A soldier cried out and crumpled beside him. “Put out the fires,” Thorne yelled. “They can see us but we can’t see them.”
A few looked puzzled, but most caught on and began kicking dirt into the fire pits. Soon, only the flashes from the rifles provided any illumination. The surprised Union soldiers steadied and began to aim at the flashes. Cries of pain told them they were scoring hits.
Thorne sensed that the Confederates were pulling back and ordered his few score men forward. The Rebels abandoned the woods with a few parting shots and some obscene taunts. But the skirmish was over. Thorne wondered just what had been accomplished apart from causing a number of casualties.
In the distance, the sounds of fighting could be heard in all directions. Gradually, even these died out and a strange silence took over. Fires were lit again and patrols began to prowl. This time they would be more alert.
Willis had a bandage wrapped around his left arm above the elbow. “Didn’t we decide that nobody liked to fight at night, that it smacked of desperation and that it ran the risk of shooting one’s own men?”
“Quite obviously we were misinformed. Either that or Lee is more of a gambler than we expected. But what did he accomplish besides letting us know that he’s around and very, very close?”
“Which means that we’re going to look for him tomorrow and find the entire Confederate army. All I know is that I would not like to be in Meade’s shoes.”
Thorne laughed. “But we are in his shoes. Whatever he decides we’ll wind up doing. And however many of us get killed or wounded, I doubt it will bother him much. Generals have to be cold, unfeeling bastards, otherwise there’d be nobody who’d want to lead us in battle. What kind of a war would that leave us with?”
“Maybe a pleasant one,” Willis said. “Maybe there’d be no wars at all if nobody wanted to play at being a general.”
The wind shifted, blowing smoke over them. Thorne wondered if he would ever be able to smell a campfire or a fireplace without first thinking of a battlefield. This time at least, there was no scent of burning flesh.
Richard Dean was in Baltimore when word of Meade’s move and the subsequent fighting reached him. The first thing he did was to get himself a bottle of rum. The rum was cheap, since he was again short of funds, but it was good enough to toast the destruction of the enemies of the Confederacy. He did so quietly and discreetly in his room. Baltimore might be sympathetic towards the South, but northern troops still patrolled it and took great delight in smashing the heads of people who voiced support for Jefferson Davis’s new nation.
Dean had spent much of the evening with Sid and Nate. They were not bright, but even they could see the problems inherent in kidnapping Abraham Lincoln. Even though they agreed with him, Richard knew they could easily be swayed by Booth into doing whatever he wanted. Once again, Richard wondered about the success of the plot if that pair were responsible for important tasks. It was very discouraging. Why couldn’t a man of Booth’s skill and stature attract more qualified conspirators?
Dean took a deep swallow of the rum and nearly gagged. It was truly wretched stuff. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed and had removed his outer shirt and shoes. He was tired and almost didn’t notice when the door opened and little Mary Nardelli rushed in.
“It’s happening, Richard. It’s true; it’s all true.”
“Mary, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Lincoln’s army has finally woken up and has moved out. They’re going to bring Lee to battle, and you know what that means.”
Richard was fully awake. “Yes, you silly goose, it means chaos and confusion for our enemies. It means that there may actually be a chance for us to do something final about that goddamned gorilla, Abraham Linkhorn. I think it’s highly likely that the Union army will be badly defeated. Robert E. Lee is without a doubt the greatest war leader of our times—perhaps all time. I could almost feel sorry for the Union general and I assume it’s still Meade.”
Mary sat down on the bed beside him. Not that long ago she would have been shocked at the very idea of her being alone in a room with a man. Now, much had changed. She was no longer the shy virgin who’d fled the Papal Armies in Rome. Her first love had been the great John Wilkes Booth who, it turned out, wasn’t so great in bed. Her second, and so far last, was Richard Dean. He’d been reluctant at first—perhaps because she was overweight and not very pretty—but he’d succumbed, just like he would this night. It didn’t hurt that Richard Dean was a much better lover than Booth.
“Richard, tomorrow we should go to Washington.”
He pulled her to him and began to undress her. Good, she thought. “Because that’s where Lincoln is and if we’re going to move against him we shouldn’t be a city away.”
He laughed. “As always, little Mary, you make sense. Tomorrow I will disguise myself and we will take a train to Washington City. We will find Mr. Booth and see what he has up his sleeve. And whatever he wants to do, kidnap or kill, then I will go along with it.”
“Us,” she corrected him. “I have to get away as well.”
They were both naked now. He handed her the bottle of rum. “Drink quickly. I’m way ahead of you.” She took a long swallow. It was bad but it was still better than the swill her father used to make back in Italy.
The day after the fighting had ended at Gettysburg, Thorne, Willis, and a couple of others had ridden down from Cemetery Hill and across the valley to the abandoned Confederate positions on Seminary Ridge. They followed the route taken by Pickett’s men on the disastrous third day. The field had not been cleaned up. Bodies and fragments of bodies littered the field, stinking beneath the July sun. At least the wounded had all been taken away. Or, he thought sadly, they’d died while waiting for succor. Just as terrible were the other pieces of debris, articles of clothing and equipment thrown away while their owners tried to escape the hell that had been unleashed on them.
“Remind me why we’re riding out here,” said Willis.
“I want an idea of what they went through before they hit our lines.” He turned and looked up the gentle slope leading to the Union positions. A human wave had dashed itself against the rocks that were the Union defenses. The rocks had won. The Sixth Indiana had been positioned a few yards behind the fence that had been the target of the Confederate human wave. They had stood in shock as half-crazed soldiers clambered over the fence to go hand-to-hand against the waiting Union soldiers. They’d gone at it with fists and teeth, they’d kicked and clawed and used knives until the Union’s weight of numbers prevailed. When it was over, thousands of rebels lay dead or wounded while thousands more retreated in disarray.
Thorne leaned down and picked up a canteen. It was clearly marked “CSA” and had a bullet hole in it. For a moment he wondered if the owner had survived, then realized he didn’t much care. He threw the canteen away.
“It was pure murder to send men out in the open to attack that Ridge,” Willis said. “Why didn’t Pickett or Longstreet protest?”
Thorne shaded his eyes from the sun. Back on Cemetery Hill he could see people walking around, near the area where his men had been fighting and where Colonel Baird had lost his leg. Yes, it was insane. Thank God no Union general would even think of sending his men out to be slaughtered like that.
But he had been wrong. He shook his head, clearing it of all thoughts of Gettysburg and focusing it on the similar hill the Union II Corps was now assaulting. It was a gentle slope like Cemetery Hill and the distance from the start off point was a little more than a mile. From where he stood, he could see lines of blue dots advancing. First puffs and then clouds of smoke obscured events, but he could see blue uniforms crumpling and lying on the ground. Dozens of cannon had pounded the Rebel positions, as always to little or no effect. The attack was being shredded.
Several waves of Union soldiers followed the first, which was clearly getting mauled. But still they advanced. They appeared to be slowing. He hoped it was an illusion. To sto
p in the face of such fire was to die. They had to advance. Even the best defensive-minded soldiers wanted nothing to do with a hand-to-hand brawl or, worse, a fight with a man who was trying to run a foot of steel into your gut.
Thorne was mildly concerned by the great distance between the Sixth Indiana and Union forces to his left. He’d sent a messenger and had been brusquely informed that all was well and that he should be prepared to attack when the Rebel lines collapsed.
If they collapsed. The gunfire was intensifying and it did appear that the attackers had halted and were dueling with the dug-in Confederates. A bad move. Someone had to take charge and either send the Union troops on up the hill or pull them back.
It was growing clear that the planned assault by the Sixth wasn’t going to occur. Their orders had been to ride though any breach in the Confederate lines and, along with expanding the breach, continue onward and raise holy hell in the enemy’s rear.
Like all plans it seemed like a great idea, but reality was intruding. The attack wasn’t being pressed and the Rebels were regaining their confidence. They had been shaken by the sight of the larger Union force, but no longer.
Suddenly, the Union soldiers shook off their torpor. With a shout they surged up the hill and over. “Well,” said Willis, “I guess it’s just about our time to make a grand entrance.”
Thorne was about to agree when the Union force reappeared. They were retreating, and not in good order. Moments later, the Confederates came into view. The hill’s defenders had been greatly reinforced and a horde came over the crest of the hill.
Thorne gave his orders. “We will open our lines and let our men pass through. Then we will close our lines and give the Rebels bloody hell. Now let’s move!”
The men complied, and soon a large Union force had passed through to safety a few hundred yards away and to a chance to reorganize. Thorne was dismayed and angry to see that a number of his men had seized the opportunity to retreat as well. He grabbed a corporal. “Run down there and get those men of ours. Tell them to get their asses back up here or I’ll see them hanged.”
He ordered his men to dismount and horse-holders took themselves and three horses a short way away. He hated the idea of reducing his small force by even one, but it was necessary if his regiment was going to have any chance to retreat and join the main body.
The Confederates were within range. “Open fire!”
Close to two hundred Spencer repeating rifles blazed away, adding more smoke and noise and curtailing the Union soldiers’ ability to aim. Still, the massed firepower staggered and then halted the Rebel advance. Thorne yelled at his men to get to their knees and to aim low, the way they’d been trained to do. Still, they would have to retreat. There were just too damn many Rebels to even consider holding on.
Someone tugged at his sleeve. “Colonel Barnwell says you did a great job and it’s now time for everyone to pull back.”
Thorne stole a look at the Rebels. They were not advancing and there were bodies piled everywhere. He closed his eyes against the sight as well as he could, then gave the order to withdraw. The men responded with alacrity. The Confederates did not follow—the Spencers had done their damage.
A scant handful of miles away, General Meade wondered pretty much the same thing. He attempted to concentrate on the large map spread before him, but that was useless. What troop dispositions were shown raised more questions than answers. He had launched major attacks against what scouts assured him were the Confederate far left and center left flanks. The attacks had failed and now II Corps and III Corps had been badly handled. They would not fight again tomorrow.
But he had his orders. The Army of the Potomac was to seek out and destroy the Army of Northern Virginia. He had the numbers and his men were well trained, well equipped, and well supplied. The only thing that might be lacking was leadership. Meade understood that he was part of that lack.
“Well?” It was that damned Halleck again. Meade fought the urge to grab him by the neck and choke him until his eyes really did pop out. Instead, he kept his composure.
Meade raised his hand to wipe his forehead. “The issue is still in doubt, General, and is likely to remain that way for some time. You may return to Washington and inform the President that we have taken heavy casualties and have inflicted much the same on the enemy.”
“Are you saying you’ve won a Pyrrhic victory?” Halleck said, his voice almost a sneer. “Another victory that will ruin us—Like Gettysburg and all the rest?”
“You just don’t grasp it, do you?” Meade said furiously. “That’s what it’s about, damn you. We can take the losses and Lee can’t. Lincoln wants Lee destroyed and I fully intend to do the honors.”
Halleck was about to respond, but suddenly looked alarmed. “General, are you all right? Your face is all red.”
Meade shook his head. For the past several minutes, he’d been feeling first hot and then cold. He would sweat profusely, then begin shaking from a sudden chill, as he was right this minute. His head was aching horribly, and he was having a hard time gathering his thoughts. He was only dimly aware of Halleck taking his arm. “I think you should sit down for a while.”
Yes, thought Meade. Sit down. I need to sit down, but only for a little while. There was so much to do, and so little time. Soldiers were dying, because he’d sent them out to die. But they were not dying for him. No—he could not think that. They were fighting for the Union, or to free the slaves, but they were not fighting for George Gordon Meade.
It was growing dark now. Not the dark of night—this darkness was deeper and more final. He knew this darkness. He had always known that it awaited him and that he would encounter it eventually. Just as he had always known that the only thing he could do was surrender to it.
They laid Meade on a cot and covered him with a blanket. His staff looked shocked at this sudden collapse. Some glared at Halleck for having caused it. Halleck grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil and began to write. “What I am doing,” he announced, “is informing President Lincoln of this unfortunate turn of events. I will also inform him that there will be no further attacks this night unless he gives me a direct order to continue. In the meantime, we inform no one of General Meade’s problem. It is Lincoln’s to resolve.”
The first ambulances from the battlefield arrived by mid-morning and it was quickly apparent their numbers were inadequate. The army had contracted for hundreds of the specially built vehicles, but they had been overwhelmed by demand and now anything that could be pulled by a horse or mule had been dragooned into service.
The wounded were staged at the mall. There they were separated according to the severity of the wounds. Those likely to die were given morphine and set aside and allowed to pass on in peace, while those who were likely to live were treated. The wounds were generally ghastly, and Cassie wondered just how some of them had survived as long as they had. A rifle fired a large bullet at high velocity and the effect of a bullet to the arm or a leg often resulted in the limb being torn off or the bone shredded and the limb rendered useless. Far too many wounded recovered but never returned to duty. All too many of the recovered were amputees or had mangled, useless arms and legs.
The women were tired and filthy, but would not give in to their physical complaints. If they could save but one life, their efforts would have been worth it.
They also felt that they had seen just about everything and were now able to joke among themselves about once leading sheltered lives.
The next ambulance was a case in point. Designed to carry four, it was clearly overloaded. The springs sagged and the two horses trying to pull it through the mud were exhausted. The driver looked as if he was about to collapse as well.
“Good lord,” Rachel exclaimed. “How many are in there?”
The driver sagged against the ambulance and rubbed his face with his filthy forearms. “I dunno. Maybe a dozen. I wasn’t counting. If there was room, we put them in.”
“Why did you even think of s
tuffing so many men in this contraption?”
The driver took a deep breath and gained some strength. “Because there were so damned many of them and because the damned officers told me to, that’s why.”
Cassie and Mariah had begun pulling limp bodies out of the wagon and laying them on the ground. “These two men are dead.”
“As God is my witness, they was all alive when we put them in,” the driver said. “I was told to get them to an aid station as quickly as possible. We passed a couple on the way, but they told me they couldn’t take any more wounded, that they was full up. I’m just glad I could unload here.”
Rachel calmed down. It was clearly not the driver’s fault. The ambulance had brought eleven souls back to the mall. Three were already dead and two others were not going to live more than a couple of hours. That left six who might make it, and four of them had badly mangled limbs that would have to be amputated.
Stretcher bearers came and took one young man away to the tent where amputations were being carried out. A stack of pale and naked limbs lay a few yards off to the side. Little more than a boy, the young man cried out for help. “Miss . . . Miss . . . Don’t let them take my arm,” he moaned. Cassie saw that his arm was hanging on by threads of flesh. She was reassuring him as he broke into sobs and called out for his mother. Beside him, two others were unconscious and the remainder stoically awaited their fate. She would have sworn that a couple of them looked happy. Their war was over. If they could learn to function with missing or mangled limbs, they could lead productive lives.
Much like her father.
Cassie realized just how lucky he’d been. Her throat went tight and she felt her eyes grow moist. Get control of yourself. These boys need you.
The Day After Gettysburg Page 22
