"Grant Comes East" - читать интересную книгу автора (Forstchen William R)

2.00am

Mr. President, General Heintzelman is here." From his desk piled high with papers, Lincoln looked up to his secretary, Hay, who stood in the doorway. The exhaustion on Hay's face was obvious; in the glare of gaslight he looked more like a ghost than a young man, his tie and collar off, a clear sign that he was about ready to collapse.

"Thank you, Mr. Hay. Now listen to your president, go in the next room and get some sleep."

Hay, who normally would have protested, actually nodded in agreement and closed the door behind the general.

Heintzelman, who was older than the president, stood to attention. His hat was off, under his arm, wisps of gray hair plastered to his skull with sweat His eyes were dark, almost hollow; the man was breathing heavy and, like everyone else, obviously exhausted as well.

Lincoln stood up and motioned the general to take a seat and Heintzelman gladly complied, letting out an audible sigh as he settled into the high-backed leather chair.

"Your report sir," Lincoln prompted, and Heintzelman fumbled to his breast pocket for his spectacles and then started to open a sheaf of papers.

"In your own words, General," Lincoln said patiently. Heintzelman cleared his throat nervously and, though he wasn't reading, adjusted his spectacles yet again.

"Will they attack?" Lincoln finally prompted, his own tiredness causing his patience to wear thin with Heintzelman's fumbling nature.

"Oh, most assuredly, sir," Heintzelman replied. "There is no doubt of that now. We have enough reports of Lee's army coming straight at us. It is confirmed without a doubt that Lee was indeed scouting our lines personally this morning. A prisoner and a deserter corroborated that information. We know that there are at least four brigades of rebel cavalry encircling our northern front, and we had sure sightings of infantry as well. A civilian of good quality, a Union man who was vouched for by his congressman, managed to get through to our lines and reported that the roads coming down from the north are simply packed with infantry. He reported crossing through a column of Hood's corps on the Seventh Street Road, about five miles outside the District of Columbia. They should be forming up to attack shortly after dawn."

"How did he get through?"

"He acted feebleminded."

Lincoln actually smiled at that one. So we are dependent on reports from civilians acting feebleminded. What next?

"The question confronting us then is when and where? Can you answer that for me? Did our feebleminded friend find that out, too?"

Heintzelman cleared his throat.

"I would judge it to be Fort Stevens, sometime later today."

"You're certain?"

"Mr. President, one versed in the military arts can make certain, how shall we say, projections, but never an assumption that is foolproof."

The president turned to look at the general in command of the Washington garrison. He felt nothing but exasperation at this moment. He had dealt with Heintzelman for months, ever since he was, for all practical purposes, relieved of field command and sent back to the safety of the capital's defenses. A crony of McClellan, he had been proven incompetent as a field commander, and thus the reward of this posting. Now the man was clearly rattled.

Lincoln had to admit though that Heintzelman had a good engineer's eye and had thrown himself with vigor into the task of enhancing the already formidable defenses of the city. The military road had been improved, turned into a virtual highway. Additional lines of entrenchments were dug, moats deepened, fields of fire cleared, rows of abatis set in place, and ammunition stockpiled. In that respect Heintzelman had done his work well. Heintzelman had often boasted to the newspapers and anyone else who would listen that he wished Lee and his army would show up for a fight, for surely they would dash themselves to pieces on his fortifications.

His wish had been answered, and like many a boaster, when confronted with reality, he was now having serious second thoughts.

"Fort Stevens then, later today?" Lincoln pressed.

Heintzelman paused and then finally nodded in agreement.

"And your preparations?"

"I've placed one of my better units, the First Maine Heavy Artillery, in that fort, supported by the First New York Heavy Artillery. Well over two thousand men. Two additional regiments are into the entrenchments to either flank, and garrisons are manned in the neighboring forts."

"Garrison troops though."

"All the men with fighting experience were sent out of here long ago, Mr. President"

He had looked over the regimental reports yet again, only this evening. Though the information was not public, most of the regiments in Washington had taken far more casualties from "Cupid's disease" than from any enemy bullets. Most had never even heard a shot fired, except on the practice range. They were well drilled, and looked smart, as garrison troops of the capital were expected to look. But the question was, Could they stand up to Lee's veterans? He knew that no matter how much he pressed on this question, neither Heintzelman, nor, for that matter, anyone else truly knew the answer. But they were about to find out

Lincoln nodded.

"Reserves?"

Heintzelman shook his head wearily.

"Not many, sir. A brigade deployed just north of the Capitol, which I’ll move up once Lee's intentions are clear. We have to maintain the entire line. Their cavalry have been probing all along the front since yesterday. I can't strip any more men out to place in reserve."

"But if they break through, General, the rest of the line will be meaningless."

"If I strip too many men out and the attack on Fort Stevens proves to be nothing but a feint, while Lee is in fact shifting to one flank or the other, we will be broken anyhow."

Lincoln turned to look out the window. The guard around the White House had been increased; the grounds of the executive mansion were carpeted with tents, most of the men asleep but many standing uneasily in the mist, gathered around open fires. Out on Pennsylvania Avenue two batteries of light guns were drawn up, horses hitched to limbers, ready to move.

Always it was about what Lee would do. Though Heintzelman had declared that the attack would strike at Fort Stevens, well over eighty per cent of their strength still manned lines along thirty miles of front. The city could fall and most of them would likely never fire a shot.

And yet the general was right To abandon parts of the position would leave them open, the city being then taken without a fight. It was, he realized, the classic problem of defense, to have to man all positions while the attacker could choose the time and place to strike.

"Any word on reinforcements, sir?" Heintzelman asked.

'Two transports moving up from the Carolinas came into Chesapeake Bay yesterday before dark. No word on how many men they are carrying."

It was beyond hope to think that the vanguard of the force could already be arriving. Several thousand had come in via transport from Wilmington and Philadelphia, all of them ninety-day militia. Maybe they would fight maybe not It was the troops from South Carolina, men with hardened battle experience, that he wanted.

So it will be today, he thought, still looking out the window, and the reinforcements are still not in.

Of course it had to be. Lee had only this one chance to take the city. Reinforcements were indeed racing in from Charleston, Philadelphia, even Boston. Grant was coming east with his army and additional troops were being called in from as far as New Orleans.

It was a race for time for both sides. It was hard to envision that today the city might fall, but he had to brace himself for that very prospect. Gideon Welles had been in earlier in the evening, yet again urging him to prepare to evacuate to an ironclad tied up at the Anacostia Naval Yard, or at least to send his wife and son there. Welles had reported, in confidence, that a number of senators and two members of the Cabinet had already been down to the yard to demand passage out the moment the attack started.

He had not bothered to ask who they were and he wondered if Seward or Chase had been one of the two. Most likely. After all, to be a senator or Cabinet member usually meant to be a survivor. He had already sent Vice President Blaine out of the city, on the pretext of attending a recruiting rally in his home state of Maine. It would be like Seward though, who still dreamed of higher office, to get out and then somehow try to declare himself in charge if Washington fell and the president was taken or killed.

If they did bolt when the first gun was fired, it would trigger a panic. He thought about rats abandoning a sinking ship, almost uttered the sentiment in front of Welles, but thought it too cruel. It was Welles who then said the same words with a grin.

"So should I abandon my own ship?" he had then replied and Welles, ashamed, lowered his head.

That had ended the conversation.

And now it was Heintzelman who bore the responsibility, and looking at him, he realized that like so many of his generals, the task exceeded the man. Heintzelman should have been out, throughout the day, boosting morale, projecting confidence, being seen by his men and by the populace, rather than holed up in the war office and then coming here at two in the morning, expressing doubts.

It was too late now to change this command. He had to ride this horse to the end of the race.

"General, get some sleep. It will be a long day," Lincoln said, the dismissal in his voice obvious.

Heintzelman stood up and bowed slightly.

"Yes, sir."

"And, General."

"Sir?"

"This city will not fall. I am depending on you for that We will fight for it street by street if need be. If we lose Fort Stevens, every man is to fall back into the city, barricade the streets, take to the houses, and then fight. I will not run from them. Do you understand that? I will stay here to the end. I would rather see the Capitol and this house burned in smoking ruins and ashes than that they should be tamely and abjectly captured."

Heintzelman looked at him wide-eyed.

"Sir, I understand the secretary of the navy has suggested that you remove yourself and your family to the naval yard."

"I will not do that sir," Lincoln snapped, and the tone of his voice rose to a high tenor, nearly breaking.

"That would be," he hesitated and then said it, "that would be one hell of a statement to our men out there. To ask them to fight while I hide. I will not withdraw, I will not leave. At the end of the day, sir, either you or General Lee will find me in this building. Do I make myself clear to you, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. President"

"Fine, now get some sleep and then see to your duties."

Heintzelman bowed again, put his hat on, and left the room, closing the door behind him. Lincoln watched him go, and then waited. After a minute the door did not open. Hay was asleep, and there were no more callers. He sighed with relief.

He went back to the window and gazed out Then on impulse he left the room and walked down the darkened stairs. The White House was quiet, all were asleep except for a black man who looked up expectantly at his approach. It was Jim, one of the White House servants.

"Good morning, Mr. President"

"Morning, Jim."

"A cup of coffee, sir? I have a fresh pot brewing in the kitchen. Maybe a scrambled egg and some fresh ham?" "No, thank you, Jim. Just want to go outside for a walk." He stepped past J"11-"Ah, Mr. President?"

Surprised, he turned back. Jim was standing there, nervous, waiting, a look almost of mortification on his face over this breach of White House protocol.

"Go on, Jim. What is it?"

"Sir. Well, me-I mean the others here and me-we were wondering."

"About what, Jim?"

"If the rebs take the city, sir. What should we do?" "They won't, Jim."

"I know that, sir. But we've been hearing that the rebs are rounding up colored folk, sending them down south to be sold back to slavery."

He had heard the reports as well, there was no sense in lying about it.

"Yes, Jim, I have heard the same thing."

Jim looked at him expectantly and for an instant he felt an infinite weariness. Here was yet someone else looking for reassurance and he felt as if the well was empty. He looked down at the floor.

"Sir. We here, the colored men who work here that is. We want to fight"

Lincoln looked back up and into the man's eyes.

"What do you mean, Jim?"

"Just that, sir. Myself, Williams, Old Bob, the other men. We plan to fight if they come." "Jim, how old are you?"

"Nearly sixty, as near as I can reckon. No one ever told me for sure when I was born. My mother said she worked for Mr. Jefferson when I was born. I started working here the year the British burned it down. Helped to plaster the new walls, covering over the scorched ones."

Lincoln could not help but smile, awed at this bit of history living with him. He had never taken notice of Jim, who had quietly served him for two years and never once had he taken the time to talk to him, to find out more of who he was, and all that he had seen. The realization made him uncomfortable and he wondered, if Jim were white, would that conversation have come, the way it usually did, for he loved talking with working people, finding out their stories, driven in part by the instinct of a politician who through such conversations won the votes, one at a time, but also out of his genuine love for and curiosity about common men.

Jim was well-spoken, articulate, his English perhaps even better than his own, which was still mocked by effete Easterners.

"So you've worked here for nearly fifty years?"

"Yes, sir. Every president since Mr. Madison. When my eldest boy, Washington Madison Quincy Bartlett, was born, President John Quincy Adams even gave him an engraved silver cup for his baptism. We still have that."

"Where is your oldest?"

"Up north. He went to join a colored regiment forming up in Pennsylvania. He's the sergeant major. His son, my grandson, joined up as well."

He said the words proudly.

"Any other children?"

"No, sir," and he shook his head sadly. "My second eldest died of the cholera. My two girls both died as well, one of the typhoid, the other, well the other, my youngest, just died."

He fell silent Lincoln sensed there was an even more tragic story about the youngest but he did not press it I’m sorry.

"You know that burden, sir. I'll never forget the night your youngest died. We wept with you, sir, and Missus Lincoln. We loved that little boy, too." 'Thank you, Jim."

He lowered his head to hide his own emotions, and the dark.memories of Mary wandering the White House, night after night, shrieking as he sat alone, horrified at the thought of his baby being placed in the cold ground, unable to comfort her, to stop her wild hysterias, so paralyzed was he by his own grief, came flooding back.

"Our children are together now with the Lord," Jim said softly.

A bit surprised, Lincoln looked back up and saw tears in the man's eyes. The comment struck him hard and he was filled with a profound question. Did white and black children play together in Heaven? Did they mingle freely, no longer servant and master? Inferior and superior? What would Christ say of that question?

"Thank you, Jim, I'll take comfort in that tonight."

"I will, too, Mr. President. In fact I think it and pray about it most every night"

Lincoln was silent uncomfortable, not sure what to say next.

"About us fighting, sir," Jim said, pressing back to the original issue. "Yes?"

"Do we have your permission, sir? Some of the soldiers out front said they'd loan us guns if it came to that"

"Jim, if you are caught with a weapon and not in uniform, you'll be hung on the spot."

Jim shook his head.

"Sir, we'd all rather be killed here, or hung here, than be sold into slavery."

And then he smiled and looked straight into Lincoln's eyes.

"Besides, sir. It'd make a great illustration in the papers, a dozen dead colored hanging from the balconies of the White House. It'd show the world what this war is really about"

Startled, Lincoln could not reply. Grim as the thought was, he knew that Jim was right

"Let us pray it does not come to that," was all he could offer.

"With you here, sir, I don't think it will. But if it does, sir, we want to fight"

He looked at the man carefully, wondering for an instant if it was the old flattery coming through now. But he could see it wasn't, it was genuine.

"We here, sir, we all know you'll hold the course to the end, no matter what. If it comes to it, sir, we want you to leave and continue the fight elsewhere. My son would want that and I do, too."

The president reached out and put his hand on Jim's shoulder. Unlike so many of the colored, Jim did not lower his eyes, or involuntarily shrink from his touch. He continued to look straight at him.

He wanted to say that he would stand and fight beside him and have his gaunt figure added to the 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.

In Front of Fort Stevens

July 18,1863 4:45 A.M

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 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 iron balls fired from a thirty-pound rifled gun, tore into the flanking regiment, cutting a murderous swath across the front of the line. A second later the next blast struck the Fourteenth. Something slapped into Hazner's face. Warm, sticky, and he was momentarily blinded. Horrified, he wiped his eyes clean, feeling bits of flesh between his fingers, the taste of blood salty in his mouth. He fought down the reflective desire to gag, to vomit, as the realization dawned that it was the entrails of a man he was wiping away.

"Come on!"

Amazingly he could hear Colonel Brown screaming. He was still alive.

"Come on!" Hazner picked up the cry, now edging in, pushing the man in front of him as the column regained momentum, pressing up and over the torn remains of a score of comrades cut down by that first blast.

He caught a glimpse of the preacher, gasping, sitting up, blood gushing from his chest, the man feebly holding his Bible and pressing it to the wound.

In the smoke just ahead Hazner saw the first lines of the abatis. In many places the sharpened stakes had been torn out or pushed down. There were six rows of them, the outer rows broken or knocked down, but the inner rows still intact in many places, here and there with narrow lanes cut through them. More than one dead man was impaled on the stakes. To his horror he saw a wounded man pierced through the stomach, but still alive, screaming.

The column slammed into the first line of stakes. He had heard that some of Pettigrew's men had gone in armed with axes, but they had not fully cleared the way, and he caught glimpses of them, dead, some with axes still in their hands. He was tempted to toss aside his musket and pick one up, but decided against it. He needed to stay with the men, not get diverted.

By sheer brute strength the column was forcing its way through, men slamming at the stakes with the butts of their muskets to knock the barriers aside, squeezing through the openings. The column stalled; men from the rear ranks began to spill around to the flanks of the column pushing up against the stakes.

Rifle fire now erupted from the wall of the fort with deadly effect, men dropping to either side of Hazner as he ran along the flank of his regiment, pushed through the remnants of the first two lines of abatis, and pressed his way into the third.

More cannon fire. He heard a strange, hollow rattling and looked back. One of the drummer boys was standing there, gazing down. His drum had been blown in half but he was still alive.

"Get down, boy! Get down!"

The boy looked up at him, then, without a sound, collapsed. The shot that had destroyed the drum had all but torn off his leg at the knee.

Turning, he began to batter at the stakes, screaming with rage, pushing his way through. A stake directly in front of him was all but split in half by a rifle ball that would have hit him in the stomach. He pushed it aside.

"Come on!"

A mortar shell, fired with only a few ounces of powder, came down silently, striking the ground in front of him, the fuse going out in the muck.

"Come on!"

He looked to either side. The regiments were swarming together, any semblance of formation gone, officers screaming, waving swords, men cursing, heaving, pushing, many- far too many-falling, shrieking, clutching at arms, heads, chests, stomachs.

They surged through the last barrier line. The moat was before him. It was a sight of horror. The filthy, muddy water was pink, the color clearly visible even in the dim light… filled with the dead, wounded, and dying. The wounded looked up imploringly, some shrieking for them to go back, those still game urging their comrades forward, a few still unhit rising up, struggling to claw their way back up the muddy wall of the fort.

He saw the flag bearer of the Fourteenth go down. Before the colors had even begun to fold up and drop, someone else held them aloft, screaming for the men to follow, Colonel Brown at his side. The colonel and the flag bearer jumped, skidding down the outer slope of the moat, the regiment surging after them.

Hazner was knocked off his feet by a man behind him jumping. He skidded face-forward down the slope, hitting a body on the way, turning to slide feet-first into the slime.

"Keep your cartridge boxes up!" he screamed, even as he clawed at his own and dropped waist-deep into the moat. Some of the men were already doing that, but far too many, caught up in the madness, simply waded in. With the first two steps he lost his shoes, sucked off in the mud.

He felt as if he was running in a nightmare, each slow step an eternity, water geysering around him. He stepped on a body pressed down into the mud, his bare feet sensing the back, the man's head, and he was glad the body was there, giving him enough footing to leap the last few feet on to the inner wall of the moat.

The nightmare sensation was still there. He tried to stand, to run up, but the ground had been churned into a morass by Pettigrew's men, whose bodies littered the slope.

He looked up and saw the barrel of a thirty-pounder being run back out, barrel fully depressed. He flung himself down, the roar of the gun stunning him, the deadly impact striking the far slope of the moat, cutting down dozens.

He stood up.

"Now! Now!"

He repeated the cry over and over as he staggered up the slope, losing four steps for every one gained. Stepping atop a legless body he gained enough footing to fling himself up nearly to the crest. He paused, looked back, saw that Brown was still up, sword still held high. The flag bearer was up as well, pressing forward; then he dropped. Another man picked up the flag, following Brown, a wedge of men, like an inverted V, pushing behind them.

The crush of men pressed up beside him and Hazner fell in with them. They were almost at the embrasure. He pushed up the last few feet to one side of the gun opening, clawing his way to the top. He caught a glimpse of heads, some wearing blue kepis, most of them hatless, the rammer for the gun withdrawing the staff, screaming for the crew to run the piece back out.

He stood up, aimed at the man less than five feet away, and squeezed. Nothing happened; his rifle was still uncapped.

A gunner, shouting, raised a revolver, and he dropped down atop the crest of the wall, the pistol round cutting a neat hole into the brim of Hazner's hat

He lunged forward, tumbling over the wall and into the fort. All was madness, confusion. Landing on the firing step, a Yankee, standing above him, screamed, using his musket like a club, swung down, trying to crush his skull. Hazner rolled, avoiding the blow. Kicking with his bare feet, he caught the man on the knee; the Yankee, cursing, staggered back. He tried to stand up, but then was knocked down as another man landed on top of him. He caught a glimpse of the inside of the fort, bodies sprawled everywhere, many of them in gray or tattered butternut A line of infantry, bayonets poised, were in the center compound, light field pieces deployed across the small parade ground, aimed straight at the wall.

The man atop him grunted, cried out, then rolled off. He came to his feet, saw the man that had been atop him thrashing, screaming, a bayonet stuck in his back, the Yankee who had caught him fighting to pull the bayonet back out

Holding his musket at the butt, Hazner swung it like a club and brained the man, who collapsed, falling off the firing step into the compound below.

It was now a murder match, men fighting like primal animals, no quarter given or asked. Fumbling, he pulled out a percussion cap, thumbed it on to the nipple, cocked his gun, and swung it around, firing from the waist into the stomach of a man lunging at him.

More men were swarming over the top of the parapet; the few Yankees atop the firing step began to jump off, running. He was about to jump down after them and then saw, to his right that the crew of the thirty-pounder were still at their position, a sergeant slapping a friction primer into the breech, pulling the lanyard taut screaming for the crew to jump back.

Colonel Brown was up into the embrasure, turning, looking back, shouting incoherently. He was so close that Hazner could almost touch him. Lunging out he grabbed Brown by the arm, which was covered with blood, and then fell backward, dragging the colonel with him. Behind Brown the flag bearer was coming through the embrasure, colors still held high.

The gun went off with an earsplitting thunder crack, the flag bearer disappearing, screams echoing up from beyond the wall.

Dropping his grip on Brown, Hazner crouched, animal-like, looking around, taking it all in, his senses suddenly sharp, clear, the world momentarily focused.

Trie infantry in the center of the fort's parade ground were firing away, independent fire, picking their targets as they came up over the wall. One of the field pieces erupted with a sharp kick, leaping backward, canister sweeping the top of the fort to Hazner's left, sweeping down a dozen or more men, some of them Union, on the open parapet.

Yankees deployed along the far side of the wall, facing in toward Washington, were turned, crouching down, firing as well; a light field piece over there was turned, pointing straight at them, ready to sweep any charge that came into the parade ground.

He stood up for a brief instant, looking back over the parapet, back across the ground they had just stormed. It was carpeted with the dead and wounded of two divisions. Scattered groups of men were still pushing forward; down in the moat, hundreds, perhaps a thousand or more, floundered about. Any semblance of command was lost in this nightmare.

Where was the next wave? The mist revealed nothing.

"We're getting out!" Hazner shouted. He stood up, pushing his dazed colonel up on the wall. The gunners, not ten feet away, were furiously reloading their piece. For an instant he thought of taking them, but knew it was useless. Bullets were smacking into the earthen wall to either side, fired from the troops assembled below.

He violently pushed Brown, who was still dazed.

"No!" Brown cried, but Hazner ignored him, leaning down, lifting him up with his blacksmith's strength, slamming him over the parapet.

He leapt up, grabbed Brown, and rolled off the top, skidding halfway down the slope. Brown tried to stand back up.

"Goddamn it, Colonel. Lay down!"

"We can still take it!"

"Not yet, damn it. Wait for the next wave!"

"We can still take it!"

Brown tried to stand up, blood pouring from his wounded arm. Exasperated, Hazner reared back, punched him with a numbing blow on the side of the head, and Brown fell, tumbled into the mud, and was still.

Fumbling into his cartridge box while lying on his back, Hazner reloaded, awkwardly pulling out the ramrod, pushing the charge down while his musket lay on his stomach, then rolled over, capped the nipple, and poised his weapon.

Pressed flat against the slope, he knew that for the moment he was safe, though those on the far side of the moat were trapped in hell. Hundreds of men, thinking as he did, had pressed themselves down into the forward slope of the fort, the ground defilade that could not be hit. The thirty-pounder, only feet away, could sweep the far slope and the fields beyond, but it could not touch him, though the roar of it would leave him deafened. Any infantry that tried to pick him off would have to stand atop the parapet, and several did try in the next few minutes, only to be riddled, as a hundred or more fired on them, offering back some small measure of revenge for the carnage. It was a stalemate.

Hazner looked around, recognizing some faces from his regiment.

"We stay here!" he shouted. "Stay here, don't fall back, or you'll be slaughtered. Stay here till the next wave comes, then we go back in!"

He reached down to his canteen. Uncorking it, Hazner lifted it up. It was light, empty. A bullet had cut it nearly in half.

Cursing, he flung it aside, and then hunkered down to wait for what would come next

He looked back to the east The sun was breaking the horizon, dull red as it shone through the smoke and the fog, which would soon burn away. It was going to be a hot day. It was going to be a very long day.

July 18th 1863