CHAPTER 1
ON A COLD, CLOUDY morning, a Confederatesoldier was fishing for his breakfast on the bank ofthe Savannah River near Augusta, Georgia. The riverflowed fast enough here in the upcountry to favor catching shad.He had a string of three tied through the gills and was stringinga fourth when his younger brother, Walsh, approached.
"Something's up, George," he said.
George jerked his thumb toward the unfinished earthworksbehind him. "Don't I know it. No hurry anymore. For two dayswe couldn't dig fast enough; now they don't give a damn."
"What's it all mean?"
After baiting his hook, George replied, "It means thatSherman ain't headed this way. It means we've been wasting ourdamned time ... as we usually do. We're like this here river. Wejust go along where the current takes us. There's a skiff downthere a-ways. You and me could get in it and drift down the riverto where-the-hell-ever."
"Savannah," Walsh replied. "That's the talk."
"What talk?"
"Van Wyk's been in with General Baker since dawn. IfSherman ain't coming here, he's going there. Savannah."
George watched his cork bobbing and yanked to set the hook."Got another one. This makes five—one apiece for breakfast."
* * *
To Colonel John Van Wyk, the men of Company A looked alike.Their faces were dark with resin smoke, their ribs protruded likebarn rafters, and their uniforms were an assortment of filthyrags indiscriminately liberated from Union and Confederatedead. As he moved slowly through the knots of men squattingaround breakfast messes, he decided they more closely resembledscarecrows than soldiers. "Cook enough bacon and cornbread forthree days," he ordered. "We'll be moving out directly."
Van Wyk stopped some distance away from George andWalsh Hawkins and the three other men completing the circle:William Thomas Rhew, Jefferson Mullins, and a carrot-toppedIrishman named Patrick O'Brady. With the exception of Walsh,not quite eighteen, the others were in their twenties, and all weresmall farmers, as were most of the men in the company. Theirfamilies had displayed a more shallow loyalty to the Confederacythan many of those he recruited. Excusing Walsh, who hadenlisted only a year ago, none of them had helped elect him tothe command of the company or later congratulated him uponpromotion from captain to colonel. They were all privates and,in his judgment, would remain privates because they lacked thegumption for command.
"Private, who gave you leave to go fishing?"
"You weren't around, Jack."
"It's Colonel Van Wyk. You could have asked LieutenantBlackburn."
"He wasn't around neither."
George was the worst soldier in the company, the coloneldecided. He didn't look like a soldier, even on parade. Hewas taller than his schoolboy brother, but his size was hardlycommanding. His face was round, soft, almost apostolic, exceptfor a bad attitude etched into it. His hands were more fit fordealing cards at a poker table than loading an Enfield. Hisnickname was Hawk, but that appellation rested uneasily upona man who had, it was said, never hunted a day in this life. Butworst of all, he was habitually insubordinate.
"One of these days, Private Hawkins, you're likely to bebound and gagged in front of the whole company."
George looked up from the fire. Van Wyk's face was hard andangular, tapering down to a dark mustache and beard. His eyeswere set wide apart and bright with anger. "Colonel," Georgebegan, "you buck and gag me and that fine, high-priced store ofyours just might burn to the ground after the war."
Van Wyk's body stiffened in rage. "You do that and you'llhang as high as Haman."
"What? Who?"
"It's in the Bible," Walsh said. "Book of Esther, I think."
"You'd be the one to know," George replied.
"That's right," Van Wyk said. "I didn't expect you to know,George. All you did in Wilmington was shovel horseshit out ofsea captains' stalls and bed down the whores with your earnings.It's a wonder you didn't get gonorrhea like a lot of others."
"I didn't see nothing wrong with provosting Wilmington."
Van Wyk turned his head toward the voice, Walsh's. "Maybeyou think that's soldiering, but I don't! Thanks to the likesof all you, we deserve our reputation as pirates and slackers.Well ... we're going to get another chance for glory. We missedGettysburg and the Wilderness and Spotsylvania too. This timeGeneral Hardee has asked us to join him at Savannah. But firstwe'll keep the Yankees from cutting the railroad at Grahamville.Be ready to move out as soon as the train builds up steam. Don'tworry; a special train will be waiting for us in Charleston. Youwon't have time to get the fever."
"Special train, my ass," George said. "Confederacy ain't gotany special trains."
Choosing to ignore George's acerbic remark, the colonelturned and walked away.
"What exactly is glory?" Walsh wondered, his eyes followingVan Wyk. "I've sure heard a lot of talk about it."
George said, "Tell him, Bill Tom."
Bill Tom shrugged. "Well it's sort of like going the furtherest atGettysburg, Pickett's charge. A lot of glory in Pickett's charge."
"But that means getting yourself killed," Walsh protested.
"Usually," Bill Tom said. "We've been lucky. No glory, butwe're still alive. I guess that bothers Van Wyk, but he probablyfigures on us doing the dying. Well, our first brigade commander,Junius Daniel, got his glory at the Wilderness. He was a goodman. We could have been sent up Malvern Hill, but he talked ol'Theo Holmes out of it, I hear. Too bad it wasn't Van Wyk gettinghis glory instead of Daniel."
Pat offered in his Irish brogue, "He's as full of shit as this herefish is with bones. If he'd been with our detail up on Malvern Hillthat might have cured him. Glory sure as hell has a smell."
"Yeah," Jeff said, "I'd sure like to get those pictures out ofmy head. I ain't never seen nothing like it and hope to neveragain. Makes hog-killing time look like a picnic on the churchgrounds."
"I didn't join the army to kill anybody," Walsh said. "I justwanted to see the world beyond Person County."
Mullins grinned, showing stained teeth. "Runs in the familyI reckon. We all wanted to see the world, but is it true, reallytrue, Hawk, that you kept your grandpa from shooting a rabbithe had a bead on?"
"Shut up, Jeff, or I'll put my rifle butt in your big mouth.I kill for meat, not sport. No sport in shootin' a rabbit with ashotgun anyway."
"Hell, I didn't mean nothing by it, Hawk. But, well, did you?I mean here we are, you know?"
"How many men have you shot, Jeff? Huh? How many menhave you even shot at?"
"As many as you have. I was told and so were you, that nomore than a thimble full of blood would be spilled in this war. Anocean full would be more like it. We should have known. It's inthe Bible. Plenty about war in the Bible. There's a lot of smotingand slewing in it. Our time's coming. That's my point. You mayhave to put a bead on a man and pull the trigger."
"Eat your victuals," George said. "Be glad we've been lucky.I'll do my duty as a soldier should."
* * *
The train was eleven cars long. Each was stuffed with seventyor more men, plus another dozen rode on the roof. CompanyA rode in the last car. George and Walsh sat on the aluminum-paintedroof where smells were better. With a rattling of cars andlynchpins and showers of green pine sparks spewing from thestack, the locomotive gradually picked up speed—but not muchspeed given the crumbling roadbeds and rails so crooked theyreminded George of a slithering snake.
The countryside was bleak. The late autumn sun was tooweak to break through the haze and brighten the endless tractsof spindly second-growth timber or penetrate the dark air of theswamps. Weeds and grasses grew in the dirt roads leading backto a farm or perhaps some grander place where the owner wascalled Massa and the white women were all Miss something-or-the-other.They were not George's people, and this cutovercountry was not his land.
There were stops for fuel and water both expedited bycurses and threats hurled by officers at the bucket and pine-logbrigades. In little more time than it took for the soldiers to relievethemselves beside the tracks, the train jounced on again, buckinglike a Confederate mule and swaying like a sailor after downinga pint of clear corn.
At midafternoon, a rainsquall passed over the train, soakingGeorge and the others on the roof to the skin until they smelledlike wet dogs and shivered in the chill air. Soon they were in thelow country, the Tidewater. The air was warm, and the streamsreflected strange, gnarled trees gripping muddy banks like bonyfingers. The gloom deepened as the sun dipped behind gianttrees. Boys the color of ebony fished from the bank of a sluggishstream and looked at the train as it rattled by trailing sparksand thin, white smoke. To George, this was the watery, darkwilderness of a strange land.
At dusk, the train entered the northern end of the tongue-shapedpeninsula of Charleston. From atop the car, George hada good view of the city's ruin. In the cemeteries surrounding theold whitewashed churches were scores of fresh graves of those,he assumed, who had died from the fever. To his left were guttedwarehouses; to his right were the brick shells of what had beenthe mansions of Quality Folk. With the approaching darkness,the guns of the Yankee bluewater navy winked and missiles withfuses aglow came arcing into the city.
South Carolina Station, a sign on the depot read. Negrochildren played in the rubble of the station's portico. Scatteredamong the ruins, part of the debris of war, lay a score of woundedConfederates, heads bandaged, arms in slings, and filthy ragswrapped around other wounds. One of them called to George ashe climbed down from the car, "What regiment?"
"Fiftieth North Carolina," George replied just before a bombexploded near the tracks. He dived to the ground and lay therewith his arms wrapped protectively around his head as dust andshards of bricks rained down. He heard laughter and rose spittingdirt and coughing. "What's so damned funny?" he demanded,checking himself for wounds.
"Hell's bells," one of the wounded soldiers replied, "theycan't hit nothing. Seen the train, that's all. Of course it ain'tfunny. Ain't no funnier than us laying here maybe gonna losea wheel or something. What's my old lady gonna think whenI come hobbling home? But I'd a whole lot druther be me. Myfate is plain to see. Yours now ... well, it's likely to be a heapworse."
George felt a mixture of compassion and resentment. "Yousure are encouraging. I ain't got any whiskey or tobacco to humoryou."
The soldier laughed again. "I ain't got nothing for y'allneither ... except maybe for some advice. Don't try to be a hero.Time's past for heroes."
"Get a move on," Van Wyk bellowed. "The train's waiting atthe Savannah Station across town."
* * *
Charleston was as dark as a grave. There was nothing to dispelthe gloom, no yellow pinpoints of light even from windowsaway from the bay and ocean, nothing to seep through drawncurtains, no light from the lanterns of phaetons. An eternal,smooth night had settled over the besieged city. They picked theirway through the rubble, lost in the darkness, reaching for theman in front of them until finally they saw pine resin sparkingfrom the balloon stack, and boarded the train. Once across adimly lit bridge, the train shuddered and bumped and rattledback into the darkness.
George needed to think about something ... anything ... tokeep himself awake. He locked his arms around Walsh, and BillTom held on to him to keep each other from falling from the roofof the car. He recalled the old soldier mentioning fate. Fate couldbe either good or bad, couldn't it? Maybe Company A was fatedto live through this war. True, the company had lost a few mento yellow fever and accidents, but back home in Person Countyas many would have died from horse kicks and lockjaw. But whatwas predictable in this war? What did he control? His fate wasnot in his hands, whether good or bad. He followed Van Wyk'sorders when he had to, orders that were L. S. Baker's. He in turntook his orders from General William Hardee, Hardee fromJefferson Davis, and Davis from the devil himself. Maybe theirluck would run out at Grahamville. The train puffed through thenight, spewing resin sparks like fireworks.
* * *
It was dawn when the train reached Grahamville. They werelate, hours late. The battle was over, it was plain to see. WoundedConfederates lay around the depot and along the tracks. Thedead were being hauled away in wagons for burial. Flags of SouthCarolina and Georgia flew over the station in triumph. Lingeringon the gentle drafts of air were the smells of black powder, earth,and the stench of burning flesh. The victors gathered around thetrain as though the Fiftieth was the enemy. "Where the hell y'allbeen?" they demanded.
Van Wyk appeared and managed to quiet the mob. "Boys," hebegan in a voice of sweet reason, "we're sorry we're late. Y'all'vebeen on our trains. We coulda marched it faster."
They knew, they said, having come down from Macon ina Confederate relic. The engineers were on Sherman's payroll."We didn't need you no how," a strong baritone voice rose overthe rest. There were cheers of agreement, and it was the truth,a miraculous truth that George found difficult to believe. Howcould a ragtag bunch of old men and boys whip a division ofYankee regulars? A miracle, that's what it was, and a miracle, too,that the Fiftieth had been kept out of harm's way once again. Somuch for their luck running out.
When they had climbed down from the car, Walsh said toGeorge, "I guess they got their glory."
A barefoot boy in ragged bib overalls overheard Walsh'sremark and said, "We sure did. It was one heck of a fight. Maybethe biggest in the history of the world. How many big fights y'allbeen in?"
Silence easily won out over truth. Maybe Van Wyk was right.The same questions would be asked of them back home. Theywished not to inform the boy they had spent six months easyduty as provosts in a wide-open, blockade-running town, thatthey had garrisoned another North Carolina town, or how theyhad confiscated crops of poor, hardworking dirt farmers, even ifunder General Lee's orders.
"We were at Malvern Hill serving under Marse Bob," Georgesaid at last.
"Yeah?" the boy said. He had never heard of Malvern Hill,but it had to be important if Lee was there. "After that?"
"Well," George went on, "after that ... well...." He spokedeliberately while racking his brain for a good answer. "Well ...after that we were on special assignments."
"Y-you mean secret missions?"
"Yeah, a few." The men grunted their agreement. It wasn'texactly a lie. The secret mission came to little more than lobbing afew cannon balls at Yankee campfires from a safe distance acrossthe James River.
Into that delicate reasoning, Walsh added, "My brother herewas wounded at Malvern Hill."
George's face colored behind the grime. It was another fragiletruth. He had been hurt while down on River Road below MalvernHill, not wounded, but this was not the time to set the matterstraight. He was relieved when the boy changed the subject.
"I'll be headed home now, because we're state troopers. Leastwe won't be called Governor Brown's pets anymore. GeneralSmith won respect too. Now, he ain't no General Lee, but heain't far behind. He could hold his light, that's for sure. Yes, sir,Smith has to be one of the best generals in the whole ConfederateArmy."
"Smith, huh?" George mused.
"You know of him then," the boy said.
George knew of him. Every Confederate soldier in the Armyof Northern Virginia had heard of Gustavus Smith. Early in thewar, Smith had briefly commanded that magnificent army. In themidst of a fierce battle outside Richmond, General Lee had foundSmith sitting in his tent unable to act, unable even to speak. Hedecided not to tell the boy. A lot of good men had gone crazy inthis war.
"Here comes Van Wyk," Pat said. "For having missed out onall the glory, he sure looks pleased as punch."
"Attenshun," Van Wyk ordered, "We weren't vouchsafeda hero's fight. But if these boys and graybeards can whip theYankees at Honey Hill, damned if we can't still win this war.We'll stop Sherman cold and send him and his bummers backacross the Ohio."
As soon as Van Wyk moved off to other business, Bill Tompuzzled, "I wonder what he had for breakfast."
