Jack fell silent. The men did not cheer him, or hoot with glee as he finished his own tale. But he saw something shift in their gaze as they confronted their fear.
Tomorrow they would likely go into battle. The time for bravado, for dreaming of glory, would be done. It would be time to fight.
Centreville, Virginia, Thursday 18 July 1861
The men marched behind the regiment’s colours for the first time. During the long march from Washington, the flags had been left encased in their leather sheaths, their splendour hidden until the enemy was close by. Now that the troops were advancing on that enemy, Scanlon had ordered that the colours be unfurled.
The column had marched early that morning. No great pace was set, the men allowed to rest frequently, as if the generals knew their strength had to be carefully husbanded lest it wither completely. They had covered the first few miles in good spirits, the bandsmen playing the men’s favourite patriotic tunes to boost their morale. Now they marched in silence, the only sounds the thump of thousands of boots hitting the ground and the noise of equipment clattering and jangling.
Unlike an English regiment, the 1st Boston marched behind three colours: the national flag, the state ensign of Massachusetts and an Irish flag that had been given to them a few weeks before by the Governor, who had arrived at Emmart’s Farm to present it to all of the Boston Irish regiments. The great silk square was green, with the American coat of arms of an eagle with shield in the centre, along with a phrase picked out in gold thread:
THY SONS BY ADOPTION
THE FIRM SUPPORTERS AND DEFENDERS
FROM
DUTY AFFECTION AND CHOICE
On the reverse, an Irish harp was surmounted by thirty-four stars and surrounded by a wreath of shamrocks. Over the harp was the legend:
As aliens and strangers thou didst us befriend
As sons and true patriots we do thee defend
Below the harp were two wolf dogs and another motto:
Gentle when stroked
Fierce when provoked
Underneath was the national motto: THE UNION MUST AND SHALL BE PRESERVED.
The Irishmen in the regiment had been moved by the presentation. Now the colour served to remind them why they were there; the solemn oath they had taken and against which they would now be judged.
‘Company! Halt!’
The order rippled down the column as each company’s first sergeant ordered the men to a stand. Jack could feel the anticipation in the air as if it were a physical thing.
‘A Company! Company, fix bayonets!’
The air was filled with the scraping sound of bayonets being withdrawn from their scabbards, followed by a hundred resolute clicks as the men locked them in place on the barrels of their already loaded rifles.
The officers drew their swords. Jack hefted the weight of his own blade in his hand. It felt too light, cheap even. It was standard issue, the curved sabre made by the thousand. Most of the officers carried their own swords, gifts from proud family or friends. Jack’s blade was inexpensive and lacked the decoration of many of the other swords, but he reckoned it would be enough to kill a man. It would do the job for which it was intended.
With the sun glinting off the steel of a thousand blades, the regiment resumed the march. They advanced through Centreville, the road rutted and littered with rocks and boulders. There were no crowds waiting to greet them this day, and the streets were not decked out with the bright red, white and blue of patriotic bunting. This was no parade. No grand celebration. The men marched through an empty town, the windows and doors of the stone buildings lining the street shuttered and barred, the streets themselves deserted.
They pushed on, advancing to the crest of a hill on the far side of town. The ground to their front opened out until the men looked across a well-wooded river valley. The river, the Bull Run, meandered through the centre of the valley, its pace gentle as it wound its way to a series of hills out to the west. It was no raging torrent, and in at least two places the water looked shallow enough for the men to ford it without too much difficulty.
The slopes leading down to the river were for the most part clear and open terrain, the ground covered in long grass that washed back and forth in the gentle breeze. In places, patches of woodland broke up the pastoral scene. It was a beautiful sight, the kind that would have some reaching for a paintbrush and canvas.
But not on that day.
‘There they are!’ The shout came from the men in the leading ranks.
Jack was marching on the right of the company, and it took him a moment to see what had inspired the cry that had every man twisting and turning his head to get a glimpse of what lay ahead. He saw the river easily enough. Then he saw the enemy.
The Confederate army lined the far slope of the valley. It stretched for what had to be miles in either direction, the enemy standing in great long lines facing the river.
‘There they are!’ The call was repeated from man to man. This was the company’s first sighting of those they would fight. Jack looked at the troops to his left. He saw a range of emotions displayed on their faces: curiosity, expectation, excitement and dread, the conflicting feelings of soldiers facing the enemy for the first time.
Scanlon gave the order for the 1st Boston to deploy into line, an instruction that was repeated by the regiment’s drummers so that even the men at the far reaches of the column could be certain what they had been ordered to do. They obeyed readily enough. A Company wheeled to the right, then marched to take their place on the right flank of the regiment’s line. The men knew the drill well, and the manoeuvre was completed with little fuss, even though most of the men stared at the enemy on the far side of the river the whole time.
Rowell moved to his place on the right of the front line, whilst Jack, Robert and O’Connell formed a third rank behind the men. The regiment’s colours took up their place front and centre, whilst Bridges took station behind the left half of the regiment and Scanlon behind the right half. The bandsmen formed up behind the centre.
Within the span of a few minutes, the regiment was re-formed and facing the river, the ten companies stretched out in a long two-man-deep line. Other regiments arrived, deploying on either side of the 1st Boston. The men in the grey uniforms of the 1st Massachusetts Volunteer Militia were on the regiment’s left. There were a few jeers and insults thrown between the two flank companies ordered to stand next to one another, but the sight of the enemy was too thrilling to allow even the long-standing rivalry to spoil the atmosphere. Within the span of an hour, the bulk of Brigadier General Tyler’s division had formed up on the gentle slopes of the river valley, the men primed and ready to start the battle that had been anticipated for so long.
And there they all stayed.
If the men had expected anything more dramatic, they were to be disappointed. With the manoeuvre complete, the regiment was left to stand in the sun, the men sweating freely under their heavy uniforms. The excitement of glimpsing the enemy palled, and any murmured conversation died away as the troops quickly tired of doing nothing. They stood in silence, fidgeting under their heavy knapsacks.
Jack could not help smiling as he saw the shift in the men’s emotions. Excitement and a heady rush of fear quickly gave way to boredom. He spotted Major Bridges walking along the rear rank, chatting to the men, checking they were ready should any orders arrive. When the major reached A Company, he paused for a short conversation with O’Dowd and his cronies before moving towards Jack.
‘Good morning, Lieutenant.’ He greeted Jack warmly enough. They had not spoken much since Jack’s altercation with Captain Rowell, and Jack had been concerned that Bridges would treat him coldly. He was relieved to hear a friendly tone.
‘Good morning, sir.’ He returned the greeting. ‘Any new orders?’
Bridges came closer. He walked with hi
s hands clasped behind his back, as if on a pleasant Sunday stroll rather than on ground that could soon be a battlefield. ‘No. We will wait here for the rest of the army. Tyler has no orders for an advance. This is just a reconnaissance to see if there is a chance of turning the enemy’s right flank.’
‘I see.’ Jack understood well enough. The Union army was strung out over miles of countryside. McDowell would need to concentrate his forces before he could launch a large-scale attack. The men might not like it, but they were in for a tiresome day.
‘Have you made your peace with Rowell?’ Bridges asked the question quietly so that the men in the ranks nearby could not hear it.
‘No.’ Jack saw a hint of disapproval flicker across Bridges’ face. ‘But I will.’ He glanced across to Rowell’s station on the right flank of the company. The captain had walked a short distance from the men and was now inspecting the enemy positions through a pair of field glasses.
‘Ethan is a good man.’ Bridges too looked across at A Company’s captain. ‘But he will need your help. He won’t ask for it, but he will need it.’
Jack sighed. He had not treated Rowell well. The man might be a difficult prig, but he was not an ogre, or a bully, just a mix of the bitter and the sweet, like any other. ‘He can have it. For what it’s worth.’
Bridges shook his head. ‘Now you are being modest.’
Jack could not help smiling. ‘Am I not always modest?’
‘No, Jack, I do not think anyone could call you that. But you are honest, and you do not hold back. I think those are traits we will sorely need in the coming days. We will need you, Jack. More than any of us would ever dare admit.’
Jack heard the praise in the words. It meant a great deal. ‘I won’t let you down, sir.’ He had to pause to clear his throat. ‘I’ll even shake Rowell’s hand.’
Bridges nodded. ‘Thank you, Jack.’
Jack said nothing more as Bridges moved back to his place behind the regiment. Yet he felt his determination harden. He was a soldier. He could not let petty disputes prevent him from doing what he did best.
It would soon be time to show the men of the 1st Boston what he was made of. It would be time to be the leader they so sorely needed.
‘Now that’s more like it.’ First Sergeant O’Connell had seen something of interest. Jack turned. Two heavy cannon were being brought forward.
‘Good grief!’ Robert had wandered closer, the notion of staying in his allotted position anathema to him. ‘What the devil are those things?’
Jack understood his reaction. The cannon were easily the largest field guns he had ever seen. ‘Do you know what they are, O’Connell?’
The first sergeant shrugged. ‘Twenty-pounders? Whatever the feck they are, they should at least liven things up a little.’
The gun crews were very aware that they were now the centre of attention. The two teams of horses that had brought each of the guns forward were detached and taken to the rear. The gunners had dismounted and now fussed around each gun. They seemed to be in no great hurry. The day was warm and sunshine flooded the valley. The clement weather added a carnival feel to the proceedings, the two cannons and their teams the entertainment laid on to divert the thousands of soldiers from what lay ahead.
Eventually the gun teams were ready. Jack could just about make out the shouted orders that had the artillerymen scrambling to take up their positions.
‘Fire!’
Thousands of Union soldiers drew breath as one. First one, then the other cannon fired, the dull boom echoing down the valley. Boredom was forgotten as every set of eyes turned to the far bank. Men held their breath, the expectation growing as they waited for the great explosions as those first two shots smashed into the enemy.
The groan of disappointment was clearly audible.
‘Where did they go?’ Robert was standing on tiptoe in an attempt to see over the heads of the men to his front.
Jack laughed at the expression on his fellow lieutenant’s face. He himself was taller than most and could just about make out a smudge on the ground close to one of the enemy formations that he reckoned was a mound of churned-up earth.
‘Did they miss?’ Robert glanced across. ‘What did they hit?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ Robert’s disappointment was clear.
The guns fired for a second time. The two dull thumps echoed out, but this time no one cheered. The men still peered at the far bank, but again there was nothing to see, the heavy shells burying themselves deep in the soft ground.
The Union artillerymen did at least stir their Confederate brethren into action. A battery of enemy cannon returned fire. Jack saw the cloud of powder smoke a moment before he heard the dull crump of their firing. The enemy guns sounded different, the cannon of a lighter calibre than the monstrous guns the Union army had brought into play, but their effect was just the same.
For the next thirty minutes, both sides flung shells at one another. One of the Union shells hit the ground a dozen yards away from one of the Confederate units. It was close enough to shower a few of the men with clods of earth, something that drew a few ironic cheers from the watching Union troops. Otherwise the gunners of both sides had no effect, wasting their sweat in a futile bombardment.
‘You think we are going to move any time soon?’ Robert wandered close to Jack’s station, swishing his sword at some nettles.
Jack had long since sheathed his own sabre. ‘I think we are about to find out.’ He nodded towards the centre of the regiment. A courier had arrived and dismounted before running towards Colonel Scanlon. There was urgency in his movements; a sudden injection of hustle to disturb what had been turning into a soporific morning.
‘Come on.’ Jack urged Robert to accompany him, and together the pair bounded towards Scanlon’s position behind the right-hand half of the regiment. Other officers were doing the same. They came into earshot to hear Scanlon snapping at the young courier.
‘Repeat my orders, if you please.’
‘Colonel, you will send two companies forward. Two companies from the 1st Massachusetts will march on your left.’
Scanlon looked like he was being forced to chew on a turd. He looked down at the scrap of paper the courier had given him, scanning the words as if unable to believe what he was reading. ‘Tyler has no orders to engage.’ He looked up from the paper and thrust his red beard forward, his face colouring with building anger.
‘Goddammit, Colonel, you are to advance on the enemy!’ The courier, a lieutenant, threw his arm out and pointed at the army on the far side of the river.
For a moment, Jack thought Scanlon would strike the young officer. His mouth chewed furiously, then he turned on his heel, the precious scrap of paper pushed deep into a pocket.
Orders were being forgotten and carefully constructed plans ignored. Four infantry companies from Massachusetts were about to get the war started all by themselves.
The two flank companies from the 1st Boston advanced down the slope. There was a patch of woodland directly to their front, and it did not take long for the men to lose sight of the enemy on the far bank of the river.
Jack kept to his station behind the rear ranks. He had not bothered to draw his sword for a second time. He doubted there would be any hand-to-hand fighting that day. He had expected Rowell, or Captain Thompson, the commander of K Company, to order the men into a skirmish line, but the order never came and so they advanced down the slope in a regular two-man-deep line.
The companies pushed on. They entered the woods, the air within cooler than the sunlit slopes behind. Their ranks broke up as the men moved through the trees. There was nothing to be done save press on, which they did with little direction from their officers. If they were fearful of what they would see on the far side of the wood, there was no showing it in the rapid pace of the a
dvance.
It was pleasant under the trees, the damp, sweet aroma of a wood in summer enough to dull the smell of sweat. The canopy shaded Jack from the sun and the noise of the breeze rustling through the branches whispered calmly overhead. It was tempting to stay here, out of the sun and away from whatever lay ahead. But it was also tempting to push on, to find the enemy and fight. It was nearly time.
The blue-coated soldiers were moving more quickly now, their rifles held across their fronts and their equipment clattering and bouncing. They emerged into bright light and the heat of the sun. They were now a good few hundred yards down the slope, and the waters of the Bull Run river were ahead. As were the enemy.
Confederate skirmishers lined the slope above the river. They were spread thin, the ranks, if they could be called that, so dispersed that they looked more like bystanders than any fighting unit. Some kneeled and a few were even lying down. All held firearms aimed at the Union ranks emerging from the treeline.
At last Jack was able to get a good look at the enemy. They were dressed in a smart grey uniform, with white crossbelts and a tall, black shako topped with a stubby, white plume. To his eye it looked dreadfully similar to the uniform worn by 1st Massachusetts, the regiment on the 1st Boston’s flank.
Even as he studied them, the confederate skirmishers opened fire.
It was a ragged effort. He saw the telltale puffs of smoke emerge from the enemy gun barrels a heartbeat before the roar of the volley reached his ears. He could not help flinching, the air suddenly full of the familiar whip-crack of bullets. Around him, most of the men threw themselves to the ground, their cries of alarm loud in the aftermath of the enemy volley.
‘What the hell was that?’ A man to Jack’s front rolled onto his side as he called out, his expression betraying a mixture of shock and uncomprehending fear.
‘Get to your bloody feet!’ As Jack shouted his first order, he felt something stir deep in his gut. It had been an age since he had been under fire. The ragged volley had awoken a part of him that had lain dormant. It was not fear. It was not horror at what lay ahead. It was excitement.
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