March Toward the Thunder by Joseph Bruchac Read Free Book Online

to them. So what if they had to ride over a few common foot soldiers and make them eat mud?
    Cavalry’s job was to be the eyes of the army. Reconnoiter, report back on the strength of the enemy. But, after three years of war, the Union cavalry had earned the reputation of disappearing just when it was needed and then coming back with wrong estimates of the enemy’s numbers.
    Easier to hate the cavalry than the enemy. That was said by every infantryman from the lowest private on up to the top generals.
    Joker limped up to lean on Louis’s shoulder as he tried to dislodge the thorny branch wrapped around his ankle.
    â€œHave you heard there’s a reward being offered for dead cavalrymen, Chief?” Kirk said. “Five dollars if they’re wearing gray and ten if they’re in Union blue?”
    Louis chuckled.
    Joker poked him in the side. “Finally got you to crack a grin on that one.”
    Sergeant Flynn looked over the ranks of the company as the rest extricated themselves from the branches and brambles to re-form on the dirt track, three abreast. It took three men to pull out William O’Day, who’d once again justified his nickname of Bad Luck Bill by getting his foot jammed into a hollow tree.
    Corporal Hayes counted heads. “Nineteen,” he said.
    â€œBelaney,” Flynn barked at the man who was standing behind a tree to relieve himself. “Out and to the front. And don’t let me be finding ye bending down to tie a shoe and let the line go past ye. I know every trick in the book of malingering, boyo.”
    Flynn turned and nodded to Louis. “Nolette, thank ye for yer warning. So now let’s put ye to scout where ye can use those Indian eyes and ears of yers. Stay a hundred feet or so ahead and report back whenever ye see something.”
    The sergeant pointed up the road. “Unless our beloved cavalry comes back and tramples us all to death, we’ll be meeting the enemy just beyond those hills. Now forward, march!”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    STRANGE CONVERSATIONS

Friday, May 6, 1864
    If the sun rose the next day, Louis hardly knew it. The morning brought only a thin haze of light to the smoky landscape he squinted at as he stood on the picket line. He wiped his reddened eyes with his pocket kerchief. It came away smeared with black. Some was from the ashes in the air. More was from the powder and smoke of his own gun.
    Louis looked down at his weapon. How many times have I fired it?
    He cradled the Springfield in the crook of his left arm and felt inside his cartridge box, counting with his fingers.
    Six cartridges left out of forty.
    Probably the same for the other men who’d survived the fighting. They’d need more ammunition from the supply train before the next advance. Though they could also forage for ammunition from the cartridge boxes of the dead. Whether Gray or Blue, it didn’t matter. They all fired or were struck by the same .58-caliber rounds.
    How many dead?
    He shook out the kerchief and wiped his eyes again. They were watering something fierce. He wasn’t crying. Or maybe he was. It was hard to be sure. Just as hard as it was to keep straight all that had happened in the last sixteen hours. It seemed more like a dream than anything real.
    Who’s still alive in E Company?
    He looked over to his right. A slender figure barely visible in the mist and smoke raised a hand to him. Louis waved back.
    Merry .
    Merry, there on the picket line with him, had come through the fight unhurt. Maybe it was because he was so small. In the hail of bullets that struck all around them, not a one had touched him.
    Louis had escaped injury too, though a crease across the face of the brass box plate on his cartridge box showed how close a minié ball had come to finding his flesh and bone. The impact had knocked him off his feet. For a time he wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead. Then another soldier in blue with a blackened face grabbed