Free March Toward the Thunder by Joseph Bruchac Page B

gathering at dusk.
    Rain coming , Louis thought.
    Despite Flynn’s admonition, the men around him were far from being as silent as mice as they climbed over the top of the trench. Brush cracked, boots thumped. All in all, though, they were quieter than Louis had expected. Every man had remembered to tie down his canteen and shovel and whatever else might clank or clatter as they made their way down to the river. And no voices were heard—aside from the occasional soft curse as a man banged against something or stumbled over a hesitant comrade’s feet.
    Can I do this? Louis thought. Then he remembered his father’s words. You climb a mountain one step at a time. He nodded. First step, find the river. He began crawling forward.
    It was no more than a hundred yards from their trench to the riverbank, but it seemed as if a hundred years passed before he smelled its warm waters and heard its rippling flow. He felt more than saw the shadowy shapes of the other men of his company close behind him. He reached back to pat the bony shoulder of Scarecrow, letting him know they’d reached their first objective, and should pass the signal back to Happy and from him to Merry and so on—a ripple of touch through their whole company.
    Louis took a deep breath. Can I do this?
    He wasn’t afraid of what would happen to him. His deepest dread was that he would lead those other men, who’d placed their trust in him, the wrong way. He’d rather die than do that.
    Nothing to do but go forward .
    Lifting his rifle in both hands up above his chest, Louis swung his feet around and lowered them in. The water that rose around his ankles and filled his boots was almost as warm as blood. His feet didn’t sink in so deeply that it mired him down, but the smell of rotting plants rose up as he waded deeper. Splashing sounds came from behind him. Hundreds of others were entering the river less quietly than he had. There was even the sound of what had to be someone falling in headfirst.
    Too loud. Dang!
    Louis gritted his teeth, waiting for the first volley of .58-caliber slugs to sweep through them like a scythe through grass. But no shouts or shots came from the Confederate lines that were surely only a few hundred feet from them. He reached back and tugged at the sleeve of whoever was behind him now.
    Keep moving.
    The water stayed shallow, no more than waist deep in the middle. Then only to his knees, to his ankles. Across the river now, moving up the bank in a crouch. Could he find the outline of the hill that was their objective? He looked up at the gray sky and then slowly down. There it was.
    Keep a straight line. Just keep them going straight on.
    He tugged again at the sleeve of the burly man in back of him now, who passed the signal to shadowed shapes of other men acting as scouts to either side just behind him. He shifted the rifle in his hands as he moved forward, a slow step at a time as the ground rose in front of him.
    Minutes passed.
    Or was it hours?
    Finally, a lifetime later, Louis stopped.
    We’re on a hilltop. But is this the high ground we wanted?
    A large hand grasped his shoulder from behind.
    â€œFine, lad,” Flynn’s voice whispered in his ear, “’tis the exact spot. Above and t’ the right of their line. Now it’s dig in and wait till dawn.”
    There was no way to hide the sound of shovels chunking down into soil and stone. But still, to Louis’s amazement, no shots came their way.
    Dig and keep digging. Every shovel full of earth may be one less bullet getting through to you.
    His arms and his back ached, but he kept thrusting his short spade in to lever out more earth and gravel. At last he could dig no more.
    Deep enough, Louis thought. He put down his spade. I’ll close my eyes for just a moment.
    When he opened them he saw three things.
    The first was that the dawn light was breaking.
    The second was a mockingbird. Was it that same one he’d