stalks.
He began to feel a child’s impatience, yearning to order his men to their feet, to spring his surprise. He ached to do it. But he needed to wait until the very last moment.
And if a Reb sharpshooter dropped him first? There were plentiful reasons to shout the order immediately, with the Johnnies already in range.
Rabbits dashed under the fence and through his line, startling his waiting men. One of the creatures leapt over a sergeant’s shoulders.
Just wait now, Ricketts told his men without speaking. Just wait a little longer.
The Reb officers pointed the way with lofted swords, riding before, beside, and among their men, between regiments, between ranks. Proud, such proud men. Pride had made this war, Ricketts told himself for perhaps the thousandth time. All of this death and destruction was just about pride.
One Southern voice called out and dozens of officers repeated the command. “Double-quick … march!”
The rustling in the cornfield swelled. The Rebs began yelling and howling. Smaller animals fled the approaching waves, field mice and distraught squirrels. A bewildered fox ran by.
He felt his soldiers clench tighter and tighter. The officers looked toward him, expressions demanding, “What the hell are you waiting for, you old fool?”
No, not demanding. Pleading.
Ricketts refused to move the smallest muscle.
He could see the names of battles embroidered on the advancing, shot-through flags, but couldn’t quite read them. Faces grew distinct.
He waited, counting the seconds.
He could not see the whites of their eyes, only glittering darkness under hat brims.
He raised his hand sharply, pointing at the Rebs.
“On your feet! Fire! ”
The officers sprang up, followed by their men. Even before his orders could be repeated, they were obeyed. The officers shouted:
“Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire!”
But these men, his men, had learned how to kill. Instead of shooting urgently and wildly, they rested their rifles on the top fence rail, taking an extra brace of seconds to aim.
When the volleys rippled out, the Confederate lines disappeared.
Riderless horses galloped in every direction. Flags drooped and fell, blanketing cornstalks. A few officers remained mounted, shouting orders. His men did their best to shoot them.
Here and there, a grayback rose and ran like hell for the farmhouse. A few stood and fired toward the fence, but too quickly, too shaken to aim. Out there, in that burnt green field, men were crawling in agony, others just skedaddling, low to the ground. Even at Cold Harbor … or at Spotsylvania … Ricketts had never seen so swift a repulse.
More Rebs were up and running now. Ricketts’ men sent up a cheer, a roar. But they kept on firing, even as some hotheads leapt the fence to charge after the Rebels.
“Call those boys back!” Ricketts shouted. “Get them back here right now!”
Even as he issued the command, one of his soldiers, swift and sure, collared a staggering Rebel in midfield. Discipline left something to be desired, but enthusiasm counted, too.
Royal flush on the first hand, Ricketts told himself. More hands still to play.
11:50 a.m.
Worthington farm
Tiger John McCausland rode among his fleeing soldiers, screaming at them.
“Goddamn you, damn you, god damn you … stop your running … stop, goddamn you, or I’ll shoot you myself.”
He pointed his pistol at one man after another, but did not pull the trigger. Men fled into the grove behind the house or leapt yard fences. Some halted in the trees or sheltered behind outbuildings, but others, too many, raced back down the hill up which they’d come. A few soldiers hunted their horses, as if they expected to be allowed to ride off.
McCausland fired into the air. “I’ll shoot the man who doesn’t stand and fight.”
The last escapees from the cornfield limped and staggered, hatless, weaponless, blood-drenched. Some of them looked at him insolently, as if to say, “Go ahead and shoot,
He began to feel a child’s impatience, yearning to order his men to their feet, to spring his surprise. He ached to do it. But he needed to wait until the very last moment.
And if a Reb sharpshooter dropped him first? There were plentiful reasons to shout the order immediately, with the Johnnies already in range.
Rabbits dashed under the fence and through his line, startling his waiting men. One of the creatures leapt over a sergeant’s shoulders.
Just wait now, Ricketts told his men without speaking. Just wait a little longer.
The Reb officers pointed the way with lofted swords, riding before, beside, and among their men, between regiments, between ranks. Proud, such proud men. Pride had made this war, Ricketts told himself for perhaps the thousandth time. All of this death and destruction was just about pride.
One Southern voice called out and dozens of officers repeated the command. “Double-quick … march!”
The rustling in the cornfield swelled. The Rebs began yelling and howling. Smaller animals fled the approaching waves, field mice and distraught squirrels. A bewildered fox ran by.
He felt his soldiers clench tighter and tighter. The officers looked toward him, expressions demanding, “What the hell are you waiting for, you old fool?”
No, not demanding. Pleading.
Ricketts refused to move the smallest muscle.
He could see the names of battles embroidered on the advancing, shot-through flags, but couldn’t quite read them. Faces grew distinct.
He waited, counting the seconds.
He could not see the whites of their eyes, only glittering darkness under hat brims.
He raised his hand sharply, pointing at the Rebs.
“On your feet! Fire! ”
The officers sprang up, followed by their men. Even before his orders could be repeated, they were obeyed. The officers shouted:
“Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire!”
But these men, his men, had learned how to kill. Instead of shooting urgently and wildly, they rested their rifles on the top fence rail, taking an extra brace of seconds to aim.
When the volleys rippled out, the Confederate lines disappeared.
Riderless horses galloped in every direction. Flags drooped and fell, blanketing cornstalks. A few officers remained mounted, shouting orders. His men did their best to shoot them.
Here and there, a grayback rose and ran like hell for the farmhouse. A few stood and fired toward the fence, but too quickly, too shaken to aim. Out there, in that burnt green field, men were crawling in agony, others just skedaddling, low to the ground. Even at Cold Harbor … or at Spotsylvania … Ricketts had never seen so swift a repulse.
More Rebs were up and running now. Ricketts’ men sent up a cheer, a roar. But they kept on firing, even as some hotheads leapt the fence to charge after the Rebels.
“Call those boys back!” Ricketts shouted. “Get them back here right now!”
Even as he issued the command, one of his soldiers, swift and sure, collared a staggering Rebel in midfield. Discipline left something to be desired, but enthusiasm counted, too.
Royal flush on the first hand, Ricketts told himself. More hands still to play.
11:50 a.m.
Worthington farm
Tiger John McCausland rode among his fleeing soldiers, screaming at them.
“Goddamn you, damn you, god damn you … stop your running … stop, goddamn you, or I’ll shoot you myself.”
He pointed his pistol at one man after another, but did not pull the trigger. Men fled into the grove behind the house or leapt yard fences. Some halted in the trees or sheltered behind outbuildings, but others, too many, raced back down the hill up which they’d come. A few soldiers hunted their horses, as if they expected to be allowed to ride off.
McCausland fired into the air. “I’ll shoot the man who doesn’t stand and fight.”
The last escapees from the cornfield limped and staggered, hatless, weaponless, blood-drenched. Some of them looked at him insolently, as if to say, “Go ahead and shoot,
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