off all brave-like but looking kind of hang-dog about it
too. I was still trying to see whatever it was out front that the artillery was
shooting at, but all I could see was that valley with the creek in it and the
dark trees on the flanks.
I was still mixed up, wondering what it all meant, when we begun to go forward, carrying our rifles at right shoulder
shift the way we had been taught to do on parade. Colonel Thornton was still
out front, flashing his saber and calling back over his shoulder:
"Close up, men. Close up. Guiiide centerrrrr !" The skirmishers went out of sight
in the swale, the same as if they had marched into the ground. When we got to
where they had gone down, we saw them again, but closer now, kneeling and
popping little white puffs of smoke from their rifles. The rattle of firing
rolled across the line and back again, and then it broke into just general
firing. I still couldn’t see what they were shooting at, specially not now that
the smoke was banking up and drifting back against us with a stink like burning
feathers.
Then, for the first time since we left Corinth, bugles begun
to blare and it passed to the double. The line wavered like a shaken rope,
gaining in places and lagging in others and all around me they were yelling
those wild crazy yells. General Cleburne was on his mare to our left, between
us and the 5th Tennessee. He was waving his sword and the mare was plunging and
tossing her mane. I could hear him hollering the same as he would when we did
wrong on the drill field—he had that thick, Irish way of speaking that came on
him when he got mad. We were trotting by then.
As we went forward we caught up with the skirmishers. They
had given around a place where the ground was flat and dark green and there was
water in the grass, sparkling like silver. It was a bog.
We gave to the right to stay on hard ground and the 5th
Tennessee gave to the left; the point of swampland was between us, growing
wider as we went. General Cleburne rode straight ahead, waving his sword and
bawling at us to close the gap, close the gap, and before he knew what had
separated us, the mare was pastern-deep in it, floundering and bucking to get
rid of the general's weight. He was waving his sword with one hand and shaking
his fist at us with the other, so that when the mare gave an extra hard buck
General Cleburne went flying off her nigh side and landed on his hands and
knees in the mud. We could hear him cussing across two hundred yards of bog.
The last I saw of him he was walking out, still waving the sword, picking his
knees high and sinking almost to his boot-tops every step. His face was red as
fire. The brigade was split, two regiments on the right and four on the left,
with a swamp between us; we would have to charge the high ground from two
sides. By this time we had passed around where the other slope came out to a
point leading down to the bog and we couldn’t even see the other regiments.
When we hit the rise we begun to run. I could hear Colonel Thornton puffing
like a switch engine and I thought to myself, He's too old for this. Nobody was
shooting yet because we didn’t see anything to shoot at; we were so busy trying
to keep up, we didn’t have a chance to see anything at all. The Line was
crooked as a ram's horn. Some men were pushing out front and others were
beginning to breathe hard and lag behind. My heart was hammering at my throat—it
seemed like every breath would bust my lungs. I passed a fat fellow holding his
side and groaning. At first I thought he was shot, but then I realized he just
had a stitch. It was Burt Tapley, the one everybody jibed about how much he
ate; he was a great one for the sutlers. Now all that fine food, canned peaches
and suchlike, was staring him in the face.
When we were halfway up the rise I begun to see black shapes
against the rim where it sloped off sharp. At first I thought they were scarecrows—they
looked like scarecrows. That didn’t make sense,
too. I was still trying to see whatever it was out front that the artillery was
shooting at, but all I could see was that valley with the creek in it and the
dark trees on the flanks.
I was still mixed up, wondering what it all meant, when we begun to go forward, carrying our rifles at right shoulder
shift the way we had been taught to do on parade. Colonel Thornton was still
out front, flashing his saber and calling back over his shoulder:
"Close up, men. Close up. Guiiide centerrrrr !" The skirmishers went out of sight
in the swale, the same as if they had marched into the ground. When we got to
where they had gone down, we saw them again, but closer now, kneeling and
popping little white puffs of smoke from their rifles. The rattle of firing
rolled across the line and back again, and then it broke into just general
firing. I still couldn’t see what they were shooting at, specially not now that
the smoke was banking up and drifting back against us with a stink like burning
feathers.
Then, for the first time since we left Corinth, bugles begun
to blare and it passed to the double. The line wavered like a shaken rope,
gaining in places and lagging in others and all around me they were yelling
those wild crazy yells. General Cleburne was on his mare to our left, between
us and the 5th Tennessee. He was waving his sword and the mare was plunging and
tossing her mane. I could hear him hollering the same as he would when we did
wrong on the drill field—he had that thick, Irish way of speaking that came on
him when he got mad. We were trotting by then.
As we went forward we caught up with the skirmishers. They
had given around a place where the ground was flat and dark green and there was
water in the grass, sparkling like silver. It was a bog.
We gave to the right to stay on hard ground and the 5th
Tennessee gave to the left; the point of swampland was between us, growing
wider as we went. General Cleburne rode straight ahead, waving his sword and
bawling at us to close the gap, close the gap, and before he knew what had
separated us, the mare was pastern-deep in it, floundering and bucking to get
rid of the general's weight. He was waving his sword with one hand and shaking
his fist at us with the other, so that when the mare gave an extra hard buck
General Cleburne went flying off her nigh side and landed on his hands and
knees in the mud. We could hear him cussing across two hundred yards of bog.
The last I saw of him he was walking out, still waving the sword, picking his
knees high and sinking almost to his boot-tops every step. His face was red as
fire. The brigade was split, two regiments on the right and four on the left,
with a swamp between us; we would have to charge the high ground from two
sides. By this time we had passed around where the other slope came out to a
point leading down to the bog and we couldn’t even see the other regiments.
When we hit the rise we begun to run. I could hear Colonel Thornton puffing
like a switch engine and I thought to myself, He's too old for this. Nobody was
shooting yet because we didn’t see anything to shoot at; we were so busy trying
to keep up, we didn’t have a chance to see anything at all. The Line was
crooked as a ram's horn. Some men were pushing out front and others were
beginning to breathe hard and lag behind. My heart was hammering at my throat—it
seemed like every breath would bust my lungs. I passed a fat fellow holding his
side and groaning. At first I thought he was shot, but then I realized he just
had a stitch. It was Burt Tapley, the one everybody jibed about how much he
ate; he was a great one for the sutlers. Now all that fine food, canned peaches
and suchlike, was staring him in the face.
When we were halfway up the rise I begun to see black shapes
against the rim where it sloped off sharp. At first I thought they were scarecrows—they
looked like scarecrows. That didn’t make sense,
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