“They’ve got trenches in front of that low structure right there . . .”
The general lowered the glasses slightly. “Clostermann’s. It’s a warehouse.”
Thorne eyed him a moment. “Yes . . . well, it was crawling with butternut troops not an hour ago. But now . . .”
“Yes, I see. Vanished in a trice. Poof! And no more.” He handed the binoculars back to Thorne. “A splendid set of glasses there, young man.”
“Yes, sir, they’re from Hamburg.”
“Ahh.” He nodded avidly, as if that was the best thing he’d heard all day. Thorne noticed that he was slightly walleyed, along with being rather short and slight of build. As for his uniform . . . Well, if the standard in the Army of Potomac was high, this officer easily surpassed it with his sash and knee boots, not to mention the gloves, which he was now in the process of pulling back on.
He raised one hand. “Dabney . . . the horses, if you will.” He turned back to Thorne. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”
They crossed the field at a slow trot, the general, his two aides, and Thorne along with Willis. Halfway across, Thorne pulled out his pistol and checked it. Willis did the same. Neither the general nor his aides reacted.
The trenches were in clear view before they reached the buildings. They were absolutely empty, not a single sign that anyone had been inhabiting them—not a rifle, not a backpack, nothing.
The general shook his head. “Oh my.”
They moved on about thirty feet. Just before the unpaved street ended, there was a set of tracks that looked as if a cannon had been trundled off. The general made a sound as if he was disappointed in a silly error by a small child.
They halted at the end of the street. It was empty as far down as they could see, not a single person, horse, or even a dog in sight. Thorne glanced over at the building the general had identified as a warehouse. There was a faded sign over the door: clostermann’s.
“We’ll go down as far as the Quaker meeting house. That’s about three blocks or so,” he assured Thorne.
As his horse began to move, Willis rode up beside Thorne. “Is he from around here?”
“Got me. I don’t even know who he is.”
“Oh, that’s Warren.”
General Gouverneur Warren, chief of the army’s engineers. Well, that made sense. He probably had maps of every town in the state.
Reaching the third block, they halted once more. General Warren let out a sigh. “Dear me. I don’t see any Rebels.” He swung toward Thorne. “Do you, Colonel?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
There was a sound from a house on the north side of the street. The shutters on an upstairs window swung open. Thorne raised his pistol but let the barrel fall as a young girl poked her head out.
“Hello!” she called. “Are you looking for the soldiers?”
Warren swept off his hat. “Indeed we are, my dear. What can you tell us?”
“They all marched away.”
“Ahh. When was this. An hour ago? I see.”
A smaller girl appeared in the window. She waved and Warren swung his hat with a flourish. Thorne smiled despite himself.
“Are you going to make them stay away?”
“I promise we shall do our best.” Warren replaced his hat. “Now we must be off. But we shall be back, my dears, with many more men.” He raised his reins, and then paused. “Oh, and girls, please remain inside. It may get very noisy out here.”
They started back down the street at a fast trot. Warren said nothing further until they passed the trench. “A common error,” he called to Thorne. “A single order miswritten or misinterpreted. Perhaps not written at all, but passed by word of mouth. Have you ever played the parlor game where a simple message is passed by whispers from ear to ear, Colonel? You should. The results would amuse you.” He gestured to the aide called Dabney, who swung up beside him. “But we must move before they realize their error.”
Thorne noticed that Dabney already had a notepad out. “To General Grant: We have discovered a significant gap in the Confederate lines at the town’s southern extreme. We are striking through the gap at once. Advise an immediate assault on the Rebel center left, along the line of Derry Street. We will be in the direct rear, with as many troops as we can collect. Now read it back.”
Dabney read it back quickly. Warren nodded. “Get it to headquarters immediately. Off with you, young sir!”
The aide galloped off at a diagonal toward the Union lines. In a moment he was out of sight.
The men of the battalion meandered over to meet them. “I’ll get them saddled up.”
“Do that, if you please.” Without slowing down, Warren rode past them. Thorne was puzzled until he spotted an infantry unit marching down the road about a half mile away.
He was getting the men lined up when another officer rode in, looked around and turned toward him. “Gambee, 55th Ohio,” he called out.
“Proud to meet you.”
Gambee got down off his horse. “Now, Auntie Warren says there’s a hole in the Reb line here?”
Behind him, his troops were approaching at double time. “That’s right,” Thorne told him. “We were just over there. Not a Johnny in sight.”
Gambee nodded. “Auntie’s good at sniffing those weak spots out. Like a Comanche searching for a water hole.”
Thorne listened quietly. While there might be more to it, there wasn’t much point in bringing it up.
“It was Auntie who spotted the Little Round Top at Gettysburg.”
“Was it now?”
“That’s right. Sent Chamberlain and Strong Vincent up there to fortify. Damn good thing he did . . .”
Gambee’s men were arriving. He turned to oversee them. Behind them, Thorne could see a good-sized group of cavalry approaching. One horseman broke from the rest. He recognized Warren.
“Any sign of our friends, Colonel?”
Thorne shook his head. “No, sir, not a peep.”
Warren gave a satisfied nod to the abandoned Rebel line and rode off to consult with Gambee and the cavalry commander. He was turning back to Thorne when Dabney suddenly appeared, riding a visibly exhausted horse. He halted beside Warren and spoke to him in a low voice.
Warren clapped both gloved hands together. “Excellent!” He swung his horse to face the waiting troops. “Gentlemen! It is our intention to sneak into the waiting city, confront our unwelcome guests, and cause utter havoc!”
He smiled as if delighted by the prospect, pulled a watch from his pocket and snapped it open. “Are we ready, then?” He smiled again at the loud response and clicked the watch shut. “Then let’s be about it. Quick-quick, now.”
They crossed the open field at a slow trot, the infantry at double time behind them. As they approached the built-up area Warren gestured to Thorne. “About three blocks past our little girlfriends’ house we turn right,” he said loud enough for all the officers to hear. “Two blocks over there’s an open space, a park, I believe, featuring a gazebo or bandshell. We will pause there until we hear the advance commencing. Then we will strike.”
Warren got an odd look or two, but no questions. They passed the trench, then Clostermann’s, and proceeded down the empty street. The shutters were closed at the girls’ house.
Two blocks on, they paused for the infantry to catch up. Turning the corner, they spotted two men in butternut a half block down. Both of them came to a dead halt, muskets held high. Thorne drew his pistol and swept it between the two. “Drop your guns, boys,” he shouted.
At least two other cavalrymen had spoken at the same instant, but the two men got the message all right. They laid their guns in the dusty street and stood up with hands high.
While two of the riders dismounted to take their guns. Warren confronted the pair. “What are you lads up to?” he said, with the tone of a schoolmaster interrogating a pair of truants.
“We’re looking for our people,” the shorter one said.
“Your people? A
nd where are they?”
“Well . . . they’re around.”
“Around? Around where?”
One of the cavalrymen had extracted a bottle from the taller one’s pack.
“Around town somewhere.”
“I see,” Warren said. “Well, tie their hands. Not too tight. No point in being nasty.”
They moved on down the street. A few small houses, a Presbyterian church, and then the park. It came into view, revealing the gazebo, the ornamental bushes, the carefully placed trees, and beyond all that, the several hundred men in butternut marching diagonally toward them across the well-cut grass.
The Confederates halted. They gazed at the Union troops in dead silence. Then a single gray-clad officer stepped forward, and with a shout, pulled out his sword.
Thorne drew his pistol and fired without aiming at any one of them in particular. He was accompanied by a dozen other shots. The butternut mass broke toward them, the troops howling like so many demons. The Union horsemen charged. They met about halfway across the open space, and the city of Harrisburg began its transformation into Hell on earth.
★ CHAPTER 25 ★
Wade was working on his third attempt at a note to General Lee when the gunfire started.
He was trying not so much to explain or excuse himself, but to apologize for the dishonor he had brought upon his unit, the Army of Northern Virginia, and the Confederacy as a whole. He had thought he had the words clear in his mind, but every time he tried to get them down, they seemed to fade away. When he looked over what he had written, it came across as gibberish.
He raised his head as the shots rang out, a handful at first, followed by a deluge. “Colonel Wade . . .” someone called. “I hear ’em,” he answered. Getting up, he threw on his jacket and grabbed his sword belt, then headed for the door. He turned around for his hat and caught sight of the two crumpled sheets and the new one lying atop the board. Picking them up, he tossed them into the stove.
The Volunteers were saddling up as he emerged. Their current role was to act as a mobile reserve to back up any line unit that needed assistance in case the Yankees attacked. He would have to check in at headquarters to find out where they should go.
He’d just gotten his sword belt cinched when something about the sound of guns registered. “That’s not coming from the front.”
“No sir. That’s coming from town.”
“What the devil . . .”
“Don’t tell me them Yanks snuck in somehow . . .”
Wade cut off the speculation with a raised hand. “Let’s get some speed on, boys.”
They rode at a near-gallop through the empty streets. As they approached downtown, where General Lee had his headquarters in the statehouse, they encountered a lone rider. He pulled up as Wade waved to him.
“Where’s the fighting at?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, Colonel.”
“Anybody at headquarters?”
“General Lee’s not there. He was conferring with A.P. Hill. I’d say just ride for the guns.”
“Always good advice.” Wade turned to wave the men on. Somewhere to the east, cannon started roaring.
Thorne paused to reload his pistol. He looked behind him. There was Willis, maybe a dozen other Indianans, and a lesser number of infantrymen who might be from Ohio or might be from the moon, for all he knew. No sign of Warren, or Gambee, or anybody else.
They’d gotten separated while driving the Confederates back across the park. Thorne had no clear idea where everybody else had gone, or, for that matter, where he was now.
He finished reloading and holstered the gun. Willis was bandaging the arm of Private Crowley. Thorne swung his horse toward them. “You all right, Crowley?”
Crowley nodded. He gestured toward his arm. “It just kind of . . . y’know . . .”
Thorne raised his head at a burst of gunfire. He wasn’t at all sure how many they’d lost at the park. He had a feeling it was pretty bad.
He got down from the horse and gestured the others to do the same. They were merely larger targets mounted on these nags. They would be infantry as long as they were fighting in these streets.
He spotted some kind of fenced enclosure a half-block away. He didn’t know if it was a corral or what, but it would do. He told Crowley to take the horses there and sent Lutton, who claimed that he was eighteen though Thorne had his doubts, along with him.
He was walking over to Archie Willis when a roar came from his right—the Union artillery, at long last.
“Well, here we are . . .” Willis fell silent as a shell appeared over the rooftops and landed somewhere east of them. Within seconds, it was followed by two more.
“What the hell . . .” Thorne heard himself saying.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” one of the infantrymen said. “They’re bombarding the houses.”
Another round fell no more than two blocks away, shaking the earth beneath their feet. Smoke was pouring into the sky from the direction where the first shell had landed.
“Somebody needs to . . .” Willis started to say.
There was movement in the corner of Thorne’s eye. He swung around to see a dozen butternuts turning onto the street. Drawing his revolver, he opened fire.
“Good God, they’re firing on their own town.”
“So I see.” Some of the men had speculated that the Yankees would never attack one of their own state capitals. So much for that. Wade flinched involuntarily as another shell blew up only a block or so away. Something was burning in that direction, sending thick black smoke up into the afternoon sky.
The roar of battle was coming from the east side, where the trench lines were. The nearby musket fire had died out, leaving them with no clear idea of where the fighting in the city was occurring. Wade assumed that the city was filled with groups just like his, both Confederate and Yankee, making their way carefully along the deserted streets.
As they crossed an intersection he glanced down a side street. A nice residential area, fine houses with plenty of trees. It reminded him of—
Abruptly he caught sight of movement, a flash of dark blue . . .
“Yankees!” he shouted as he pulled out his Colt.
He started down the street, nearly colliding with Mayfield. The street was narrow enough to make it difficult riding two abreast. Reaching the spot where he’d seen the Yankee troops, he pulled up short and looked around him. There was nothing in sight.
He turned to see half a dozen of his men stopped behind him while the others trotted to join them in a line reaching back to the intersection. He raised the pistol. “Now, be careful . . .”
A blast of gunfire burst from behind the houses to his right. Sewell pitched face-first off his horse nearly at Wade’s feet. He raised his gun and fired in the space between the buildings, aiming at nothing in particular. The rest of the men opened up as well, shooting in all directions. Around Wade the windows began shattering.
Thorne crouched low as he headed for the railroad embankment up ahead. They’d driven off that last group of Rebs in short order, but that had left them even more disoriented. All he knew was that a large-scale battle was unfolding somewhere to his front. The problem was getting to it.
The artillery barrage had stopped at last, but not before setting fires in several different areas of the city. He could see smoke rising from all quarters of the compass. It seemed to be spreading.
He reached the embankment and went to earth behind it. The rest of the men joined him. Raising his head, he ran his eyes over the area in front of them. He had a good view of several streets branching off from the one paralleling the rail line. And there, down the middle one . . .
“Look there,” Willis said.
“I see ’em,” he ducked down behind then embankment and glanced at the men around him. “You there . . . what’s your name. Private? get that damnfool barrel down.”
“. . . sorry, sir . . . Private Emmet.”
“All right,” he told t
hem. “Check your firearms. We’ll wait till they get close and then give ’em hell.”
“They infantry or cavalry?”
“I didn’t see any horses,” Willis said.
Thorne motioned for quiet. He thought he could hear someone speaking. He chanced another quick glance and saw that they were roughly a half-block away. Looked to be about two dozen of them. Dropping back down, he waited a long moment. There: somebody had just said something. He could almost hear that southern lilt in the voice.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s give ’em a hotfoot.”
They rose smoothly from the embankment and fired almost simultaneously. The approaching Rebels didn’t see a thing until the guns opened up. Five of them fell immediately, sprawled lifeless across the dirt street. The others scattered.
Thorne and the Indianans kept their heads down with pistol and repeater fire while the others reloaded their ’61s. Return fire was weak and sporadic.
“Watch that bush,” Willis said. He fired his Spencer and somebody at the other side cried out. A moment later the men rose to give them another volley.
“Retreat!” a Rebel officer shouted.
“Must be fifty of ’em over there . . .”
Squatting shapes began running awkwardly down the street. Thorne fired his last round. One of the Ohio boys, late at reloading, sent a shot after them.
The men got to their feet, laughing among themselves. “Fifty, huh? Where’d the other twenty-eight of us get to?” somebody said.
Thorne smiled and sat atop the rail to reload.
“Having a pretty good day here . . .” Willis was saying.
A gunshot sounded, knocking Wittfield off his feet. Thorne swung around to see a much larger force of Rebels racing down the railway toward them. As he watched, they began screeching that noxious battle cry of theirs.
Turning back to his gun, he shoved in one more cartridge. Only four rounds, but they’d have to serve. “Back to the street . . . let’s go!”
The Day After Gettysburg Page 35
