Fire Over Atlanta (4 page)

“I sure wish I had my liver pills,” Rosie complained.

As the light grew, the squad joined the rest of the company and was put into marching order. They advanced with muskets loaded, and once Lieutenant Logan said, “Keep your bayonets handy in case we have to make a bayonet charge!”

The sun rose, and the birds sang in the trees. It is a beautiful day indeed, Royal thought as he marched along, his eyes peeled for signs of enemy skirmishers.
This would be a good day to be plowing back home—or maybe go fishing down at the creek
. He thought of the easy, pleasant years back in Pineville. They all seemed long ago, and the horrors of months and months of brutal warfare had almost wiped the thought of them from his mind. Now memory came back with a rush.

A crash broke the stillness of the morning air. A shell had struck off to his left, uprooting a chestnut tree and turning it upside down.

Almost instantly rifle fire broke out. As always, it sounded to Royal like thousands of tiny sticks being broken.
Snap! Snap! Snap!

He yelled, “They’re over there, lieutenant!”

“I see them!” Lieutenant Logan said. “Move to the right! Don’t fire until you get a good shot!”

As the squad moved forward, shells from the enemy artillery began landing. They made ugly blossoms of dirt, tossing clouds of earth high into the air. The smoke from the muzzles of the distant cannons looked ominous and black. Royal’s mouth was dry, and he was already thirsty. Down the line from him, a private gasped, clutched his stomach, and fell.

“Can’t stop for him!” Lieutenant Logan said. “Keep going forward! We can’t ever stop, or they’ll pin us down!”

As Royal moved on, he imagined an evil face painted on each shell. When they exploded, even the sound was like demonic laughter screaming across the sky. More men were falling now, some silently, others crying out for their mothers.

Finally the lieutenant shouted, “Take cover! We can’t stand this fire! I’ll send for reinforcements!”

The men fell behind whatever shelter was available. Royal gratefully found an old tree and dropped alongside Walter Beddows. The two men loaded and fired as rapidly as possible. Smoke quickly beclouded the area in front of them, but he could still see fleeting forms of the gray-clad enemy moving back and forth through the haze.

“Can’t stand much of this!” Walter gasped. He took a swallow of water from his canteen. “I saw Corporal Dobson go down back there. Shot right through the head.”

“We’re losing too many men,” Royal said. “Attacking was a mistake. They’re too strong up there.”

“How do they expect us to charge against in-place guns?” Drake complained. He rammed a slug home, primed his muzzle, looked around his tree, aimed, and fired, then began rapidly loading again. “They can blast away with those cannons and kill us all! Where’s our artillery support?”

“Don’t know,” Rosie said.

Royal noticed that Rosie was firing as rapidly as he could, apparently having forgotten his imaginary illnesses.

Then Lieutenant Logan came stumbling down the line. “Retreat!” he yelled. “Retreat! Carry the wounded if you can. Don’t run! Go back a few yards, stop, fire! Make it an orderly retreat, and we’ll be all right!”

Royal looked around at his squad. “All right!” he called. “All of you go on back! I’ll cover your retreat!”

Walter placed a wounded private on his shoulders, then said, “Don’t wait too long, Royal. I’d hate to see you wind up in a prison camp.”

“I’ll be all right. Get that soldier to the doctor.”

Royal retreated more slowly. He saw that the Confederates were pursuing but with caution. And then he was suddenly surprised to see Drake beside him. “What are you doing still here, Drake?”

Drake’s mouth was black from gunpowder where he had bitten the cartridges. He pounded a minié ball down into his musket muzzle and grinned. “Somebody’s got to take care of you, sergeant.”

A wave of warmth came over Royal. He and Drake had had their troubles, but now, in the heat
of battle, the two were forged as one. “I appreciate it,” he said, “but now let’s get out of—”

“What is it?” Drake said.

“Look, there’s one of our fellas over there. I think it’s Hotchkiss.”

“Wait a minute!” Drake said. “You can’t go after him. They’ll get you sure, Royal.”

“Maybe the smoke’s thick enough. You cover me. I’ll get Hotchkiss. It won’t take but a minute.”

Before Drake could argue any longer, Royal leaped to his feet and ran, leaving his rifle, crouching low. From time to time he heard the whine of a minié ball.
An ugly sound
, he thought. Some balls slammed into trees, and he knew that if one hit him, he was a dead man. But then he reached the wounded soldier, who was struggling to get up.

“Sergeant!” Hotchkiss said. He was a young, fair-haired boy. Royal knew he was only seventeen.

“I’ve got you, Dale. I’ll get you out of here.”

Royal bent over, thankful for his strength. He pulled Hotchkiss to a sitting position, then positioned him over his shoulder and straightened up. “Now we’ll be—”

“Hold it right there, blue belly!”

Royal froze. A Confederate had suddenly materialized out of the smoke. His musket was leveled at his shoulder, and the muzzle looked as big as a cannon.

They’ve got me! He’s going to kill me!
Royal thought. He tried to think of a way to escape. He had no musket. But in any case, there was no chance to pick up a weapon—the Rebel’s musket was pointed directly at his heart. The soldier’s intense, dark brown eyes could be seen blazing under his forage cap.

Royal waited for the explosion and then the blackness that would follow—but they did not come.

The Confederate lowered his rifle slightly. “Hold your head up, blue belly!” he commanded.

Royal obeyed. The smoke was thick, but as the Confederate advanced, suddenly a shock ran through Royal. He knew this man! “Calvin!” he exclaimed. “Is that
you?”

The Confederate stopped and let his musket droop still lower. “I reckon it is. Didn’t expect to see you here, Royal.”

The Rebel soldier—Calvin Ramsey—had grown up in a town neighboring Pineville. They had never been close friends but had met at horse races and barn dances and cabin raisings. Once they had been together in a group that made a three-day fishing trip. They had liked each other.

Now, the fortunes of war had brought them face to face.

“I didn’t expect to see you either, Calvin.”

“I reckon you didn’t.”

Silence fell as the two men, one in blue and one in gray, stared at each other.

Royal could do nothing but stand waiting, the burden of the wounded man on his back. He said, “I guess you’ve got me, Calvin. What are you gonna do with me?”

Calvin Ramsey was silent for a moment longer, then sighed. “I almost shot you. Then I thought I’d take you back as a prisoner. But now that I see it’s you, Royal—well, I reckon one more blue belly against us ain’t gonna make much difference. Go on! Git!”

Royal could not believe his ears. “You mean you’re letting me go?”

“I think it’s all over anyway. We can’t win. You and me, we’re both Kentucky boys. After the war, maybe you’ll think more kindly of the South. Now, git!”

Royal swallowed hard. “Thanks, Calvin. I’ll always remember this. Be careful and live out this war. Someday,” he said, “we’ll go fishing on Eleven Point River again.”

Calvin smiled briefly. “I hope that’s right. Now, you better git, Royal.”

As Royal carried Dale Hotchkiss back toward the Federal lines, his mind was swimming. Then all of a sudden he was aware that Drake stood in front of him.

“Who
was
that? Why’d he let you go?” Drake yelled. “What happened?”

Royal looked back to where Calvin Ramsey had disappeared into the battle smoke. He thought for a while, then turned and said with a slow smile, “What happened, Drake? I guess you might say it was a miracle.”

Drake stared at him, clearly not understanding. He too looked into the smoke and said, “I reckon it
was
kind of a miracle, wasn’t it?”

“I’d call it so,” Royal said. “Now, let’s get Dale to the hospital.”

T
he decision to relieve Gen. Joseph E. Johnston of command was due to his having retreated without making a serious effort to stop the Union troops. The man appointed to replace him was Gen. John B. Hood. The men and officers of the Confederate army knew that Hood was an aggressive fighter. He had lost an arm at Gettysburg and a leg at Chickamauga and was admired by all for his courage and loyalty to the Confederacy. But he also was impulsive and apt to lead whole armies to disaster. To a man, the soldiers of his army questioned his judgment.

Royal Carter talked about the Southern generals as the Federal troops waited outside Atlanta. The squad was eating stew made from jackrabbits that Ira Pickens had snared, and from time to time they listened to the guns that were clearly audible in the action closer to the city.

“I’ll tell you one man that’s glad General Hood will be commanding the Rebels,” Royal said.

“Who’s that?” Rosie asked, idly smelling the stew.

“General Sherman, that’s who. He knew what Johnston could do, and he knows that Hood is different. He knows he can make Hood come out and fight, and then we can whip the Rebels.”

Drake Bedford sat off to himself, closer to Rosie than any of the others. He had said practically nothing to anyone since his humiliating punishment and
had once remarked to Rosie, “I think I’ll just skedaddle back to Tennessee.”

“Well, if you want to get hung or shot, I guess that’s as good a way as any,” Rosie told him. “You know what Sherman would do to any man deserting.”

Drake, for all his anger, knew that Rosie spoke the truth. And now he sat listening and saying nothing. He was thinking,
I’d like to get away from here and go court Lori, but there’s no chance of that
.

After a while, Captain Salter came by. He was cheerful. “We’ll be moving in tomorrow to take the city. I think it’s about ready to fall. You fellas will get to be in the assault troops.”

“Hey! Tomorrow’s September the second, ain’t it?” Ira asked.

“That’s right,” the captain said. “What about it?”

“It’s my birthday! I’ll be nineteen years old on the day we take Atlanta. Now when we celebrate that, I’ll let folks celebrate the takin’ of Atlanta and my birthday all together at once.”

The next morning some cannons were still pummeling the city when Company A made its charge. They met little resistance except for a few civilians who took potshots at the Union soldiers as they entered the city limits. General Hood had already withdrawn his forces, and there was little to do but go in and assume charge.

Drake was positioned on the far right of the advancing line. The city was smoking from the constant pounding it had taken, and he saw that many buildings were already burned. When the troops came to a large, burned-out factory, he moved off farther to his right and soon found himself alone.
He was aware that there could be random shots, and the officers had warned the men that they would have to be careful about diehards who would shoot anything that moved wearing a blue uniform.

Drake carried his loaded musket protectively in front of him. His eyes searched the area carefully as he rounded the corner of the factory. Seeing no one, he advanced slowly, nerves on edge. He passed an alleyway between the charred factory and another building, glanced into it, saw nothing in the dark crevice. He continued on.

However, he had not gone more than three or four steps when he heard a sound behind him. Whirling, he saw a form, a man wearing a dark brown coat and a black slouch hat pulled low over his eyes. The man was also carrying a musket, which he appeared to be raising.

Drake threw up his rifle and in one motion lined up on the man and pulled the trigger.

Nothing!

Misfire
. Drake dropped the musket and threw himself into the man. He felt the satisfying impact, saw the rifle go cartwheeling through the air, and heard the man expel his breath in a violent grunt as he was driven to the ground.

Drake grabbed the man by the lapels and jerked him to his feet. He saw a pair of black eyes staring out at him, and he noted quickly that his prisoner was very young.

“Tryin’ to shoot me in the back, were you?”

“Didn’t mean to shoot nobody.” The voice was quiet, and there was no fear in the dark eyes that gazed back at him. “You didn’t have to knock me down like that.”

“You had a rifle, and you were behind me. What are you doin’ here with a gun if you didn’t mean to shoot me?”

“I’m lost, that’s what.”

“A likely story!” Drake jeered. He looked at the youth, who was no more than five seven and wore what appeared to be a cast-off set of clothes—faded blue trousers, a checkered shirt, and a light coat, buttoned despite the heat. The hat was drawn down so far over the fellow’s eyes that it almost covered his ears. It looked like a hat that had belonged to a much larger man. The shoes, he saw, were large too, and the sole of one was tied on with a leather thong.

“What are you goin’ to do with me?”

Drake was uncertain. He looked around for any officers or men of Company A but saw no one. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ll turn you over to the officers. They can decide what to do with you.”

“I’ll get my rifle gun.”

“Never mind!
I’ll
get your gun,” Drake retorted. He picked up the rifle and looked at it. It was an old gun, well-worn. “Where’d you get this rifle, fella?”

“Belonged to my pa!”

“Where’s your pa?”

The black eyes dropped for a moment as the youngster looked down at his feet. “He’s dead now. Got killed two days ago. Shell fell on him.”

Drake hesitated. He had seen the pain that came into the boy’s dark eyes at the mention of his father, and he wanted to say he was sorry. But this, after all, was the enemy, and Drake was still convinced that the young fellow had tried to shoot him in the back. “I can’t let you go. I’ll have to turn you over to the officers. They’ll make the decision. Come on.”

He waited, and when the boy moved with him, he started back the way he had come.