All of their eyes were upon him, ignoring the enemy. “I fight for you. I fight by my brothers’ side. I tried to send you men away to spare you this battle, but you returned.” He glanced at Wilhelm again. The German sergeant stared forward. “You came back for me. Which means we fight for each other regardless of what this day brings or what our differences are.” He eyed the stone crag of a man, Nelson. “We fight shoulder to shoulder united against a common foe. We fight as one, one sword cutting the life from the enemy.”
His men cheered, raising pistols and sabers into the air. Wolf pointed across the field with his saber.
“Those men will show you no mercy, so you will give none. Let me be true to you. This is a live-or-die trial. They think they can overpower us with numbers.” His voice rose in volume and into a snarl. “Well, I say let them try!”
His men gave a resounding cheer. They didn’t resemble a traditional Union force, more like a band of partisans in their civilian attire, but their flag marked them as men with a common tie and bond, a shared interest and brotherhood. They would ride and fight under the wolf banner this day, and if it was to be their last battle, then they would go into it prepared to embrace death with their last breath.
Wilhelm’s voice rose loud and clear above the battle cries. “Wolf’s platoon!”
The men took up the shout.
“Wolf’s platoon!”
“Wolf’s platoon!”
Wolf beamed, his heart pounding and his blood hot for another fight. Invincibility pumped in his veins. If he could have dreamed a way to go to the next life, this was it: surrounded by his men, in a charge made for legends, swords soaked in the blood of enemies, pistol barrels red hot from spending every last bullet they had on them.
The Polish brothers bashed fists together. Van Horn called from the depths of his lungs. Nelson bellowed like a wounded bear. Each man shouted down any fear he had lurking inside him.
Wolf drove his horse in front of his men. “Forward trot!”
His men spurred their horses. Their gait sounded almost pleasant to their ears.
“Keep it tight now!” Wilhelm called down the line, the banner flapping in his hand. Their mounts held close to one another, the troopers preventing them from getting too far from the rest.
Payne saw this and pointed his sword in their direction. His men moved to a trot. A tit-for-tat command. He would match Wolf and then overpower them with superior numbers.
Wolf maneuvered his horse to the center of his men. He would be the point of the line. The tip of his unit’s spear. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Payne was his target, but he would slaughter every man before him to reach him.
The men urged their horses into formation, steering them to keep tight with a trooper on either side.
“Charge!” Wolf shouted at the top of his lungs. His horse churned out stride after stride. The wind whipped at his hair and beard, moving the brim of his hat upward. The field blurred past as they moved to full speed. Rain struck him, running down his face and neck. The men behind him unleashed their battle cry. Hooves ripped dirt and grass, flinging it airborne.
As the rebels closed, they whooped loud and high-pitched, but neither party would give beneath the psychological weight of a battle cry. Both sides were committed to mutual destruction.
Sabers were lifted high then lowered, curving over their mounts’ heads as they galloped. Pistols were gripped in sweaty palms. Rough aim was taken, trying to hold steady on the mass of horsemen ahead of them. One of the rebels held a short shotgun over his forearm. When they closed within thirty yards, their revolvers puffed white smoke; one could hardly hear the shots as much as feel the zipping draft from the sailing bullets.
The faces of the Red Shirts grew clear. Crazed and violent. Men prepared to do unspeakable things to one another.
Everything quieted down as they got close. The hooves were muffled, the shouts muted, and the pistols half-popped. He stretched his arm further to gain extra inches on his adversaries before the units struck one another. Then the opposing riders collided.
With a smack, Wolf’s sword pierced the man across from him. The rebel screamed with the blade’s bite. He ripped his saber free, tucking his shoulder.
His line weaved through the rebels. Pistols cracked. Sabers slashed. Wolf ducked, a blade swooshing over the top of his head. He exchanged saber strikes with the second row of the Red Shirts, and they cut through his men.
The lines splintered in the chaos, drifting into individual fighting. Wolf’s men were forced to fight two or three men at once. He broke through the mass of horsemen, wildly slashing, looking for Payne. Turning his horse, he waded back into the fray.
Van Horn took a pistol bullet to his chest, slumping him over his mount’s mane. Bart traded saber blows with a rebel until he took a saber to the back. He growled in pain and leapt off his saddle atop the other man as if he were more animal than a man. Both men disappeared in the dust and smoke of battle.
Wolf deflected a saber strike with a diagonal defense and immediately slashed at the man’s belly. Sarah took him away. He felt a bullet whizz past his head, and he ducked, turning to face another rebel. The rebel pointed his shotgun at Wolf with a nasty sneer.
“Ja!” Wolf screamed at him, trying to urge Sarah closer. Before he could close, a red hole appeared in the rebel’s forehead. Blood released in a torrent down his face, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he toppled from the saddle.
Wolf had no idea if the shot was meant for him or the other man. He supposed it didn’t matter, but he suspected one of his sharpshooters could claim credit. The threat was dead, and he was alive with a vendetta.
He spied Roberts and Payne exchanging saber blows near the center of the fray. Urging his mount into the middle, a rebel pointed his gun at him. A tiny puff of smoke leaked from the hammer as it misfired. A moment later, a saber emerged through his mouth. It disappeared in a splash of blood. Adams smirked at Wolf and dodged a saber swipe from another man.
He turned back to Payne, who was now in a strict contest with Wilhelm. The sergeant used the wolf banner to deflect his dashing blows while trying to hook his saber into Payne’s side.
“Payne!” Wolf shouted, kicking his horse.
His rival turned as he neared, snarling, “You will fall!”
The two men traded a series of saber jabs and thrusts, each man hungry for the other’s blood. Another Red Shirt tried to intervene, and for a moment, Wolf thought he’d go down beneath both their blades, but Nelson used his saber like a spear to ram the man into the air then tossed him to the ground. He bent over and punched Payne in the side of his head with the hilt of his blade. Payne’s head flew to the side and he almost fell from his horse.
“Fuck you!” Nelson growled. He lifted his arm to smite the captain from his horse and roared as a Red Shirt sliced his arm. He struck a hammer blow at his new opponent in a battle rage fit for a bear.
Payne shook his head and went on the offensive. He hacked and slashed at Wolf like a red-shirted demon. Hale screamed behind him as pitifully as a baby calf when he was cut down. Men called for help, and others gurgled and snarled as they breathed their last.
Only one thing drove Wolf onward and that was the death of his rival. He would have it. He must have it. His attacks grew stronger like snow turning into an avalanche of sharp metal. With each blow, Payne was slower and slower to respond. Wolf half-slashed across his chest and turned his sword for a piercing thrust. The point of the blade penetrated Payne’s coat, shirt, and then the soft skin of his upper chest.
“Rarrr!” Wolf yelled from deep inside his lungs. Payne’s eyes went wide with surprise. Wolf urged his horse closer, using his shoulder and back to force the sword even farther into his enemy’s body.
Payne grimaced, twisting with every inch of blade as he fought it with every fiber in his body. The two opponents were close enough to reach out and grasp one another. Wolf could smell his sweat and rotten breath. He could almost feel his p
ain. His eyes couldn’t leave his enemy’s.
“You’re a real cunt,” Payne said, his mouth shaking. Then he spit in Wolf’s face. The glob ran down his chin and he rammed the saber deeper into Payne and he let out a horrible scream.
Wolf was so vested in drinking in Payne’s misery, he missed the fist sailing into his face. His head went back, and he released his grip on his sword hilt.
“Retreat!” Payne called to his men. In fits and starts, the Red Shirts disengaged.
Rotating his jaw, Wolf watched them ride. Pistol fire tailed the retreating men like nipping hounds of lead. “On me!” Wolf called out. His men maneuvered their horses around him.
“We must pursue,” Wolf breathed, drawing his pistol. Wilhelm took his place on his right, Dan on his left. Hogan was there; blood ran down the center of his face. Nelson and Adams joined them but no one else.
Surely, others were coming. Wolf scanned the ground around him. Both his men and rebels lay strewn over the field. Men cried and moaned, cradling wound and injury alike. A horse screamed as it tried to stand but couldn’t on its broken legs. More horses bolted across the field away from them, leaving their unhorsed riders.
The Red Shirts turned their horses around, and it looked like they were going to make another go of it. They stood, numbers reduced, momentarily watching Wolf’s men. A few whoops came from their lips as they prepped themselves for another foray into the jaws of death. He could see Payne was bent in visible anguish, Wolf’s sword still inside him.
“Sergeant, keep that flag held high,” he said then gulped. They could not last another round.
“Yes, sir!” Wilhelm shouted. He lifted the banner higher into the air.
“Come and take it!” Wolf screamed across the field.
His men continued to toss out insults, their voices rising in feverish rebellion.
“I’ll take your balls!” Nelson bellowed.
“And your wife!” Adams added.
With Payne at the forefront of the unit, the Red Shirts turned their mounts and departed. For the first time in what felt like hours, Wolf allowed himself to breathe.
The men around him cheered for a moment, battle fury burning bright inside their chests. Calls to the heavens for their deliverance. Yells of victory. Dan beat his chest with a fist. Adams and Nelson gripped forearms in a warrior’s embrace. Wolf spun his horse, and the cheers died down in raw, dry throats. There were so few of them still mounted.
Chapter Thirty-Two
May 11, 1864
Near Yellow Tavern, Virginia
Rain clouds gathered above, seemingly dreading the battle unfolding on the land beneath them. In the distance, thunder rumbled from the heavens. Custer eyed the sky, wondering if it would hamper the rest of their fine little scrap they were having with Stuart’s Cavalry Corps.
The weather could hinder their assault or give Stuart the opportunity to disengage and flee, something that would gnaw at the man if he hadn’t reclaimed his wife. Stuart was in an unthinkable predicament devised from Custer’s own fear of someone snatching Libbie from beneath him. Oh, how he would rage, and claw his own eyes out. He thanked God that he wasn’t in that maddening position.
The ridge where Wickham had deployed his men and where Lomax had been driven presented a good position for defense. There was ample tree cover, and the ridge was elevated enough to provide an advantage.
His men would have to march through fields before reaching the wooded area in front of the ridge. Then there was Stuart’s blasted artillery. That had given his troopers quite a fit in the morning hours. It would need to be dealt with.
A rider trotted through the woods, making his way as quickly as he possibly could. He reined his horse in front of Custer. “Sir!” The young lieutenant gave a snappy salute, knuckling his forehead.
“For Chrissake, man, do not salute me. We are close enough for a reb to get lucky.” His mind quickly shifted to another mentor and friend who hadn’t been so prudent, Major General John Sedgwick, only a couple of days past. The rumors were flying that he’d been sniped by a sharpshooter directly beneath the eye. An impeccable shot or an incredibly lucky one.
Just moments before his untimely demise, Sedgwick had ignored concerns from his aides that he was too close to the front, carrying on about how the rebels, “couldn’t hit an elephant at this distance.”
True words that garnered respect and also seemingly expedited his death, as the rebs truly could hit him from there. Within a minute, he had bled to death in the arms of his aide. It was a true tragedy, one that his corps and even the entirety of the Army of the Potomac felt deep within their hearts and souls.
The lieutenant let his hand fall, and his horse danced nervously beneath him. “My apologies, sir.” He leaned from his mount and thrust a piece of paper into Custer’s hand.
He grasped the note and waved the courier on his way. “Carry on!” Custer called at him and immediately unfolded it. As he read, a smile formed on his lips. He slapped the written orders with his other hand. “Finally, some orders we can rally behind.”
His brigade staff had clustered nearby as the day moved to afternoon, both armies taking defensive postures toward one another, finding it prudent to toss artillery balls and shells at one another rather than participate in a pitched battle. That irritated Custer at his core. He understood the importance of ensuring all the divisions were in optimal placement for an assault, but direct expedient action could far outweigh a set-piece affair.
Colonel Alger glanced, raising his eyebrows. “Sir?”
“It’s finally time to run these boys from the field.”
“They have a solid position.” Alger pointed out. “That battery is centering their line.”
“Sitting like a pretty duck all day. Time to put an end to that. Good sir, that will be the center of our attack.” He adjusted a glove tighter as he pointed. “Well, just to the right.” Custer shoved the note into his black velvet jacket with gold trim.
“I’ll need the 5th and 6th dismounted.” He pointed again to the fields leading to the ridge that Telegraph Road split. “You’ll engage those men on the ridge and your flank will pressure the battery. Don’t worry about your left flank. The 1st Vermont will shadow you.”
“Those boys want back in the old brigade, don’t they?” Alger asked.
Custer smiled. “I’d take them back too if it wasn’t for the conditions they’d force upon us.” He referred to commanding under his rival Wilson. The 1st Vermont had to be given up in order for him to maintain his position. He knew those men had cried out in dismay, but those were the games officers played.
Lieutenant Colonel Stagg of the 1st Michigan stood nearby. “What about my men, sir? We would love a run at ‘em.”
“I haven’t forgotten the brave 1st. There is a reason you’re my favorite.” He ran his hand along the outline of the road in the distance. “You boys are going to ride like the devil up that road there. Squadron by squadron. It’ll take you right to the battery. I want Stuart’s artillery.”
Stagg gave a short grin. “And we’ll get it for you.”
“Is that those Maryland boys?” Custer said, trying to see the cannon. It boomed in the distance and sent a shell crashing through the trees like a wounded buck in a forest.
“I believe so, sir,” Stagg said.
“Then let’s remind them which side they should be fighting for.”
His men laughed at that. It eased a bit of tension for the assault they were about to conduct. Custer had a way of doing that for his men. With either confidence or with a cool joke, he kept them confident under fire.
“Major Granger.” Custer waved over another one of his officers. He considered Granger, an understudy and an upcoming soldier who had shown quality time and time again in this war, to have actually deserved his rise in station. “You’re going to follow the 1st with the 7th Michigan. Fill in any gaps in their line. I want them to feel the shock of our assault. We won’t be stopped.”
There w
as only one of his regiments he hadn’t dealt with: the 13th Michigan. He stared with distaste at Colonel Moore. He couldn’t say if he’d ever seen a worse officer; the man lacked all quality aside from being agreeable to whomever was in charge. “I’ll hold you in reserve.”
Moore smiled beneath his chubby cheeks. “We will be ready at your beckoning call!”
Custer didn’t bother to respond to him. “All right, men. Out to your commands. Hurry now, we want this over.”
He studied the rebel position as his men organized and prepared for the offensive. His men had hustled to the front, every fourth man staying with the others mounts.
The 5th Michigan had their 7-shot repeating Spencer carbines. They’d been refitted before the campaign began trading in their Spencer rifles for carbines. In fact, his entire brigade, except for the 13th Michigan, had been outfitted with the carbines despite their differing designations earlier in the war.
The carbines were eight inches shorter and much lighter, making it easier for his men to wield on foot or horseback. Each man had been supplied with at least 200 metal cartridges in their pouches at the start of Sheridan’s southward drive. He expected that they would be down to about 100 cartridges per man now. That would have to last until the wagon train reached them.
A man with a repeater could run through 100 cartridges in twenty minutes. Something that had held back much of the Army from receiving the guns earlier in the war. Didn’t want to waste ammunition. Bodies in the rank-and-file were okay to feed to the meat grinder, but the ammunition was what stayed their hand.
The War Department had seen the Spencers’ effectiveness in turning the tide against many foes and moved forward with the innovation. But his boys in the 5th and 6th Michigan had had their repeating Spencer rifles since Gettysburg, courtesy of Governor Blair, and were some of the most proficient handlers of the weapon in the whole army.
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