Before dawn were we summoned; we went to our companies and assembled. Pro Bono and I, being of different companies, were of necessity separated, and we bade each other a temporary farewell, and he fell away from me as images succeed one another in a dream; officers hissed orders in the gloom.

We were arranged into ranks six soldiers wide; then told to stand without motion until ordered to march, a column of some five hundred men coiled in the belly of the fort, crammed phalanx to phalanx. For twenty minutes, we remained in our places, the officers walking among us. I could not forbear to notice that none offered my company any plan.

On one side of me stood Slant; on the other, Pomp. Pomp put his lips against the barrel of his musket.

Wishing to speak for proof of companionship, and knowing his delight in tales of superstition, I asked him, “Is your rifle anointed with luck grease?”

“Ain’t no luck grease going to help,” he said. “It’s steel and lead, now.” And then, in the voice of a child, he recited softly, “Steel and lead.”

We stood shoulder to shoulder for some time; until, my eye being drawn by a motion in the far part of the stockade, I saw that there was activity at the gates. The great doors were opened.

A company of soldiers issued out. The doors closed again.

“We have begun,” I said to Slant beside me.

He wished me luck, calling me Buckra, and I wished him luck, calling him Slant; and then we fell silent, and awaited our turn, biding our time in that endless queue that convolved there in the night stockade.

We heard the great guns begin to fire; we heard volleys, and yet knew nothing of what this signified.

Then after some minutes, we heard the small arms cease, the cannons continue. Between the blasts of the great guns, there was an unsettling silence to the battle.

We betrayed signs of restiveness. We could not place our feet comfortably on the ground; for we were impatient that they should carry us toward either death or valor; toward, at all expenses, events that could be known.

Another division issued forth, and we all progressed forward by some forty feet in our queue. Now we heard no firing from without.

Abruptly, several rows behind me, there was expostulation — and when I turned, I saw that Peter, the sometime servant of the rebel commander, fought his way out of the column, complaining, “I ain’t going out there. Don’t send me. You can’t send me out there!”

Serjeant Clippinger strode down our line, demanding we face forward, black devils — and yet, facing forward, we heard the contretemps continue behind us: Peter’s voice, Clippinger’s oaths.

Again we shuffled forward toward the doors. Now Corporal Craigie walked past our ranks, calling out to us, “Brave billies. Brave, brave. Strike against your masters.”

Again, the line moved forward, and now the gates had almost swallowed me; I was almost out upon the plain. Sashed officers stood near the gates, watching the progress of the procession, leaning upon their spontoons. I heard one say, “By God, this is idiocy.”

And another, “It puts me in mind of the church vestibule. The choristers and deacons processing.” He softly intoned “Our God, Our Help in Ages Past.”

We halted for a moment. I looked at Slant, whose eyes rolled toward mine; and we both saw the skull of the other.

Then we moved on; and out into the dawn.

And so we found ourselves at sunrise upon a wide, marshy plain, all shapes gray and indistinct, with the sky a seam of red. The landscape was thus: A bridge stood before us, on the other side of which lay a small island with several houses standing, and several more burnt to heaps; and beyond that, a morass, forded by a causeway; and beyond that, just visible in the purple gloaming, the entrenchments of the enemy.

We were afforded that brief glimpse of the terrain — the soldiers of the 14^th already marching across the bridge toward the enemy encampment in their rows, six by six; and we in rows to follow them.

A maneuver so simple — a frontal assault. A bridge, no other path to follow; and the grenadiers led us into battle.

Surely, thought I, we are not marching straight into the enemy fire. Surely we are not marching upon the bridge, upon the narrow causeway. Surely we are not presenting ourselves to them in the middle of an open marsh without any protection nor cover nor guile.

Once again, we paused; and one of the great cannons blasted — all of us flinching at the roar — and shot hurled over our heads and rained upon the enemy. There was little sign of activity in the village behind the rebel lines, for it was hardly in their interest to appear above their trenches and petty escarpments while the guns were trained upon them. They might wait in perfect safety for our approach.

We began again to march.

My rank gained the bridge, loud upon the wood, and the river ran black beneath us. I was hemmed in by three men on one side and two on the other; I could not see before me nor behind, save heads behind me, heads before; I could hear only our feet beating on the planks, could smell the cold, the sweat, and the marsh; nothing more was there to guide me; and we marched on toward the enemy redoubts.

Now could I see black smoke above the ranks before me, rushing through the brown and red air; our advance guard had torched the last houses on the islet.

I could not see what transpired in our first ranks, the men of the 14^th; I heard shouting, but was hemmed in by replication: rows of muskets, coarse shirts; bare feet gray upon the yellow wood of the bridge; nothing but lineation, grimaces within ranked order. Slant’s eyes were not open; for several steps he walked with them closed — praying, I suppose, or blotting out that dawn, that pitiless approach.

Authors, in their prefaces, their blushing bows and courtesies to noble patrons, their deep congees, lace-wristed, will oft protest that their pen is not equal to their subject; and yet, now I tell you — this is true: I can in no wise convey the sensations of battle. There is no language which can tell of its intensities — the way the body seems covered with eyes — and yet blind — the way all skin clamors of danger and berates you to move — no man may write of what it is like to be sheathed in danger — all limbs alive with it — all senses reeling —

Good God, have mercy upon us.

I found abruptly that we were upon the little island, buffeted with warmth. Houses were toiling in flame. We halted our march again, and we waited.

The smoke upon the islet parted, and for a moment, from that vantage, we could see our column begin its progress across the causeway.

At our head marched our fine grenadiers in their brave red coats, their bearskin shakoes. They marched in time inexorably toward the enemy. There was a brief volley; a few rebels who could not hold their fire, terrified at the approach of their King’s army, let loose a round without harm to any.

The drillmaster’s wisdom quoth that the mark of the true soldier is not the ability to fire, but the courage to hold one’s fire; that the expertise is not in the hot moment of engagement, but in its delay. A soldier must know the range of his firearm, lest he blast away once with impotence, only to give the enemy thirty seconds or a minute’s grace to approach and fire with leisure and accuracy as one fumbles, exposed, tearing the cartridge and priming the pan. The Virginian rebels knew this: Their rifles’ range and accuracy extended far beyond the feeble throw of our muskets. It must be ascertained that they had been given orders not to fire until our column was within fair range of their weapons.

The grenadiers had affixed their bayonets; they marched our ranks straight toward the earthen wall of the enemy, exposed to fire from all sides, with their Captain leading them in haughty stride.

I know not who devised this strategy. I cannot think on it with equanimity.

Abruptly, we were almost blinded there upon the isle; the smoke of burning houses inhaled us, and we were within it.

We saw quick glimpses of the enemy lines: heads and rifles now raised, watching the futile approach, waiting for a moment to fire. They were many. I suspected that they numbered far more than three hundred. The smoke again hid them.

We waited, rubbing at our eyes, coughing. We knew what was to happen.

Another glimpse: the enemy crouched along their walls, all guns trained upon the head of the column.

There was nought we could do but wait.

The grenadiers, six by six, marched straight toward our adversary.

When our ranks were within fifty yards of the breastwork, the massacre began. The Virginian sharpshooters opened fire, aiming particularly for the Captain and those who marched in front.

A glimpse: the Captain down, struck in the knee; several more were dead beside him. He rose, tottering, and he shouted that all was well; he charged forward, limping, his men behind him.

Again, we could not see.

It is said that he even touched the earthwork wall before he died; before another volley; before there was not enough flesh left upon the bone to support him, not enough meat for motivation; and the apparatus collapsed. The rebels turned their rifles to new targets and tore down rank after rank of proud grenadier.

The latter replied; they buckled, but fired; they advanced still in that hail of lead. They were ranked by sixes, though, and so were constrained in their firing, only a few able to present at once; and the causeway afforded no cover. The fire upon them was hot and brisk and, as I have said, it was a massacre.

Again, a glimpse: The 14^th Regiment still marched forward over the bodies of the fallen. They still, despite all, marched upon the enemy.

I have never seen such bravery before; and I hope never to see it again.

Aghast, we watched: Grenadiers flew backward; grenadiers screamed; we saw hats topple; a body, relieved of impulse, rolled down the side of the causeway into the swamp.

Then we were lodged within gray, the smoke thick around us, and we coughed and slapped at our eyes, scarcely able to perceive our own limbs; with the heat of the flames all about us. We heard the rebel volley and the grenadiers’ response; another rebel volley, and another; and then, through the smoke, the 14^th Regiment’s drums beating retreat — and then our drummers — and we fled with little form or regulation.

Now came the panic visited upon me and upon my brethren in arms; now came the horror at nothing known, dim things heard — shouting and running — and my only safety lay in the solid men arrayed around me — in the cruel hope that another chest, another shoulder would snare a bullet before it struck me.

We emerged from the smoke and found the bridge before us; but we saw also that the rebels had now organized their lines to the west, curving around us. They had flanked us with ease — they fired upon us from the side — and we, enfiladed, fled — hearing cries as men fell behind us.

Now it was a rout. Bullets were flung among us — I saw men collapse before me — or grab a limb and topple — rise up — and stagger. I passed dead upon the bridge — men prone with their arms hung over the river — Liberty to Slaves on shirts of corpses — and a man fallen in the river who bobbed there, drowning, holding up a red hand. It was, I saw, not his own.

He struggled to save another.

I watched him struggle; and know now that I watched him without motion, having stopped my progress, staring stupefied at the destruction. I was become Observant, as I had been in my child years; unable to do aught but stare — and men ran past me — and there was firing all around me — and I could not protect even my own frail form.

What I recall was pity, a sorrow so great that I could not move to save myself.

I am ashamed that I stood thus, able to save neither myself nor any other, serving to do nothing but block retreat.

I do not know how long I stood upon the bridge with fire behind me and gunshot around me and soldiers galloping away from the enemy, clutching their muskets to their chests.

Will was beside me — tears on his face — and he sobbed that John was hit, that friend John was down. He was gesturing in frantic wise back toward the island — and pleading with me that it was John’s arm, just his one arm, and they can cut off a arm, they can save a man, pleading that I go fetch him so they could cut off his arm.

I did not know what to reply. The Ethiopian Regiment was now past us, and we were engulfed by the regulars.

As we stood astounded, jostled, swore at, one of the 14^th shouted, “Move, Negroes! You’re not serving at table now!” and he shoved me and compelled me forward, me stumbling upon the planks, until my legs regained their activity, and I too fled, and Will fled with me, weeping, and left his friend upon the island to be picked up by the scavengers of the enemy.

Will wished to go back — he struggled — but I had his wrist, and shouted that he could not; that he must come with me; that to go back was death; that if ’twas but his arm, John would be waiting for us within the stockade.

“He fall!” said Will. “Fall when he was hit.” He looked back toward the isle, which was nothing but smoke. He no longer fought to return there.

I guided him forward, and we ran the final feet behind our lines.

We were back within the stockade, confusion all around us, men screaming at each other and officers bellowing for order, the drummers playing tattoos to draw us to attention.

I dragged Will to the corner where our Regiment had resided an hour before. He cried again that we must issue forth and seek out John, friend John; and I did not know what to say to him, for I fully believed that return to the isle had been impossible.

And as I spoke comfortably to Will on one side, I sought through the confusion for Bono; and I saw rage and fear in all quarters.

I spied Peter struggling in the arms of several of our Ethiopian Regiment while white officers shouted questions at him. He had, it appeared, continued to refuse to issue forth, crying that marching on the rebel there was death, sir, utter death; though he himself had recommended the seasonability of attack.

An officer bawled at him, “Can you count? Can you, man? Can you count? Can you count to five hundred? Can you count to a thousand?” as Peter cried, “Please, sir, they must have come up new, those men, sir, please. Please, Corporal, you know I ain’t —”

Corporal Craigie hit Peter across the jaw, once each side, until the man’s mouth bled. His head hung; he was thrown down upon his knees. They took out rope to bind him.

Amidst these alarums, Will pleaded still with men around us to take him back out to the island; that John could be saved; that they had come so far together, he could not leave him.

I could not abide it.

It was almost full day. I looked at the confusion around me, the ruination. I did not know whether our losses were great, or whether they simply seemed so. I knew only this: We had lost. We had lost. We had lost.