The Day After Gettysburg

by Robert Conroy

  Thorne was never to learn, then or later, whether he had been the first to report the Rebel position. But he certainly been one of the earliest.

  He halted his horse as the ridge came into sight, raising his German binoculars—a gift from Colonel Baird—and examined the ridgeline. He ignored the low voices of the men behind him. At last he lowered the glasses.

  “Looks like we found ’em,” Willis said.

  “Unless there are two Rebel armies hereabouts, I would have to agree.”

  He called Corporal Eisele over. “. . . find General Grant, and tell him we have spotted the Army of Northern Virginia. They are holding a ridgeline about five miles east of York. They appear to have blocked the road. They have cavalry, foot, guns . . . Hell, tell him it’s the whole goddamn Reb army.”

  Eisele nodded studiously above the notebook he was writing in.

  “Get to him as quick as you can. Don’t stop for anything.” He gestured to the men. “Meyer and uhhh . . . Coughlin, there. You follow Eisele. Warn all the units you come across. Tell the commanders exactly what we’ve got here. Go.”

  Eisele was already on his way. The other two swung about and headed after him.

  Thorne followed them with his eyes before turning back to the ridge. “Well,” he said at last. “Let’s go take a look . . .”

  ★ ★ ★

  John Rawlins listened closely to the young man from the 6th Indiana. He quickly ran his eyes across the note the corporal had given him. “Thank you, Corporal. Wait right here.”

  Rawlins turned and rode to where General Grant waited on horseback. “We’ve found them.”

  Grant nodded to himself. He was chewing on an unlit cigar, one of an endless number sent to him by admirers, even though he’d never previously smoked cigars.

  “About five miles east of town—that would be three miles ahead—on a low ridge overlooking the highway . . .”

  “High ground.”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “How many?”

  Rawlins glanced down at the sheet. “It says, ‘the whole goddamn Rebel army.’”

  Grant smiled, a rare expression coming from him. He removed the cigar and studied it for a moment. “Let’s ride up there and take a look.”

  “Do you need the corporal . . . ?”

  Grant shook his head. He raised his hand to the young man, who saluted and rode off. “Get word to the corps and divisional commanders. Tell Smith and Butler to get a leg on. Butler in particular. I expect them to be on the line in no more than an hour.”

  “Yes, General.”

  Grant bit down on the cigar once more. He glanced around at his staff. “Well—we’re going to find out what General Lee is actually made of. Let’s move along.”

  Wade was out in front arranging the abatis to his satisfaction when no less than General Hardee himself appeared. He had removed his coat and was sharpening the branches of a fallen tree. He looked up to see Hardee gazing down at him from the saddle.

  “Where’s your commanding officer, son?”

  “That would be me, sir.” He gave the general a good sharp salute. “Colonel Corey Wade.”

  Hardee urged the horse closer to get a better look at the wall of sharpened tree branches. Two of his staff followed him closely.

  He nodded his approval. “Excellent thinking, Colonel. These have served defenders well since the days of the Romans, if not earlier.”

  “They’ll work just fine today, sir.”

  “Let us hope so.” Hardee straightened up. “have you spotted any of our Yankee friends yet?”

  “A few horsemen, sir, no more than that.” They’d driven them off with a handful of shots a few minutes previously. No losses to either side. It was scarcely worth mentioning. He glanced over his shoulder, squinting into the sun. “They’re still out there somewhere.”

  “Scouts, no doubt.” Hardee glanced to Wade’s left. “Ah, here we are . . .”

  Swinging around, Wade saw an infantry brigade taking up the position leading down to the road.

  “That’s the 3rd Arkansas. You need not worry about your flank, sir.”

  Wade raised his eyebrows. The Barefoot Brigade themselves—though they looked well-shod enough from what he could see. “I have no doubt about that, General.”

  “Doubt is not something that should enter our minds, Colonel.” Hardee raised his voice so as to be heard by all the men. “Any more than I have doubts about you men. The Tennessee Volunteer Cavalry has done great things in the past, I’m sure you will add to your laurels today.”

  The men responded with a loud cheer. Something meant to pass for a smile appeared on Hardee’s face. “So let’s chase those Yankees back to . . . well, Maryland, I guess it would have to be.”

  The men laughed aloud. “Not a lot of other choices apart from the Atlantic,” someone shouted.

  “And that’s how we like it.” With a salute for Wade, Hardee started off for the Arkansas brigade. Wade gazed after him, feeling better than he had in weeks.

  Thorne let out a burst of breath and descended from his horse. “Close one,” he said to Willis, who nodded and got down himself.

  “That whole line must have opened up on us.”

  “Lousy shots.”

  Glancing back at the ridgeline, Thorne stepped over to the staff officer waiting for him, easily identified by the perfect turnout of his uniform. Another lieutenant colonel—Thorne gave him a salute. “A bit of scouting.”

  “See anything worth getting shot at?” He said in a genteel Hudson Valley accent.

  “Lot of Rebels.”

  “I can see that from here.” He eyed the ridge for a moment. “Let me inform you that you’ll be joined in short order by the 69th Pennsylvania.”

  Thorne grunted to himself. That regiment had been right at the point facing Longstreet’s advance at Gettysburg. They’d suffered a lot of losses. He doubted that many of those had been replaced.

  “. . . along with them, you are to remain here during the attack. Do not, and I repeat, do not join the general assault under any circumstances.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Just like the last time,” one of the men muttered.

  “What are we, a pack of bridesmaids?” Willis said.

  The colonel shook his head. “This is direct from General Grant. It’s part of the plan of operations, so calm yourselves. You’ll have plenty to do later on.”

  Thorne let out a sigh. “That’s understood.”

  “Very well, then. Just hold this flank, assure that there’s no movement on this side of the highway. You’ll receive further orders as the attack develops.”

  The colonel saluted and without another word turned to go to his horse. Thorne glanced back at Willis and then walked toward the fire farther down the slope. Somebody was making coffee. He needed a cup.

  “General Shelton?” Wade turned his mind over what he’d been just told. “And who is General Shelton?”

  “I don’t know,” Mayfield said. “But that’s what everybody’s saying.”

  Wade pushed his hat back. Here they were, about to come to grips with the entire Yankee army, and the troops were still chewing over rumors. The stories never quit, it seemed. This “General Shelton,” if the grapevine was correct, had just invaded Virginia from the west, coming over the mountains from Kentucky. That struck him as unlikely, though you could never tell where the Yankees were concerned.

  “Shelton,” Lieutenant Cummins called out. “He serves under Grant. He was at Pittsburgh Landing.”

  “He’s the one went crazy that time.”

  The penny suddenly dropped for Wade. “No . . . that’s not Shelton. That’s—”

  A sudden volley of shouts from out in front drew his attention. He hurried toward the trenchline, the younger officers close behind.

  A single glance told him the story: Yankee skirmishers, winding their way through the brush in an effort to test the line. Wade tensed despite himself as one of them fired, seeming to aim
directly at him.

  To his left a distant cannon roared. A shell arced out and burst among the low trees at the other end of the field. It didn’t seem to bother the skirmishers at all.

  “All right,” Wade shouted. “Here comes brother Billy. Let’s give him a good hearty welcome.”

  Though no one would have ever detected it on that phlegmatic face, Rawlins could see that Grant was seething with anger. Ben Butler had taken his time bringing his troops up and was only now getting them deployed. The answer he’d given Grant’s query had been nearly flippant—Rawlins had edited it slightly when reading it to the general. Having gotten to know Butler over the past few weeks, Rawlins was aware that he’d meant nothing by it and in fact probably thought that he’d been perfectly straightforward. Which would have helped him not at all if he’d encountered Grant face to face at this particular moment.

  Grant muttered something under his breath. Rawlins opened the second sheet he’d been handed by the courier. “A telegram from Washington, sir. General Sherman has entered Virginia with his two divisions. He has turned north and is advancing on the Shenandoah valley.”

  There was a gleam in Grant’s eye that had been absent a moment before. “So Cump is bringing it off.”

  “It would seem so, sir.”

  “Very well . . .”

  Cannon fire burst out somewhere up ahead. Grant immediately focused his full attention on it. Reins in hand, he paused with his head up, as if listening for something. At last he turned back to Rawlins, just as another blast erupted.

  “Let’s see to it our guns answer that, and quickly.”

  “Yes sir.” A reply to Washington would have to wait. Rawlins swung his horse about and cantered toward the waiting couriers.

  Thorne was speaking to Colonel O’Kane of the 69th Pennsylvania when the Rebel artillery started targeting them. The marching infantry immediately panicked, pouring off the road and straight into the 6th Indiana’s men and horses.

  He spent the next several minutes getting the mess cleared up and the men down the slope toward the stream, where they’d be covered by the descending ground and concealed by the brush. There weren’t many rounds fired in their direction—five or six at most. But that was enough—he could hear screams and wailing above the explosions, the shouting of men, and the neighing of horses.

  Looking out over the road, he saw at least a dozen men down. He found himself hoping despite himself that they were Pennsylvanians. He glanced up at the ridge. The Rebs had a nasty habit of pausing their barrages and then opening up again when you started to relax.

  He hadn’t seen O’Kane, the 69th’s commander, since the firing started. He assumed that the colonel was preoccupied in looking after his men. He recalled what he’d been saying when the shelling started: “I’ll be happy to sit this one out right here. We’ve had enough. Let somebody else attack. It’s their turn now.”

  The guns seemed to be concentrating on the treeline at the far side of the field. Thorne got up and brushed at his knees. “Let’s go,” he told the men around him. Many of them seemed to be Pennsylvanians.

  Most of the men lying in the road were beyond any form of help. He lingered a moment over one boy who had the back of his head blown straight off before going on to a soldier who was still breathing. He was an older man with a graying mustache, staring off into space with a rosary clutched against his chest. Thorne hadn’t had anything good to say about Catholics before the war—had scarcely known any, for that matter. He thought much better of the ones he’d seen in the army.

  He had the wounded men carried off the road and into the brush. He doubted they’d live long enough to see a field station. The bodies would have to wait. He glanced over them, feeling more despondent than he could recall. He had seen worse than this. But then . . . there wasn’t anything worse for the men lying here. There would never be anything, good, bad, or indifferent, ever again.

  He raised his eyes. It just got worse. Everyone said you’d get used to it. Everyone lied.

  There were figures capering atop the ridge. The Rebels seemed pretty pleased with themselves. They really looked to Thorne as if they were mocking the dead.

  Another round of firing began. This time, the shells were rising from the treeline toward the Confederate lines. Better late than never.

  A Yankee shell exploded to the left of their line. Wade shifted his feet to retain his balance, fighting an impulse to leap back into the trench. He had to look his best before the men. He gripped his hat as he was splattered with chunks of earth.

  The Yankee guns were giving the line a good pasting. It was their habit to cover an entire line before an assault. They could afford to—they had the shot and powder to waste.

  “Corey, why don’t you get down from there?”

  “Yeah, Colonel.”

  “That’s just plumb foolishness.”

  “In a minute,” he told them. It was good to show a touch of fearlessness now and again. There was nothing like it to give the men an impression—

  The next round struck even closer, the force of it nearly knocking Wade into the trench. He dropped back in even as the dirt and gravel rained over him.

  “Now if that ain’t—”

  Mayfield’s voice was cut off by another blast to their rear. Two more shells followed before the guns shifted to give the Arkansas boys a taste.

  There were no casualties, apart from a few cuts and bruises. Some of the horses had panicked and run off. He sent a squad out to bring them back. He gazed out over the field. The trees at the far side were now half-obscured by smoke.

  “There is nothing so exhilarating as being shot at without issue.” Who had said that? He couldn’t recall. He would have to look it up. That was a good line. He’d have to put it into his next letter to Mother.

  Grant stood looking out over the Rebel lines. His forces were as ready as they’d ever be. Not as much as they’d have been out west, but there was no helping that. The Army of the Potomac might be a fine spectacle in their perfectly turned-out uniforms, but they still lacked that indefinable something that made for a truly effective fighting force, something that the western armies, ragged as they might be, had in abundance. The easterners could never have carried out what Sherman had accomplished this past week—marching an entire corps through the almost trackless Kentucky high country and on into Virginia. The effort would have petered out and collapsed within days. But for the Ohio and Wisconsin troops, it was just another day’s work. No different than that bold thrust of Grant’s across the Mississippi last spring that had left Pendleton and Johnston flailing around looking to cut supply lines that didn’t exist. They’d been thoroughly flummoxed right up to the very moment that Vicksburg had surrendered.

  Rawlins ran his eyes across the smoke-shrouded Rebel lines. The southerners probably thought that Gettysburg had been the important battle that week.

  They still believed in the decisive battle, the Armageddon that would decide the issue fully and finally. Grant did not. Rawlins himself could not encompass his commander’s thinking completely, but this he knew: to Ulysses Grant, battles were simply the tools he utilized to create his strategy. Defeat or victory, neither mattered as much as the simple fact of pushing the overall plan forward. It was a new method of war, one that the southerners did not yet grasp. They would soon, and to their sorrow.

  He pulled out his watch. “Five minutes.”

  Grant nodded and took another long look across the battlefield. Then he turned and walked back toward a fallen tree lying amid all the others. He halted halfway there and bent down to pick up one stick, then another. By the time he reached the trunk he had a small armload. He let them fall into a pile and sat down atop the trunk. He began peeling the bark off the sticks, one after the other.

  Rawlins started coughing once more. It took him a moment to get it under control. It was always worse just before a battle. He could feel the aching, just below his ribs. At least there was no blood.

  The guns built
up to a crescendo and tapered off. There was a low shout that seemed to echo all along the line. Then the troops emerged from the treeline into the open. Rawlins took a single step forward, eyes fixed on that mass of blue, the flags and guidons streaming at their head. He muttered something that had the Deity in it.

  He glanced back at Grant. The general was following the troops with his eyes. After a moment he reached into his jacket and pulled out a penknife. He opened it with a savage gesture. Picking up a stick, he began slicing off strips of wood with long, quick strokes.

  Rawlins lingered for one more glimpse of the troops, then went to join Grant.

  Wade was concentrating so much on his front that he almost missed the beginning of the Yankee advance. His men started shouting, and his eyes shot to his left to see the blue-clad troops emerge from beneath the trees. They looked magnificent at this distance. There must ten thousand or more in that mass. It was enough to take your breath away.

  And all futile. They were attacking the center, the strongest point on the whole line. Hey diddle diddle, straight up the middle. You’d think they’d learn. Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg . . . not to mention Gettysburg.

  At least they weren’t headed toward him, he thought guiltily.

  A shell burst within their ranks, scattering troops in all directions. Along the front line, others were beginning to fall from rifle fire. Wade shook his head. It was a pity, really.

  Thorne lowered his binoculars, unwilling to watch any longer. He handed them to Willis. “Be my guest.”

  He turned and took a few steps toward the stream. He’d seen enough. Men were dying en masse over there, within shouting distance of where he stood. Dying of gunshot, dying of explosions, dying trampled down into the dirt by the boots of the still-living. Men in their prime, young boys scarcely able to raise a beard, older men who ought to be anywhere else but here. Yankees, Irishmen, German immigrants scarcely able to speak a word of English.