Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [156]
He moved his men into Fredericksburg before dark, quietly, with no fanfare, and they did not have to work, no trenches or earthworks, but had filled the basements and the lower levels of the houses and stores perched along the riverbank. Every window, every small gap in old brickwork, any place a man could fire a rifle, was filled with the men of his brigade. Sixteen hundred rifles pointed at the river, and during the long dark night, they made coffee and played cards, and talked of the Yankees across the way.
Barksdale stood at the edge of the water, at a small boat launch, the hard street flowing right down into the water. It was still early, there was no light, and he could feel the thick, cold air, the heavy fog that filled the valley. He strained his eyes, stared across the quiet water, listened hard for any sound. There were small voices, conversation, then the sound of tin, coffee cups and plates, and soon the voices became louder, more intense. The conversation had become official, commands and replies, and now there were new sounds, tools and heavy wood, and still he could see nothing.
The fog began to glow, a light gray, the dim light of dawn finding its way down to the streets and the water, and now he watched his boots, had perched his toes right on the edge of the smooth glaze of ice, gauging the motion of the slowly moving river. He looked out again, and still there was only the fog, and after a minute he looked down again, and saw: his boots were wet—the water had come out from under the ice, a small disturbance on the still water, pushed toward him by something . . . something wide and heavy moving into the river from the other side.
He turned quickly, ran up the short hill to the quiet streets, and now he saw his staff, the men waiting for the order, and he sent them fanning out through the houses and stores, passing the word to the men: the Yankees were coming across.
He walked back to the edge of the river, stared hard into the fog, heard now the splashing of oars, heavy boots on hard wood, the orders of the engineers. He tried to measure the distance, had memorized the far bank, the positions of the idle pontoons, now began to draw a bead. There was no breeze, and so he knew the sounds were true and straight. He raised his pistol, pointed blindly at the sound of a man’s voice, held the pistol steady for a long second and fired a single shot. On both sides of him, his men responded to his signal, and a volley of rifles opened with bright flashes, sending a shower of lead toward the unseen voices.
There were splashes, the sound of cracking ice. Men screamed and orders were yelled, and suddenly the voices moved away, back in the distance: they had gone back to the far shore. He waited, listened;
there was no sound from the river, no movement on the water. He took off his hat, waved it high above his head and gave out a whoop, a single piece of rebel yell, and from the basements and windows came the muffled reply, the cheering of his men.
Barksdale’s brigade of Mississippians had been ordered into the town as the first line of defense, and the division commander, Lafayette McLaws, had told him there would be no support.