Now he lay carefully studying the terrain before him. He had been given a mission, and he intended to carry it out—with as little loss of life as possible.
His company lay scattered among the trees behind him, sixty-six men in all, including a few stragglers from other outfits who had survived the destruction of less ably commanded units. They liked the tall, quiet, former mountain man and they understood his way of fighting.
Throughout the long day, Linus had led his men with care, using every bit of available cover, aimed rifle-fire, and made slow but persistent advance. Occasionally they had dug in to await a more favorable moment to go forward. As a result, their casualties had been low.
His had been one of the detachments that stopped General Cleburne’s advance across the cocklebur meadow when Cleburne lost a third of his brigade in the face of murderous rifle-fire. Zeb had been right in thinking, as Corporal Peterson had, that the superior marksmanship of the western boys would make the difference.
Turning on his elbow, Linus gave the arm-signal that brought up his men, and they came into position by crawling through the grass, taking no chances. Rising from the grass he led them now, for time was of the essence, in a long skirmish line across the field and into the trees. The knoll they had been directed to occupy and hold against the coming day lay just before them. Grant was patching up his front line and the knoll was a key point. Linus moved warily. The knoll was believed to be unoccupied, but he was not one to take chances.
What led the enemy to charge, he never knew, but suddenly they came out of the trees, running fast, bayonets held low down. They didn’t come yelling, but came with no sound but the swish of their feet in the grass. Had the charge come a few minutes later, with the distance much less, it could have meant complete destruction for Linus’ men. As it was, there was time. Dropping to one knee, Linus shouted, “Fire at will!” And even as his voice broke from his throat he laid his pistol on the chest of a big soldier with a shock of corn-yellow hair, and squeezed off his shot. The man toppled forward to his knees on the slope, then over on his face.
Around Linus all his men were firing up the slope into the charging men, coolly and with precision and with fearful destruction. Then the charging ranks, ripped by the red tongues of rifle-fire, closed with his own men, and for brief minutes there was a fierce, silent, deadly struggle among the soft beauty of the peach blossoms. Men fell, shedding the bright crimson of their blood upon the grass under the trees, their bodies lying like thick gray compost upon the ground. Here and there a rudely shaken tree dropped its pink petals on the fallen men.
Above them the sky was painted scarlet and rose with the sun’s last rays, and around them shadows huddled under the trees, or reached out to touch the dying men with tentative fingers.
Linus fired, then fired again. A soldier fired at him and missed, then charged with the bayonet. From somewhere off to one side a bullet struck Linus, and he felt its impact but took it standing. The soldier with the bayonet came on, and Linus fired. He saw the man’s chest suddenly blossom with crimson, and as he fell, the charging soldier threw his rifle like a spear. The hard-thrown bayonet took Linus full in the chest and went in to the guard; then the heavy butt of the rifle fell to the ground, ripping Linus’ chest as it fell.
Linus caught hold of a tree branch and turned to Sergeant Kelly. “Occupy the knoll, Sergeant. Hold it until relieved.”
“Captain, you … you …”
“Tell my wife … tell Eve …” His voice weakened and died, and he toppled over to one side, the bayonet still clinging to his chest by just the tip. He could smell the warm earth, the grass, and somewhere far off he heard a voice calling, a voice like Eve’s, calling him to supper. He clutched the grass with his fingers and dug deep. Distantly, somebody seemed to say, “You’re going to see the varmint, Linus. The varmint!” Faces … so many faces. He felt hands turning him onto his back. A voice said, “He’s hard hit.”
“Bridger,” his voice rang out, loud and clear, “you’re a liar. I’ll be up …” His voice trailed off into a mumble, while the sergeant crouched beside him under the redbud. “That’s prime fur,” Linns said, almost casually; then plaintively, “Eve? … Eve?”
A soldier knelt beside the sergeant. “What’s he sayin’?”
“Callin’ on Eve. His wife more’n likely.”
“Sometimes it ain’t their wives they call on,” the soldier said cynically.
Linus opened his eyes and saw clearly. “Sergeant! The Hill!” Then more calmly:
“You must occupy the hill, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir!” Kelly sprang to his feet and started on, calling to the men. Linus lay quietly upon the grass, fully conscious. His momentary delirium had passed. He looked up at the sky where clouds floated with the last touch of sunset upon them, and then he seemed to fall, down, down, down into a black, swirling pit, with water at the bottom.
“I’ve seen the varmint,” he said aloud. “I’ve seen the varmint!” Over him then, for a brief while, there loomed a great shadow. It might have been the shadow of a tree, but had there been eyes to see, it might have looked like a huge bear, a bear that looked down upon him with a curious understanding, for death comes to the hunter as well as the hunted. Above him, and not two hundred yards away, Sergeant Kelly clung to the earth. He had occupied the hill. The men were arranged in a careful perimeter of defense, and each had dug a shallow trench in which to shelter himself. The sergeant was worried … had he done everything he could? What else might Linus have done? He was not worried about his men; he was worried about himself, for there is no burden like the burden of command.
By candle- and lantern-light in Shiloh Meeting House the surgeons worked. About them lay the wounded, the dying, and the dead, helter-skelter, on the floor, on cots, and in the pews themselves. Men cried out in the half-light that reeked of chloroform.
The surgeons worked with quiet desperation, saving a life here, seeing one pass there, saving an arm or a leg, or amputating one. It was bloody, it was awful, and it was filled with shuddering cries of pain and the anguished sobs of men who would never walk again, or see.
Litter-bearers dumped the body of Linus Rawlings upon one of the bloody tables.
The surgeon lifted an eyelid and shook his head. “You wasted your time, boys.” The stretcher-bearers rolled the body from the table and immediately another was put in its place.
Throughout the night the lantern-bearers searched the field of Shiloh for the dead, sifting the chaff of ruined bodies for those who might yet live, or those whom it was possible to identify. Some lay sprawled grotesquely upon the grass, others were heaped together like debris washed upon some strange beach. Among the dead the lantern-bearers prowled and peered, each a dark Diogenes searching with his lantern among many now honest men. Here and there they recovered valuables, letters, occasional weapons capable of further use, or other prized possessions. Some of these would be sent home to relatives, some kept by the finders.
Sometimes the searchers called out as they wandered among the human flotsam. “Anybody here from the 12th Michigan? The 36th Indiana? Who’s from Dirge’s Sharpshooters? 16th Wisconsin, answer here!” Their chants became a weird litany to the dead, but one by one the lanterns vanished as the searchers grew weary of the thankless task.
Yet the voices did not go entirely unheard. Zeb Rawlings heard them, and slowly, using his one good arm, be pushed himself into a sitting position. For a moment he stared about in confusion. It was dark and cold, and something was wrong with his arm or his shoulder.
He felt for his rifle but it was missing. All he had left was his bayonet and his canteen. Catching hold of a tree, he pulled himself to his feet, watching the lantern-bearers weaving their macabre ballet among the dead. He heard their questing voices, and occasionally a faint reply. Nearby a plaintive voice cried out in the darkness: “Water! Water! Will somebody give me water?” The voice was close by, the lanterns far off. Stumbling, Zeb went to the wounded man and knelt beside him. “Here y’are soldier. It ain’t much, but you’re welcome.”
The man drank in eager gulps, emptying the canteen. “I sure thank y’,” he gasped hoarsely. “Hate to take your last drop, but that there was mighty fine.” “I’ll send somebody,” Zeb promised. He moved off across the field toward a group of men who were digging a mass grave. He could hear the sound of their shovels as he approached, and he saw two stretcher-bearers lowering the body of a man to the ground near the edge of the grave. He told them of the wounded man. As they turned away, he started off, and the light from their lantern fell across the face of the dead man on whom Zeb had already turned his back. It was his father. It was Linus Rawlings.