Free Lay the Mountains Low by Terry C. Johnston Page B

if he were clutching it.
    â€œIt’s Sergeant Gunn,” Perry grimly explained to Howard after they stopped near the remains of the gray-haired veteran. “F Company, sir.”
    â€œHe sold his life dearly that day, Colonel.”
    Perry nodded, noticing the many copper cases in the grass near Gunn’s feet. “Colonel Miller, assign three men to bury Sergeant Gunn.”
    The rest pushed on toward that distant ridge where Perry had deployed his battalion for their abbreviated battle against the screaming horsemen. After crossing another hundred yards, the captain realized he would never forget the grisly sight that greeted them this sunny Tuesday morning. While he was certain the terror of their frantic retreat would forever trouble his waking hours, Perry was just as certain the horror of what lay before him at this very moment would forever haunt his nights.
    That and the unearthly stench.
    Arms and legs frozen akimbo in death, twenty-some bodies lay scattered across the hillsides, every last one blackened by nine days of mortifying decay and a relentless summer sun, flesh grotesquely swollen with the gases of decomposition until most of the faces were totally unrecognizable in their horrid death grins.
    Oh, the stench. When that morning’s warm breeze suddenly died and the heavy air lay still upon that field of death, the pungent odor rose up to assault a man with a gagging ferocity.
    Perry quickly dragged out his big bandanna and clamped it over his mouth and nose, remembering to breathe through his mouth. The next time the capricious breeze died, he felt his eyes beginning to water with the putrid stench of decaying flesh. His skin began to crawl as he pulled back on the reins and signaled a halt to Miller’s and Winter’s companies.
    On both sides of Perry now the troopers came to a halt. He heard the quiet sounds as the men noisily swallowed, struggling to control their stomachs, while some audibly gagged. One man spilled off the side of his horse, collapsing to his knees as he retched himself free of his hearty breakfast of hardtack, sidemeat, and coffee. Most of it still undigested as it seeped into the grassy soil.
    â€œGet that man back where the air is better,” Perry ordered, his eyes streaming now with the very tangible sting of long-forgotten death, doing all that he could to keep from joining those who were gagging at the sight, at the stench, at the very sound of the big, bloated horseflies at work on the bloodied corpses.
    Throbbing masses of insects blackened every dead soldier’s eyes, waded their way around in his every wound, crawling in and out of the gaping nostrils, a’swim in every swollen, distorted mouth.
    It almost appeared these dead were crying out, calling forth from the far side of eternity. …
    He turned slightly, swallowed hard, and gave his orders. “C-Colonel Miller. Captain Winters. Bring up the infantry companies. Divide them and your men into three platoons each. One platoon from each company will be on burial detail at a time. The other two platoons from each company will remain in reserve, back where the breathing is a little better. Trowel bayonets. Is your mission understood?”
    But Perry didn’t really look at either of the officers for a response before he quietly, and quickly, concluded, “Do all that you can to give each man a decent burial, gentlemen.”
    Miller almost lost control as he nodded in answer. His tearing eyes held unabashed gratitude as he quickly turned aside and rode off to pass on the order to the infantry commanders.
    Winters saluted, and swallowed hard. This Ohio-born officer had risen up through the ranks after enlisting in the First Cavalry in 1864. “Very good, Colonel. That way we can sp-spell the men.”
    One by one, the dismounted cavalrymen and foot soldierslocated the bodies scattered in the tall, waving grass. It wasn’t hard to find the dead.
    Two or three soldiers sank to