The Day After Gettysburg

by Robert Conroy

  Thorne had a reinforced platoon of thirty men on horseback guarding a wagon train of some forty covered wagons. In ten of them were four additional soldiers each. With the exception of the teamsters, who just wanted to deliver their loads and get home safely, they were hoping the Rebels would try an ambush.

  Even though it was a relatively small wagon train, it snaked along for several hundred yards. Thorne placed himself in the middle and had Captain Archie Willis riding at the front.

  As usual, it was a hot and sticky day and sweat soaked their heavy uniforms. Each man had been ordered to bring two canteens, with additional water on one of the wagons.

  Thorne pulled out his pocket watch. It was only three in the afternoon. If his estimates were correct, they would not reach a Union camp until much later this evening. He did not want to spend the night in potentially hostile territory. What he really wanted was to get to his quarters and take a bath. He’d found a corrugated iron tub that would fit his lean body if he twisted himself just right.

  A rider came from the front of the column and announced that a creek with clean water lay just ahead. With a grin the rider added that Captain Willis suggested that they all go and soak their heads in it.

  The men and the horses needed a break and if it meant a further delay, then so be it. “Tell the captain that I agree and that he should be the first to go soak himself.”

  An hour later, the men had splashed water on themselves, refilled their canteens, and made sure that their horses had quenched their thirst. They’d been told by red-faced sergeants to piss well downstream. Thorne wondered what the people downstream would think of that.

  They were just about to re-form the column when they heard the now familiar screech of the Rebel yell as scores of horsemen burst from where they’d been hiding in deep brush. The men of the Sixth formed up quickly and presented a bristling front to the hard-charging horsemen.

  “Fire!” Thorne yelled and Spencer rifles opened up, and then without pause fired again. A continuous storm of bullets struck the attacking men and horses, their surprise and confusion clearly visible as the fusillade dropped them into ghastly piles of twisted and screaming flesh. One man waved an arm, evidently trying to rally the others. A shot blew him clear out of his saddle. Thorne lost sight of him amid the dust stirred up by the horse’s hooves.

  There was a brief pause as the men reloaded and replaced seven-shot tubes in the stocks of their rifles. The Spencers didn’t have the range of the traditional muzzle-loaders, but today that was irrelevant. The Confederates halted and began sporadically returning fire. Now the screams came from the men in blue. But there were far fewer Union casualties, as they were either behind the wagons or lying prone. The attackers began to pull back, dragging some of their wounded with them. One man grabbed the stirrup of a horse and pulled himself up behind the rider. Thorne wondered if it could be the man he’d seen shot down, and found himself hoping that it was.

  When they were far enough off, Thorne organized a skirmish line and advanced to the point where the dead Rebels lay thickest. He counted fourteen bodies and another five too badly wounded to move. There were a number of dead and wounded horses as well. These were disposed of quickly. He leaned over one man who was conscious. “What unit are you in?”

  The man grimaced. “Fuck you, Yankee.” There was a wound in his stomach and he was bleeding badly. It would doubtless prove fatal.

  “You know you’re going to die, don’t you? Now do you want to die in agony or would you like some laudanum to make your passing easier?”

  The man’s eyes widened. “You ain’t gonna take me to a doctor?”

  “Sorry, but there aren’t any doctors within ten miles of here and besides, you’ve been gut shot. Your insides are already spilling poison throughout your body and it’s going to kill you just as certain as it will be dark in a few hours.”

  The Rebel shook as a wave of pain washed over him. “Ask me anything. Just get me something to kill this godawful pain.”

  Thorne assigned Willis to interrogate the man. Those other wounded who were conscious were already talking. The Rebels were in rags, which made no sense.

  Lee had not only been reinforced, but his own supply lines were bringing him fresh equipment, to include uniforms. He concluded that these were bushwhackers or outlaws, irregular forces that sometimes supported one side or the other and sometimes just looted like vandals.

  Fourteen outlaws had been killed with one more sure to join them. The four who might survive would last long enough to hang. His men had suffered only three wounded and only one was serious. It was a good day’s work. Maybe tomorrow he could ride in to Washington and see how Colonel Baird was doing.

  Blandon’s riders were strung out single file. Since they were a part of neither army, they kept a close watch for any patrols. If they found something that the Confederates could use and that they didn’t want, they’d turn it in to what had been their army. They conceded that was highly unlikely. Blandon and the others had become outlaws.

  Pennsylvania was filled with large and prosperous farms and a goodly portion of the farmers were of German descent. There were many Quaker communities and Blandon found it amusing that people would not defend themselves.

  Blandon signaled a halt and the men bunched up more closely. There were a total of fifteen of them and they were all well-armed deserters from the Army of Northern Virginia. If caught, they would be hanged. Looking down from the small hill on which they stood, they could see a prosperous-looking farm compound about a half mile away. People could be seen moving about and some had noticed the riders on the hill.

  Blandon grinned. “Let’s ride down and see what they have that they might want to share with good Christian men like us.”

  When they were a couple of hundred yards away, one of the farmers fired a shotgun into the air. Blandon guffawed. “Well, I guess they ain’t Quakers.”

  They rode up, but more slowly. There were seven men and all were armed. Blandon counted five adult women and wondered if younger women and children might be hiding in one of the buildings. A couple of the women also had rifles.

  “Damn,” said Skinner, one of Blandon’s companions, “this could be a tough nut to crack.”

  “Agreed. We could whip them but we would lose some good boys and then the rest might bolt.” Blandon took a piece of cloth that could pass for white and tied it around the barrel of his rifle. “I’ll go first and alone. I don’t think they’ll shoot me.”

  He was right. The farmers let him ride right up to them, although they kept their weapons covering him. Blandon thought that one of the women with a rifle was right handsome and didn’t know shit about handling it. Her hands were shaking too badly. If she’d been alone, he could have taken it right off her. Then she would have had the pleasure of being fucked by a real Confederate cavalryman.

  He put down his rifle and stood tall in the saddle. “My name is Jonah Blandon and I am an officer in the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia. I have been sent by General Lee to purchase supplies for his army. We will pay in money or give receipts, whichever you like best. We want horses, cattle, pigs, and even chickens. I see that your fields are bare, so we can send some wagons for whatever you might have in your barns. How’s that sound?”

  An older man of about fifty and with a long graying beard stepped forward. “I’d say we might be interested but for the fact that the Union soldiers were here and already bought everything we had. I would also tell you that we are Union people, don’t like slavery, and wouldn’t want either Confederate money or your receipts.”

  “Are you Quakers?”

  “No, but we largely agree with them. We are peaceful people, too.”

  Blandon forced a smile. “Well then, I guess there’s no reason for me to stick around here. We’ll be off. You don’t happen to know of any other farms like yours that might have provisions to sell?”

  The bearded man spat brown on the ground. It was chewing tobacco and it had been a whil
e since Blandon had had the luxury. “A lot of the farmers around here have packed up and left. We were just discussing that very thing and, since you Rebels are now so close, we likely will depart.”

  Blandon smiled again. “That might be wise. There are a lot of ruffians riding about. We are Christian men and mean you no harm, but there is a nasty war taking place and people sometimes do cruel things.” He tapped the brim of his hat in salute. “I wish you a safe journey.”

  Back over the hill and out of sight, he told his men that they’d wait until well after dark. “If those people sold their belongings to General Meade, then he paid them in cash, which is a helluva lot better to cart around than pigs and cows. Besides, when we take the place we can have some real fun.”

  They made a normal and very obvious camp several miles down the road from the farm. His men cooked food, ate, and went to sleep. They were very tired so there was no need to pretend. About three in the morning, Blandon went around and woke them.

  “No horses,” he said to each one of them. “We don’t want them hearing a thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have a guard out keeping track of us. Make your rolls look like someone’s sleeping and slip quietly into the woods. Two of us will be the pretend guards at our camp and will keep the fires burning just a little.”

  “I don’t feature walking that far to no farm,” said Skinner.

  “You’ll get over it.” Blandon smiled. “Just think of them pretty white thighs awaiting on you.”

  “Some of us won’t go for that neither.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. Those women are Christian and white. Doing the colored may be one thing, but not white women. So, you don’t want to lose these boys, you don’t let it happen. I seen how you was slobbering at that brown-haired woman. Just let it go this time, Sarge. Let it go. We may not be part of the Confederate Army no more, but that don’t mean we can’t act like good, Christian soldiers.”

  Good Christian soldiers, thought Blandon. Good Christian soldiers who loot farms and rob travelers. “Awright, Skinner.”

  They crept away from the camp and walked parallel to the trail that led to the farm. One of his men was a good hunter and quickly spotted the boy that the farmers thought they’d hidden. They snuck up behind him and subdued him with scarcely a sound. They then tied him up securely.

  “I hope the little bastard’s not due to be relieved for a while,” Skinner said.

  “Then we’d best move right along. I very much misdoubt that there’s a second guard. There aren’t enough of them for that kind of setup.”

  He was right. They made it unseen to the main house and a bunkhouse behind the main building. They gathered by the doors and were about to burst in when a dog began to bark. It was followed by a second and a third. Inside the houses, people began yelling.

  “Now,” Blandon screamed and shouldered his way through the door. A man in a nightgown was just inside. Blandon shot him in the chest. The gunfire and flashes deafened and blinded him for an instant. More of his men pushed by him, screaming and howling. After a few more shots, it was over. Two farmers were dead and one of Blandon’s men had been stabbed in the thigh.

  Their prisoners were tied up and dragged outside where dawn was beginning to show. They looked up at him, both angry and terrified. Blandon smiled down at them, with special attention at the woman who had been holding the rifle. Her nightgown had been ripped across the shoulder and she was holding a small child. He wanted her so badly he could taste it.

  “Now,” Blandon said, “here’s what’s going to happen. You told us you sold your stuff to the Union boys and that means you got cash for it. We’ll take that cash, thank you, and be on our way.”

  “We don’t have it any more,” the bearded man said. “That was days ago. We sent it on to Philadelphia. No way we were going to leave cash lying around.”

  Shit, Blandon thought. That sounded all too plausible. But then, maybe it didn’t. “I don’t quite believe you. You might have sent some of it on, but not all of it. Give it up and nothing much will happen. Don’t and we’ll beat the shit out of you men and burn this place down.”

  “You said you were Christians,” the bearded man said.

  “I lied,” Blandon said and his men laughed.

  “Where’s my son?” one woman shrieked. “He was supposed to be watching out.”

  “He’s resting comfortable. If you want to see him again, give up that money.”

  The bearded leader reluctantly agreed. He was untied and came back with a valise full of cash. It was still too dark to count but it looked like a good haul.

  “Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll leave you in a few minutes, but first we must make sure you are well tied up so you can’t give a warning.”

  It was all too easy. After making sure the farmers were all trussed up, they were dragged off to the barn. While his men tore the house apart looking for treasures, Blandon stared at the woman, who kept averting her head. Why the hell had he made that promise to Skinner? He would have to get a few more men who thought like he did. Then he could get rid of the pansies.

  Blandon went outside and lit up a small cigar. It had been a very good night.

  Major Steven Thorne and the former colonel, Josiah Baird, shook hands formally and then embraced firmly and warmly. “It’s good to see you, sir,” Thorne said with a degree of emotion that surprised him. He and the colonel had never been close. He was unsure if Baird wanted to be called colonel or mister. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to see you sooner, but things have been quite busy.”

  “I can only imagine. I wish I could still be there in command, but a one-legged colonel is generally quite useless in the army. They said I could stay on in some administrative capacity, but I respectfully declined. I had enough of war and the army, although I will insist on people calling me ‘colonel.’ I rather like it.”

  Well, that’s cleared up, Thorne thought. They were on the porch of the home Baird and his family were renting. Tea had just been served. Thorne didn’t much like tea. He preferred coffee, but he sipped politely anyhow. Mrs. Baird had joined them and fussed over him. Their daughter, Cassandra, was friendly but still dressed as he recalled her the one time they had met—all in black for mourning. For whom, he wondered? None of the other Bairds were similarly dressed, so just who had died?

  The colonel showed him how well he could navigate on crutches and said he was looking forward to getting an artificial leg that was being specially made for him. “Then I will either walk normally or with a cane. I will not be a damned cripple.”

  “I don’t think you’d ever be a cripple, sir,” Thorne said, which brought smiles from both women. He decided that Cassandra was almost pretty when she smiled. She should do it more often.

  The colonel wanted to know all about the regiment and its new duties. He didn’t ask about the casualties from Gettysburg. He’d seen the lists and had even visited some of the wounded in the hospitals. He just said it was so godawful depressing.

  “At least you’re away from the front lines,” Rachel said and the colonel flushed. Thorne wondered if Colonel Baird had used his influence to get the regiment away from II Corps. He decided he didn’t care. If it helped keep him and the others alive, it was a wonderful idea.

  They talked, ate, and talked some more. Tea became wine and even the ladies joined in. Thorne began to wonder why the colonel had intimidated him so much. Of course his no longer being in the army had a great deal to do with it.

  “Steven, what will you do when this bloody war is over?”

  “Don’t you mean if it is ever over, sir? Thanks to Meade, it may never end. Ah, I don’t think I should have said that. He was in over his head and I may be in the same situation commanding the regiment, no matter how small it currently is.”

  The colonel and Thorne were both a little unsteady when they finally walked to the door. Baird said he would like to see his regiment and Steven said he was cordially invited and that it would always be
the colonel’s regiment. He also wished he hadn’t had that last glass of wine.

  Rachel Baird kissed him on the cheek and Cassandra even smiled. It had been a good night. He carefully mounted his horse, hoping he wouldn’t stumble.

  “A deserter, eh?”

  The man Richard Dean was speaking to was dressed in the epitome of fashion—an embroidered waistcoat, a light-colored jacket, a cravat pinned at his throat. He was toying with his ebony walking stick. There was the beginning of a mustache visible on his upper lip.

  “Nothing to be ashamed of,” he went on. “Who wants to die in the army of the Great Ape of Pennsylvania Avenue?”

  “That’s how I look at it,” Dean said eagerly. He himself had grown a rather scraggly beard over the past few weeks to disguise himself from the provost marshal’s men. It also added a few years to his apparent age, something he was grateful for. His small build often made people take him for an underage youth.

  Dean had been working as a stagehand since he’d separated himself from the army, moving between several theaters in Washington. On a couple of occasions, he’d performed on stage as a boy in his early teens. He hadn’t spoken, since he was in his mid-twenties and his voice was far too deep to permit that. Still, he’d enjoyed his few moments in the limelight.

  This day he was painting props backstage at Ford’s Theater. It was hot and unpleasant work, but it paid. That he’d become entranced by what went on in the world of theater was obvious and not the slightest bit unusual. Star-struck young men and women showed up all the time. Normally, they came and stayed for a while and then went on with their lives. Some went home a little better educated about the world and others just disappeared. A few stuck.

  Any one of them would give their right arm for the opportunity facing Dean right now.