by Ginny Dye
Moses knew most of them lay dead or wounded in the ragged cornfield.
“Hey, Moses.”
Moses looked around at one of his men, covered with as much blood as Moses himself, but the soldier seemed uninjured except for the glassy-eyed shock that consumed him. “Yes, Jasper?” he asked wearily, knowing he could receive an order again at any moment to advance.
“Pompey,” Jasper whispered, tears filling his eyes.
Moses stared into his eyes and knew. His shoulders slumped as he relived Pompey’s handclasp. It had been just minutes ago, but it seemed like an eternity. He turned and stared into the cornfield. He would look for Pompey when the battle ended. Pompey might only be wounded. There was a chance, as there had been with Robert.
Jasper read his mind. “They shot him in the head, Moses. He was gone real quick.”
Moses closed his eyes in defeat but he was grateful Pompey hadn’t had to suffer.
Robert watched the wave of blue coats halt and then retreat. He settled back against the tree, wiped sweat from his face, and knew it would start again.
“Captain Borden!”
Robert sprang to attention. “Yes, sir!”
“Move south with your men to support Jones’ Virginia brigade. They’re being hit hard.”
“Yes, sir!” Within moments, Robert’s men were on the move. They arrived as Jones’ men stumbled back in confusion. Robert’s men immediately took their positions and opened fire. As soon as Jones’ men realized they had help, they found the courage to spring back into battle. “Get them!” they yelled.
The woods was a bedlam of noise; so loud Robert could no longer hear the sound of his rifle but only feel the recoil on his shoulder. He kept aiming and firing; knowing his men were taking serious losses but sensing the Confederates still held the advantage – at least for now.
The Union troops surging forward faltered, and then fell back. Hopelessly entangled in the vine-choked woods, they took flanking fire on two sides.
Robert watched as the Yankees staggered back to their lines in a complete rout. Suddenly his eyes widened in astonishment. “What in the…!”
He watched as the North’s commander wheeled and rode back into the open field, blood trickling from his scratched face.
“Surrender!” boomed a Rebel voice from the woods just to the right of Robert’s position.
Robert watched as the Union officer shook his fist defiantly and spurred his horse across the field. A barrage of bullets crashed into the animal and sent it somersaulting to the ground. Robert groaned at the senseless waste while understanding the cheers that rose from the watching Rebels.
“I can’t believe it!” one of his men cried. “Look!”
Robert watched as the officer crawled out from under his horse and hobbled toward his lines with bullets whizzing around him yet somehow missing their target.
For over an hour, blistering crossfire between the forces piled heaps of men, clad in blue or gray, across the fields and woods. Unable to move forward or backward, those who were wounded buried their faces in the dust and prayed for the fighting to end.
And then it happened…
Brushfires, kindled by bullets striking the breastworks soldiers had mounded for protection, erupted on all sides, filling the air with the unmistakable, sickening stench of burning flesh. Ominous, muffled popping sounds marked the explosion of dozens of cartridge belts tied around wounded soldiers’ waists, sending deadly shards of tin slicing through their bowels.
“My God,” one of Robert’s men muttered. “Those poor devils.”
Robert stared, knowing God must surely be weeping now. The firing stopped on both sides as soldiers stared at the horror and listened to the shrieks of burning men. Then the firing started again, but this time it was sporadic.
“What is…?”
Robert shook his head heavily. “They’re committing suicide,” he muttered. “They would rather die by their own hands than be burned to death.”
Matthew and Peter, safe behind the lines, could only hear what sounded like an incessant peal of thunder, and they could see massive clouds of smoke lying thick above the ground. Matthew already knew what the scene would look like when it finally ended.
His face grew grim as he watched General Grant nervously whittling pieces of wood into formless shavings. That was his only portrayal of emotion.
“Will he call them back?” Peter asked.
“He can’t,” Matthew stated simply, answering Peter’s questioning stare. “He had all but one of the bridges across the Rapidan torn down after the troops crossed them. There will be no turning back.”
Carrie, as well as all of Richmond, had heard the sounds of battle all day, had seen the heavy smoke filling the horizon. She had spent the day in endless prayers while she worked at the hospital, and now she expected the wounded would begin to arrive that night.
She and Janie had just arrived home themselves, nighttime finally silencing the battle, when her father strode through the door.
Everyone in the parlor ceased talking, waiting to hear what he would say. Thomas stood just inside the hallway and stared at all of them, weariness creasing his face with even deeper lines.
“Lee sent a telegram. He reported the enemy crossed the Rapidan yesterday. A strong attack was made upon Ewell, who repulsed it. The enemy subsequently concentrated upon General Hill, who resisted repeated and desperate assaults.” Thomas took a deep breath. “Lee ended the telegram by saying that by the blessing of God we maintained our position.”
Carrie listened numbly, kissed her father on the cheek, then turned, and climbed the stairs to snatch a few hours of sleep before the ambulance wagons started to roll in. She knew it was too soon for a list of wounded and dead. She had no idea whether she was still a wife or whether she had just become a widow; what she did know was she would be needed as soon as dawn announced a new day.
Janie followed closely behind her. Neither said a word as they got ready for bed. They walked to the window, stared north, and then clutched each other in an embrace that said far more than words possibly could.
Then they both fell into bed. The battle had come.
Their work would begin in the morning.
Moses stared into the cold ashes of the fire, too tired and beaten to stir them into fresh flame. All around him his men lay silently, exhaustion engraved on every face, eyes numb with horror. More than half of them had not returned from the day’s battle. Eighty men who had laughed and joked that morning would not see another sunrise.
Moses shifted and gazed up at the sky, or at least what would have been the sky if it hadn’t been obliterated by smoke. He had already received orders that his men were to march out again at four-thirty in the morning. He knew that was only a few hours away. He should be sleeping but every time he closed his eyes the nightmare of the day would begin to play. It was far easier to stay awake and wait for whatever came next.
Pompey…
Moses sighed heavily. He would miss every man he had lost, but Pompey had held a special place in his heart. He would miss his steady friendship and wisdom so much.
Moses closed his eyes for a moment and shuddered as the smell of burning flesh haunted his mind. His eyes sprang open, and his breath came in gasps as fear swallowed him.
“I can’t do it, God,” he whispered. “I just can’t do it.” The very idea of leading his men back into battle, if that’s what anyone could call the slaughter in the cornfield, was more than he could bear. Tears filled his eyes and his broad shoulders shook silently. He was grateful for the dark that embraced him, the silence that swallowed his bitterness and pain.
As he wept, his mind traveled back to Old Sarah, Rose’s mama. He could see her clearly and hear her voice just as though she was still alive. “Give God dat anger and pain, Moses. Ain’t nobody but him be able to take it. Keep it locked up inside and it gonna eat you alive. Let it go, boy. Let it go…” He could almost feel her hand stroking his head. “Let it go, Moses…”
He wasn’t sure how long he cried, but he was well aware when peace replaced fear and horror. Tomorrow would come. Whatever it would bring, he was not alone.
Moses rolled over and slept.
Chapter Five
Carrie and Janie could already hear the sounds of battle when they reached the top of Chimborazo Hill at six o’clock. Heavy smoke, pushed by southerly winds, still hung over the city from the day before. It would get worse before the day was over.
They had received word that the first wave of ambulance wagons was en route. Dr. Wild and Matron Pember stood side-by-side outside one of the hospital wards. They merely nodded when Carrie and Janie moved over to stand beside them.
Matron Pember was the first to break the heavy silence. “It’s too soon for official numbers, but…”
“It’s bad.” Janie finished, her voice hard and flat.
“It’s bad,” Dr. Wild agreed. He took a deep breath. “We’re ready for them.”
Carrie fought to control her trembling - fought to control her desire to scream out that she would never be ready for a fresh flow of wagons full of mutilated boys and men who would never live the lives they had dreamed of before this horrible war. She clenched her fists as she thought of the new mountain of amputated arms and legs that would grow in the stifling heat, attracting swarms of flies to feed upon the flesh and maggots. She struggled to control the fear that one of the wagons carried Robert, or worse, that he had been buried in a makeshift grave.
Janie reached over to take her hand, allowing Carrie to take a deep breath. Actually, she would be glad when the first wagon appeared. Only then would the nightmares, the wondering, and the questioning be swallowed by endless activity and duty.
A distant rumbling told her the wait was almost over.
Matron Pember tried to distract them all. “I finally got rid of the Robinson clan,” she announced with forced cheer.
Carrie and Janie looked at her blankly.
Dr. Wild chuckled. “I don’t think these two know the story. Let me fill them in before you tell us how you accomplished the miracle.” He turned to Carrie and Janie. “There was a family that came down from the western Virginia hills to be with one of our patients: his parents, wife, and two siblings. Private Robinson was recovering from typhoid fever.”
“That was good of the family,” Janie offered.
“It would have been,” Dr. Wild agreed, “except that they refused to leave the ward. They sat by his bed smoking pipes and getting in everyone’s way.
“What?!” Carrie exclaimed.
Dr. Wild nodded. “They left only after Matron Pember ordered a nearby patient to change his underwear in their presence.”
Janie snorted with laughter.
“The family demanded food and lodging. And even when the private returned to the battlefield, they refused to leave, saying he might get wounded and return.”
“That’s what happened a week later,” Matron Pember snapped, taking over the story. “Imagine my surprise a few days later when I arrived at my ward to discover the private had given up his cot to his wife and newborn baby who had come the night before.”
Carrie stared at her in amazement. “She had a baby?”
“When one of our surgeons suggested the mother be moved to another ward and be fed tea and toast, she said she would rather stay right there and have bacon and greens.”
“Oh, my,” Janie murmured.
“They were quite content to let us feed the whole lot of them for as long as we were willing. Last week I finally sent the family away with free rail tickets, food, and baby clothes made by Richmond women,” Matron Pember said.
“How wonderful for the family and baby,” Carrie said admiringly.
“Except that the woman left the baby behind,” Dr. Wild finished.
Both Carrie and Janie turned to stare at him with disbelief. “She left her baby here?” Carrie choked out, not sure whether to laugh, not sure whether her desire to laugh indicated she was finally about to go over the edge. A glance at Janie’s laughing eyes reassured her. If she was losing grip on her sanity, at least she wasn’t the onlyone.
Matron Pember nodded grimly. “I arranged to have Private Robinson sent home yesterday on furlough. He took the baby with him. I, for one, hope to never see that family again.”
Carrie allowed her laughter to come, grateful for anything that distracted her from the sight of the first ambulance wagons pulling up the hill.
Robert was growing more anxious by the moment. Men were asleep all around him, their rifles stacked in rows. They had been promised they were to be relieved by fresh troops before daylight. None had appeared as of yet. Though the sun hadn’t risen - was not even lighting the sky yet - everything in Robert told him something was about to happen.
He had woken his own men, but there was no sense of preparation going on around him. They were looking to him for direction, but Robert had none to give them. All he could do was grip his rifle, stare into the darkness, and pray that today would not be as horrific as the day before.
Perhaps they had beaten the Union troops so badly they were already on the other side of the Rapidan licking their wounds like earlier armies had. Then he remembered Longstreet’s words about Grant, gripped his rifle tightly, and tried to penetrate the smoky gloom with his eyes, but knew it was futile.
“Sir?” Tabor materialized beside him.
“I don’t know, Tabor,” Robert admitted. “I don’t know if any replacements are coming.”
Tabor stared into the darkness. “You reckon they’re out there?”
Robert wanted to deny it but knew the truth was best. “I don’t know. All I know is that we’re going to be ready.”
“What about all them men sleeping?”
“I think their wake-up call will be a rude one when it comes,” he said wryly.
Tabor chuckled softly and then swore loudly when the first gunshot cracked through the morning air.
“Prepare yourselves, men!” Robert yelled, watching as sleeping men all around him sprang up and grabbed for their rifles. Many of them never had a chance to reach them.
The woods erupted with gunfire and loud battle cries as the blue coats exploded from the trees, their positions betrayed only by the flash of their muskets. The barrage of bullets was relentless. Wounded men’s screams joined the enemies’ yelling.
Robert stared around him and knew it would go badly, but he was proud of his men who stood their ground and kept firing. The men caught sleeping who had not been killed, simply turned and ran, convinced it was impossible to hold the ground. Robert could hardly blame them, but he tightened his lips, raised his rifle to his shoulder, and fired again.
As the sun finally began to lighten the smoke, he stared in astonishment at the action on his right. Another unit of Rebel soldiers had run out into the onslaught, grabbed up wounded Union soldiers, and propped them against trees.
Robert heard one of them shout, “This will stop the Yanks’ shooting so we can get out of here.”
The lull in firing did indeed give the Confederates a moment’s rest. Robert looked around wildly for more troops but could see nothing except the drastically reduced Rebel troops left to face what looked like a sea of Union blue. His own men looked at him with wild eyes. Knowing the blue coats would work their way around their wounded men and resume the onslaught, Robert finally shook his head. He would not sacrifice any more of his men for a futile cause.
“The game is up, men. Retreat!” Robert grabbed his rifle and joined his men as they headed back toward their lines. He would fight hard, but he wouldn’t submit his men to slaughter, especially when it seemed he and his unit were on their own. He hadn’t seen one commanding officer since the firing had begun.
Robert’s troops had been crashing through the vines and brambles for close to thirty minutes when they heard the Rebel yell split the air.
Reinforcements!
Robert’s men stopped in their tracks, hope replacing the defea
t frozen on their faces.
“Push them back, men!” The yell came from a colonel charging forth on his horse, his sword lifted high in the air.
Robert and his men yelled, turned around, and charged back into the smoke. The battle was not over yet!
Moses watched in disbelief as a swarm of Rebels yelling at the tops of their lungs burst from the woods. The Rebels had carried the advantage of an entrenched position yesterday. But now Moses and his men had taken protection within those trenches that Lee’s men had built.
He aimed and fired, watching as gray coats fell in waves across the field. The few shots the Rebels managed to get off flew high while his men and the other units blasted away at point blank range in comparative safety.
Even though Moses prized his men’s success today; it in no way diminished the revulsion he felt at the slaughter spread before him.
“Finish them!”
Moses gripped his rifle, sprang from the protection of the trenches, and charged forward. The blue wave crashing down on the already demoralized Confederates broke the last of the resistance. He watched as the entire line of gray turned and ran, crashing back through the woods they had swarmed through just minutes before.
“We got ‘em!” his men yelled in wild exuberance.
“Look at ‘em run!” another yelled.
Moses understood how they felt after the terrible beating they had taken the day before, but he also suspected this long day had just begun.
Robert stumbled out of the woods into camp, fell onto the ground, and reached for the water someone handed him. He nodded his head, too exhausted for words, and guzzled the liquid.
He didn’t need anyone to tell him things had gone badly, and that the final charge had been nothing but a crazed death wish by someone who believed they could penetrate an impenetrable position. Robert was grateful to be alive but heart-weary to know many of his men were dead or wounded.
