Love and War

like Billy's — were spared anxiety about stray bullets. Unless, of course, they were fired by some hothead, always a possibility — as was a sudden rain of larger projectiles. Soldiers on the front were seldom warned of an artillery bombardment.

The Negro in direct charge of Billy's men was a heavy, placid-looking sergeant. Named Sebastian, he had skin as light as coffee with milk in it, a huge hooked nose, and slightly slanted eyes that didn't fit with the rest of his features. He drove himself hard and expected similiar effort from the rest of the platoon. As he and Billy sweated to raise heavy half-timbers into place, Billy grew curious about him.

After another was set in position, both stepped back. Bits of dirt stuck to Billy's wet skin. He judged the time to be two or three in the morning. He was so tired he wanted to fall down on the spot. He took several deep breaths, then asked, 'Where are you from, Sergeant Sebastian?'

'Now or a long time ago?'

'Whichever you want.'

'I live in Albany, New York, but way back, my granddaddy ran away from a South Carolina farm where he was the only slave. Granddaddy was what they call a brass ankle. Little bit of white, little bit of black, little bit of Yamasee red all mixed together.'

'You mean red as in Indian?' It helped explain the contrasting features.

'Uh-huh. Granddaddy's name was the same as mine. He —'

A scarlet burst in the sky over Petersburg curtailed the conversation. Out by the abatis line, the pickets cursed the sound of the shell whining in. Billy shouted a superfluous command for the men to fall to the ground. Most were already down when he landed on his chest, seconds before the shell made a direct hit on the half- restored parapet.

Billy covered the back of his head with both arms. In the down­pour of dirt and splintered wood, he heard someone yell, 'Sergeant Sebastian? Lieutenant Buck's hurt or kilt.'

Buck was the platoon officer on lookout. Sebastian wasted no time, scrambling up as other guns opened fire in the distant batteries. 'I'm going out to get him.'

'But it isn't safe while the bombardment —'

'Hell with what's safe. You heard Larkin. Buck's hurt or killed.'

Crouched over, Sebastian began to run along the face of the redoubt, shouting over his shoulder, 'Rest of you men back to the rifle pit.'

Billy had voiced his objection out of prudence, not cowardice, but he knew Sebastian thought otherwise. He leaped up and raced after the sergeant.

As he ran, some Union picket, spooked by the shelling, fired a round. 'Hey, damn you, Billy Yank, what you doin'?' an unseen reb called angrily. The last three words were barely audible as Confederate sharpshooters showed what they thought about the truce violation.

Balls buzzed and thunked into the redoubt inches above Billy; he was on all fours, crawling. Another shell landed six feet behind him, hurling wood and clods of dirt in all directions. Some pelted Billy. Ahead of him, Sebastian caught some, too; Billy heard him groan. Where there had been only heat and silence, now there were pulses of light, reverberating explosions, outcries from wounded pickets, and smoke so thick Billy choked.

'Pass him down, Larkin.' Sebastian was on his feet, straining to reach to the crumbling parapet where the black officer lay. Crouching and moving forward again, Billy couldn't quite tell what was happening, but there was some difficulty. He heard Sebastian grunting.

Billy called, 'Can you reach him, Sergeant?'

'No.'

'I can't hear you. Have you got him?'

'I said no,' Sebastian yelled, causing some marksman on the other side to aim for the sound and shoot. Sebastian jerked and exclaimed softly, clawing the dirt of the redoubt's unrepaired face. A shell landed fifty yards to the east. Men in the rifle pits took the burst, started screaming. In the glare, Billy saw Sebastian on his knees, blood running from his shoulder.

Sebastian hooked his fingers into the dirt in front of him. Pain contorting his face, he pulled himself back to a standing position. A bullet nicked a timber on the ground; the splinter hit Billy's neck like a flying nail.

Dry-mouthed with fear, he stepped up beside the sergeant. 'Corporal Larkin?'

'Here, sir.'

'Where's the lieutenant hit?'

'Chest.'

'Let's try again. Lower him feet first. I know you're wounded, Sebastian. You go back right now.'

'You can't carry him alone. I'm fine.' He didn't sound like it.

'All right. I'll grab his boots. You're taller — you reach over my head and take him under the arms. We mustn't drop him.'

'Larkin?' Sebastian gasped. 'You hear that?'

'I hear,' the scared soldier answered. 'Here he comes.'

Slowly, they maneuvered the wounded lieutenant down and into a horizontal position, then started to carry him toward the rifle pits. Billy took the lead, facing forward, holding one of Buck's boot heels in each hand. The enemy fire grew heavier. He hunched slightly, which struck him as hilariously futile in view of the number of shells and bullets landing all around. Sweat dripped off his chin. His heart beat hard; the fear persisted. He was ashamed when he thought of the sergeant carrying the wounded man along with a reb ball in his shoulder. Sebastian uttered a short, guttural sound each time he took a step.

'Here we are,' Billy whispered at the timbered rim of the rifle pit. 'You men down there, take the lieutenant. Gently — gently! That's it — Oh, goddamn it —' He felt Buck's upper body drop as Sebastian let go, fainting on his feet.

Other black soldiers were taking hold of the lieutenant's legs, so Billy pivoted and tried to check Sebastian's fall. But the sergeant slipped sideways, just out of reach, then tumbled into the rifle pit.

Two of Sebastian's men tried to catch him and failed. He landed hard. Billy heard the thump seconds before three more shells exploded. He jumped into the rifle pit, the impact scraping his teeth together. Tears flowed down his cheeks because of the smoke. The bombardment had become steady and thunderous.

He picked one of the black soldiers. 'Climb out to the rear and find two litter bearers. Quick, dammit!'

Half the effort was wasted. Surgeons successfully extracted a Minié ball from Lieutenant Buck's chest and patched him up, but Sebastian died at daybreak while the smoke from the final rounds of the bombardment drifted away above the fortifications. Corporal Larkin had stayed flattened on the ledge during the shelling and returned without a scratch.

In his journal that afternoon, Billy put down some thoughts prompted by the sergeant's death.

The colored troops faced peril as bravely as any white men I have led. During the bombardment — so senseless in a way, and so typical of what this war has become — Sebastian exhibited immaculate courage. How wrong I have been to judge soldiers of his race my inferiors. It does no good to explain that my opinions and behavior have been the same as those of most in this army. It is possible, I suppose, for great numbers of people to be wrong about something — for error to be epidemic. The death of the 'brass ankle' has plunged me into a fury of doubt about all I previously believed.

The supply train chugged southwestward. George rode in the open on a flatcar, huddled in his overcoat. It was a gray Saturday; Monday would be the first of November. There was a smell of snow in the air, a sinister look to the barren trees, a sense that the siege would settle back into lulling quiet after last Thursday's failed advance. A thrust on the left, its objective the interdiction of the Southside Railroad, had been repulsed by Heth, Mahone, and some of Wade Hampton's horse. Hampton had been promoted to full command of the rebel cavalry in August. Was Charles still scouting for him? Was Orry still in Richmond?

Memories of the fire, of the burned bodies that night in April of '61 came back again; they were with him often. Another house had risen to replace the one destroyed, but the new one bore little resemblance to the old. The war had been long and devastating. When it was over, could past relationships be restored? Did they even exist any more? He was not confident.