silence, one meditatively chewing on a wad, waiting to spit, a couple of others silently passing a nearly empty bottle back and forth. A sharp look from Hazner caused the one holding the bottle to shrug, take the last sip, and then without fanfare quietly lay it down on the ground.
'Have faith in our Lord this day and remember that they who do not camp with us this evening will sup instead in Heaven.'
'I'll skip that meal if I can,' one of the drinkers whispered, and a few of the men around him chuckled, even as they continued to keep their heads lowered.
In the regiment beside the Fourteenth, a group of Catholics, men from Ireland, were on their knees, reciting a prayer '… Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen.' They made their sign of the cross and stood up, many of them taking their rosaries and hanging them around their necks.
Hazner found he could not say anything, he could not pray, he could not beg for intervention now. If the preacher said that a thousand shall fall by one's side, then surely someone who prayed here would be among those fallen. How could one beg God now to change that? To save his miserable hide while one of the devout stood praying, Bible in hand. Williamson had spent many an hour contemplating that and what did it get him in the end? … a bullet in the head and now he was gone.
He wanted to have faith, but found that now, standing here, waiting to go in, he did not. He wished with all his heart that he could have the simple faith and the calm assurance of the preacher, who, as he went back through the ranks, took the hands of many a man, smiling, as if what was to come was no longer a concern, for all had already been decided.
A muffled shout went up. It was General Scales, riding across the front of the column, sword out, held aloft, pointing toward the fight He swung down off his mount slapped its rump, and sent it running.
'Follow me, boys! Guide on your colors!'
'The Fourteenth!' Brown roared. 'Remember, don't cap your muskets till ordered. Keep your ranks closed and guide on the flag of South Carolina!'
A shout went up as the column stepped forward, the line lurching at first, men in the forward ranks taking half a dozen steps before the men at the back finally began to move, double-timing until they caught up. The regiment to their left stepped off a bit late and then raced to form a solid front Hazner ran to come up to the front of the column and fell in just behind Brown, who was walking backward, sword aloft
'Hazner. To the rear of the column,' Brown announced. 'I want you back there, keep the men moving, no matter what!'
Hazner breathed a sigh of relief, for he knew what would happen to the first rank once they were within canister range. And yet, as he looked at Brown, he felt regret The man was caught up in the moment He was at the center of the charge, out in front, and Washington was before them. If he survived this day, if they took the fort, it would be remembered forever.
Impulse seized him, and before moving back he ran up to Brown and extended his hand. Grinning, Brown took it 'I'll see you in the fort, Sergeant!'
'Yes, sir.'
Hazner ran to one side, to the gap between his regiment and the one on their left flank, and stood awestruck as the column passed. They were wide-eyed, rifles at the shoulder, already hunching forward slightly as if going into a storm, but they came on relentlessly, some of the men shouting, others cursing; even the ones trembling with fear staggered forward, for none would dare to turn back now. The column passed. He ran to fall in at the center rear, where two drummer boys were beginning to tap out a beat He shouted for them to stop and go to the rear, but both looked at him defiantly and pressed on. He could not stop them, they were fey.
They swept up past an open grove of trees where a tarpaulin was spread, glistening with the heavy dew of morning. Coming out from under the tarpaulin was a knot of officers, and all immediately recognized who was in the center of the group. In spite of orders a shout went up
'Lee … Lee… Lee!'
The column swept along the edge of the grove and there he stood, hat off, hand raised in salute.
Hazner saluted as they marched by, and for an instant he thought the general was looking straight at him. He had a foolish thought that perhaps Lee would remember him, the meeting on the road, the first day at Gettysburg when he and Williamson had brought the word about the enemy guns on the Cemetery Hill. He knew that Lee most likely did not even see him, but nevertheless he felt a renewed strength. If Bobbie Lee was ordering them in, then surely victory was ahead… for when had they ever failed?
The first casualties dropped, a mortar shell, most likely fired at random, exploding in the air above the middle of the column, men collapsing. The ranks behind them opening, pushing to get around the bodies, then closing back up. He watched carefully. Nearly a dozen men were down, but once the advance had cleared the fallen, six stood up and started to run. The usual cowards, taking advantage of the first shots to try and get out.
He let them go. To try and kick them back into the ranks was a waste of effort They'd bolt again once the real fighting started. But he recognized several and would be certain to remember their names, along with the name of one of the men lying there dead, Tom McMurtry-he had once fished with him in summer and hunted in the fall, years ago-the top of his head smashed in by the exploding shell.
The gradual slope began to shallow out into level ground All ahead was smoke, fog, shadows. To the east the horizon was a dull gray, a bit brighter than the rest of the heavens, the ground fog having risen during the night, obscuring the stars.
The grass beneath his feet was trampled down, soaked with dew. Bits of equipment littered the ground, a blanket roll, a discarded musket, and now the first casualties, men crawling back, the column opening then closing to step. around them. One of the wounded held up an imploring hand, only one, for his left arm was torn off at the shoulder, the man begging for water. All ignored him, pressing on.
Bullets snicked the air overhead, fluttering by like angry bees, random shots from the fight up ahead; a shell fluttered over, fuse visible, sputtering and trailing sparks.
More men on the ground, dead, twisted up, torn apart, blood streaking the grass. A lone artillery piece, how it got there was a mystery, abandoned, its team of six horses dead, the column having to slow for a moment as it moved around the wreckage, then double-timing to move back up to the fore.
'Double time!'
The cry echoed up and down the swaying columns. The drummer boys picked up the tempo of their beat. Up at the head of the column the flag bearer was holding his banner high, waving it back and forth. A man at the rear went down, the smack of the bullet hitting him in the forehead clearly audible. He flipped over backward, nearly knocking Hazner over. Hazner staggered, then ran to catch up.
Still nothing in the mist. He wondered how Scales knew which way to go. How long had they been moving? Five minutes now, seven, ten? They should be almost there. There was nothing but mist, smoke, scattered bodies. Where were they going?
The tension seemed unbearable again. For a few minutes, in the initial excitement, he-for that matter, all-had forgotten what was coming. Now, as they moved at the double, some of the men beginning to pant for breath, staggering, the fear was returning, the dread of the moment of impact.
And still nothing but mist
As if in answer to a desperate, terrible prayer, the mist seemed to part. The head of the column actually slowed, men in the rear ranks pressing in, some cursing, shouting. Hazner moved from the center over to the side of the column, looking up through the twenty-yard gap between his regiment and the one to their left.
A dark line seemed to be traced across the low horizon ahead. He caught glimpses of men moving along the top of it. The ground before them was nothing but a mad tangle of bodies, men writhing in agony, others lying prone, hunkered down, curled up, hands and arms covering their heads, a few with poised rifles raised, continuing to fight. The ground was a shambles of torn-up grass, mud, blood, thousands upon thousands of torn cartridge papers, twisted rifles, dead horses, an officer lying against the stomach of a dead mount, head bowed, weeping hysterically.
'Charge, boys! Charge!'
A wild shout erupted from the column; the drummer boys, all sense of tempo gone, began to beat furiously. Men surged forward, the spine-tingling rebel yell rising up in a wild shriek, Hazner picking up the cry, which sounded like wolves baying at the scent of blood.
A flash erupted from atop the parapet, then another and another. The first spray of canister, two hundred
