because I was yelling too, crazy and blood-curdled as the rest of them.
I passed one end of the row of tents. That must have been
where their officers stayed, for breakfast was laid on a table there with a
white cloth nice as a church picnic. When I saw the white-flour biscuits and
the coffee I understood why people called them the Feds and us the Corn-feds. I
got two of the biscuits (I had to grab quick; everybody was snatching at them)
and while I was stuffing one in my mouth and the other in my pocket, I saw Burt
Tapley. He'd caught up when we stopped to give them that volley, I reckon, and
he was holding the coffee pot like a loving-cup, drinking scalding coffee in
big gulps. It ran from both comers of his mouth, down onto the breast of his
uniform.
Officers were running around waving their swords and
hollering. "Form!" they yelled at us. "Form for attack!" But
nobody paid them much mind—we were too busy rummaging the tents. So they begun to lay about with the flats of their swords, driving
us away from the plunder. It didn’t take long. When we were formed in line
again, reloading our guns, squads and companies mixed every which way, they led
us through the row of tents at a run. All around me, men were tripping on the
ropes and cussing and barking their shins on the stakes. Then we got through
and I saw why the officers had been yelling for us to form.
There was a gang of Federal soldiers standing shoulder to
shoulder in the field beyond the tents. I thought it was the whole Yankee army,
lined up waiting for us. Those in front were kneeling under the guns of the men
in the second line, a great bank of blue uniforms and rifle barrels and white
faces like rows of eggs, one above another. When they fired, the smoke came at
us in a solid wall. Things plucked at my clothes and twitched my hat, and when
I looked around I saw men all over the ground, in the same ugly positions as
the men back on the slope, moaning and whimpering, clawing at the grass. Some were
gut-shot, making high yelping sounds like a turpentined dog.
Smoke was still thick when the second volley came. For a
minute I thought I was the only one left alive. Then I saw the others through
the smoke, making for the rear, and I ran too, back toward the tents and the
slope where we'd come up. They gave us another volley as we ran but it was
high; I could hear the balls screech over my head. I cleared the ridge on the
run, and when I came over I saw them stopping. I pulled up within twenty yards
or so and lay flat on the ground, panting.
No bulLet’s were falling here but
everybody laid low because they were crackling and snapping in the air over our
heads on a line with the rim where our men were still coming over. They would
come over prepared to run another mile, and then they would see us lying there
and they would try to stop, stumbling and sliding downhill.
I saw one man come over, running sort of straddle-legged,
and just as he cleared the rim I saw the front of his coat jump where the shots
came through. He was running down the slope, stone dead already, the way a deer
will do when it's shot after picking up speed. This man kept going for nearly
fifty yards downhill before his legs stopped pumping and he crashed into the
ground on his stomach. I could see his face as he ran, and there was no doubt
about it, no doubt at all: he was dead and I could see it in his face.
That scared me worse than anything up to then. It wasn’t
really all that bad, looking back on it: it was just that he'd been running
when they shot him and his drive kept him going down the slope. But it seemed
so wrong, so scandalous, somehow so un religious for a dead man to have to keep on fighting —or running, anyhow—that it made me
sick at my stomach. I didn’t want to have any more to do with the war if this
was the way it was going to be.
They had told us we would push them back to the river. Push,
they said; that was the word they used. I really thought we were going to
I passed one end of the row of tents. That must have been
where their officers stayed, for breakfast was laid on a table there with a
white cloth nice as a church picnic. When I saw the white-flour biscuits and
the coffee I understood why people called them the Feds and us the Corn-feds. I
got two of the biscuits (I had to grab quick; everybody was snatching at them)
and while I was stuffing one in my mouth and the other in my pocket, I saw Burt
Tapley. He'd caught up when we stopped to give them that volley, I reckon, and
he was holding the coffee pot like a loving-cup, drinking scalding coffee in
big gulps. It ran from both comers of his mouth, down onto the breast of his
uniform.
Officers were running around waving their swords and
hollering. "Form!" they yelled at us. "Form for attack!" But
nobody paid them much mind—we were too busy rummaging the tents. So they begun to lay about with the flats of their swords, driving
us away from the plunder. It didn’t take long. When we were formed in line
again, reloading our guns, squads and companies mixed every which way, they led
us through the row of tents at a run. All around me, men were tripping on the
ropes and cussing and barking their shins on the stakes. Then we got through
and I saw why the officers had been yelling for us to form.
There was a gang of Federal soldiers standing shoulder to
shoulder in the field beyond the tents. I thought it was the whole Yankee army,
lined up waiting for us. Those in front were kneeling under the guns of the men
in the second line, a great bank of blue uniforms and rifle barrels and white
faces like rows of eggs, one above another. When they fired, the smoke came at
us in a solid wall. Things plucked at my clothes and twitched my hat, and when
I looked around I saw men all over the ground, in the same ugly positions as
the men back on the slope, moaning and whimpering, clawing at the grass. Some were
gut-shot, making high yelping sounds like a turpentined dog.
Smoke was still thick when the second volley came. For a
minute I thought I was the only one left alive. Then I saw the others through
the smoke, making for the rear, and I ran too, back toward the tents and the
slope where we'd come up. They gave us another volley as we ran but it was
high; I could hear the balls screech over my head. I cleared the ridge on the
run, and when I came over I saw them stopping. I pulled up within twenty yards
or so and lay flat on the ground, panting.
No bulLet’s were falling here but
everybody laid low because they were crackling and snapping in the air over our
heads on a line with the rim where our men were still coming over. They would
come over prepared to run another mile, and then they would see us lying there
and they would try to stop, stumbling and sliding downhill.
I saw one man come over, running sort of straddle-legged,
and just as he cleared the rim I saw the front of his coat jump where the shots
came through. He was running down the slope, stone dead already, the way a deer
will do when it's shot after picking up speed. This man kept going for nearly
fifty yards downhill before his legs stopped pumping and he crashed into the
ground on his stomach. I could see his face as he ran, and there was no doubt
about it, no doubt at all: he was dead and I could see it in his face.
That scared me worse than anything up to then. It wasn’t
really all that bad, looking back on it: it was just that he'd been running
when they shot him and his drive kept him going down the slope. But it seemed
so wrong, so scandalous, somehow so un religious for a dead man to have to keep on fighting —or running, anyhow—that it made me
sick at my stomach. I didn’t want to have any more to do with the war if this
was the way it was going to be.
They had told us we would push them back to the river. Push,
they said; that was the word they used. I really thought we were going to
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