The Day After Gettysburg

by Robert Conroy

  He instinctively ducked as the gunfire whistled overhead. His .45 was empty. He stuck it in his holster and was reaching for his carbine when a howling mass of men burst around the building to his front. Half of them went to their knees and opened fire. He could scarcely imagine how they missed him.

  An officer ran past shouting, “Pull back.” He was followed by a dozen or more wide-eyed butternuts. Wade turned to tell his men to retreat but they were already well on their way. He started off himself, grabbing the reins to pull the horse around. A moment later it was dragging him.

  They ran into no opposition until they were two blocks past the church—the Rebels who had shot at them earlier had apparently retreated.

  They overran the first Confederate position without either side knowing it until one of the Ohio boys looked over his shoulder, shouted, and opened fire at the barricade halfway down an alley. The butternuts, evidently engrossed in the firing a few blocks away, swung around with barrels still lowered. Only one or two got off a shot before they dropped.

  One of them was still moving. A trooper ran up and fired into the prone body. Thorne went closer. The boy looked no older than fourteen.

  “Let’s . . .” Thorne called out. “Let’s keep an eye open.”

  The next batch of Rebels up the block were a lot more alert.

  Although Wade tried to brace up the men to make a stand, they were steadily driven at least four blocks before they got a chance to pull themselves together. The bluebellies had brought along a small cannon—maybe more than one—and every time the Confederates turned toward them, they’d drag it up and start blasting away with it. Where was their artillery, he wondered?

  At last they found themselves among a large number of their own men. They reached a sheltered spot and Wade bent over to clutch his knees while taking deep breaths. His horse jerked at the rein, nearly pulling him off balance. They really needed someplace to put these beasts . . .

  He got the men sorted out. Around them, they could hear the sounds of the battle—gunshots, cannon fire, some kind of banging noise like a blacksmith hitting an anvil that he couldn’t place. The area they’d reached—a part of town new to him—was slowly filling up with gray- and butternut-clad troops.

  He noticed a particular clump of men beside a brick building that looked like a school. Leaving his horse, he walked over. As he’d thought, it was the staff group. He paused as he caught sight of the major he’d spoken to yesterday, but then forced himself onward. The major didn’t appear quite as well turned-out as he had then.

  He recognized Longstreet’s voice before he caught sight of him. “. . . behind us, between us and the river? Well, that damn well tears that, then.”

  Longstreet was reclining against a tree, which struck Wade as somewhat odd until he got a clear view of the blood-soaked bandage below the general’s knee. Wade shot a glance at the officer with the thick eyeglasses kneeling beside him. Obviously an army surgeon.

  “Who have we got to send over there?”

  “These men here are about it, sir.”

  Longstreet ran his gaze across the men before him. Wade straightened up as his eyes fell on him.

  “All right, get them organized and . . .”

  “We’ll have nobody to hold this area, General. The Yankees are forming up to continue their assault.”

  Longstreet let out a sigh and gripped his beard as if to pull it out by the roots. A much younger man pushed his way through the group. He saluted Longstreet and held out a folded sheet.

  “From General Lee?” Longstreet bent forward, suddenly gritting his teeth as he shifted his injured leg. “Just read it to me.”

  Taking a minute to catch his breath, the courier leaned close. “General Longstreet . . . you may withdraw as you find necessary . . . enemy forces have divided our corps, penetrated nearly to the river . . . I am withdrawing our forces from the southern end of the city. . . .”

  A sudden flurry of shots erupted behind them. The Yankees were making their move.

  “All right,” Longstreet said. “Pull ’em all back. Get ‘em started down that main street there . . . Have Hudgins handle the rear guard . . .”

  Drawing his sword, Wade took a step forward. “Sir . . . I would like to volunteer my regiment for an all-out attack on those advancing Yankees. That will give you enough time to organize—”

  Longstreet shook his head. “No point. No point to it. The army is pulling out. We have our orders . . .”

  “Sir . . .” Wade raised his voice. “Begging your pardon, but I am asking for an opportunity to recover the honor of my regiment, and secondarily, that of myself . . .”

  “What . . . ? What are you talking about?”

  Wade took a deep breath. “It concerns Blandon, sir.”

  Longstreet looked confused for a moment. “Blandon . . . what? Wait . . . Wade, isn’t it? Step closer, Colonel.”

  The general winced again as he leaned toward Wade. “Forget about that bandit. He’ll end up in a ditch or at the end of a rope. You, sir, have other things to worry about. Your men, first of all.” He fixed Wade with his eyes. “Son, you are a good soldier. Look out for your men, and you will be a great one. Now, you’ve been told what to do. Go and do it.”

  Wade straightened up and saluted. The major was nodding in approval. Returning his sword to his scabbard, Wade turned on his heel and stepped away.

  Behind him, he heard Longstreet responding to someone. “. . . be a long time before I ride a horse again. I’m not going anywhere. Surgeon tells me this leg has to come off . . . No, Walter, the army needs you. Go on, and my regards to General Lee . . .”

  Then the voice was lost behind the gunfire. Wade walked on toward his men.

  Thorne warily climbed the steps of the next house. Going to the door, he paused to one side. The men clustered opposite him. He examined the door closely. No sign of any break-in. He nodded at the big Ohioan facing him, who took a single step before raising his foot to the kick the door in. The men raced inside, ’61s held high. Thorne followed them.

  Inside they raced from room to room. Two of them made their way carefully up to the second floor. Going to the kitchen, Thorne pushed open the cellar door. Coal chute, a few boxes, some rubbish.

  Emmet poked his head into the kitchen. “We’re clear here.”

  Thorne nodded and headed for the front of house.

  “All empty upstairs,” a voice called out.

  He stepped out onto the porch. Across the street, Willis emerged from a house and signaled that one was clear as well.

  Two blocks back they had been fired on from a house after they’d passed it. They’d lost five men before they figured out where the fire was coming from. The Rebels snuck out the back to get away, but Thorne had foreseen that and sent men around to intercept them. They’d gotten three of them.

  Now they were checking each house as they came to it. They’d found no butternuts yet, just a few old people and women with small children. Thorne had told them to stay put—it didn’t look as if the fire would get this far and it wouldn’t do for them to go wandering around in the middle of a battle.

  “I say we just shoot the goddamn Rebs,” one of the troopers was saying. “Just shoot ’em. Don’t let ’em surrender, nothin’. It’s bushwackin’ I tell you.”

  “Keep it down, soldier.”

  “Sir.”

  They were coming out of the next house when one of the soldiers, a younger man unfamiliar to Thorne, paused before moving on. Without turning, he said in a low voice. “Sir—there was movement in the window of that house up there. Third one up.”

  “With the chestnut tree in front.”

  “That’s it, sir.”

  “All right.” He led them past a row of bushes. A platoon was making its way up the street. He gestured them over. “Go to the end of the bushes, and just stand there. Like you’re waiting. There’s somebody in that house there, and we’re going to take them.”

  The platoon sergeant, a good man named
Fisk, nodded. Thorne glanced around until he caught sight of Willis on a porch across the street. Thorne gestured at him. Willis shook his head and for a moment it seemed that he was about to cross the street, but at last he nodded and ducked back into the house.

  Leading his squad behind the house they’d just cleared, Thorne headed up the street. He was relieved to see few windows on this side of their target. In the back they found a simple frame door. He tried it to find that it was locked.

  “It’s loose,” the young soldier who had spotted the movement said. Gripping the doorknob with both hands, he pulled it toward himself. The door shifted and opened with scarcely a squeak.

  The inside doorway led to the kitchen. It didn’t seem as if anybody was in there. Thorne pushed it wide and stepped inside. The distant sounds of the ongoing battle drowned out any noise they were making. Somebody spoke in the front room.

  There were two doors leading into the front. Three of his troopers glided across the floor to the one on the far side of the room. Thorne led the others to the nearest one.

  He took a deep breath, then swung past the doorjamb. Three men in butternut were crouched together looking out the window. A fourth squatted beside them. He was looking at something in one hand. He was just raising his head when Thorne shot him.

  The guns roared and the others fell beside him. Upstairs someone scrabbled across the floor. Thorne gestured, and two men started up the stairs.

  The Rebel had dropped whatever he was looking at. Thorne picked it up. It was a cameo, containing a daguerreotype of a seated young woman in crinolines. On either side of her stood two young children. They were smiling.

  He let it drop as he heard a sound behind him. A door stood closed at the far end of the living room. He walked over, keeping to one side, and kicked it open.

  Guns roared upstairs. Inside the room, someone screamed. A vicious-looking figure with glaring, demonic eyes stood across the room. Thorne raised his gun and the figure did the same.

  The woman screamed once more. Thorne lowered his gun. In a settee at the right side of the room a white-haired woman was cowering against a bearded man as aged as she. He was stroking her hair and making soothing sounds. His eyes never left Thorne’s face.

  Thorne glanced once again at the mirror on the far wall. The maddened eyes, the smoke-blackened skin . . . He couldn’t blame them.

  “Just shoot ’em all,” a voice said. “No surrender.”

  Thorne turned and walked out of the room.

  “Burn ’em,” the officer was shouting. “Burn every last son of a bitch down!”

  Around him men were kicking in windows, pouring in some kind of fluid, and then tossing in flaming brands. The houses exploded into flame behind them as they leapt off the porches. They’d been at it for some time—houses were ablaze for at least three blocks down.

  Wade considered saying something, but then he realized that the officer was a colonel like himself, so he just rode on.

  They might be retreating, but it didn’t feel like a retreat to Wade. His heart was too light for even that to darken it. He was a good soldier. James Longstreet himself had said so. That was nearly as good as hearing the words from Robert E. Lee himself.

  He felt as if he was beginning a new journey. The bleak days were ended. Ahead he sensed glory and triumph. He felt better than he had since he’d first ridden out with the army as young lieutenant. Nothing—not their apparent defeat, not the burning houses, not the endless bodies—could touch that.

  They had reached the edge of town. A long, low building burned beside the road. He glanced at the sign. “Clostermann’s.”

  Across the field ahead he could see masses of Confederate troops under the trees. Raising his hand, he broke into a trot.

  ★ CHAPTER 26 ★

  A pile of dead men lay beside the road. They had been killed and then positioned so that they would easily be seen by anyone riding past. They were obviously civilians.

  A young staffer suddenly appeared on horseback between Lee and the bodies. He saluted and breathlessly began speaking. “General Lee, sir. Colonel Taylor asked me to inform you that . . . . Uh . . . we’re still inquiring as to the exact number of lost artillery pieces . . .”

  Lee nodded wordlessly. By the time the young man was finished, the bodies were well behind them. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” Lee said as he ran down. “Carry on.”

  He reached forward and patted Traveler’s neck. Those men had clearly been shot, and just as clearly shot by men of his army. It certainly hadn’t been done by the Federals. Another thing that his staff thought it best he not know about. Like that gang of deserters that had violated a village full of good, honest farm women a few days ago.

  He shook his head. His proud army, an army established to fight for independence and state’s rights, was collapsing into a barbarian horde around him.

  He turned to look behind him. The smoke from Harrisburg was still visible. The place would probably be burning for days. He had yet to encompass what had happened back there. But of one thing he was sure: it was not war.

  This war was turning into something he could no longer recognize. Oh, it wasn’t simply that it was inglorious. He had no illusions about that. How could he, after Sharpsburg and Fredericksburg? There was no such thing as a clean war, and no such thing as a clean victory. He thought of the Boy Soldiers, who had died defending the Chapultepec castle in Mexico City. No, he had no illusions. There was always a leaven of shame to it, no matter what the outcome. But still . . .

  He wished he could talk it over with Longstreet, with his firm, common-sense point of view. But Longstreet had been terribly injured and was presumed captured. General Hill had not yet been heard from. General Hampton had been forced north and was making a wide circle to rejoin the army. He might not return for a day or longer. Their casualties were unknown but heavy. Just as bad, they had left behind most of their supplies and a still uncertain number of artillery pieces. General Alexander was going to report to him on the exact number later in the day.

  The army was now stretched out for ten miles or more, across half a dozen different roads and highways. He had no clear idea as yet where some of his units were. There had been no helping it, withdrawing piecemeal as they had from the city, and crossing the Susquehanna before light.

  He needed to get the army across the Potomac as soon as possible. He couldn’t bank on the memory of Meade’s defeat on the river to keep the Yankees at a distance. This Grant was in no way a typical Northern commander. There was no telling what he’d do.

  Lee was still uncertain whether they had held out long enough. He had not heard from Richmond, and that worried him. President Davis had just been about to meet with the British. What had they decided? He should have heard by now. Had the message been intercepted? If the South remained free, he would be able to live with it. Even with the death of Harrisburg. Even, God help him, with the massacre of innocent civilians.

  He noticed a small group beside the road. It was a family—a husband, wife, and two small children, their belongings at their feet. Refugees from the city, he supposed. They looked as miserable and lost as so many churchmice.

  As Lee drew near, the man sat up straight, staring directly at him. Getting to his feet, he took one step forward, then another. His wife got up and gripped his shoulders, whispering fiercely into his ear. She glanced at Lee, her eyes wide with terror.

  Lee had nearly reached them when one of his officers thrust his horse ahead of him. He swung a riding crop high. “Get back there, you son of a bitch . . .”

  “Leave them be,” Lee called out.

  The officer turned back to him. He touched the brim of his hat. “Yes sir.”

  The officer rode on. Lee nodded to the couple. They failed to respond, instead simply turning to follow him as he rode past, the woman cowering, the man grinding his teeth.

  Is that what he was to become? A figure of black legend, a Cromwell or a Tamerlane, a nightmare creature to frighten children wit
h?

  He glanced once more at the smoke of Harrisburg. He thought of Cain, forced to wander the earth forever without rest. For the first time in his life, he believed that he understood that story.

  “. . . yes sir, not two hours past. Robert E. Lee, as proud as Satan.”

  The man was unshaven, his eyes wide and bloodshot. Behind him stood his wife, hands clasped before her. At her feet huddled two small children.

  “You’re sure it was Lee,” Thorne said.

  “Oh, it was Lee, all right. On that gray horse of his. They were all bowing and deferring to him.”

  Thorne glanced down the road. Two hours . . . that meant the Rebels’ main body was not that far ahead. He’d have to send word back to Grant. He swung once again to the man. “My thanks.”

  “Don’t let him get away this time, Captain.”

  “We won’t . . . Could you use some food, by the way? For the children?”

  The woman cocked her head in a mixture of supplication and relief. “Some food and water for these people,” Thorne called out. “And, uh . . . a couple of blankets.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The man removed his hat. “As close as you are now, he was. Proud as the Devil.”

  Thorne buttoned his jacket up. The cold always cut deeper when you were tired, and right now he was exhausted. He had scarcely slept at all last night. Every time he nodded off, he saw that girl with her face blown clean away, the Rebel’s head exploding as he pulled the trigger. At one point he’d jerked awake thinking that he ought to arrange a court-martial for the man who had done that. Then he remembered.

  He’d scarcely eaten either. A handful of hard tack washed down with stale water from the canteen. Not that he could actually claim to be hungry.