A Rainbow of Blood: The Union in Peril an Alternate History

by Peter G. Tsouras

  "Load!" shouted the gun captain. A loader put the ammunition into the hopper. The gunner began to turn the crank to feed the cartridges into the revolving cylinder. In turn, the cylinder fed the first cartridge into the chamber. The gunner looked at the gun captain. "Fire," he said. The crank turned, struck the firing cap, and the first bullet shot from the barrel. The next turn of the crank ejected the cartridge case and fed another bullet into the chamber. To the ear it was, "click-bang, clickbang, click bang."5 That first bullet went straight into the clustered Rebel gunners. Now the gunner rotated the crank faster and faster, until the click-bang blurred into the sound of a high-speed machine hammer. He only stopped when there were no more men standing by the gun. He swiveled the barrel left to take another gun crew under fire. He stitched the stream of bullets first into the enemy gunner, who had just pulled the lanyard back to fire the gun. The gunner's arm went slack as the bullets disintegrated his head. The gun captain rushed over to pick up the lanyard but walked into the bullet stream and was knocked over the gun traces. Only the men quick enough to throw themselves behind the barricade survived.6

  By now, three other coffee mill guns were in action, sweeping the riflemen from their firing positions behind the barricade. The Tar Heels' first rank simply melted away as the guns swept back and forth, throwing the dead and wounded, struck in the upper chest or head, back into the second rank. The survivors fell to the ground and huddled behind the barricade, shocked by the speed and violence of the assault. These were veterans, but they had never seen such a storm of bullets. It was the moment Tappen had been waiting for. The sword rasped from his scabbard. The men who had been kneeling behind the houses now jumped to their feet. He led them in a run in a column of companies. Not a man fell to enemy fire as they closed the distance. The first rank easily topped the barricade and jumped down inside. The struggle was short.'

  Lincoln looked carefully around the building to see the Rebel prisoners being double-timed out of the barricade and rushed up 14th Street under guard to get them out of the way of temptation before they recovered from their shock. The New Yorkers dragged the guns back through the barricade to their original positions to defend the bridge. The coffee mill gun crews on signal rushed their pieces down to the barricade and lined it from end to end next to the cannons. Wagons rushed up to unload boxes of ammunition to be stacked next to each gun. Sharpe stood on the barricade and looked down the bridge at the Confederate battle flags filling the first half of the bridge. They seemed to be rushing forward on the crest of a human wave. Tappen put four companies behind the guns and three on either side of the bridge to fire laterally into it.

  Lincoln was the last to come forward, his big stride comically constrained by his guards whom he topped by at least two heads. He came up to Sharpe, his stovepipe hat towering higher than anything but the colors posted behind them. The breeze to the south gently unfurled the national flag. Someone shouted, "Here they come!"8

  FORT RUNYON, VIRGINIA SIDE OF THE WASHINGTON DEFENSES, 11:15 Ann, OCTOBER 28, 1863

  From the fort's battered observation tower, Lee and his staff had the grandest view of Early's division surging onto the Long Bridge, their red battle flags waving aggressively above the tight-packed columns. A horseman whipped his lathered animal through the broken gates, shouting, "Where is General Lee? Where is General Lee?" Lee put down his glasses to watch the young cavalry courier take the steps two at a time onto the platform. He could not be more than sixteen, the peach-fuzz bloom of early Southern chivalrous manhood on him, despite the sweat and dirt and the ragged uniform.

  "Sir!" he saluted. "Message from General Stuart." Suddenly, he realized that he truly was in the presence of Lee. He could not have been more transfixed if he had been in front of Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates.

  "Yes, my boy?" Lee said gently.

  The boy came to life suddenly. "'Hurry, for God's sake, hurry! Meade is pressing me hard at Reston.' Those were General Stuart's exact words just as he told me to say them, General Lee."

  LINLITHGO MILLS, NEW YORK, 11:12 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863

  Colonel Gates pushed his little column on. They were now only a half dozen miles away from the rumble of the battle ahead and were about to enter it sooner than expected. In the orchard ahead, through which the road ran with Bell Pond to the right, thirty men with nickeled helmets were deployed, their carbines sighted on the head of the column. Denison's men had slipped around the battle to intercept and slow down any reinforcements. Their mission was to fire on any enemy column, force it to deploy, fall back to the next position, and repeat the process. The Canadian cavalry commander had not hesitated to disregard Lord Paulet's orders to pull his men back. His close study of cavalry tactics in the American war had convinced him that he was right. Besides, he had always cherished the saying, "It is easier to beg forgiveness than seek permission."9

  Denison's tactics were sound, but he had not taken into account that the American infantry had learned a thing or two. Gates had just turned his horse to ride back down the column when the Canadian volley struck the color guard at the head of his column; his own horse went down, spilling him over the muddy the ground. His lieutenant colonel's horse was also down, but Jacob Hardenhurgh leaped off in time to land on his feet. He scooped up the fallen colors, passed them to eager hands, and gave the orders he had given countless time in training, "Skirmish ers, forward!" The two lead companies broke to the right and left and, deployed in open order, advanced quickly in an arc meant to pierce the orchard at either end and close inward.

  Hardenhurgh ran over to Gates and helped him to his feet. "Just like old times, Colonel."

  Gates tried to wipe some of the mud off, thinking ahead. "Whoever is shooting at us will slow us down no matter how fast we push them." He turned to look back at the rest of the companies advancing in column behind the skirmishers. "Take command of the cadets. They're young and quick. Take them to the left at the run and get around these fellows. Take them in the rear if you can. If you can't, press on and report to Hooker. Get those boys into the fight."

  CLAVERACK, NEW YORK, 11:25 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863

  On the field at Claverack that morning, no one had to announce that the British were coming. Their advancing red line, relieved by the green of the Imperial and Canadian Rifles, which so mesmerized the Union infantry, was quickly accompanied by the roar of the Royal Artillery's Armstrong batteries. It was little comfort to the XII Corps men that only three of four guns were still firing after the first ten minutes. Improperly sealed breeches had blown back in the heat of combat, but the fire of the rest was worse than anything the Americans had ever faced-rapid, accurate, and lethal. Before the first Imperial and Canadian skirmishers splashed across the shallow water of the creek, the ranks of XII Corps had been savaged. Even the veterans were shaken by their casualties, while the replacements were wide-eyed with terror. Yet their ranks closed up.

  They watched the enemy's lines sweep down to the creek bank, wade through the water to their knees, and mount the near bank. That was the signal. As soon as they stepped out onto the bank, a burst of fire from the American ranks at four hundred yards struck them. Bodies pitched forward or fell back down the bank to roll in the water. They dressed their ranks and moved on toward the Americans, who were now firing at will. It was a deadly irony that many of the Americans were killing Imperial and Canadian troops with the fine Enfield rifle eagerly sold to the Union and Confederacy alike by the merchants of London and Manchester.

  The American gunners were throwing case shot - tin cans of large iron balls-into them at this range, sweeping away whole sections. The Imperial battalions simply closed up without losing a moment. For the Canadians, this was their first time facing serious danger. Raiding Hudson Valley river ports had not prepared them for this awful baptism. It took longer for their inexperienced officers and NCOs to rally their ranks and get them moving forward again, but move they did. From his vantage point in the rear, Paulet and his staff were encouraged by how well t
he Canadian battalions were behaving their first time under fire. The Canadian officers on his staff, sensitive to any hint of condescension, were buoyed by Paulet's praise. Indeed, it was a praiseworthy performance for green troops to cross that beaten zone with such cohesion.

  But by the time the attacking battalions had closed to within two hundred yards, they began to disappear into roiling clouds of blackpowder smoke hanging in the still, misting air. The only evidence of their existence was the trail of green- and red-coated dead and wounded marking their advance and their colors waving through rents in the smoke clouds. From within the cloud, the noise of gunfire intensified like the rattle of hail on a metal roof; the guns had fallen silent for lack of targets.

  The Imperial and Canadian battalions halted individually to return fire for the first time. Their volley fire coming through the smoke cut into the American regiments, which had been on the giving end of mayhem so far. Within the cloud, men were now firing at will at only the most fleeting of targets, glimpses of scarlet, green, or blue uniforms and flash of the enemy's muskets. Most fired level into where the enemy's fire appeared to come from.10

  Regardless of the uniform, the same scenes were shared by every man with a rifle on that field. A soldier reached into his cartridge box and pulled out a paper cartridge. He tore it open with his teeth, smearing his face with the powder, and with a hand steady or not, he poured it down the barrel held in front of him, its butt on the ground, followed by the bullet at the bottom of the cartridge. Next he extracted the ramrod from its groove under the rifle and rammed the bullet down the barrel with his right arm to form a tight seal. It was the right forearm so often raised in the air that accounted for the single largest number of wounds in this war. He then took a copper cap from his cap box and fitted it over the nipple of the breech and cocked his piece. Then he raised it to aim down primitive sights and fired. He could repeat this entire process two or even three times a minute, but all too often he fired high or wide or just kept on reloading without firing until his weapon was useless or exploded when finally fired. Green troops made these mistakes frequently but veterans were not immune. On the field of Gettysburg, thousands of rifles were recovered with multiple bullets rammed down their barrels.

  Men would later say that it was Lundy's Lane all over again-the brutal toe-to-toe slugging match between a British regulars and Canadian militia on one hand and American regulars and militia on the other during the U.S. invasion of Ontario in the War of 1812. Claverack was just that sort of fight from which neither side would budge "

  The red battalions inched forward, and the Canadians lost much of their cohesion in the smoke for want of that instinct of men long accustomed to drilling, marching, and fighting in a formation. But it bespoke no loss of aggressiveness. Where the red and blue lines suddenly revealed themselves to each other at arm's length, bayonets and rifle butts stabbed and were swung in screaming blurs until the smoke closed in on them again. The innate stubbornness of the English-speaking fighting man was aroused and bloody-minded that day, locked in an endless frenzy made surreal by the cloaking, bitter smoke. It did not help that almost everyone on that field, save for the French Canadians, spoke the same language.

  Although Hooker and Paulet were a study in contrasts, they both grasped the essential and decisive role of the commander in battle -the allocation of the reserve. Paulet felt the pressure to make this decision coming from two directions at the same time. His right-hand brigade had been half broken by the attack of Ireland's New York brigade, and now Geary's 2nd Brigade was attacking. The 15th Foot and a few surviving Canadian companies could not hold out long against the vengeful New York regiments who had tasted blood. If they went under, Geary's whole division would roll up Paulet's main line locked in its slugging match with the rest of Hooker's men. It was there across the creek that the main fight was frozen in stalemate. Only the commitment of the Guards in reserve could upset that bloody balance.

  The two thousand Guardsmen stood silently in their ranks. They were big, powerful men, the very personification of regimental confi dence, and afflicted with a large dose of arrogance. Anything but victory was incomprehensible, and they fully expected to be the ones to clinch it. Yet even these men could not be in two places at once. And that was Paulet's dilemma-shore up his right or throw the dice for a decisive win on the left and center. He was discovering another example of the barb in most military aphorisms, such as the commander's chief role in battle was the allocation of the reserve. The aphorism was simple; its practical application was something else.

  It seemed to Wolseley that Paulet was taking entirely too long to make up his mind as the Borderers melted away, refusing to take a step backward to save themselves. The Borderers had been his father's regiment. As a child, he had come to revere it through his father's stories.12 It was tearing at him to see it slowly dying, but he knew they could not hold forever, certainly not as long as Paulet was taking to make up his mind. "My Lord," he said. "May I suggest that the Scots Fusilier Guards would be most useful on the right at this moment."

  A look of relief came over Paulet's face. "Very well, Wolseley. Would you be good enough to inform General Lindsay?" Paulet had suddenly realized the relief that comes when someone else makes the decision that has baffled you. It was also a way to get rid of Wolseley and his baleful eye. He would have elaborated on his instruction, but Wolseley was already galloping across the field to the Guards.

  He found Maj. Gen. Sir James Lindsay conferring with his battalion commanders. They all nodded coolly to him. Pearson of the Dandies was a particular snob who had not let Wolseley's rising star in the Army caution his disdain. In happy contrast, the colonel of the Scots Fusiliers Guards, Lt. Col. William Scarlett, Lord Ahinger, was pleased beyond measure at his orders. He had smarted badly over the loss of a company on the Cold Spring raid -an endless stream of salt rubbed into him by the fact that it had been at the hands of that Fenian rabble. He turned his horse and trotted over to his command. "The battalion will fix bayonets!"

  The bagpipes skirled "Blue Bonnets Over the Border" as the Fusiliers advanced on line to the rescue of the Borderers. Wolseley rode with them and was glad to see that he did not have to encourage Lieutenant Colonel Scarlett to move out quickly.13 The tension among the Fusiliers had been immense. They had had to watch their regiment's 2nd Battalion go off to glory in the Crimea. This would be their baptism by fire, as much as that of the Canadian militia battalions. But they were fighting men whose lineage went back to their establishment as the 3rd Foot Guards in 1661. They knew the consequence of taking the Queen's shilling. More important, the eyes of the regiment, alive and dead for two centuries, were on them. This was the test of who they were.

  Ahead of them, the Borderers and Canadians had shrunk to a band around their colors as Geary committed his 2nd Brigade to relieve the Ireland's New Yorkers. Col. Charles Candy led his Ohio and Pennsylvania regiments to cross the creek and overwhelm the remnants of the Borderers. The fame of being the first American commander to take British colors in this war got the better of him. He was too intent on that shrunken band of Borderers to see doom marching through the drifting powder smoke or hear the keening of the pipes above the rattle of fire. Candy's men were just beginning to descend the embankment of the creek when the Fusiliers emerged from the apple trees on the other side. A sheet of flame from almost five hundred rifles shot over the creek, catching the Americans in disorder. The second rank fired. At that range, it was sheer slaughter. The Fusiliers did not stop to watch, but reloaded and fired again. Scarlett shouted, "The Fusiliers will advance!" The regiment leveled bayonets and stepped down into the smoky creek bed, water up to their calves. Only as they waded across did they discover what they had done. Bodies clogged the water, which ran red to pink, piled on each other, spilling down the gentle slope on the other side. The Fusiliers topped the slope and moved forward over more bodies and out of the smoke to see the survivors stumbling back the way they had come. The right was saved 14
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  STOTTVILLE, NEW YORK, 11:30 A.M., OCTOBER 28, 1863

  Lt. Col. Otto Heraus sucked in his breath as the 2nd New York "Harris Light" Cavalry topped the hill overlooking Stottville from the north. It was rare sight-a burning town in the middle of a raging battle. Laid out below were the enemy reserve companies and two batteries of guns firing into the town. From the look of it, Meagher was not having things all his own way. Hooker had detached Heraus's regiment from Kilpatrick's 1st Brigade and given it to Meagher, "To help you on your way, Tom. I should have had the good sense to keep my cavalry close at Chancellorsville instead of sending them off on that fool's errand halfway to Richmond. They should have been there to secure the roads through that damned jungle for my infantry."

  Meagher had had the good sense to keep them close as well and not let them prance off into the distance where they would not be at hand. His last command to Heraus as he rushed off to the fight in the town was to circle around from the north. "See what mischief you can do. Use your own judgment, but get into this fight." And the 2nd New York was capable of no little mischief; they prided themselves for having kept General Stuart off the army's back at Gettysburg. Recruited from around Yaphank in Suffolk County, about fifty miles east of New York City, they were not Upstate men, but they felt the violation of New York nonetheless.

  Heraus drew the regiment, all 347 men, in two lines and descended at a trot for the row of twelve enemy guns. It would be close work. It had been a war in which the saber had given way to the pistol and the carbine. But now it was cold steel time. At three hundred yards, the trot became a gallop. At one hundred yards, the sabers fell from shoulders to point as the men leaned forward in their saddles and their horses' hooves tore up the pasture grass. The British gunners had not noticed the approaching tide until they were within thirty yards, so intent were they on serving their guns.