March Toward the Thunder Part 17

They might be falling back, but they were not retreating. Although they'd been through some of the worst fighting in the war and were all worn and tired to the bone, they'd been walking through the night. The Irish Brigade was to be part of yet another attempt to get around the defenses between them and Richmond.

The sun in the middle of the sky again, they finally stopped, allowed a few minutes to rest while some obstacle was cleared from the road ahead.

"Lads," Sergeant Flynn said, "gather here. It's some explanation ye deserve of what we're up t'. Even though we've seen the elephant, there's more ahead for us and it's toe the mark. Petersburg is where me betters say we're bound."

Flynn picked up a stick and made two lines in the soft ground.

"Now here's us, the Army of the Potomac. And here's dear old General Lee and his boys hunkering down, 'n' expecting another frontal attack."

Flynn chuckled, though there was not much humor in it, as he drew a long arrow leading back and around.

"But here's us now. One hundred thousand men tippy-toeing away and not a Rebel aware they're facin' empty trenches. Sure and it'll be another day before they discover we've moved to come at Richmond from below and behind."

Flynn sc.r.a.ped a curving line and jabbed in the point of the stick. "Crossing here."

"The James River?" Corporal Hayes asked.

From the tone of his voice, he doesn't sound much interested.

"Aye. They're putting in a great pontoon bridge t' bring across the horses and mules and the heavy artillery and the wagons. But the river is wide. It'll take at least a day or two to get that bridge built. And since there's not a Moses among us to part the waters, the Second Corps, all twenty-two thousand strong, including us fine fighters of the Sixty-ninth, will be floatin' over first by ferry boats."

Is that a river or an ocean?

The broad expanse of water that shone below them looked to be a mile wide. The light of a sun soon to set beyond the far side danced on the top of big waves.

How can anyone throw a bridge across that?

There was feverish activity on the near bank. Engineers were a.s.sembling pontoons and stacking great loads of planks on flatboats.

"Two miles down from here," Flynn said, coming up on Louis's right, "that's where the river narrows to a mere half mile. Ye might find it hard to envision, but for certain sure they're going to span the James."

Wish I could see that bridge when it's done. It'll be a wonder, for sure.

Gunports and transport barges were being pulled up to the landing below them. The engineers and navy boys on board all stared at the men of the 69th as they marched by.

"What are them popinjays in their pretty blue uniforms googling their eyes at?" Belaney muttered.

"They're just admiring our fine duds," Kirk said, "and wondering where they might find clothes so well decorated with sweat and mud and dust and blood as ours."

Louis glanced down at the tattered sleeves of his coat, the holes in the knees of his pants, his boots stained red from Southern mud and dust.

We're a regiment of scarecrows compared to them with their pressed pants and coats and their clean faces. But would they look as good if they'd just been fighting and marching and sleeping in the dirt like us for the last six weeks?

Soon they were on the bobbing deck of the first of the transport s.h.i.+ps.

"Been on the water before?" Songbird asked.

"Some," Louis answered. "But never in a boat the size of a house."

"Twice as big as any house I ever lived in," Kirk said, leaning over the rail.

How can something as large as this float? Listen to how them planks thump under our feet. Almost like a drum. Won't this be something to write M'mere and Azonis about?

By dawn of the next day, they were all across and a.s.sembled at Windmill Point. But the expected order to move out hadn't come. The sun now stood two hands high above the horizon. Sergeant Flynn, who had gone off to find out what the delay was, was just returning.

"Sergeant, sir," Kirk said, "have the officers finished having their breakfast yet? Or will we be waiting till they've had dinner?"

Flynn shook his head in disgust. "Our orders now are for the whole of Second Corps t' sit and wait for the arrival of sixty thousand rations from General Butler that we're to carry with us to Petersburg."

"Hurry up and wait," Louis said, surprising himself by speaking his thoughts aloud.

The other men chuckled at his words, but Flynn's face stayed grim.

"I'll wager you boys a dollar against a donut," Sergeant Flynn growled, "that them rations never do get here. But there's no point t' complaining. For it's the joy of me life that when things go wrong in this army, with the fine generals we have leading us, they kin always go worse."

Flynn's words were a prophecy. By midmorning, when no rations had arrived, a disgusted General Hanc.o.c.k decided they'd waited long enough. They set out on what was supposed to be a sixteen-mile march to Petersburg to join the 16,000 men of General Smith's Corps who had crossed the Appomattox River to the west and would reach Petersburg first.

The sun lifted to the middle of the sky, moved a hand's width across and then another hand's width down.

Mid-afternoon. We've gone more than just sixteen miles, what with changing directions on these roads that wind in and out like a nest of snakes.

March and countermarch. Toward the sunset, then away from it.

Thunder? No. Batteries of artillery letting loose somewhere miles ahead of us.

Through some trick of the land or the atmosphere, though, the far-off thud and crackle of cannons and muskets came and went. First from one direction and then another-even when they stood still while the leaders of the march studied their maps and cussed. It left Louis wondering if the battle sounds were real or only imagined by his mind, which was about as worn out as his body.

Finally, when the hand of darkness spread over the land, a halt was called. Exhausted men who'd now walked for the better part of two days slumped to the ground. Louis lifted his head-which took some effort-to look around the ranks of dusty soldiers and pick out his friends. Torches flickered here and there, but were hardly necessary. The moon was so bright, it cast faint shadows on the ground.

There Kirk and Devlin were, a few yards away leaning back to back, too tired to crack a joke or sing a note. Bull lay on his side next to them, worn out past complaining. And there was Corporal Hayes, sitting on a dead tree, staring at his boots. Sergeant Flynn was nowhere in sight. Louis closed his eyes.

Suddenly Flynn's voice boomed out near him and he jerked awake.

"Boys," Sergeant Flynn said, his voice even more disgusted than usual, "I'm back from getting the lay of the land. And here's the grand news. We're no more than an hour's march from Petersburg. A sergeant friend who's just come as a courier from near the front with Hanc.o.c.k tells me that our major general has vowed t' shoot the next mapmaker he sees. The lovely directions we was given had us following roads what don't exist t' a destination well within the enemy lines. Our dear little map might have been drawn by General Robert E. Lee himself. By my calculations we just marched thirty-two miles t' get to a place sixteen miles away and we're not there yet. The only good news is that the courier knows the way back t' Petersburg, so we'll not get lost goin' there."

Flynn paused, but Louis could tell he wasn't done yet from the look on his face.

"It gets better, doesn't it?" Corporal Hayes asked.

"Ye might say. It seems our Second Corps was expected t' take part in the a.s.sault on the Rebel lines. Unbeknownst to any of us from General Hanc.o.c.k on down! And why did we not know that? Because our beloved Lieutenant General Ulysses S. Grant, bless his heart, never saw fit t' mention that t' any of us, from the Snapping Turtle on down to our own General Winfield S. Hanc.o.c.k. In any event, that a.s.sault, t' the surprise of all, actually met with some success. So General Smith decided it would be unfair to the poor dear Rebels to press the advantage by chasing them further."

"General Smith stopped the attack when he was winning?" Corporal Hayes said.

"Bless his heart," Flynn replied. "Givin' the Johnnies time to regroup and reinforce. And now we're t' take part in a night a.s.sault on the great line around the city. No more than ten miles of forts and batteries and breastworks."

"Oh Lord!" Hayes said.

For once there was not the hint of a question in his voice.

"Indeed," Sergeant Flynn replied.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

THE UNITED STATES COLORED TROOPS.

Thursday, June 16, 1864

Just like always, things are not going as planned.

As soon as they arrived, the Second Corps was sent in to take the place that had been held by Brigadier General Hincks and the USCT of the Eighteenth Corps.

The USCT. That stood for the United States Colored Troops. The Eighteenth was one of the Union Army's new regiments of Negro troops, most of whom had been slaves. Some had questioned whether men of color had the intelligence or courage to be good soldiers. But the black men in blue had led the first a.s.sault the prior evening with great valor. They'd overwhelmed the Confederate defenses before being ordered to reluctantly fall back and wait for Second Corps to renew the a.s.sault.

But no order to attack was given. The night had pa.s.sed, and the whole morning of the next day.

As Louis checked his rifle and counted his cartridges yet again, he saw the shadow of a familiar presence moving up behind him.

"Yes, sir, sergeant," he said without looking up.

"Nolette," Flynn chuckled. "I'm sending ye off on a difficult and dangerous mission. One of me friends told me the commissary wagon has actually brought up some fresh fruit and vegetables. It'll be yer job t' bring back as much as ye kin of them rare delicacies."

No attack?

Louis didn't ask that question out loud, but Flynn read it from his face.

"There'll be a day or more before we take t' the field again," Flynn said. "That long march took more of a toll on our good General Hanc.o.c.k than it did on us. The great wound in his thigh he suffered at Gettysburg opened again. The poor man is sloughing out bits of bone. And so, Saints preserve us, the decision t' attack or not rests alone on the shoulders of Old Baldy." Flynn snuffed. "Our dear General Smith, who doubts that even the forty thousand good men in blue we've now gathered will be enough t' breach the Rebel works."

Bon Dieu help us.

The commissary wagons were just beyond the bivouac of the Eighteenth Corps. As Louis made his way, two empty sacks over his shoulder, he thought about the formidable fortifications they'd sooner or later be attacking The Dimmock Line.

That was what the great ring of defense erected around the strategic railhead of Petersburg had been named-for the Southern engineer who'd designed it. The walls and trenches that had stopped them at Cold Harbor had been constructed in only a matter of days. The Dimmock Line had been more than two years in the building.

Louis pa.s.sed an awed group of Union engineers discussing the palisades, abatis, bombproofs, and redoubts that lay ahead of them.

"No less than fifty-five separate redans," an engineer lieutenant with blond muttonchops was saying.

Redans, that'd be those thick-walled little forts along the length of the line, each one bristling like an angry porcupine with cannons for quills.

As Louis continued on he realized that he was tapping his fingers on his ammunition pouch, keeping time to a song. It was coming from somewhere nearby-deep, melodic voices accompanied by hand-clapping.

"Ain't gonna turn around

Ain't gonna turn around

We gonna take that ground

We gonna take that ground"

A group of twenty or more black soldiers making that music were there sitting on the gra.s.s. No doubt they'd been among the ones in the thick of battle the day before. Most had bandages wrapped around their limbs or their heads. But they were smiling as they sang.

"Soldier," a voice with a heavy Southern accent called to him, "y'all one of us'ns?"

Louis turned to see not a Confederate, but a man in a uniform bluer and newer than his own. The man's inquisitive smile shone from a young, friendly face only a shade darker than his own. Seeing how dark his own skin was, even browner now from sunburn and dirt, the man had mistaken Louis for a mulatto.

"Nope," Louis said, reaching out to shake the Negro soldier's hand, "Indian. Louis Nolette, Company E of the Sixty-ninth."

"Indian?" the young man said in a delighted voice, pumping Louis's hand. "A real Indian! My, oh my! My old granny, she is a Indian herself. Has them long braids and high cheekbones. Chickahominy from right roun' these parts. She still livin' in Petersburg, y'know. Matter of fact, I thought I'd be payin' her a call just yesterday. And we would of done so if they hadn't of called us back. Me and the boys in muh company, we had such a head of steam up that we was on our way to Richmond to tie a knot in old Jeff Davis's tail. But I am forgettin' muh manners. Private First Cla.s.s Thomas Jefferson, of the Virginia Jeffersons and Tenth U.S. Colored of the Eighteenth."

"Pleased," Louis said. He liked the warm, rich voice and the demeanor of Private Thomas Jefferson. Self-confident with a sense of humor. He was as tall and broad-shouldered as Louis. Despite his dark skin, though, the man's patrician features were more like those of a white man.

Jefferson? Does that mean . . . ?

"Now you might be wonderin'," Private Jefferson continued, guessing the question that was forming in Louis's mind, "about muh name. I 'spect you might be thinkin' I'm fixin' to claim that one of the Foundin' Fathers of this fine nation was muh great-grandfather." Jefferson chuckled. "Well, sir, I am not. Nossir, not at all. Ma.s.sah Tom's brother was a little faster getting to the slave quarters that night. So I can only claim President Thomas Jefferson as muh uncle."