Notes

Lee glanced at him with amusement. "Are you so careful of your words that
you expend them only as single shots? Yes, tonight. The worst mistake I've
made in all this war, and the one that cost us dearest, was the assault on
Cemetery Ridge that third day at Gettysburg. The position ahead is stronger,
and the cannon in it bigger. Were we to make a daylight attack, they would
slaughter us before we drew close enough for our repeaters to rescue us. In
the darkness, they will have more difficulty finding proper targets."
"But a night battle?" Venable had more than one word at a time in him after
all. "How do you propose to control a night battle, sir?"
"I don't propose to," Lee answered. He almost laughed at the shocked look
on Venable's face. "Can we but come to close quarters with the enemy, I
think we shall break through somewhere along the line. Once we do, the
advantage will be ours-and with it, I hope, Washington City."
"Yes, sir." Venable did not sound convinced. Lee was not altogether
convinced himself. He was convinced, however, that the Army of Northern
Virginia would never have a better chance to take Washington. And if the
Federal capital fell into Southern hands, how could Britain and France and
the Page 115
rest of the world continue to deny the Confederate States of America were
as true and genuine a nation as the United States? The stakes made the risk
worthwhile.
He dictated orders, sent them to his corps commanders. The army began to
shift into a line that centered on the Seventh Street Road, from the
earthworks of Fort Slocum in the east past Fort Stevens to Fort de Russy in
the southwest. The sun slipped down the western sky. Lee watched the
Federal lines and waited. He did his best to appear impassive, but his heart
thudded in his chest, and with the thudding came pain. Absently, he slid one
of the little white pills from Andries Rhoodie under his tongue. The pain
went away. *
Twilight was deepening when Walter Taylor came up and said, "Sir,
Rhoodie requests permission to speak to you."
The Rivington man had not been so formal before Lee defied him. At first
Lee intended to say he was too busy. Then, remembering the nitroglycerine
tablet, he softened. "Tell him he may, but to be quick." Taylor led Rhoodie
up to Lee. "General," Rhoodie said, politely dipping his head. Lee returned
the gesture. Taking Lee's warning literally, Rhoodie plunged ahead:
"General Lee, if you intend to attack the Federal forts tomorrow, my men
and I can help."
"I intend to attack tonight, sir," Lee answered, and had the somber
satisfaction of watching Rhoodie's jaw drop. The Rivington man muttered
something in his own guttural language.
But he quickly recovered. "You're as bold as you are said to be, that's
certain. We can still help you, maybe even more. Whatever the differences
you and I have had, America Will Break aims for the South to win this
war."
That was the gamble Lee had made when he defied the big man from the
future. Now he said, "Thank you, Mr. Rhoodie, but you've already furnished
us plenty of repeaters." He pointed to the AK-47 slung on Rhoodie's back.
"The handful you and your comrades might add will make scant difference
in the outcome of the fight."
"But we have something you do not." The Rivington man took from his
knapsack a green-painted spheroid a little bigger than a baseball. A metal
shaft stuck out from it. "This is a rifle grenade, General. The AK-47 can
shoot one about three hundred yards. They should do nicely for spreading
confusion in the Federal trenches and forts, wouldn't you say?"
"A rifle grenade?" The Federals sometimes used hand grenades fused with
percussion caps. They were, however, limited by the strength of a man's
arm. Shot from rifles... "It would almost be as if we were shelling them
without employing artillery, wouldn't it?"
"Exactly," Rhoodie said.
"Any surprise we can effect will surely accrue to our advantage. Very well,
Mr. Rhoodie, you and your men may proceed. I aim to move forward at ten
tonight. You will, I presume, wish to obtain your firing positions somewhat
before (hat time."
"Yes, General. Let us move out a bit ahead of your forces so we can soften
the way for them."
"I sincerely appreciate your joining in our fight, sir." Though he did not say
so, Lee was also curious to see how the Rivington men would fare in
combat. Konrad de Buys fought well enough on horseback to Page 116
satisfy as exacting a critic of courage as Jeb Stuart. So far as Lee knew,
though, none of the other men from
America Will Break had gone into action. He thought of them more as
military engineers than frontline troops. Of course, his own career had also
begun in the engineers... "Good luck to you, Mr. Rhoodie."
"Thank you, General. May we meet again tomorrow, inside Washington."
Rhoodie touched a finger to the brim of his mot-tied cap and hurried away.
Lee watched till he was out of sight. However brutal some of the principles
he espoused, he knew the right wish to make.
"Pin that on there good for me, Nate," Alsie Hopkins said. Caudell made
sure the scrap of paper was securely attached to the back of Hopkins's shirt.
As he stepped away, the private went on, "Thanks for writin' it for me, too."
"I hope you don't need it, that's all, Alsie," Caudell said. He'd written names
and home towns or counties for several sol-dies already tonight. If they died
assaulting the fortifications ahead-which seemed only too likely-their loved
ones might eventually learn they had fallen. For that matter, he'd had Edwin
Powell pin his own name on the back of his shirt.
He saw Mollie Bean checking her rifle by firelight. He knew she had
trouble with her letters; he'd taught her a little out of a primer every so
often. But when he asked her if she wanted him to write her name for her,
she shook her head. "Only people who care a damn whether I live or die are
right here in the company with me."
Captain Lewis strode from fire to fire. "Into formation," he said quietly. "It's
time." No drums or bugles announced the rebels' assembly, the better to
keep the Federals from learning what Lee intended. The sky was gray and
overcast as Caudell came to the edge of the strip the Yankees had denuded
of standing trees. The Federal forts and trenches that lay on the high ground
ahead were deeper darknesses against the night. Caudell was grateful no
moonlight betrayed his comrades to the bluecoats with field glasses and
telescopes who were surely peering out at their foes.
"We advance in skirmisher order," Captain Lewis said. "They'll hurt us less
with their artillery that way, and the repeaters should let us fight through
their trenches once we get up to them. God bless every one of you, and may
you all come through safe."
"You too, Cap'n," several soldiers called to him. Caudell said nothing aloud,
but the thought was in his mind.
Lewis held his watch close to his face, waited, swung his arm forward.
Caudell and the company's other proper skirmishers moved out ahead of the
rest of the men. He felt horribly exposed to the Yankee guns, as if he were
going into battle naked. He quivered every time he stepped on a dry leaf or
broke a twig with his foot.
Like flowing shadows, the Confederates moved forward all along the line.
It seemed impossible the Federals could not see them, could not hear the
beat of their feet against the soil, the jingle of cartridges in their pockets.
But stride after cautious stride brought Caudell closer to the enemy works
without the slightest sign the men inside them guessed he and his fellows
were coming.
The ground was so bad a tight battle line could not have held together in
any case, not even in daylight. The Federals had left on the ground most of
the trees they'd felled. Caudell was constantly on the dodge and fell several
times when branches he hadn't seen tripped him.
Page 117
He'd advanced perhaps a third of the way when the Federals woke up.
Drums began to pound within their lines, beating out the same long roll that
called the Confederates to action. A flash of light from an opening in the
embrasure of Fort Stevens, a boom-a louder, deeper boom than any he'd
heard from a cannon before-and a shell screamed through the night to crash
down somewhere behind Caudell. Men screamed back there. Another blast
came, and another, and another, as all the fort's eight-inch howitzers and
thirty-pounder Parrott rifles opened up.
Sparks of light blinked on and off in the rifle pits in front of the main
Federal trench. They reminded Caudell of the fireflies he'd always loved.
He would not think of fireflies in the same way again. Still, pickets shooting
into the night at the range of a mile could hit someone only by luck. More
explosions came from Fort Stevens. Not all of them, though, seemed to
accompany shots from the big siege guns-some sounded more like shells
landing than cannon going off. But Lee's field artillery was only now
starting to go into action. It had had to move up with the infantry so its guns
could reach the forts.
Whatever the explosions were, they disrupted the smooth firing Caudell had
seen from the Federal artillerymen outside Bealeton. That was a blessingevery
Northern shell not fired meant Southern men not dead.
Some of the flashes from the Yankee rifle pits were not aimed at the
oncoming Confederates, but at each other, or perhaps at a space between
two of them. No sooner had Caudell made that guess than a chatter of AK-
47 fire confirmed it. Somehow, Lee had snuck somebody up close to the
Federal line before the main attack got rolling. Caudell wondered if those
advance scouts were somehow responsible for the troubles the Federal
cannoneers were having. He hoped so.
He tramped on toward the waiting Federals. Here and there, soldiers in the
rebels' leading ranks began to shoot. He knew those bullets were probably
wasted, but sometimes a man had to answer the enemies who were trying to
lay him low.
He was within a couple of hundred yards of the abatis of downed trees that
protected the trenches ahead when one of the guns from Fort Stevens let go
with a blast of canister. He threw himself flat when he heard the deadly hiss
of the lead balls. Canister fire from a Napoleon was dreadful enough.
Canister fire from an eight-inch gun... When he turned his head, he saw that
a gap had been blown in the line to his right, as neatly and thoroughly as if
the men had been swept away by a broom. By then the Yankees were
shooting from their main line. Caudell stayed low, trying to find a swell of
ground behind which to shelter before he scuttled forward again. The abatis
loomed ahead. Already rebels were pulling saplings out of the way to make
paths for their comrades to reach the trenches. The bluecoats shot them
down as they worked. More men took their places.
Others answered the Federal fire. Had they had only rifle muskets, their
task would have been hopeless, for they were exposed while their enemies
enjoyed good shelter. But the AK-47s fired enough faster than Springfields
to redress the balance. As more and more Confederates got up to and
through the abatis, they began to beat down the defenders' fire.
Sharp branches tore at Caudell's clothes as he pushed toward the trench line.
For a moment, he thought he was back in the Wilderness; some of the
undergrowth there had been about as thick as this deliberately made
obstruction. The Federal fire was" worse here, though. He saw the glint of a
rifle barrel as it swung to point straight at him. He fired first, then ducked
low-the muzzle flash would have drawn Yankees' notice to him. Sure
enough, two bullets cracked through the space where he had been standing
Page 118
a moment before.
He crawled forward. There was already fighting in the trenches,
Confederates and Federals shooting and shouting and cursing as hard and
fast as they could. He recognized Spring-fields by their reports and by the
clouds of smoke that rose like swirling fog when they were fired. He shot
into the fogbank once, twice, heard a man cry out. He thought the cry
carried a Northern accent. He hoped it did. He slid down into the trench on
his backside.
"Keep moving!" a Southern voice cried, authority behind it. "We don't want
to stay stuck in these damned trenches. It's the city we want, Washington
City. Keep moving!" That was easier said than done. The Federals fought
desperately. Their numbers made their single-shot muzzle-loaders almost a
match for the rebels' repeaters. Every new corner in the earthworks brought
deadly danger. In hand-to-hand combat, the bayonets that tipped Yankee
Springfields were actually of use.
A shell landed in a Federal-held section of trench. Caudell yowled like a
catamount. Then another shell exploded, and another, and another, the
blasts spaced much too close together to come from even the quickest-firing
gun. "What the hell is that?" somebody shouted.
"I don't rightly know, but I think it's on our side," Caudell shouted back.
Anything less than a shout went unnoticed in the din. He howled out a rebel
yell, as much to tell himself he was still alive and fighting as for any other
reason.
Yet another of those mysterious shells crashed down among the Yankees.
Behind Caudell, somebody yelled, "Go on, you lazy buggers. I've put the
fear of God in them for you." The shouter did not sound like a Southern
man, but Caudell recognized his voice all the same: it was Benny Lang. He
turned around.. For a moment, he thought the Rivington man had the trick
of invisibility. Not only were his clothes splotchy, but he'd also painted his
face in dark, jagged stripes. Only his fierce grin told where he was. Instead
of his usual cap, he wore on his head what looked like a mottled pot. "What
the devil's that?" Caudell asked, pointing.
"A helmet," Lang answered. "You bloody bastards can do just as you
please, but I don't fancy getting shot hi the head-or anywhere else, come to
that." He had an AK-47 in his hands and another on his back. He stuffed
something fair-sized and roundish into the muzzle of the rifle he was
holding. When he fired, the report sounded strange, almost metallic. An
instant later, another crash went up from the trenches. Lang must have seen
Caudell's flabbergasted expression. His voice was smug: "Rifle grenade."
"Whatever you say." Without thinking, Caudell grabbed the Rivington man
by the arm and yanked him toward the fighting. "Come on. Let's take 'em
out." Only later did he remember that Lang could have thrown him through
the air if he didn't care to come along. But Lang just shrugged and followed.
The grenade bombardment cleared a long stretch of trench; Caudell stepped
on and over bodies, some still, others thrashing in torment. Not only that,
the rain of explosives seemingly from nowhere had set a good many unhurt
Yankees running. Not all, though. A bluecoat raised himself up on one
knee, fired from the hip. The bullet caught Benny Lang hi the belly. "Oof!"
he said. Caudell cut the Federal down with a short burst of fire..Then he
turned to see how Lang was. Actually, he was already sure. Belly wounds
always killed, if not from loss of blood, then from fever. Page 119
But Lang was not down and screaming, was not, in fact, down at all. He
hurried past Caudell, calling back over his shoulder, "Come on, damn it.
They're wavering. We can break them."
"Wait a minute." Caudell reached out and took Lang's shoulder, this time to
hold him back. "I saw you shot," he shouted hi the Rivington man's face.
"Why aren't you dead?" Put that way, the question sounded stupid, but
Caudell didn't care. He didn't think he believed hi ghosts, either, but he
would hardly have been surprised to feel his fingers sink straight through
what should have been Benny Lang's flesh. But Lang remained solid. Under
the brim of his helmet, his thin face bore a smirk. "Yes, I was shot. My
belly'll have a bruise tomorrow, too, I should expect. As for why I'm not
dead-" He took Caudell's hand, set it where the Minie ball had struck.
Under his tunic, he wore something with flat, hard scales. "Flak jacket."
"What's a flapjack?" Caudell asked, wondering if he'd heard straight.