Read Online March Toward the Thunder by Joseph Bruchac - Free Book Online Page B

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    â€œWhat’s holding us up?” Sergeant Flynn called out to a courier coming back from the head of the line of march. About two in the morning that had been.
    â€œCavalry,” the man yelled. “Sheridan’s on our side and Jeb Stuart’s on theirs.”
    â€œCavalry.” Flynn sniffed. “I should have known.”
    It had taken till dawn for Sheridan’s cavalry to move aside. The sun was coming up when they were told they’d reached their objective. No rest, though. Out with the shovels and up with the entrenchments. Shuffling forward and shoveling. Aside from drawing their rations, cleaning their guns, and praying for an hour or two of rest, that was about all they’d done for the last several days.
    Louis took off his hat, but didn’t peek up over the top of the trench. It was hardly worth the risk just to see a patchwork of woods and fields and low hills. Their objective, the Spotsylvania Court House and the crucial crossroads that led to the Rebels’ main railway line, was a good five miles farther.
    From where Louis knelt behind the walls of piled earth, the nearest Southern soldier might be half a mile or more away. But everyone in the army knew, especially after yesterday, how accurate the Southern snipers could be with their British Enfield rifles.
    The Fourth and Fifth Corps, farther forward, had been led by Major General Sedgwick. “Uncle John,” as everyone called him, was one of those rare, well-liked men who was also competent at his job. Grant always trusted his judgment. But yesterday, a clear bright Sunday, General Sedgwick’s judgment had been less than perfect. As he inspected the forward line, he’d climbed up the entrenchment to look out on the field.
    â€œSir,” an aide warned. “The Johnnies can see you there.”
    Sedgwick paid no attention, even though the bars on his shoulders marked him as an important target. Puffs of smoke appeared on the distant hill as Rebel snipers 800 yards away began to fire. The aide dropped to his belly.
    â€œWhy, what are you dodging for?” Sedgwick asked. “They could not hit an elephant at this distance.”
    Those were his final words. A Rebel ball struck the general square in the left cheek, killing him instantly.
    Louis picked up the stick that he had found the day before. It looked as if someone might have been making it into a cane. He picked up his hat and balanced it on top of the stick. Then he raised it up above the top of the trench, counting under his breath in Abenaki.
    â€œNis, nas . . .”
    Thwack! The stick was jolted out of his hand by the impact of the bullet. A second later he heard the distant pop from the gun half a mile away that had let loose that well-aimed shot. It proved what Corporal Hayes had said to him earlier that day, after telling him the story of Sedgwick’s demise.
    â€œWhen our boy Johnny Reb is that far away, you never hear the shot that kills you.”
    Louis picked up his hat. Untouched. The stick, though, had been split by the ball.
    â€œGood on you, Nolette,” Corporal Hayes said, patting Louis’s shoulder as he shuffled up to him. “One less piece of Rebel lead to take the life of our boys.”
    Louis nodded. What he’d done hadn’t just been idle play, but suggested to the men of Company E by their noncoms. Use your caps to fish for snipers.
    Most, except for Possum Page, who had his slouch hat over his round-faced head and was snoring, were doing just that.
    It was common knowledge that the Southern side was getting short of everything from men and horses to shoes and shot. Their factories had never been able to produce as much as the North. And the naval blockade was now keeping out just about all the supplies from England that the secessionists had been depending on. Whole companies of Rebel soldiers were said to be barefoot now.
    Louis picked up the two pieces of the peeled tree limb that would