Peter Abrahams - Last of the Dixie Heroes

“Thanks for showing up,” he said, yanking at the halyard. The sentries covered their ears. The cannon didn’t fire.

Jesse didn’t even look at him. He said: “Company-forward march.” The men marched off across the field toward the blue formation marching at them. Roy, on the end with Gordo at one elbow and Sergeant Dibrell behind, heard Earl yelling, “Why the fuck won’t this bitch fire?”

“Was it my turn to put in the powder?” said one of the sentries.

Another boom from the Yankee guns smothered Earl’s reply. The blue lines halted and fired, front and second ranks simultaneously, puffs of smoke blooming from the mouths of their muskets.

“Where’s our drummer boy?” Gordo said.

“Little League,” said Dibrell.

Roy laughed. Did his laughter go on a bit too long? He made up his mind right then to drive back home as soon as he decently could.

“Company-halt,” said Jesse. They halted.

“Firing by files, from the left,” Jesse said.

“That’s you, Roy,” said Dibrell.

“Ready.” Roy raised his carbine, looked through the V-shaped sight, swept it along the blue line.

“Aim.” Sergeant Vandam came into the V. Roy steadied on his bearded face.

“Fire.” A strange thing happened to Roy’s vision at that moment. It sharpened, not just a little but acutely, as sometimes happens when a drop of water from the shower slides across your eyeball. He could see that Vandam was talking, could see his teeth, even the tip of his tongue, pink in the sunlight. He fixed on that little pink flap and squeezed the way Lee had told him. The gun kicked, but not as hard as it had firing real bullets. Vandam kept coming. Despite everything, Roy was a little surprised.

“Company-forward, reload.” Roy pulled the lever, half cocked the hammer, bit open his cartridge, stuck it in the breech, set a new percussion cap in place, kept going; a complicated series of maneuvers performed without a slip, without even a thought.

The wind had died down now and clouds of smoke hung in the air, smelling of burned powder. The blue line was less than a hundred yards away now, the two lines closing fast, but without any special effort, at least that Roy felt, as though he were walking on one of those moving ramps at the airport. The drum beat faster, the boy missing with his sticks now and then, sending a sharp cracking sound off the metal rim.

“Company-halt.” Roy halted, had his gun up before the next command.

“Firing by company,” said Jesse. “Ready.”

“All together, now, Roy,” said Dibrell.

But he’d already guessed, was ready for someone’s musket poking over his right shoulder from the back row.

“Aim.” Roy got Vandam in the V.

“They should start falling now, according to plan,” Jesse said. “If you’re clearly hit, don’t be an asshole. We want to get invited back.”

The hyperclear vision returned. Roy could see that Vandam was taking aim right at him, his off eye shut tight. Roy’s gun, the Sharps carbine with death on the stock, moved in a little arc. That was the way it seemed to Roy: he didn’t move it. The barrel swung, as though under its own control, or the control of someone else. It swung, and fixed on another target: the boy.

“Fire.”

Roy squeezed that little toothpaste squeeze. The drummer boy kept coming and so did Vandam, his eyes on Roy, but another Yankee staggered, doubled up, shrieked in pain, staggered some more, spun around, went down on one knee, raised his hands, held them there like Christ on the cross, slowly pivoted so the crowd on the other side of the field got a frontal view too, and slowly, slowly subsided in the grass.

Applause.

“Company-charge bayonets.”

The two lines ran at each other, ran at full speed-Lee and Jesse leading the rebels, but Roy closing fast-reached the firing limit. A Yankee aimed right at Gordo, pulled the trigger. Bang.

“Missed me,” said Gordo.

Peterschmidt shot at Gordo with his pistol, inside the limit now.

“Saved by my belt buckle,” said Gordo.

“Lie fucking down,” Lee said.

Gordo lay down.

The two lines came together.

“Hand to hand, now. No injuries.”

Someone tried a rebel yell, nothing like Roy’s, just a yell. A man in blue grunted, pitched forward, lay on the ground crying, “Surgeon, surgeon.” Peterschmidt pointed his pistol at Lee. Jesse dove at Peterschmidt, tackled him gently. Lee raised his gun, brought the butt down lightly on the ground, a foot from Peterschmidt’s head. Peterschmidt said, “Nice job,” and went still. A man in blue screamed, “Mother of God, I’m hit.” A man in gray fell beside Roy and moaned, “Tell my wife that I’ll always…” He bit down and red liquid came drooling between his lips. Gordo said: “Just a flesh wound.” Vandam rose up, swinging his gun by the barrel at Roy. Roy was quicker, stepped inside, jabbed the muzzle of the Sharps into Vandam’s gut, as though it had a bayonet, but barely touching him.

“You’re dead,” Roy said, and as he did, the memory of play fighting in the barn long ago with Sonny Junior awakened in his mind, ready to come alive in form and color.

“No bayonets on a carbine, you dumb reb,” said Vandam, and the butt of his gun cracked Roy just above the ear.

”This here’s for taking off arms and legs, amputations and the like,” said a Southern voice.

”Got an edge to it, I’ll grant you that,” said a Northern voice.

“Sharper the edge, sooner it’s over,” said the Southerner.

Roy opened his eyes. It was dark, a gas lantern hanging from the shadows above shedding flickering, smoky light on the walls of a tent and two men, one in blue, one in gray, standing with their backs to him. Roy’s vision wasn’t good, everything fuzzy as though some knob needed adjusting, but he could make out the yellow serpents on their sleeves, and the shiny instrument they were examining under the lantern. The shininess hurt his eyes. He closed them.

“Any anesthetics in the kit?” said the Northerner.

“Chloroform, long as it lasts,” said the Southerner. “Whiskey after that, less’n someone’s got into it.”

Roy opened his eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with my arms and legs,” he said.

They turned to him.

“So put that thing away.”

“I think he’s awake,” said the Northerner.

“Are you awake?” said the Southerner.

Roy sat up. That made the pain in his eyes spread through his head but he stayed sitting up, even considered standing.

“Whoa, there,” said the Northerner. “What’s his name, again?”

“Roy,” said the Southerner. “He’s a new recruit.”

“Why don’t you just lie back down, Roy,” said the Northerner.

“I’m fine like this,” Roy said.

“The major wants to examine you,” said the Southerner. He patted Roy gently on the shoulder. “Heard a lot about you, Roy. I’m the surgeon with the Twelfth Georgia-everybody calls me Doc.”

“You haven’t put that thing away, Doc,” Roy said.

The lantern shone yellow on the pointed teeth of the instrument. Doc laid it in a wooden box at his feet, giving Roy a quick glimpse of other sharp things inside. “I was just showing the major some of my things, Roy-he’s a doctor with the Second Connecticut.”

“Lie back down, son,” said the major. “This won’t take a moment.”

“No need,” Roy said, standing up instead, but the lantern light got unsteady right away, and Roy sat back down, maybe with some help from Doc.

“Easy, Roy,” he said. “You got dinged pretty good there.”

Roy raised his hand, felt the bandages around his head. His first thought was a weird one: Sonny Junior. Then he smelled piss. Then it started coming back to him.