mechanical 'huzzah' of the Union troops.
Colonel Brown was gone, called forward to an officers' meeting, and, now alone, Hazner paced the line, moving from company to company, offering reassurance to the men, who looked up anxiously, faces pale, as they heard the inferno roaring just ahead.
A panicked lieutenant came staggering back through the lines, blood from a head wound covering the front of his jacket
'Gone, all gone. My God, my men! My men!'
He staggered through the ranks, spreading dismay, no one touching him or offering help, for they were forbidden to do so.
Hazner watched him disappear into the mist and smoke. Young Lieutenant Hurt came up to join him, obviously nervous.
'It looks bad.'
'It always does, Lieutenant. Watch a battle from the rear, it always looks like defeat.'
'Pettigrew should have broken through by now.' 'Most likely he has.'
Hazner knew it was a lie. Someone would have come back down the road by now, proclaiming victory, the rebel yell echoing through the fog from the battle line. All that could be heard was the continual staccato of musketry, cannon fire, and the whirl of spent canister cracking through the trees overhead, clipped branches raining down.
Mortar shells were coming down at random, detonating in the treetops, some crashing down into the assembled ranks of the division, screams following each explosion. It was obvious that their gunners knew of this defile, assumed it was packed with troops, and knew the range to hit it. Though sporadic, the shelling was unnerving.
'Fourteenth South Carolina!'
He looked back to the front rania and saw the color company standing up, the regimental flag bearer shaking out his colors, holding them aloft Without comment to Hurt, Hazner pushed his way back through the ranks of men still lying on the ground.
Colonel Brown was back, sword drawn. Hazner came up and saluted.
'We're going in, Hazner.' 'What's the news, sir?'
Brown looked at him appraisingly and then wiped his face. In spite of the morning chill, he was sweating.
'Bad. Pettigrew was repulsed all along the line. Some of the men broke through into the fort, we were almost sent in to expand it, but they were thrown back. Pettigrew is down, they say he's dead. A bad day for North Carolina.'
He hesitated.
'Now it's our turn. We'll set it right.'
Brown stepped past Hazner and held his sword aloft
'South Carolina! Men of the Fourteenth! Up men, up!'
The regiment came to its feet, officers and sergeants moving through the packed ranks, which were deployed in a solid square, the men of A Company in two ranks forward, followed by B Company, and so on, back to the last line, three hundred men in a small phalanx, fifteen men wide and twenty deep. To either flank were their comrades of the other regiments of Scales's brigade … men who had taken every field of battle they had ever advanced across.
'Fourteenth South Carolina! Now is our time! We will advance in column and take that damn Yankee fort. Once we are into it, Washington will be ours and on this day this war will be won. Do you wish history to remember that it was South Carolina that won this day?'
A shout went up from the ranks. Hazner looked around and saw that the hours of silence, of watching, of fear, were swept away. The battle lust was upon them again.
'Parson. Say some words!'
A graying captain, unofficial minister of the regiment, stepped through the ranks and took off his hat, the men following, all lowering their heads, even Hazner.
'Hearken to the word of our Lord. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day…''
As the preacher continued to recite from the Ninety-first Psalm, Hazner looked up. Most of the men stood with heads bowed, eyes squeezed shut. Many had their Bibles out, clutching them fervently. More than one was shaking. A young boy, ashen-faced in the dawning light, suddenly bent double and vomited; a comrade, his older brother, reaching out and gently rubbing his shoulders. A few of the men, those without faith, stood in respectful
