CHAPTER 1

ON A COLD, CLOUDY morning, a Confederatesoldier was fishing for his breakfast on the bank ofthe Savannah River near Augusta, Georgia. The riverflowed fast enough here in the upcountry to favor catching shad.He had a string of three tied through the gills and was stringinga fourth when his younger brother, Walsh, approached.

"Something's up, George," he said.

George jerked his thumb toward the unfinished earthworksbehind him. "Don't I know it. No hurry anymore. For two dayswe couldn't dig fast enough; now they don't give a damn."

"What's it all mean?"

After baiting his hook, George replied, "It means thatSherman ain't headed this way. It means we've been wasting ourdamned time ... as we usually do. We're like this here river. Wejust go along where the current takes us. There's a skiff downthere a-ways. You and me could get in it and drift down the riverto where-the-hell-ever."

"Savannah," Walsh replied. "That's the talk."

"What talk?"

"Van Wyk's been in with General Baker since dawn. IfSherman ain't coming here, he's going there. Savannah."

George watched his cork bobbing and yanked to set the hook."Got another one. This makes five—one apiece for breakfast."

* * *

To Colonel John Van Wyk, the men of Company A looked alike.Their faces were dark with resin smoke, their ribs protruded likebarn rafters, and their uniforms were an assortment of filthyrags indiscriminately liberated from Union and Confederatedead. As he moved slowly through the knots of men squattingaround breakfast messes, he decided they more closely resembledscarecrows than soldiers. "Cook enough bacon and cornbread forthree days," he ordered. "We'll be moving out directly."

Van Wyk stopped some distance away from George andWalsh Hawkins and the three other men completing the circle:William Thomas Rhew, Jefferson Mullins, and a carrot-toppedIrishman named Patrick O'Brady. With the exception of Walsh,not quite eighteen, the others were in their twenties, and all weresmall farmers, as were most of the men in the company. Theirfamilies had displayed a more shallow loyalty to the Confederacythan many of those he recruited. Excusing Walsh, who hadenlisted only a year ago, none of them had helped elect him tothe command of the company or later congratulated him uponpromotion from captain to colonel. They were all privates and,in his judgment, would remain privates because they lacked thegumption for command.

"Private, who gave you leave to go fishing?"

"You weren't around, Jack."

"It's Colonel Van Wyk. You could have asked LieutenantBlackburn."

"He wasn't around neither."

George was the worst soldier in the company, the coloneldecided. He didn't look like a soldier, even on parade. Hewas taller than his schoolboy brother, but his size was hardlycommanding. His face was round, soft, almost apostolic, exceptfor a bad attitude etched into it. His hands were more fit fordealing cards at a poker table than loading an Enfield. Hisnickname was Hawk, but that appellation rested uneasily upona man who had, it was said, never hunted a day in this life. Butworst of all, he was habitually insubordinate.

"One of these days, Private Hawkins, you're likely to bebound and gagged in front of the whole company."

George looked up from the fire. Van Wyk's face was hard andangular, tapering down to a dark mustache and beard. His eyeswere set wide apart and bright with anger. "Colonel," Georgebegan, "you buck and gag me and that fine, high-priced store ofyours just might burn to the ground after the war."

Van Wyk's body stiffened in rage. "You do that and you'llhang as high as Haman."

"What? Who?"

"It's in the Bible," Walsh said. "Book of Esther, I think."

"You'd be the one to know," George replied.

"That's right," Van Wyk said. "I didn't expect you to know,George. All you did in Wilmington was shovel horseshit out ofsea captains' stalls and bed down the whores with your earnings.It's a wonder you didn't get gonorrhea like a lot of others."

"I didn't see nothing wrong with provosting Wilmington."

Van Wyk turned his head toward the voice, Walsh's. "Maybeyou think that's soldiering, but I don't! Thanks to the likesof all you, we deserve our reputation as pirates and slackers.Well ... we're going to get another chance for glory. We missedGettysburg and the Wilderness and Spotsylvania too. This timeGeneral Hardee has asked us to join him at Savannah. But firstwe'll keep the Yankees from cutting the railroad at Grahamville.Be ready to move out as soon as the train builds up steam. Don'tworry; a special train will be waiting for us in Charleston. Youwon't have time to get the fever."

"Special train, my ass," George said. "Confederacy ain't gotany special trains."

Choosing to ignore George's acerbic remark, the colonelturned and walked away.

"What exactly is glory?" Walsh wondered, his eyes followingVan Wyk. "I've sure heard a lot of talk about it."

George said, "Tell him, Bill Tom."

Bill Tom shrugged. "Well it's sort of like going the furtherest atGettysburg, Pickett's charge. A lot of glory in Pickett's charge."

"But that means getting yourself killed," Walsh protested.

"Usually," Bill Tom said. "We've been lucky. No glory, butwe're still alive. I guess that bothers Van Wyk, but he probablyfigures on us doing the dying. Well, our first brigade commander,Junius Daniel, got his glory at the Wilderness. He was a goodman. We could have been sent up Malvern Hill, but he talked ol'Theo Holmes out of it, I hear. Too bad it wasn't Van Wyk gettinghis glory instead of Daniel."

Pat offered in his Irish brogue, "He's as full of shit as this herefish is with bones. If he'd been with our detail up on Malvern Hillthat might have cured him. Glory sure as hell has a smell."

"Yeah," Jeff said, "I'd sure like to get those pictures out ofmy head. I ain't never seen nothing like it and hope to neveragain. Makes hog-killing time look like a picnic on the churchgrounds."

"I didn't join the army to kill anybody," Walsh said. "I justwanted to see the world beyond Person County."

Mullins grinned, showing stained teeth. "Runs in the familyI reckon. We all wanted to see the world, but is it true, reallytrue, Hawk, that you kept your grandpa from shooting a rabbithe had a bead on?"

"Shut up, Jeff, or I'll put my rifle butt in your big mouth.I kill for meat, not sport. No sport in shootin' a rabbit with ashotgun anyway."

"Hell, I didn't mean nothing by it, Hawk. But, well, did you?I mean here we are, you know?"

"How many men have you shot, Jeff? Huh? How many menhave you even shot at?"

"As many as you have. I was told and so were you, that nomore than a thimble full of blood would be spilled in this war. Anocean full would be more like it. We should have known. It's inthe Bible. Plenty about war in the Bible. There's a lot of smotingand slewing in it. Our time's coming. That's my point. You mayhave to put a bead on a man and pull the trigger."

"Eat your victuals," George said. "Be glad we've been lucky.I'll do my duty as a soldier should."

* * *

The train was eleven cars long. Each was stuffed with seventyor more men, plus another dozen rode on the roof. CompanyA rode in the last car. George and Walsh sat on the aluminum-paintedroof where smells were better. With a rattling of cars andlynchpins and showers of green pine sparks spewing from thestack, the locomotive...