He clicked a banana clip into his AK-47, made sure the change lever was in the safe position. Three more full magazines went into his pockets. He looked around to see if he had anything’ else to take. He didn’t. He snaked through his comrades and went outside.
Only a few men had fallen in. More still ran here and there, shouting at each other, getting in one another’s way. Captain Lewis and a corporal were loudly trying to bring some order to the confusion. Caudell added his voice to theirs. Then his fellow sergeants came up. The soldiers were used to obeying them. Inside half an hour, the company was fully formed on the parade ground along with the rest of the regiment. The blue CASTALIA INVINCIBLES banner fluttered in the sweet spring breeze in front of the captain.
Atlas Denton, the regimental color-bearer, carried the 47th’s Southern Cross battle flag out in front of the assembled troops. Colonel Faribault followed the flag. “Company—attention!” Captain Lewis called. The other company commanders gave the same order. The whole regiment straightened in its ranks.
Without preamble, Faribault said, “The Yankees have crossed the Rapidan. They’re moving south through the Wilderness. General Hill’s corps will march east by the Orange Plank Road. We have the honor of being lead regiment in the lead brigade of the lead division.”
Some of the men cheered. Caudell kept quiet, but a grin spread across his face. Being the lead regiment was privilege as well as honor—other soldiers would eat their dust, instead of their eating other men’s.
Faribault went on, “We are to camp near Verdiersville tonight. As the morning is already well along, we have some smart marching to do. God willing, tomorrow we shall start to drive the Yankees out of our country.”
The soldiers cheered again, this time with a baying eagerness in their voices. “By companies, form column of fours—and march!” Colonel Faribault called. With officers, sergeants, and corporals amplifying the simple command, the 47th North Carolina became a long gray serpent that wound its way out of the encampment, as if shedding a confining winter skin, and tramped north up the road toward Orange Court House.
The weather was fine and mild. A better day to march could hardly have been imagined. As Caudell had hoped, his new repeater seemed to weigh nothing. He looked back over his shoulder. That gray serpent seemed to have no end, as regiment after regiment followed the 47th North Carolina. But other, even longer, snakes, these clad in blue, surely lay ahead.
At Orange Court House, the 47th swung east onto the Orange Plank Road. Despite its name, the road was imperfectly corduroyed. Much of it was just dirt. When Caudell looked back again, dust partially obscured the rear of Henry Heth’s division and the lead brigades of that of Cadmus Wilcox, which took their place behind Heth’s men.
More clouds of dust rose into the eastern sky ahead; General Ewell’s corps was also on the move. Caudell looked south: sure enough, more dust still. Longstreet’s men were heading east on the Pamunkey Road. The first sergeant nodded in satisfaction, warmed by the thought that the whole Army of Northern Virginia was back together again. He could not imagine any force of Federals beating these lean, tough soldiers. He felt proud to be part of such an army.
Before long, more than pride warmed him. Sweat trickled down from under the brim of his hat, darkened his tunic at the armpits. His feet began to complain; they hadn’t worked so hard in months. The AK-47 on his shoulder did weigh something after all. What had been a pleasant outing turned into work.
The men had been singing since they set out. Some kept on; more, Caudell among them, began to find saving their breath the wiser course. After the fourth or fifth time, “The Battle Cry of Freedom,” even the Southern version, wore thin.
Because the 47th North Carolina was at the head of the long Confederate column, parties of high-ranking officers often rode nearby. Caudell was used to seeing General Kirkland, the brigade commander, and General Heth. When A. P. Hill came by in his red battle shirt, he pointed him out to Allison High. “I don’t know why you’re raisin’ such a fuss,” the dour sergeant said. “When we get shot, it’s on account o’ the likes of him.”
Not much later, the North Carolina regiment behind the 47th raised a cheer. Craning his neck to find out why, Caudell saw a gray-haired man aboard a gray horse with dark mane and tail; several younger soldiers rode with him. “It’s General Lee!” he exclaimed.
His words were drowned out by a perfect torrent of cheers. Lee smiled and nodded; for a brief instant, his eyes locked with Caudell’s. The first sergeant felt ten feet tall, able to conquer Washington City single-handed. When the cheers, would not stop, Lee took off his hat and waved it. Someone called, “We’ll whip ‘em for you, Marse Bob!”
“Of course you will,” Lee said. The soldier whooped with delight at having his beloved commander answer him. Caudell instantly felt jealous. He called to Lee too, but the commander of the Army of Northern Virginia chose that moment to swing Traveller’s head around and ride back down the column. His aides followed. Caudell’s shoulders slumped as he trudged along.
Everyone was dragging by the time twilight brought a halt to the day’s march. Caudell wanted to throw himself full length on the ground. Instead, he went over to Captain Lewis, who looked even more worn than Caudell felt. “Sir, where’s the nearest stream?”
Lewis pointed. “There’s a creek over that way, about a quarter of a mile.”
Caudell went back to the men of Company D, who were sprawled out as he wished he could be. “Fatigue detail,” he said. A chorus of groans greeted the announcement. “Corporal Lewis, Privates Batts, Bean, Beard, Biggs, and Floyd, fall in with canteens to fetch water.”
Now the groans came from the soldiers he had named. Mollie Bean took off a shoe and sock to display blisters the size of half-dollars. Ruffin Biggs pleaded that he had twisted an ankle. John Floyd alleged his Gettysburg wound was acting up.
Caudell would hear none of it.” Everyone else is as frazzled as you are, but it’s your turn for the duty. We especially need the water for the desiccated suppers a lot of us are toting.”
Authority and logic were both on his side. Grumbling and letting out martyred sighs, the members of the fatigue detail slowly and sadly got to their feet. Their luckier comrades passed them canteens until each of them was carrying six or eight. Caudell aimed them toward the creek. They shambled away, complaining still.
Caudell told off another detail to gather wood for cook fires. Some men did not wait for hot food, but chewed on corn bread or wheatcakes. Others went without; a good many soldiers preferred eating their three days’ rations at the start of a march to carrying them.
A frying pan was not the ideal instrument for boiling water, but it was what Caudell had, and he managed. Then he opened one of the metallic ration packs and poured the water over it. A couple of minutes later, he was spooning up noodles and ground meat in tomato sauce. He’d had that supper before, and liked it. After a day on the march, he was hungry enough to lick the inside of the pack clean.
A few men carried shelter halves—spoil from the Federals. The ones who did joined together to put up their little tents and sleep inside them. More, Caudell among them, lay down on their oilcloths, spread their blankets over themselves, and slept under the stars, with hats for pillows.
Crickets chirped. Little frogs peeped; bigger frogs croaked. The suddenly glowing periods that were fireflies punctuated the night. Caudell loved fireflies. When he was a boy, he’d snuck out of bed to press his nose against the window to watch them. He watched them now, but not for long. The snores from the men alongside fazed him not in the least. His own soon added to the chorus that threatened to drown out bugs and frogs alike.