they came closer and Charley could see what the artillery was doing to themâtearing, gutting, blowing apartâhe could not believe that anyone would continue,
could
continue against the fire.
Yet they came on and on, close enough now so those not hit could return fire, and Charley could hear their bullets hitting the rocks in front of him and he thought, so this is what itâs like to be safe, to fight from a good position.
âAll rightâup, men.â The sergeants roused them. âReady to fire! Shoot low, shoot lowâtake their legs out. Present, aim, fire!â
Charley raised, aimed and fired, all in less than two seconds. He did not know if he hit, did not care. He reloaded behind the wall, rose, aimed, fired, and thought, this is the way it should be done. The bullets over his head sounded like a storm but they were all high, and he kept reloading and firing as the remainingRebs screamed and started to run at the wall.
âUp, men! Bayonets! Take them.â
Charley did not think any of the Rebels would reach the line but they came on. Torn and bleeding and many in rags, they yelled and came with bayonets, and for a moment it seemed they would carry it, win the hill, win the battle against impossible odds.
But a colonel saw the danger and ordered the only unit still in relative shelterâthe First Minnesota Volunteersâto make a countercharge.
They rose and went as one man, Charley among them. Screaming their own yells, they tore down the hill at the Rebel unit storming up the hill, and the two bodies of men collided in a smash of steel and powder, standing toe-to-toe, hacking and shooting at each other, neither giving, climbing over the bodies of friends to hit enemies, Charley in the middlejabbing and screaming until he was hit, and hit again, spun and knocked down, and he saw the red veil come down over his eyes and knew that at last he was right, at last he was done, at last he was dead.
CHAPTER TEN
JUNE 1867
H e could remember all the sweet things when it had started; waving pretty girls, Southern summer mornings, cheering children, dew on a leaf â¦
Even when all his thoughts came on to being gray and raining and the parades were done and the dances were done and the killingâhe thought of it as butchery more than killingâwas at last done, he could remember all the pretty things.
He was twenty-one now, just getting towhere he should be studying on marriage and raising some young ones, finding some land to work and improve. But it wouldnât be that way for him. He was too old. Not old in yearsâin years he still hadnât started daily shaving or learned about women. But in other ways he was old, old from too much life, old from seeing too much, old from knowing too much. He was tired and broken, walking with a cane and passing blood, and he knew it wouldnât be long for him. In some ways it made him sad and in some ways he was near glad of it. So many of the men he knew were there already, gone across, that he thought it might not be so bad to go see them, to get away from this constant pain and the sounds he couldnât stop hearing.
And so on this fine summer morning near Winona, Minnesota, he walked out along the riverâlimped was more like itâto have himself a picnic. He carried a feed sack with half aloaf of bread and some of Agile Petersonâs cheese and a chunk of roast beef with fat in it and a jar of cold coffee. That was one thing that stuck with him. The army had taught him to like coffee, live on coffee, and he still drank it even though it knotted his guts.
Coffee and beans. He could still sit to a meal of coffee and beans and a little pork belly and not feel starved.
But not for a picnic. Not for this picnic. He wasnât sure in fact that he would eat. Heâd come out on many such picnics before, not sure he would eat but just to sit on the river and wonder if it was time to go visit the others, and always
could
continue against the fire.
Yet they came on and on, close enough now so those not hit could return fire, and Charley could hear their bullets hitting the rocks in front of him and he thought, so this is what itâs like to be safe, to fight from a good position.
âAll rightâup, men.â The sergeants roused them. âReady to fire! Shoot low, shoot lowâtake their legs out. Present, aim, fire!â
Charley raised, aimed and fired, all in less than two seconds. He did not know if he hit, did not care. He reloaded behind the wall, rose, aimed, fired, and thought, this is the way it should be done. The bullets over his head sounded like a storm but they were all high, and he kept reloading and firing as the remainingRebs screamed and started to run at the wall.
âUp, men! Bayonets! Take them.â
Charley did not think any of the Rebels would reach the line but they came on. Torn and bleeding and many in rags, they yelled and came with bayonets, and for a moment it seemed they would carry it, win the hill, win the battle against impossible odds.
But a colonel saw the danger and ordered the only unit still in relative shelterâthe First Minnesota Volunteersâto make a countercharge.
They rose and went as one man, Charley among them. Screaming their own yells, they tore down the hill at the Rebel unit storming up the hill, and the two bodies of men collided in a smash of steel and powder, standing toe-to-toe, hacking and shooting at each other, neither giving, climbing over the bodies of friends to hit enemies, Charley in the middlejabbing and screaming until he was hit, and hit again, spun and knocked down, and he saw the red veil come down over his eyes and knew that at last he was right, at last he was done, at last he was dead.
CHAPTER TEN
JUNE 1867
H e could remember all the sweet things when it had started; waving pretty girls, Southern summer mornings, cheering children, dew on a leaf â¦
Even when all his thoughts came on to being gray and raining and the parades were done and the dances were done and the killingâhe thought of it as butchery more than killingâwas at last done, he could remember all the pretty things.
He was twenty-one now, just getting towhere he should be studying on marriage and raising some young ones, finding some land to work and improve. But it wouldnât be that way for him. He was too old. Not old in yearsâin years he still hadnât started daily shaving or learned about women. But in other ways he was old, old from too much life, old from seeing too much, old from knowing too much. He was tired and broken, walking with a cane and passing blood, and he knew it wouldnât be long for him. In some ways it made him sad and in some ways he was near glad of it. So many of the men he knew were there already, gone across, that he thought it might not be so bad to go see them, to get away from this constant pain and the sounds he couldnât stop hearing.
And so on this fine summer morning near Winona, Minnesota, he walked out along the riverâlimped was more like itâto have himself a picnic. He carried a feed sack with half aloaf of bread and some of Agile Petersonâs cheese and a chunk of roast beef with fat in it and a jar of cold coffee. That was one thing that stuck with him. The army had taught him to like coffee, live on coffee, and he still drank it even though it knotted his guts.
Coffee and beans. He could still sit to a meal of coffee and beans and a little pork belly and not feel starved.
But not for a picnic. Not for this picnic. He wasnât sure in fact that he would eat. Heâd come out on many such picnics before, not sure he would eat but just to sit on the river and wonder if it was time to go visit the others, and always
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