They passed a burial detail.
“They’re hauling them on their stretchers before the bodies are cold,” said the Reb toting the head end of the stretcher. “Stacking them like cords of wood on the borders of the battlefield.”
The man who called Ben Irish wiped his dirty hand across his forehead. “That could have been me.”
Flies riddled dead horses and gnats buzzed in the sodden air. Ben swiped his face, glancing upwards. Vultures hovered in the treetops, looking down at them, eyeing the men on the cots.
Those horses would take a great deal of effort and time to remove. So they’d likely remain for tomorrow’s battle.
The next day dawned bright, with clear blue skies. Breezes came off Culp’s Hill to Cemetery Ridge, whipping up the stench of yesterday’s dead.
Caedmon pulled at the reins. “Easy, boy. So, you want what must come of the day’s battles to be ended, too? ’Tis true. Waiting is more terrible than the battle.”
Bloody charges raged back and forth along Sickles’ line. Ben’s long legged Thoroughbred lapped up the miles to the nest of boulders known as Devil’s Den, then galloped into a peach orchard, the branches heavy with succulent fruit. When death nipped at your heels, food was an unattainable luxury.
“Charge!” Fighting Dick valiantly led the charge. Again and again the men of the Irish Brigade responded. Ben was glad he wasn’t a foot soldier. The cannon shots oftentimes blasted ten men at a time.
Jacob was riding to his left when suddenly that whizzing noise that heralded another cannon ball came toward them. “Duck, Jacob!” Ben sped to the left. The earth shook beneath Caedmon’s feet. Jacob’s bay whinnied. Caedmon neighed back. “Jacob?” No answer. Ben jumped down.
Through the smoke and dirt flying like vultures without wings, Ben blinked and coughed, trying to see through the haze of dust and gunpowder that singed his nose as well as his eyes. He blinked again.
Jacob clawed his way to his horse, holding his stomach. Laying his head on his mare’s rich blood red coat, he sobbed. “She’s hurting, Ben, hurting bad, ain’t she?”
Ben closed his eyes. The mare’s eyes had drawn themselves upwards so all he could see were the whites. Yet, the little mare seemed to know that it would hurt her master to no end if she groaned. She nuzzled Jacob’s head, as if to say good-bye and neighed softly in his ear. Ben drew his revolver.
Jacob held up his gun-powdered hand. “No, she’ll take it better if I does it.”
“You’re gut shot, Jacob, you can’t…”
Jacob pushed himself up on his horse’s neck, his stomach and entrails oozing blood. Ben unfastened his belt, and then his coat. He wrapped his coat around Jacob’s middle and then secured it with his belt. “That should at least keep—”
“Thanks… Ben.”
Why? Why did it always have to end this way?
Jacob lifted the revolver, too heavy for his weak hands to hold, and rested it on his horse’s neck, then fired, hitting her just behind the ear. He crumbled to the ground.
The cannon fire lit the smoke-clogged field strewn with men and horses. A rebel yell split the air. A man on a large chestnut lowered his sword, his hateful eyes gleaming their way into Ben’s. “Thought I killed you at Fredericksburg—”
“You!” Ben lunged, pulling Reynolds down. Ben landed on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs. His gasp was fodder for Reynolds, whose eyes gleamed down at him like a demon’s brimming with malice.
Jesus, give me strength.
Big Jim’s bellow rose above the clamor of guns, the neighs of horses, and screams of the men. Like an outraged bull charging down the field, he hurtled his bulk on Reynolds, lifting him up and throwing him across the bloodied ground. Ben gasped, crawling toward Jacob, feeling for a pulse. Faint, but alive. A bullet whizzed past his ear. He glanced up. Reynolds was stepping over Big Jim, blood oozing from Big Jim’s chest. Big Jim groaned, rolling onto his side, holding his chest.
Reynolds aimed his revolver at Ben’s head.
With his last ounce of strength, Ben lunged, grabbing Reynolds’ legs. Throwing him to the ground, his dad’s face shone before his eyes. Reynolds. He’d killed Ben’s dad and… “Jesus forgive me.” He sank his sword deep, deep, into Reynolds’ chest.
Reynolds gasped. His hands dug into the dirt as if something—someone—was dragging him down. His eyes bulged out, an ear-piercing scream bellowed from his gaping mouth.
“So ya saw the fiery inferno of hell.” Ben shook his head. “And you thought the devil was your friend.”
The morning of the third day, sunlight gleamed through the haze of gun and cannon smoke resting across the valleys like the ghosts of the dearly departed.
Ben stroked his horse’s dapple-gray coat, dark with soot. Caedmon’s proud head drooped to the ground, as if he, too, dreaded the call of the bugle.
The 500 men of the Irish Brigade had been whittled down to 150. Ben’s heart ached for his wounded friends. He closed his eyes and silently prayed Big Jim wouldn’t lose his arm beneath the surgeon’s knife. For Jacob, that he’d find the strength to fight against the gunpowder infection in his stomach and God would miraculously heal him. Both the Confederate and the Union doctors had shaken their heads, saying it didn’t look good. Jesus could bring the dead to life. If it were His will, Jacob would live to be with his wife and children again.
“What be the date?” the red headed Irishman to Ben’s left asked.
“July 3,” Ben replied.
“Tomorrow is America’s Independence Day.”
Fighting Dick whipped his saber in his hand and shouted. “Come on, you rowdy Irishmen, let’s win this war for our land. Let’s show these Americans how the Irish can fight.”
From the medic cots to the rhythm of the tinkling cavalry swords to the bayonets of the foot soldiers, a wail rose and voices sang. “Yes, we’ll rally around the flag boys, we’ll rally once again…”
Ben’s tired bones felt renewed strength, a will beyond flesh, strength beyond mortal. The Irish Brigade raised their voices in unison. “The Union forever, hooray, boys, hooray!” The Irish green, with the Stars and Stripes. “Shouting the battle cry of freedom…”
Fighting Dick was beside him, raising his sword high in the air. “Ok, you fighting Irish… charge!”
Behind stone walls and rocks and trees, the Union infantry opened fire on the Confederate guns. The Irish Brigade hit the enemy on one flank while Custer’s Wolverines hit the other. Caught from all sides, Ben doubted that even a third of the Confederates had survived.
Ben lowered his sword. His arm ached from the three days of fighting. Caedmon stumbled. Discarded guns and sabers littered the ground. The Union had won a sweeping victory.
Chapter 27
M iss Maggie.”
Maggie looked up, shielding her eyes with her hand from the bright sunlight. She cradled freshly picked tomatoes, green beans, and turnips in her apron.
Prudence walked along the rows careful not to step on any of the delicate plants, shuffling her feet in shoes too large for her small feet. Maggie and her household made do with whatever they could obtain—even cutting up their hassocks for the fabric to use to stuff worn out shoes and making their clothes from their curtains and drapes. They had learned resourcefulness. Not wasting a yard of fabric or the thread to darn with.
Prudence clutched a letter to her bosom, then held it out to Maggie to read. It was difficult. Paper was scarce, so letters were used and reused. Between the lines of the first letter Prudence had written her husband, was a woman’s handwriting.
July 11, 1863
Dear Prudence:
Your husband has been gravely shot at the Battle of Gettysburg. Recovery shall be lengthy, if he does recover. He is at New York DeCamp General.
“Miss Maggie, I needs to go to him.”
Ben had written about that horrific three-day battle, about Jacob and Big Jim getting injured, and that he’d killed Reynolds. He asked if she could come up. A small voice whispered
in her ear to go. But what about Father and the duties at Spirit Wind?
Her father lapsed from past to present, his spiraling emotions kept the household in a constant uprising. Still, a trip north might benefit him. Give him less time to ponder about the Old South and help direct his thoughts to a new beginning. Hattie and Ida were capable of handling Little Irene and the household duties. Besides, she didn’t care to have Prudence travel alone.
Eli refused to stay behind, stating it wasn’t right for two women to be traveling alone. Besides Mr. Gatlan needed attending to. The trip by train, with Eli warning them as to how to avoid the gentlemen’s eyes, had Prudence and her covering their mouths. They had been in the Maryville hospital where Confederate and Union men alike cussed and swore about their crawling lice and cramping bowels. Not to mention the amputations and sicknesses they had to nurse.
Father seemed like his old self and the officers had been polite and respectful to him. However, when Maggie told the soldiers they were traveling to New York to visit their husband and sweetheart, Father had been taken aback when she referred to Ben as her sweetheart. Well, it was about time he knew it.
The train stopped with less than a block to go to the hospital. Maggie hesitated before descending the steps. Would Ben be waiting for them? It had seemed ages ago when last she saw him. Had he changed? She didn’t have to wait long.
Captain Ben McConnell, with enough medals on his coat to start his own silver factory, swung her off the high steps amidst the whistles of a dozen soldiers. His red lips smiled broadly beneath a close-clipped black mustache, as did his black eyes, alert, and attentive, remembering as she, that breathless night he had come to her bedroom.
“Mr. Gatlan, sir,” Ben tapped his heals together and saluted him. “So good to see you well and enjoying the sights. If you have time, I would love to show you New York.” Ben’s eyes appraised her.
“Well, that would be nice…” Her father stuttered. “I have never had the opportunity to see New York—”
“Then, I’ll be your guide, sir. I know the ins and outs of the place.” Ben’s crown of victory, his captain’s bars, glistened in the setting sunlight. “But first, let us visit the hospital.”
Big Jim’s grin spread from ear to ear, a cute nurse on either side of his arms. Proudly he displayed the scars of his right arm, showing where the saber had entered his upper right chest. “They thought they’d be takin’ it off. But my Ben’s a scrapper when it comes to prayin’ and fightin’, to be sure. And this being the day of my release.”
Jacob rested his head on three pillows and his cheeks gleamed wet, seeing his wife. “Did you bring the children, too?”
“No, I didn’t, ’cause you need to rest.” Prudence fluffed his pillows, fussing that he looked pale. “Have you been eating regularly?”
“They feed me all kinds of things, to make sure everything is working proper.” Jacob looked from her to Ben. “They worked on me for hours, trying to sort out my innards. They did a powerful good job, ’cause I’m feeling much better.” He lifted Prudence’s hand and kissed it. “When I heard you were comin’, right then and there I knew I had to get better soon or you’d have the willow stick after me.”
“Willow stick?” her father retorted.
Prudence looked up. “He’s just remembering the first time we met. When he told me he was sick and dying and that I better be nice to him instead of tellin’ him to get and quit bothering me… I was thirteen at the time.”
“Well, it’s good to see what ten days’ worth of recuperation has done for you both,” Father said. “I’ll go and see the doctor, perhaps they’ll allow you to recuperate at Spirit Wind beneath the gentle hands of Doctor Jordan.”
“If Ben here hadn’t carried me to the surgeons with all those cannon balls cutting holes in the dirt and the bullets whizzing past our ears, I would have been knocking on St. Peter’s pearly gates.” Jacob said.
“It takes a brave man to do that.” Father patted Ben on the shoulder. “And I am pleased that you have these friends who think highly of you.”
Ben blushed. “Thank you, sir, I think highly of your praises.”
Big Jim joined them on their sightseeing excursion. They headed toward the Bronx. Prudence and Eli stayed with Jacob.
Maggie couldn’t believe the finely clothed women or the suit clad gentlemen all rushing to their jobs as if a war wasn’t even going on. Getting off the streetcar, Ben directed their eyes to where his family first lived and to the town that had sprawled up consisting of a combination of Black and Irish communities. The streetcar pulled to a screeching stop. Ben stepped down first, offering Maggie his hand, his eyes sparkling up at her merrily. Walking down the sidewalk, a line of men as thick as ants storming a picnic basket came walking over the hill, with clubs and sticks.
“Looks like a mob has formed, but what for?” Big Jim muttered.
“Haven’t they done enough fighting in this war?” Ben replied.
As the crowd drew closer, they watched. Her father remained silent.
Three men stopped in front of Ben and Big Jim. “You’d best get your lady out of here if you know what is good for you. Me and my men are tired of working for nothin’, seeing our comrades dying by the hundreds in this rich man’s war.”
Ben placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Give these Americans a little time. You’ll see those ‘no Irish need apply’ signs will soon be taken off the shop windows and the new ones will say, ‘Irish needed.’ Give our Lord time to be changing their hearts and minds.”
The man knocked Ben’s hand off his shoulder. “I’m tired of seeing the want in the faces of our women and children crying for their husbands and fathers. They’ve treated us unfairly and this last law proves it. These people of color sit back, grabbing all the jobs and growing in numbers while we fight and die in their war.” He banged his club in the palm of his hand, eyeing two men who had just come out of a building.
“Don’t, friend. You’ll be killin’ all the good us Irish have accomplished. Don’t allow Satan to get the best of ya.”
“I’m not your friend if you can’t see the truth. Those that takes, takes, and those that gives, gives, and that goes on for generations. I’m tired of giving to the takers and only have the grave be my resting spot.” They pushed their way past Ben and Big Jim, storming the houses.
Ben swiped his hand across his face and groaned. “’Twasn’t meant to be. Irish, a respected and honored nationality. To be proper American citizens, wealthy in spirit and prosperity. Oh, why can’t God be given us a little help?”
Maggie’s hopes had been crushed with Ben’s, seeing her father’s aghast expression. She knew that look well. Father would tell her Ben, being Irish, was undesirable and not worthy of her attention. Evidently, Ben saw the same horror in her father’s eyes.
He took her hand, the deep crevices of his face ashen in color. “Maggie my lass, I’ll always be a dirty Irishman unfit for the likes of you. Go home.” He hailed a streetcar and ushered them aboard. Then he kissed her hand. She had never seen him so sad, the look of defeat clouding his vision. “Take Jacob with ya. Big Jim and I have our work cut out for us here, mending the mess these rioting Irish have caused.” He jumped off the train and ran toward the rioting men.
“All aboard,” the conductor yelled. The clang of the bell echoed a shrill good-bye; her eyes were glued on the site outside the trolley car. Two colored men exited their house. The mob grabbed them. Another man lifted his torch to the building. Ben yelled and grabbed the man’s arm. Big Jim followed. The men swarmed them like angry hornets. Maggie clutched her throat and gasped. What could Ben and Big Jim do against an angry mob?
“Ben!” That was the last Maggie could see. She reached for the cord that would stop the street car… her father pulled her arm down. “This is not your fight, daughter. It’s Ben’s and his Irish ruffians.” Father clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I should have known something like this would happen. I’m just glad you’re not mar
ried to that barbarian.”
The fighting, ransacking, and burning continued for five days. Ben and Big Jim landed back in the hospital, with more knife wounds, cuts, and bruises than fighting in Gettysburg had given them. The federal troops had been called in and 120 people had died. The Irish Brigade was disbanded. Once their wounds were healed, Ben and Big Jim were reassigned to Grant’s cavalry.
“It’ll be alright, Ben, my boy. We’ve chewed enough leather with them to be knowing them.”
The months galloped by and Grant’s men accepted them. It helped when four more cavalrymen from the former Irish Brigade joined them. Grant respected them all.
“You men have made a reputation for yourselves, and I’d like to continue calling you the fighting Irish.” Grant shook their hands with exuberance. And that exuberance rubbed off on them.
They ate together, shared the same dirt together, and sang the same songs. Ben and the boys taught them their Irish songs and they taught them theirs.
At last a sunny November 19 offered the soldiers a chance to sit back and rest and listen to the ceremony dedicating the battlefield at Gettysburg as a national cemetery. Ben couldn’t help remembering the last time he heard Lincoln speak during his Inaugural ceremonies and Maggie’s beautiful face peeked into his mind.
She’d written him. But he hadn’t opened her letters. Instead, he’d see that look of utter disgust spread across Mr. Gatlan’s face. How could Ben erase such complete revulsion?
“Finally, they’re going to let Lincoln speak.” Big Jim elbowed him in the ribs. “The old wind bag before him most likely gave everyone itchy ears.”
Swept into Destiny Page 22
