Brothers Unbroken (Part 2)
They didn’t have so far to go as they had thought. The first minnie-ball buzzed past private Honan’s ear and set him to cursing a blue streak just about the time of his fourteenth step. He yelped, and slapped a hand to his left ear just to be sure it was still there, as the shot had passed so close to his head. Amid the tangle of twisted, wet trees, they watched their enemy materialize from the darkness of the wood. Bayonets glistened with a dull glint of cold, unrelenting purpose. A desire to rush forward and tear the enemy asunder was palatable amongst the Federals; this line of grey, brown, and butternut clad men seemingly the only obstacle between them and escape from the rain and anxious anticipation of violence. Now the cause of this whole affair was before them, or at least a corporeal portion of it, and these Minnesota boys wanted at them. Captain Sheehan was obliged to restrain the men, whose difference in actions showed against the more resolute solidity of the other companies of the 5th. “Hold boys, you’re anxious to scrap, but hold for the order!”, shouted their officers, as men strained the lines forward like dogs at the leash on sight of their quarry. Ever closer, drizzle running in their eyes, hearts beating hard and fast. Closer, closer until the enemy ceased to be uniforms and became men. They could all feel the command before it was given, and stopped on the spot as the words rang out on one side-then the other. The deafening pounding of their hearts surged into their ears, drowning out yet intensifying sound as well. Their eyesight grew into blurred tunnels allowing only the alarming view of the enemy raising their muzzles as though to touch the Federal line; declaring their intention to do their best to deprive wives of husbands, children of fathers, communities of the best and worst of future generations. All at once Hunt, knew he too was sighting along the barrel at a man some 150 yards distant before him. Stephenson and O’Malley, pacing behind them were yelling, “Aim low boys, and don’t waste your volley on the trees beyond!”. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, and the thundering of the pulse in Daniel Dills’ ears was overtaken with the beating of his heart. He felt at his shoulders a brother and a son. The generations of one family standing in the sights of men from Tennessee, Alabama, and Mississippi. His grip tightend on his musket, as a prayer tumbled through his mind. Private Rose, gritted his teeth as the order rang out in the heavy air, and his finger pulled the trigger. Their muskets roared to life just as time seemed to catch up with them, and a sheet of orange and yellow was devoured by the thick white foam of smoke as both sides fired. The angry buzz of bullets whipped by, but seemed to seek every space unfilled by mortal flesh and bone. Both sides reloaded, men doing as drill had taught without thought; their muscles taking over and pushing their shaken mentalities from a place where rote lessons only might ensure survival.The enemy line swayed, then lurched forward to wards the Federals. It looked as though the rebels suddenly couldn’t keep upright, and then the butternut-brown and grey wave crashed into them and the world became tumultuous. Muskets flung through the air, bayonets clashed and slid across one another. Elbows, legs, fists, and feet swung with violent force. Muskets discharged so close that men fell away with clothing smouldering and smoking from the blast, voices cried
out in terror and pain. Then, as soon as it had begun, the bodies disentangled themselves from one another, and the enemy was falling back. Miller loaded, ignoring the great gash across his forehead, and sighted at a man doing his best to escape from their lines. Before he could fire, the man cried out and tumbled sidelong to the ground. Down the line, someone else was cheering his marksmanship. The sergeants and officers were drawing them back into line, forcing the men back to discipline and order. Miller realized how far forward of their lines he had been drawn by the sessesh tide that had washed over them, and stumbled his way back. He stepped over several men laying sprawled in the cold dirt, and felt a sudden overwhelming joy that he was not amongst them. When he had rejoined the line, he was met by Honan whose face was so blackened with powder that his blue eyes looked wild set against the soot of war.
“Lord and all, that’s a nasty cut Miller!”, said Honan handing him a handkerchief and making him press it against his forehead. It stung, and this further helped Miller’s eyes to focus. Over Honan’s shoulder, Daniel Dills was strongly embracing his son. Not far from them, Charles Dills was kneeling with Bolinger by the body of Kellogg. Roth’s voice was to be heard from somewhere off to the right exclaiming, “Bloody damn thing ruined my canteen! Look at that, empty! Ball went clean through!”. Rose and Henry were exchanging extra caps for cartridges; Rose with his left arm bound from a grazing wound. The lines were brought back under order again, and the sounds and glimpses of other regiments being brought into formation greeted
them. Soon they were moving forward, and for some ways they clambered over the fallen of the enemy; men who had so recently drawn breath in a vigorous attempt to rob the boys of the 5th of life and future. Hunt looked at them; twisted and broken forms of humanity laid out as death had caught at their coat and shirttails, looking as they had fought to shake off the cold of the grave until the last moment. At last, they were beyond the bodies, and pressing into the grey lands beyond. The trees slowly gave way to a shaggy, brown field which rose unevenly on the right
side into a long sloping hill. The drizzle began to slow as they moved into the open, and faded into the grey-white clouds which seemed to drift lazily only as short distance above them. A few shots rang out as they started across the field, but it seemed clear now that the rebels wanted nothing more than to slow the Federals advance. The shots went wild and high, not aimed at all but simply snapped in panic at the dark living mass which pursued them. As they mounted the
flank of the sloping hill, the company halted and took aim at those flying before them. Muskets rattled and thundered in one great volley, all along the exposed line from right to left which echoed in the hollow day like ungodly wrath. As the smoke cleared, more rebels lay broken before them amid the long brown grass. A wind came up, swirling the mists and bringing with it
more cold drizzle. The men stood at the ready, breath visible as the temperature of the air slowly dropped. After a short while, when it become more than obvious that their work was finished, the regiment was recalled from their lines to be replaced by a fresh reserve arrayed in a line of skirmish to serve as the Federal Army’s new extended picket. As the 5th Minnesota made their way back to camp, Roth swapped his shot through canteen for a new one from those laying at their feet.
“Roth, you ghoul!”, spat Dougan at Roth as the latter relieved the fallen rebel of his canteen. Roth caught up with the line and slung both old and new over his shoulder.
“Keep your noise, you hooligan. That fellow don’t need it anymore.”, came the reply.
*************
In the grand scheme of things, it had been little more than a skirmish. Corporal Ross suggested that skirmishes only become battles when the Generals are on the field. There were few that dissented from this opinion. All agreed that while history might not record the day, they would not soon forget it. When they returned at last to their camp, the efforts of the day smote their ruin upon them and men collapsed without even removing their gear. The drizzle grew heavier into a light rain and mixed with the mud, spattered blood, and sweat. Men were reassigned huts, to help fill vacancies and even out distribution. Overall, their losses had been quite light, though there were several badly wounded in one of the regiments from Ohio that had been on the left flank of
the advance. Company C buried four; Burke, Kellogg, Wahlberg, and as a surprise to them all, Anders. He was found amid a knot of rebels afterward, stabbed through by bayonet. The outpouring of grief for someone so universally despised surprised them all, but Anders’ burial proved the most wrenching. It was some time before gambling in the camp resumed the levels
previously recorded.
Word came that General Grant and a Major General Smith would be arriving in several days to
review the entire expeditionary force, and that led to the rumor mill working overtime about what such a visit might mean. Many suggested that it meant they were destined for some heavy campaign, or that they were about to change Corps commanders yet again. Life meanwhile, returned to the monotony of fatigue details, guard duty, and hours spent existing in camp. As time wore on, no one could recall the bluster and impotent ravings of Burke, few referred to Anders any longer by his more colorful nickname. When General Grant, accompanied by the sternly quiet Major General Smith came, the rumor went quickly that “on good authority” they were going to have a knock at the Gibralter of the Mississippi itself-a fortified town called Vicksburg. Many boys had heard of it, and the awareness of the determined fortification of this “Modern Troy” cast a gloom on the men shortly after which was mirrored by the weather.
Second Platoon, or most of it, was sitting about a company fire one night, watching the stars in the cold sky with silent attention. Roth approached from his guard shift, and room was made for him. Hunt looked up.
“I’ve been meaning to ask Roth,” he said in a half whisper, as though not to disturb the darkness, “Why you went and hung that old canteen of yours on your hut. A remembrance of your near creasing is it?”.
Roth was quiet for a long while, until not a few eyes diverted from the heavens to rest upon him. Hunt, thinking Roth hadn’t heard, was about to ask again when the latter responded in an earnest tone which did not seem to belong to the man they thought they knew.
“I keep it to remind me how precious and precarious our lives are,” spoke Roth from the darkness, “and to keep me from forgetting that despite the filth, deprivation and boredom-that I joined for a cause. My close call, reminded me of that.”. The night filled in around them, and the fire crackled and flared with a short gust of wind. They sat there in the dark, all of them shoulder to shoulder around the orange glowing flames. In the shadow of the dancing light of the fire, the men seemed as one. A great circle of brothers, unbroken.
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