A Victorian Gent (The Making of a Man Series, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  By mid-morning the two battalions were at the bottom of the slope, looking uphill across pasture land, one large farmhouse the only building in sight.

  "Movement behind us, colonel. Looks like another regiment comin' up. Time to tell the lads to take a bite, brew up some coffee, sir?"

  Mayberry glanced back, decided the rest of the brigade was finally arriving; the fight on the left seemed to be dying away and there would soon be no diversion. If he did not go soon then he would not move at all; he had come to these fields to fight, not to eat a picnic.

  "Hell with it, boys! Form line!"

  The companies wheeled clumsily and made their two lines, eventually - their drill was still hesitant and many of the slower men had to be pointed to their proper place by swearing sergeants. A few farm voices could be heard complaining that they had come to fight, not to be abused by foul-mouthed, Hell-bent villains; they would tell the minister just as soon as they got home.

  Half an hour and Mayberry was satisfied and took place in front of the men, drawing his Mexican War sabre with a great flourish and waving it towards the hillside.

  The two lines stepped out, cheering, two young ensigns flourishing the bright new battalion colours.

  “Time to get some battle honours on them flags, boys! Forward!”

  The Maine regiment followed.

  Five minutes brought them to the top of the gentle slope and disclosed, finally, the Confederate army in a thin line across the pasture, perhaps two hundred yards distant. They stared at the distant enemy, relieved finally to have confirmed that they were real. The Rebels had dug no trench, were wide open, it seemed.

  The range was difficult, just too far for any great accuracy with the Enfields but well inside accurate sniping distance of a long rifle.

  Mayberry stepped back into the line, raised his voice.

  "Front rank! Take aim... Fire!"

  It was not the command laid down in the book, but most of the men could not read.

  The volley seemed within reason effective; there was a stir in the opposing line but there was little response other than a few wild shots.

  "Reload! Second rank! Take aim... Fire!"

  Mayberry waited twenty seconds, counting carefully, then, sure that the front rank at least was loaded, ordered them forward at the double.

  The Confederate line wavered and Mayberry shouted the charge.

  Rifles fired and a few of the battalion dropped, some silently, most screaming as they went down, as much in surprise as in pain. For the first time they heard the whistle of the Minie rounds as they came in.

  The Rebels, well outnumbered, broke and ran - to the satisfaction of all - this was exactly as they had expected. The battalion slowed down from the charge, none of the men getting close enough to use the bayonets they were brandishing.

  “Form line! Halt and form up! Take post here!”

  A series of commands, some of them military in nature, others less so, and the battalion was brought together again and put back into its lines, holding the Confederates’ ground in symbol of victory, the Maine companies conforming.

  “Reload! Make sure you are loaded and primed ready!”

  Loading was a slower process with the bayonet fixed and a number of knuckles were skinned.

  “Sergeants! Casualty figures, if you please.”

  It was nearly another hour before they were ready to move, the wounded recovered and sent back, the bodies placed reverently to the side. Mayberry glanced again at the list of losses, decided it was reasonable to attack.

  “One officer dead, two wounded. Twenty two men known dead and just thirty hurt – these damned Minie balls kill too many!”

  Past experience had been far more wounded than killed, perhaps three or four to one; these were nasty figures. Reckoning that no more than half of the wounded would eventually return to fitness then they had lost nearly forty men from fifty hit; their ranks would be very rapidly thinned at that rate.

  “Pass the word to advance on my command, Mr Mayberry.”

  The adjutant, who seemed to have grown up in the last couple of hours, saluted and sent the message down the line.

  They advanced at the walk to the next low crest, found, as the colonel had expected, another set of defences, began to trade volleys. The Maine regiment came up beside them and the Southern forces, although similar in number, eased back again, walking in good order rather than running. The colonel was sufficiently excited to give no importance to the nature of the Rebel retreat; he ordered the charge.

  Batteries of artillery opened fire from either flank as the Union battalions exposed themselves. At most a dozen smoothbore cannon, bronze guns of another generation, the largest only twelve-pounders and several of them no more than ancient sixes dating back to the War of 1812, but firing canister rather like overgrown shotguns and bringing the advancing men very quickly down into the scarce protection of the weeds and bushes of the meadow. The advance stopped on the instant. A few minutes for the colonel to decide upon his orders and the company officers ordered their men back to the cover of the crest line where they were able to reform.

  Dick called Schafer to him, counted up their losses and organised parties from the walking wounded to get the worst casualties back. They found they had forty whole men left from the sixty five who had paraded that morning.

  Dick sent a messenger to the colonel. He came back with the order to stand and to take the remnants of G Company under his command; both of their officers had been lost.

  “Go across to them, Mr Schafer. Get ‘em into their lines, send the wounded back; make them ready to hold where they are. Dig if possible. If they’ve lost as many as us then they ain’t going forward again either.”

  He sent the word to his own men to dig scrapes in the turf at least, throw up a foot or two of dirt to their front. He doubted they would have time for more.

  Noise on the slopes behind attracted his attention; he saw a battery of Union guns being emplaced on the edge of a small plantation of woodland, well within range and able to support them. They were modern guns, Dahlgrens or the new Parrotts, rifled iron cannon, all of the same pattern, big eighteen or twenty pounders, he thought, far superior to the antiquated bronze pieces the Southerners had just used so effectively. They began to fire, explosive shells and shrapnel rounds bursting over the hill, out of sight but hopefully keeping the Confederates down. He sent his messenger to them to say that he expected infantry across the crest in front of him at any moment.

  The message was delivered and the man ran back.

  “Artillery captain says that ridgeline is too close to his guns, sir. He don’t reckon he can range down to it, so he say, not and be certain sure not to give us a sprinkling too, sir. He says his guns better at a mile than at three or four hundred yards, sir.”

  The advantages of modern weapons, Dick thought.

  He passed the word to his men to fire on command, to keep to their volleys. It occurred to him that if they all fired together, leaving every rifle empty, then a fast-running Southerner could get in bayonet distance before they could shoot again.

  Men appeared on the crest to his front; Dick stood, turned his back on the enemy and ordered his first line to ready themselves. He made a great display of being unconcerned by the few bullets whistling past him; it would only be very bad luck that saw him hit by a round fired by a running man. In any case, this was the opportunity to give the men a lead and make himself another name.

  “Present your rifles! Front rank only, take aim! Fire!”

  He glanced around, saw bodies down but most of a muddy-grey battalion at a stretched run in his direction. He called the second rank to fire, saw the attacking line slow as the volley hit home at closer range.

  “Fire at will!”

  He pulled out the heavy Walker Colt, emptied it then took out the lighter Navy pistol and fired five careful shots before drawing the officer’s sword he had bought in Washington, and hoping they would not get close enough to force him to
try to use it.

  The attack failed thirty yards out, casualties too high to be continued. The Southerners ran back to the crest line where they took cover and began to exchange rifle fire.

  There was a cheer down the slope behind Dick and two more blue-coated regiments came doubling up, through their line and straight into a successful charge; they disappeared over the crest line, unstopping. He waited for the rest of the Union force to follow, looked back after a silent couple of minutes. A mile and more distant he could just see movement, another battalion, perhaps more, marching in, still in column of route, an hour at least away in effect.

  Word came from the colonel to hold their line, to wait, to see what happened; they could follow up in a while. A few minutes and they heard cannon fire, cheering and then heavy rifle fire, a series of volleys, and the blue uniforms reappeared and went to ground just upslope of them. A trickle of casualties came down the hill. A runner came from them to the colonel and reported fresh regiments in sight to their south, marching up to join the Southerners.

  “You sure they ain’t our men coming in from the right flank, boy?”

  “They dressed in all colours, colonel, sir, but mostly they ain’t in blue. Greys and browns, most of them, and one lot I saw in sort of darkish blue, deeper sort of colour than ours is in. They ain’t our boys, colonel.”

  Mayberry presumed they were Rebels in by rail from the Shenandoah Valley – the ones who were supposed to be tied down by a Union holding force. The grand plan seemed to be a complete failure, the concerted attack having broken down into a series of separate actions.

  “Pass the word to all of ours to hold while we can, Lieutenant Mayberry.”

  “Beg pardon, Pa, sir, that is, but ain’t we goin’ to attack no more?”

  “They said they was goin’ to be eight thousands of us chargin’ up this here hill, boy. So far we about six thousand short! Suppose they get here, then we join ‘em. Otherwise we ain’t goin’ no place!”

  Little happened for nearly two hours, desultory rifle fire, the two new regiments in front of them taking a few casualties. Then the situation repeated itself – another pair of Union regiments arrived beside them, refused to wait and doubled off to win the war all by themselves. Mayberry looked hopefully down to the creek, to count the reserves there. Instead he saw a convoy of carriages, some parked up on the far side, a few crossing the bridge.

  “Civilians! Goddam picnic parties come to see the elephant! Would you credit it?”

  Some of the women were waving.

  Out of sight over the crest the cannon fired; the rifle volleys reached a crescendo and they started to hear a high-pitched, howling screech from over the hill.

  “What the hell’s that noise, Sergeant Drake?”

  “Banshee, sir?”

  It was a good response, would have been better had Dick understood it, but folklore was not one of his strengths.

  A battalion in blue appeared on the edge of the woodland, a hundred yards from the battery, and formed up.

  “About time we had some support, sergeant!”

  “They ain’t ours, sir!”

  The Southerners poured a volley into the battery just as the gunners came to the same realisation; a charge and the guns were lost. At the same moment the Union regiments, broken and in full retreat, came back over the ridge and did not stop. Behind them came a great swarm of yelling Rebels, three or four to one it seemed.

  Dick turned to his men, shouted to them to hold, to take aim… but he was too late – they were legging it downhill for all they were worth.

  Colonel Mayberry had his headquarters in hand; they fired a volley and then went down almost to the last man under bayonets and Bowie knives. The colonel died next to his son, neither prepared to desert the other.

  Schafer came to Dick’s side, his orderly behind him, sole remnant on the field of their two companies.

  “If you staying, then so am I, Captain – but I reckon we’d be better running!”

  “To the bridge?”

  “Blocked tight, sir. Ain’t nobody crossin’ there. Over to the right, higher up, the creek will be narrower there.”

  The bridge over the Bull Run was a jammed, heaving mass of panicked bodies. An ammunition wagon or civilian sightseeing carriage – it was impossible to see which at the distance - had crashed into a wall, was blocking the roadway so that no more than two or three men could pick their way through at a time while hundreds arrived every minute.

  The blue regiment was still fussing about its captured guns – the first glory of the campaign – and the field was almost clear below them.

  They ran, the fastest half-mile of Dick’s life, to the banks of the creek, then trotted along its narrowing course till they came to a shallow section of rapids where the Bull Run passed over harder rocks. They crossed almost dry-foot then turned to the north-west, made their way back to the road.

  “I reckon we just been beaten, Captain.”

  “If those Southrons cross over and march on Washington, then we just lost the war, Mr Schafer. Any luck, they won’t be able to clear the bridge before nightfall, then just maybe Mr Lincoln can call some troops down the rails to dig some trenches and hold the city. If the Rebels get a brigade of cavalry across tonight then the Federal government’s goin’ to be holing up in Chicago.”

  “New York, surely, sir!”

  “If the President goes to New York, they’ll lynch him. They did not like this war when they thought they were going to win it!”

  Dick wondered where Elizabeth Parsons was – captured cities could be unfriendly places for single young women.

  Miss Parsons was sat on a train nearing Independence, Missouri, looking again at the letter received earlier in the week.

  ‘Sorry to tell you, ma’am… fought bravely… outnumbered… led the retreat… three bullet wounds before he went down… the body brought back and interred with all respect.’

  Her brother was dead; she was the last of the Parsons; she must go to Kansas City to confer with the lawyers. What must she do?

  Captain Burke had marched to battle, as was only right for such a man! He could give her no advice, offer no shoulder to lean on. She must save what she could from her brother’s estate. She had delayed only to purchase a suit of blacks and took the first train out of Washington.

  Dick and Schafer walked slowly up the road from the creek, keeping well to the grass at the side of the track. The mass of running, hobbling, limping men slowly reduced; the shouting and screams of panic subsided as they rushed towards the hopeful safety of Washington. Towards the crest they came upon a convoy of a dozen or so commissary wagons, abandoned, traces cut, horses gone.

  “They should at least have burned the damned things, Mr Schafer. Just making a present to the Rebels as it is!”

  “Depends what’s in them, sir.”

  Schafer jumped up to the first, a two-ton covered dray, a commandeered civilian vehicle.

  “Tents, sir.”

  The next was more useful.

  “Rations, sir – damned near full of food! Fresh bread and salt beef; there’s a keg of butter, too. Beans and oatmeal and sides of bacon – breakfast for the victorious troops, sir! Ha! And a keg of whiskey.”

  “I’m hungry, Mr Schafer.”

  “Me too, sir. Missed the meal at midday, somehow – must have been too busy, sir!”

  There was woodland behind them, to escape into if the need arose, and no sign of pursuit coming up the hill.

  “Bread and butter and salt beef, Mr Schafer?”

  “And whiskey, sir. Coming up.”

  They sat on the grass and started to eat, ignoring the rabble still trickling by.

  “Beg pardon, sir. Have you got enough for a few starving men, sir?”

  Dick glanced up, waved to Sergeant Pullings, stood in the centre of the road, five men behind him carrying a pair of wounded between them.

  “Come and join us, Sergeant. Second wagon – plenty and to spare.”

  P
ullings posted two of the men where they had a clear view downhill, ordered them to try to stop any of the battalion they saw. He relieved them after half an hour, went out himself, a mug of whiskey in his hand, reckoning that would be a magnet to any running man.

  An hour before nightfall they had two hundred stragglers together, formed up into two rough companies. They sent scavengers out and had every man armed before issuing a dinner – a lot of soldiers had discarded rifles and pouches to run faster.

  A lieutenant had appeared from the ruck, walking in front of an enlarged platoon he had held together; he begged permission to join them.

  “All my hometown boys, sir. We wasn’t runnin’ off on each other.”

  “Well done, sir. What regiment are you?”

  “Vermont, sir. Second.”

  “Good. My name’s Burke and this is Mr Schafer.”

  “Addison, sir. Joseph – name’s been in the family these many years and I ain’t about to shame it now.”

  “You will not. As men go by, whatever regiment they may be, try to bring them to us. Though at this time I suspect it will only be worthless stragglers coming out of hiding. Do what you can for wounded.”

  The Southerners had reached the bridge, and were building fires, could just be seen cooking their evening rations, camping up for the night, setting sentries along their side of the creek. They were amateurs too, did not realise the gains that a rapid advance could have made.

  “Go through the rest of the wagons, Mr Schafer. See if you can find shovels. Pickaxes and mattocks as well.”

  By morning they had a shallow trench across the road and up the banks on either side, manned with a firing line and looking like a proper obstacle. As daylight strengthened so a series of Southern officers came to the bridge, peered through telescopes or field glasses and decided that the Union was holding against them. No attack was made. No shots were fired.

  Scouting Union cavalry arrived before noon, led by a rarely intelligent young officer who sent urgent messages to the rear. A regiment of regular infantry marched in and cannon followed before nightfall, sufficient to hold the road against all except a formal assault.