a shirtsleeve for a bandage like a turban round their heads. Every now
and again there would be a well man helping a hurt one, but generally they
walked alone, not looking at the others. I got a notion they were not only
trying to get away from the fighting, they were trying to walk right out of the
human race.
Roads led from all corners of the battlefield up to a place
on top of the bluff where they came together to form one road giving down to
the Landing. We could see the water from there, steamboats at the wharf and two
gunboats anchored upstream with cannons run out and sailors loafing on deck to
watch the fun. The way we came together at the top of the bluff, going downhill
on that one road, we were like grains of sand passing through a funnel. But
that was only for a time. Once we were past this place, the spout of the
funnel, we fanned out again, spreading up and down the riverbank, and sat there
watching the others.
Of course I had been expecting I would find a lot of men
back here—after all, I had been watching them make for the rear all day, one
after another, fast as they became scared or discouraged at the way the fight
was going. But I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. Upstream and down, far as I
could see, they crowded the space between the bluff and the bank, sitting on
the sand and looking at the river, watching sunlight flash on the choppy waves
and wishing like Jesus they could walk on water. A few hadn’t stopped with just
wishing: they were out in the river, hanging onto logs and bundles of
driftwood, paddling across to the opposite bank.
It was lower over there. I could see a great mass of men
drawn up in columns, waiting while some of their number—engineers, I
suppose—cut a road down the low overhang so they could board the steamers. The
Michigander said they were Buell's army, come from Columbia to save the day. He
snorted when he said it, though, and he screwed up his eyes. "Save the day
hell," he said. "Wait till they get up there. Then we'll see what
they save. They’ll be right back here with the rest of us. Mind what I say. They’ll
save their hides; that’s all They’ll save."
By the time the first boatload of them got across, it was
past sundown. The sound of firing had drawn in until it seemed directly above
us, on the bluff. Soon now the rebels might be looking over the rim and
shooting down like into a flock of sheep. Through the fading light I watched as
Buell's men came off the steamboats and onto the wharf, picking their way among
the rows of wounded laid there to be taken across to safety when the chance
came.
They had a hard time of it, those wounded. Retreaters had
stepped on them with muddy shoes to reach the end of the wharf, in hopes that a
boat might come to take the casualties across and they could crawl aboard among
them. That wasn’t all, either. Cables had been raked over them by the sailors,
scraping some of them off into the river and fouling the rest with slime from
the river bottom. You couldn’t tell the dead ones from the living— they’d
turned black with mud from the boots and cables and with blood from their
reopened wounds. It made me sick at the stomach just looking at them.
Retreaters were packed so close where the steamboats put in,
Buell's men had to open a path with their bayonets. They cussed the men on the
bank, calling them scoundrels and cowards while they shoved them aside with
their rifles.
"Get out the way," they said, shoving.
"We'll fight your damned battle for you."
But the men under the bluff jeered right back. '' You ’ll catch it," they hollered,
all of them yelling at once. '' You ’ll
see! They’ll cut you to ribbons up there!"
Mostly we had been let alone. Not even the high-rank
officers on Grant's staff, moving along the bluff road to and from Army
headquarters on a steamboat, made any try at getting us back into the fight.
They would just look at us and go on. I suppose they knew that even if they
managed to get us back
and again there would be a well man helping a hurt one, but generally they
walked alone, not looking at the others. I got a notion they were not only
trying to get away from the fighting, they were trying to walk right out of the
human race.
Roads led from all corners of the battlefield up to a place
on top of the bluff where they came together to form one road giving down to
the Landing. We could see the water from there, steamboats at the wharf and two
gunboats anchored upstream with cannons run out and sailors loafing on deck to
watch the fun. The way we came together at the top of the bluff, going downhill
on that one road, we were like grains of sand passing through a funnel. But
that was only for a time. Once we were past this place, the spout of the
funnel, we fanned out again, spreading up and down the riverbank, and sat there
watching the others.
Of course I had been expecting I would find a lot of men
back here—after all, I had been watching them make for the rear all day, one
after another, fast as they became scared or discouraged at the way the fight
was going. But I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. Upstream and down, far as I
could see, they crowded the space between the bluff and the bank, sitting on
the sand and looking at the river, watching sunlight flash on the choppy waves
and wishing like Jesus they could walk on water. A few hadn’t stopped with just
wishing: they were out in the river, hanging onto logs and bundles of
driftwood, paddling across to the opposite bank.
It was lower over there. I could see a great mass of men
drawn up in columns, waiting while some of their number—engineers, I
suppose—cut a road down the low overhang so they could board the steamers. The
Michigander said they were Buell's army, come from Columbia to save the day. He
snorted when he said it, though, and he screwed up his eyes. "Save the day
hell," he said. "Wait till they get up there. Then we'll see what
they save. They’ll be right back here with the rest of us. Mind what I say. They’ll
save their hides; that’s all They’ll save."
By the time the first boatload of them got across, it was
past sundown. The sound of firing had drawn in until it seemed directly above
us, on the bluff. Soon now the rebels might be looking over the rim and
shooting down like into a flock of sheep. Through the fading light I watched as
Buell's men came off the steamboats and onto the wharf, picking their way among
the rows of wounded laid there to be taken across to safety when the chance
came.
They had a hard time of it, those wounded. Retreaters had
stepped on them with muddy shoes to reach the end of the wharf, in hopes that a
boat might come to take the casualties across and they could crawl aboard among
them. That wasn’t all, either. Cables had been raked over them by the sailors,
scraping some of them off into the river and fouling the rest with slime from
the river bottom. You couldn’t tell the dead ones from the living— they’d
turned black with mud from the boots and cables and with blood from their
reopened wounds. It made me sick at the stomach just looking at them.
Retreaters were packed so close where the steamboats put in,
Buell's men had to open a path with their bayonets. They cussed the men on the
bank, calling them scoundrels and cowards while they shoved them aside with
their rifles.
"Get out the way," they said, shoving.
"We'll fight your damned battle for you."
But the men under the bluff jeered right back. '' You ’ll catch it," they hollered,
all of them yelling at once. '' You ’ll
see! They’ll cut you to ribbons up there!"
Mostly we had been let alone. Not even the high-rank
officers on Grant's staff, moving along the bluff road to and from Army
headquarters on a steamboat, made any try at getting us back into the fight.
They would just look at us and go on. I suppose they knew that even if they
managed to get us back
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