charge, to halt to run. Momentum carried them forward, inexorably forward into the waiting death.
He saw the rippling flash, the explosion of the volley. It swept over them, through them, tearing gaping holes in the line. Men spun around, screaming. The entire line staggered, dozens dropping. Bodies went down in bloody heaps, punched by two, three, even half a dozen rounds.
The line staggered to a halt. Those who were left were raising their rifles, ready to return fire.
'No! Now, charge them now!' The words exploded out of him, and he continued forward, sword raised high.
The mad spine-tingling yell, which had nearly been extinguished by the volley, now redoubled. Men came up around him, shouldering him aside, pressing forward.
The Yankees were so close now John could see their faces, so blackened by powder they looked like badly made-up actors in a minstrel show. Some were frantically working to reload; others were lowering rifles, bayonets poised, others swinging guns around, grabbing the barrels. Yet others were backing up, starting to turn, to run.
The sight of them unleashed a maddened frenzy, his men screaming, coming forward, shouting foul obscenities, roaring like wolves at the scent of blood. They hit the low barricade of fence rails in front of the seminary and went up over it. A musket exploded in his face, burning his check. Clumsily he cut down with his sword, the blade striking thin air, the.man before him disappearing.
The melee poured over and around him. They were into the line, breaking it apart. The Yankees were falling back, some running, most giving ground grudgingly, as if they were misers not willing to give a single inch without payment It was the Black Hats, the Iron Brigade; after then-stand at Second Manassas and their valiant charge at Antietam they were the most feared brigade in the Army of the Potomac.
His men surged forward, pressing them across a narrow killing ground, the two lines sometimes touching and exploding into a flurry of kicks, jabs, punches, and clubbed rifles, then parting, firing into each other across a space of less than a dozen yards.
They pushed around the brick building, crossing over the ' top of the crest As the land dropped away, what was left of the Yankee formation broke apart, the last of them turning, running.
John caught a glimpse of men leaping out of the open windows of the seminary, one man dropping from the second floor, his legs snapping as he hit the hard ground. A Yankee officer was by the entryway, wearing a bloody apron, waving a hospital flag.
'Major Williamson! Secure that building! Round up the captives.'
He caught a glimpse of Brown in the press, the one-armed flag bearer beside him, still waving the colors. 'Hazner!'
The sergeant was by his side, rounding up a mix of men as John sprinted for the steps. The Yankee officer was still in the doorway; he caught a glimpse of green shoulder straps, a surgeon.
'This is a hospital!' the Yankee shouted. 'Hazner, check the building.'
The sergeant shouldered past the Yankee surgeon and cautiously stepped through the door. He hesitated for a second and then plunged into the gloom.
John, the hysteria of the charge still on him, panting for breath, kept his sword pointed at the surgeon.
'I surrender, sir.'
'You're damn right you surrender,' John gasped.
The surgeon stared, gaze drifting down to the sword that John held poised, aimed at the man's chest.
John suddenly felt embarrassed; the mad frenzy was clearing. The man was a surgeon, a non-combatant He lowered the sword. 'Sorry, sir,' he said woodenly.
The surgeon nodded.
'I need help in here,' and the surgeon gestured into the building.
The stench was drifting out through the open doors… blood, excrement, open wounds, ether, a steady, nerve-tingling hum, groans, cries for water, air, engulfed John as he went inside. He stepped over the body of a Yankee gunner, both legs gone just above the knees, a sticky pool of blood congealing on the floor. The corridor was packed with wounded, men cradling shattered limbs, gasping for air. Frothy bubbles of blood mushroomed from chest wounds. A boy still clutching his fife was crying; a grizzled old sergeant, left foot shot away, sat cradling the lad in his lap.
The sergeant looked up at John, eyes smoldering. John looked away, unable to say anything. He caught a glimpse into a classroom, desks pushed together, a door torn off from its hinges laid across the desks, now serving as a surgeon's table. They were working on a boy, stripped naked from the waist down, taking his leg off, the meat of the thigh laid open. It reminded John of butchering day, the way the meat of the leg was cut away. He averted his gaze. 'Gave you hell, we did.'
He looked down; a lieutenant, pale, sweat beading his face, cradling a shattered arm, holding it tight against his chest, looked up at him defiantly.
'Gave you damn Rebs hell, we did.'
John nodded, looking away, trying to find Hazner.
'Reb.'
John looked back down. 'A drink. Got anything.'
Caught by surprise, John reached around to his canteen and unslung it, handing it down.
The lieutenant tried to reach up, grimacing as he let go of the arm. John could see the white of the bone, arterial blood. spurting. The lieutenant groaned, grabbed the arm again.
'Here, let me help,' John whispered, as he knelt down, uncorking the canteen, holding it up.
'Whiskey mixed in there; take it slow.'
The lieutenant tilted his head back, took a long gulp, choked for a moment, then nodded for more. John held the canteen, let him drink again.
The lieutenant sighed, leaned back. 'Ah, that's good, thanks, Reb.'
He started to cork the canteen and saw the pleading eyes of a man lying next to the lieutenant, shot through both cheeks, bits of bone and teeth still in the wound. The man couldn't speak, but his desire was clear.
'Major Williamson?'
It was Hazner. The sergeant was standing in the corridor, looking at him.
John handed the canteen to the man shot in the face.
'Take it slow, rinse your month out first' The Yankee nodded, eyes shiny, unable to speak. 'Where you from, Reb?' It was the lieutenant 'South Carolina.' He hesitated, then the question spilled out 'And you?'
'Indiana. Lafayette. Nineteenth Indiana.' 'Iron Brigade?'
The lieutenant's eyes brightened. 'Yes, by God, and we gave it to you today.'
John had a flash memory of the final volley, the way the muskets had caught the sunlight sifting through the smoke, the flashing barrels lowering as if guided by a single hand, the shattering volley at near point-blank range.
'You did well, Lieutenant'
'You won't win this one, Major.'
John said nothing.
'We'll keep fighting. Keep fighting, we'll never give up.' 'Nor will we,' John said quietly. 'Lieutenant you're next'
Two orderlies stepped to either side of John and reached out with blood-caked hands, helping the lieutenant up. John stood up, motioning for the man next to him to keep the canteen. Inwardly he regretted the decision. It was hot The day was still long, but he didn't have the heart to take it back as the man raised it up and vainly struggled to rinse his mouth out so he could get a drink, blood, watered whiskey, bits of teeth, and saliva dribbling down his jacket.
John stood, heading toward Hazner. The lieutenant was going through the door into the operating room. The boy on the table before him was dead, two orderlies lifting the body off, clearing the way for the next customer for the knife. John caught the lieutenant's eyes for a second.
'Good luck.' '
'You too, Reb.'
'Major, you gotta see this.'
Hazner was by his side, pointing.
