Read Soldier's Heart for Free Online Page B

asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’ve got to go now. My trick is near up. I’ll yell for you tomorrow night.”
    And that was it. There was no further talk ortrading because an officer had heard Charley and jumped him about speaking to the enemy, and the same must have happened to the Reb because the next night Charley leaned against the oak and somebody fired from the other side of the river and drew splinters off the tree four feet over his head.
    The truce was over.

CHAPTER EIGHT
WINTER
    H e felt alone now. Always alone. He existed in a world that he believed—no,
knew
—would end for him soon. In the middle of the unit, drilling, eating, listening to the officers with men sitting packed all around him, he was alone.
    Charley was one of the men detailed to provide beef for the sick men in the hospital—another school building the army had temporarily commandeered—but there were no cattle available.
    â€œLook to the Rebel horses,” the doctor said. “The men have to have meat.”
    There had been a brush with the Confederate cavalry along the river. A Rebel unit had made a discovery raid early one morning and had the bad luck to run into a full company of Union soldiers with loaded rifles already arranged in firing order for a defensive drill. The outcome had resulted in many empty Rebel saddles and eleven captured horses.
    Normally the horses would be used to pull artillery—the death rate for horses in combat was worse than that for men because they were a much bigger target.
    But in this case it was decided to kill the horses to get meat for the sick men, and Charley and three other soldiers were ordered to slaughter them.
    It did not bother Charley to kill beef or pigs or poultry but having to shoot each horse in the head and cut its throat and gut it and skinit put him on the edge of mutiny. He had been raised with workhorses and had come to love them. Killing the horses—watching them drop as they were shot in the head—made him almost physically ill.
    It was a miserable day. They lied to the sick men and told them it was beef but those men knew. Horse fat is yellow, yellow as butter, and beef fat is white, and the men knew the meat was from horses. They ate it anyway, and were grateful, but the whole day struck a sour note that added to Charley’s general gloom. At four the next morning, when they were called out into formation to march south, he was in a foul mood.
    They had had no warning of the impending movement, and rumors flew: There was a big battle coming; there had been a big battle and they were going to march all the way to Richmond; the South had lost the war; the South had
won
the war.
    Charley stomped around at first, still angry over slaughtering the horses. But it was a fine morning, so cold that the muddy roads were frozen and made for easy walking, and the troops made good time.
    They walked all day—Charley thought it must have been close to twenty miles. After a while the men were too tired and winded to talk and there was silence. At just after three in the afternoon Charley heard the sounds of artillery booming about two miles off.
    He had a practiced ear now for the tools of combat and knew from the frequency of fire—a constant thunder—that there were a lot of guns, which meant a lot of targets. As his unit drew closer he heard the rattling-ripping sound of thousands of rifles being fired. Soon, he knew, he would be involved in the fighting.
    He checked his cartridge box as he walked, making sure his rifle was loaded and capped, and felt the fear building. Always the fear.
    The men marched down a country lane inthe late afternoon. At any other time it would have been a beautiful place. Trees lined the roadway and though their leaves were gone the bare branches bent over the road, creating a cover. The sun shone through and dappled the road in light but Charley saw none of it.
    The sounds were louder now, much louder, and the