Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [157]
William Barksdale had come to the Confederacy with the background as a newspaperman and a hard-line secessionist. He was gray-haired and clean-shaven, a neat and educated man, and had shown an unusual ability to lead troops, unusual because Lee had learned through bitter experience that the more political a commander, the less likely he was to be a good soldier.
The fog showed no signs of lifting, and now he heard the noises again, more heavy boots on hard wood, sharp voices and cracking ice, and he waited, let them begin work again. He tried to picture the scene in his mind, the engineers scrambling over the fat pontoon boats, pulling them together into a line, hauling the long planks, laying them across. He knew they would be looking his way, wondering where the shots had come from and when the next volley would come. He smiled, raised the pistol again, and fired into the fog. And from all along the riverfront his men responded with their rifles, and the cries were louder this time, more men fell into the ice, collapsed into the boats. He did not yell, heard his men take up the refrain on their own, and he knew this would work for a while, but he was only one brigade, and surely someone over there would do something to push him out of the town and away from the river.
Barksdale stared hard at the fog, could see out into the river now, maybe forty or fifty yards. It was fully daylight, and the fog was beginning to lift. Now the noises returned, and he could hear men farther down the river, another bridge, knew he had men stretching far enough to cover the entire waterfront, that any landing along the town would be a hot one. He raised the pistol again, picked out a single sound and took aim, and suddenly there was a loud rush of sound, a low scream, and behind him a shell exploded, digging a hole into the hard street. Then another one fell into the building on his left, splinters and bricks scattered across the street, and he heard voices, his staff behind him, and he turned and ran up the short street. Men were waving at him, and he went that way, and another shell hit the street, then another went through the porch where his men had stood, and he was hit with a spray of broken glass and shattered timbers. He saw more men and moved that way, ran with his head down and reached a stairway, dropping down below the level of the street. He jumped toward the bottom, fell hard and then felt himself pulled by the arms into the dark coolness of a basement.
The shelling kept up for several minutes, and when his eyes grew accustomed to the dark space, he counted seven men, all huddled against the heavy walls. Above them the terrible screams of the shells were muted, the sharp explosions dulled by the thick mud of the walls.
He could see faces now, smiles, nods, the heavy sounds from above blotting out their voices. He ran his hands over his legs and arms, no wounds, felt a painful ankle from the long jump down. He thought, It is just like this, all along the river, men in small groups, sitting in low crouches, waiting. But the cannon will have to stop, or soon they will hit their own men, the men on the lengthening bridges, and so we will just sit and wait.
The shelling began to slow, then abruptly stopped. He stood up, reached for the low ceiling with his hand, could not quite stand upright. He went to the small window, looked to the river, and saw the first glimpse of the men on the water, one ghostly figure standing in a shallow boat. Suddenly, there were shots, a scattered volley from his men, who did not wait for the signal. They could begin to see on their own now, and he saw the man fall, a splash of water and thin ice. Now he could see more, straight out in front of him, could see the buttons of their coats, officers yelling and pointing and their men moving in quick, short motions, scampering over the boats like big blue mice,