It was dark when Tim opened his eyes, and for a moment he couldn’t
remember where he was. Then a passing horseman, giving orders, reminded
him of their position. Tim was conscious of the silent lines of men
stretching away to the rear, and he knew that sentries in the unseen
fort waited quietly in the darkness, straining their eyes toward the
Yankee pickets, wondering when the attack would come. Fear came to him,
then ebbed away. He knew that the hours ahead must be lived a minute at
a time. He got to his feet.
Muffled voices sounded on the left and Sergeant Fitch came out of the
gloom. “General Strong and Colonel Rodman are up and about.”
“Did you get some sleep?”
“Not much. But most of the boys are dead to the world.”
“Fitch, do you think the men are fit?”
“Fit enough, I guess. But that new lad Greene, he worries me. He’s so
confounded young.”
The colonel came along the line. “Turn the boys out. We have a job on
hand. We must have silence as we move to our picket line.”
In the ghostly light the voices of the sergeants brought the boys to
life. Fitch’s voice came in a pleasant rumble. “Here, Steele, time to
get up. Up now, Bailey. Come along, Campana. That’s it, Greene. Time to
rise, lad, we have a job to do.”
And from farther away came other voices. “On your feet, grab your
rifles, put on your boots.”
The colonel’s aide ordered quiet, and the sounds died down to a
restless hum as the men clasped their belts around their waists,
grabbed their cartridge boxes and fixed their bayonets.
Tim walked among his boys. Most of the faces were chestnut brown from
two years in the southern sun, but one face stood out white as chalk.
Tim stopped to talk to Private Greene. As he faced the boy he thought,
He’s just as I probably was two years ago.
“Just keep moving,” Tim said in a quiet voice. “It’s dangerous to
falter.”
They moved forward, keeping their line as straight as they could in
the dark. Just as Tim fancied he could pick out the shape of the fort
against the sky a Yankee picket stood in their path, raising his hand
in silent greeting. The order came to halt and rest.
In the still, gray hours General Strong, with a yellow bandanna
fluttering at his neck, mounted on a big, stamping horse, moved along
the line. He paused near Sergeant Fitch and looked down at the men.
“Don’t stop to fire. Trust in God and give them the bayonet.” Then he
spurred his horse, and the man and the massive haunches of his charger
and the beast’s switching, whipping tail were swallowed by the gloom.
Tim noticed that Private Greene stood close.
“We move with caution till the enemy pickets open fire,” Tim said.
“Then we go in double quick. The Maine and Pennsylvania boys will come
in right behind.”
The sand gave way with every step, and a lump of impatience grew in
Tim’s chest.
As the soldiers advanced the ones on the right flank fell back so that
they wouldn’t be forced to walk in the ocean.
A Rebel picket sent up an earsplitting yell, there was a warning
rifle shot, and the order came for the Yankees to charge. As Wagner’s
batteries opened fire the ground in front of the advancing soldiers was
churned by a stream of shot and shell.
Tim drew his sword and raced forward, motioning for his men to follow.
The ground was covered with dead and dying, great shell holes loomed
suddenly in their path, and some of the men pitched headlong into the
yawning cavities.
The figures of the charging men were punched in black against the
brilliance of enemy fire. As Tim moved into the choking, blinding haze
a shell hit close. The familiar bulk of Sergeant Fitch spun around,
suspended for a moment, then crumpled in a gesture of death. Fear cut
into Tim like a knife of ice. His knees were numb but he moved in a
crescendo of speed for the outer work, a soundless screaming tearing at
his throat.
A dozen or so men had halted just behind the man-made ridge of sand.
“Don’t stop to fire!” Tim yelled.
In the light of the exploding shells he caught sight of Captain Dawson
just to the left. Dawson was rocking a man in his arms, rocking and
sobbing in a ghastly burlesque. Tim scrambled over to Dawson’s side.
The light of a following shell showed him that the man Dawson was
holding was dead. Tim wrenched the dead man free, grasped the front of
Dawson’s blouse and hit him full force in the face with the flat of his
hand. “Move on,” he shouted.
Dawson shook his head in confusion and got to his feet.
With the shriek of shells splitting his ears Tim grasped his sword and
dashed across the trembling sand toward the water of the moat where it
reflected the flashes of cannon fire.
A wounded soldier lay at the water’s edge, struggling to rise. Tim
grabbed the man’s blouse and dragged him clear so that he wouldn’t
drown.
As Tim straightened up he saw a half-familiar figure dashing toward him.
“It’s Private Greene,” he said aloud.
Together he and Greene dashed into the moat. Tim heard a splash. Greene
lay in the water, face down. Tim reached for the boy to pull him out
but Greene jumped up. “I’m alive. I only tripped,” he screamed. “Alive,
alive!”
Tim choked down a desperate laugh as he rushed for the massive, sloping
bank of earth. Scrambling up the rutted parapet, he felt something
sharp prick the seat of his pants. He swung around and looked into the
dogged face of Private Greene.
“Private Greene,” he said. “Watch what you do with that bayonet.”
Daybreak was streaking the sky in the east. In the gathering light a
scattering of Yankees had dug in just below the crest of the parapet,
firing rapidly into the fort. The ground below the fort was peppered
with rifle and cannon fire.
It was clear to Tim that the Federal ranks were threadbare. The
supporting regiments had dropped to the ground behind the outer work. A
shell hit a portion of the work, spraying sand into the air, picking
up men like jackstraws in a gale and sending them sprawling back to
earth.
Tim whipped the air with his sword and shouted through the smoke and
noise, rallying his men. He slipped and scrambled to the crest where
the sandbags were stacked. He kept moving as he reached the crest,
half sliding, half jumping into the fort. He was blinded for a moment
by a thick cloud of acrid smoke that made him cough and choke. As the
smoke blew away he saw a Rebel sergeant straight in front of him and
cannoneers at either side. He lowered his sword.
Off to the right a big voice commanded the sergeant, “Hold your
fire.” A Confederate lieutenant moved toward Tim, his pistol ready, a
broken-toothed smile cracking his leathery face. “A prisoner, sir.”