“Plenty of men in this war,” he said, patting his mount’s flanks.
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Hogan said, turning. “I meant in this type of war. The irregular type. Ones without big armies and cannons. Ones that are more secret if you will.”
“You mean like something the Bureau of Military Information would be interested in?”
Hogan’s smile became fierce. “Exactly.” His voice changed to a Southern drawl. “Actions behind enemy lines.”
Wolf straightened his reins and tugged his knee brace upward. The damn thing always seemed to slip down his pant leg. Sarah dug her face into the river water, hardly stopping between laps to swallow. “I’m interested in a long career in the army. One could say I finally found something I’m good at.”
“You mean you finally found something you could do.”
“I suppose that’s why I’m good at it.”
A sharp whistle came from down the riverbanks, drawing their immediate gaze. The head of every man in the party went upright. Hands went to pistols and carbines. Most stood motionless, their eyes surveilling from left to right. They knew danger came with movement.
Wolf gazed down the line of men and horses. George and James had all but disappeared into the undergrowth, long rifles to their shoulders. Skinner was all together missing.
They could hear the roll of wagon wheels over dirt, the clink of horses’ harnesses, and the intermediate flick of a whip upon horse flesh. A man called out, “Get up,” every now and again, his voice muffled by the layers of trees.
A team of horses pulling a wagon behind them emerged through the timber. The wagon brimmed with stacked boxes. The driver wore a faded gray rebel coat and a brown wide-brimmed hat that was folded in the front. Behind him, clopped another team. They didn’t stop at the sight of the raiders but pressed on, the teamsters driving into the river.
The horses splashed into the water, high-stepping in the shallows. As they ventured further into the river, the horses’ legs chopped the flowing currents. Water pressed dangerously upon the wagon.
The driver flicked his whip, and it hissed in the air. “Come on now!” The horses continued to strain against their harnesses, but the wagon was too heavy, bogging down into the muddy river bottom. He whisked his whip, biting at the backs of his team. Standing half-way up, he tried to get a better view while keeping his balance. Noticing the riders, he shaded his eyes before he shouted, “Could you give us a hand?”
Wolf exchanged a glance with Hogan and Roberts. “What’re they hollerin’ about?” Roberts asked.
“They’re stuck and want our help,” Wolf said.
Nelson frowned. “We should tip ‘em.”
“Prolly taking something to the rebs,” Hogan said.
Water rushed around the wagon, and the horses screamed, the terror of being hitched and stuck in the water spooking them. The teamster whipped them again. “Get on now.”
“What do you want to do, Lieutenant?” Hogan asked.
It was comforting for a soldier to know his very own sharpshooters had sights on the enemy. With the tiniest of gestures, he could have the drivers shot and they could burn whatever was in the wagons or let the river take it. Then again, terrorizing behind Lee’s lines while appealing would only lead to a hunting before they wanted one.
If they failed at their primary task, then not much would matter. They’d be no better than some ineffectual ill-fated raid. They’d probably be dogged like Dahlgren through Virginia until someone like Pollard devised an ambush for them in an unnamed forest near a small village. No, all was for naught without completing their primary mission.
“Help them across. Hogan, you do the talking. Your fancy Southern bit.”
“Be a pleasure, sir,” Hogan drawled.
His men mounted, pushing out into the ford that should have been shallower than it was. The swirling waters rose slowly around their horses’ legs, noisily gushing.
Near the middle of the river crossing, the driver stood, watching the back of his wagon dip lower than the rest as it sank into the mud.
“Praise Jesus for you boys. Toss me a rope here.”
Wilhelm tossed his picket rope to him and Wolf did the same. They wrapped the ends over their pommels and let their horses do the work.
“Come on, girls!” the teamster shouted.
“Git, Sarah,” Wolf said, urging his horse.
They tugged and pulled the wagon, leading them across. Roberts led Dan and Van Horn to the other wagon, and they followed behind.
The driver eyed his comrade slowly making his way across the ford over his shoulder. He grinned at Wolf and then gave a curious glance at Wilhelm.
Hogan smiled, his voice changing accents to a much slower Southern dialect. “You sure are lucky, good sir, to come across us.”
“You gave us a start there. For a minute, I thought you were Lincoln’s ilk.” He nodded at Wilhelm. “That one in the blue and all, but we know our boys take what we can. Fight with what we got.” His eyes lingered on the Spencer carbines on their backs and saddles. “That’s some fine weaponry you got there.”
Wolf gave a short smile as his hand went to his pistol on his hip, tapping the handle.
Hogan quickly drew attention back onto himself. “We are a resourceful group. Lifted those right off some very dead Union cavalry.”
The driver nodded glancing back at his man in the other wagon. “Suppose there be plenty of them nowadays.”
“Always happy to add to that number.”
Wolf and Wilhelm sat silent, keeping their eyes away from the man or risk engaging.
The driver laughed. “Ain’t that the truth.” He eyed the Union men sitting quietly atop their horses. “Say, you boys sure are quiet.”
“Long ride. Long war,” Hogan said.
“We’re headed that way now with extra ammunition from Richmond we been sending by rail up here.”
“Is that so?” Hogan said. His eyes darted for Wolf. Every tidbit of information helped. Raiding and destroying ammunition meant for the front could have an immediate impact on the war, but alas, this was not their mission.
“Yes, sir. This ford here be the fastest way. We were told to make all due haste, so we’re leaving as quick as we can get loaded.” He gestured back toward the river road. “More be coming down that road. Slowed down by a bunch of Yank prisoners. They ship ammunition north and prisoners south. Haha.”
Wolf’s eyes steeled as he heard the word prisoner, and he knew immediately what he had to do. He would not allow the prisoners to befall the fate of so many men before them.
“I see. Well, be careful. I hear there’s a lot of Federal cavalry in the area.”
The teamster gulped. “That so? Damn. You boys wouldn’t want to give us an escort now, would ya?” He nervously scratched under his hat, his eyes searching for Union soldiers in the trees.
Hogan eyed Wolf again, an action the driver noticed. “Say, why you looking at him? He your commander?”
“Nonsense. I am in charge here.”
The teamster wrinkled his nose. “He some sort of dumb?”
Hogan grinned and one of the men stifled a chuckle. “Dumb yes, but excellent fighter.”
“Say, what unit you boys with?”
“Wickham’s,” Hogan retorted.
The driver turned on Hogan, friendly surprise lighting on his face. “Wickham! You be Virginia boys? I’ll be damned. I got a brother up with Wickham. You might know him. Henry Gates. You know him?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“Well, that’s a shame. He’s a fine lad. Younger brother you see.”
“But I’m afraid we must be on our way,” Hogan said.
“Thanks for the help, boys. If you see Henry, give him my best.”
“It will be my pleasure,” Hogan said with a slight bow.
Wolf tipped the brim of his hat at the man. The driver nodded back, and with a creak of the wheel and a flick of their whips, the drivers drove their team onto the
forest road, disappearing under the stomp of hooves.
“Close call there,” Hogan said. He eyed the opposite embankment. “We’ll have to hurry past here before more arrive and avoid the train station at Beaver Dam. If we’re careful, we can pass around unnoticed.”
“We’re going to Beaver Dam Station,” Wolf said clearly.
Hogan cocked his head. “Now listen, this wasn’t a part of the general’s orders.”
Wolf twisted in his saddle and scanned his men. “We ain’t leaving those boys to get shipped to Richmond like a bunch of goddamn cattle. We’re breaking them free.”
“The mission, Wolf. If we raise the alarm too early, we could lose her.”
“No. We free the men. Then we find her.”
“Christ, give me guidance,” Hogan said with a peek at the sky.
Wolf would be damned if he was going to stand by while those men could be freed. He knifed a hand toward the train depot. “Forward, men!”
Riders splashed into the ford, and Hogan closed in on him. “You’re making a mistake.”
“No, I’m not.” He drove his horse into the water, wading to the other side. With the crossing of the river, his decision was set in stone.
Chapter Seventeen
Late Afternoon, May 8, 1864
West of Todd’s Tavern, Virginia
The alarmed bleating of cattle almost overtook the pops of gunfire through the woods. A bullet buzzed past Hampton’s ear, and he slightly jerked his head to the side. The day was fading fast and dusk crept upon the forests surrounding him. Every additional minute diminished his ability to see.
“Would you look at that?” Preston said. He glanced at his father for confirmation that the sight was indeed worthy of comment and it was.
Hamstrung cattle stampeded their owners in blue, causing a rapturous rout as the Union soldiers fled down the road back toward Todd’s Tavern. Victorious cattle swung their tails back and forth as they chased their captors. It made Hampton want to grin, seeing the scared looks upon the Union soldiers’ faces as they avoided getting run down. His attack had faltered as well, but for different reasons.
His men had captured a Union baggage train and camp. Wagon after white-canvased wagon lay uncovered as his men ransacked them. Men in butternut and gray surrounded the wagons, tearing into boxes of hardtack and dried meats while ducking Union bullets sent by their retreating enemy on foot.
Standard military consensus was that pitting dismounted cavalry against infantry was a poor idea. Undermanned cavalry were never able to withstand a concentrated infantry volley, at least in theory. But then again, Hampton had learned how to fight in the saddle and not in the classroom.
If he could wait for the conditions to fall into his favor, he would pit his men against infantry any day. But how could he stop his men from looting? How could he keep a hungry soldier from eating? They were not regularly supplied. He watched a man collapse as a bullet thudded into his chest, crackers tumbling from his hands as he hit the earth. The men next to him crouched onto their haunches below the wagon, shoving food into their mouths.
A weak staccato volley popped from the trees, sounding like a symphony orchestra failing to crescendo at the right time. Acidic smoke clouded the air amidst the eruptions of fire from musket tips. Despite the terror brought on by stampeding cattle, these men would not give their ground without a fight. He maneuvered his mount to the side, waiting impatiently for his hungry men to feed themselves.
The Union forces they’d sent scurrying were Miles’s Brigade under Hancock’s 2nd Corps protecting the rear of the Union Army. Miles was an advance element attempting to stretch their reach away from Todd’s Tavern; Hampton and the recently arrived General Mahone sought to keep Hancock tied up while the rest of the Cavalry Corps and Anderson dashed to Spotsylvania to beat Meade and the Army of the Potomac to the crossroads. Breastworks and entrenchments layered Laurel Hill, commanding the area from the defensive position. More rebel infantry were on their way to reinforce and create a nice surprise for the Union 5th and 6th Corps.
The more time Lee had to rush his men to Spotsylvania the better, and making the Federals think the threat of attack could come from the north and west could achieve such a task.
“Young, form your men in a skirmish line. We need some space between these wagons and our men.”
Pierce Young, a long-mustached brigadier general of one of Hampton’s brigades, took the flat end of his sword and began wielding it liberally on the backs and rears of his looting men. The dismounted men snarled in response but hustled to obey. The other officers took up the shout, and soon, a loose skirmish line traded fire with Federal infantry that gave ground.
However, Young’s attack lacked staying power. The Union soldiers were stiffening despite being forced to battle on duel fronts.
“Let’s get those batteries going,” he said to Preston. It was a necessary order and one that would remove his son from the brunt of the upcoming assault and keep him out of harm’s way. If Preston had any inkling of his true intention, he may balk at the order, but it was an order of importance. “Then I need you to ride to Mahone and tell him we are preparing to drive them back.” There that should keep him occupied until we are through.
“Yes, sir,” Preston said, his eyes flashing a familiar fierceness. He disappeared toward the artillery in the rear. Within minutes, his artillery opened up on the retreating blue-coated men. Over a half mile through the thick forest near the Northern flank, the distant crackle of an infantry on infantry struggle could be heard. It was much more prominent than his skirmish line, and he knew Mahone was doing the hot work.
The boom of his cannon roared like a crashing ocean wave upon the shore. Trees and leaves shook in response, and the ground trembled before his guns. This seemed to hasten the Union men, and they gave ground in fits and starts. A cluster of enemy soldiers screamed as a shell burst over them.
“Sir, look!” Pierce shouted.
Hampton squinted; his eyes seemed to become worse and worse every month. He saw men moving in the distance. “What is it, Pierce? I can’t see that far.”
“Regiments are moving down the road from the entrenchments. Green flag with a harp.” Pierce’s horse shifted nervously beneath him and he tightened the reins to bring the animal under control. He shifted as he tried to find a better view. He studied the advancing men as if he were judging a cotton crop in his very own fields. “They’re rallying the other regiments. I do believe Hancock intends to drive us off.”
“The bloody Irish.” Stubborn. Ghastly. And willing to die by the handful for a worthless piece of dirt. A brigade of them were leaving the safety of the entrenchments near Todd’s Tavern. “Hancock isn’t any better than the Irish. Stubborn fool,” Hampton said. He dismounted from Butler and handed over the reins to an aide.
He joined his dismounted men in the trees. They crunched down noisily on hardtack. It was unadvisable to hurry when eating the tooth-dulling biscuit, but hungry men wouldn’t be denied their fill. They waited in a skirmish line, loosely positioned in the trees near the supply wagons.
Blue regiments adjusted their course to flank Mahone’s men from the north, and two additional regiments maintained their march west to keep Hampton’s men at bay.
Smoke and darkness threatened to end the fight soon, but he would push an advantage if one could be found. His men were good for it. His gunpowder-covered, stinking, hungry men were good for it. He’d ask and they’d give their all. Hit the enemy and run. Make the enemy think you are in the thousands when you numbered barely a hundred.
He drew his Manhattan ivory-handled engraved pistol, unbuttoning the flap on his other holster holding the same style weapon.
“How many Yankees you kill with it?” Pierce asked.
“I’d say seven.”
“Had to have been more than that?”
“Seven that weren’t running.”
Pierce smiled. “Of course. They do run often.”
“Not often enough.�
��
Seven notches were cut into the handle of his revolver. By the setting of the sun he would be adding even more.
Whirling clouds of gun smoke obscured his vision, and his men waited impatiently for the enemy. He rested a hand on a nearby tree, using it to take some of the weight off his feet. His eyes never stopped scanning for the enemy. Each gray billow and white swirl were an elaborate hoax taking the shape of his opponents.
He didn’t need to check if his pistols were ready to fire. He knew they were loaded, but he glanced down at them anyway. Percussion caps were atop their cones. Paper cartridges were loaded and ready to fire. His other pistol was a plain Navy Manhattan revolver with a more rugged wooden handle. His favorite pistol held five shots and his secondary six. He scrutinized the smoke for the faintest of movements.
Cannons thumped, sending shells and shot far over the trees before crashing through limbs and slamming into the earth. They left trails of death in their wake.
Depending on the type of projectile, some shells were set with fuses prior to firing. At the right distance, they would explode and rain death among the enemy. Albeit, the enemy’s ordnance was usually of higher quality and had much more accurate fuses while his men were stuck with wooden fuses with paper lining the inside. It made Southern artillery work a much more precise and delicate process where experience and attention to detail were absolutely necessary.
The cannon fire slackened and then became silent. He looked behind at where he had placed the battery. They can’t make friend from foe, so they’ve stopped. They are close. He couldn’t help but let out a brusque sigh as he steeled himself for the coming combat. The bloodletting will be soon.
A dozen men pushed emptied wagons across the road and tipped them on their sides, providing additional cover for the men there.
“Do not give ground,” he called around him. Most were too tired and hungry to even glance his way.
The soldiers next to him continued to eat their crackers. The closest soldier, finishing one, slipped another into his mouth, breaking off a chunk with his molars, irreverent to the battle taking shape in front of him. A sergeant in a patched gray jacket laughed at something long and hard as if he’d lost his mind.
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