The Day After Gettysburg

by Robert Conroy

  Then the dream shifted.

  Prior to that engagement, the regiment had only fought in minor skirmishes. They’d suffered a handful of casualties and only a few of those had been killed. It had been shocking, but it had not been a slaughter. When I Corps had arrived to relieve Buford and the Sixth Indiana, the regiment had been withdrawn through the town of Gettysburg and had taken up position on Cemetery Ridge.

  The nightmare seemed to skip over the second day’s fighting. They’d lost a large number of men and were pulled back to be reorganized. They’d hoped their part in the battle was over. In the dream, his men were lying down and joking while he tried to yell and warn them that something terrible was about to happen. They paid no attention.

  But then came the third day and the horror of Pickett’s Charge. It had begun with a cannonade that had made the earth tremble. He and the others had hugged the dirt and prayed for the onslaught to end. Around them, men and horses were torn to shreds. The horses were worst. When wounded, they screamed louder than a score of men could have and their cries were crazed and panicked . . . and why not? The poor beasts had no idea why men were trying to kill them or why it hurt so much. Normally, they’d have been put down as humanely as possible, but there was little humanity at Gettysburg. This part of the dream was pure terrible memory.

  The third day’s images were the worst. When the cannonade mercifully ended, Steve had moved to where he could see the field from the ridge. The sight of thousands of men marching toward them in good order across the field was something he would never forget. But then the Union cannon began to chew them up, leaving clumps of dead and wounded to litter what had once been some farmer’s land, a place where crops would someday grow peacefully.

  The Rebels came closer and he could see that the point of the attack was aimed almost directly at where he stood. Closer they approached, growing larger with each step. Dusty shapes became people and then people with faces. Some of them were grim and some were yelling that high-pitched scream called the Rebel yell. They fell as bullets and canister whipped through their now chaotic ranks, but still they came. Bodies piled up and they still came on.

  “This way,” a disembodied voice hollered and the regiment ran towards the back of the Union line. They were plugged in just behind the Pennsylvanians. Steve saw a man with his wide-brimmed hat on the point of his sword and thought that was silly. The hat would be ruined. The man waved his sword a few times and then disappeared.

  The Rebels climbed over the low stone fence and piled into the Union soldiers. Now it was a brawl. Grown men were stabbing each other with bayonets and clubbing each other to the ground with rifle butts. They struck each other with fists and tore at each other with their teeth and Steve stood watching it all unfold, each strike, each wound, each gout of blood as clear as the morning.

  He found himself on his hands and knees, trying desperately to crawl away, but hands kept grabbing at him and pulling him back. He tried to stand, but his wounded leg wouldn’t let him. His wounded leg . . . but this was Gettysburg . . . He started awake, with real hands touching him.

  “It’s all right, Steve.” He recognized Cassie’s voice and he reached out to her. She took his head and held it against her bosom and rocked him as if he was a small child. He shuddered and wished that were true.

  “Are you better now?” she asked softly.

  “Yes, much better. In fact, I’d just as soon you never let me go.”

  “That works both ways, you know,” she said kissed him on the forehead. “Does this happen very often?”

  “Too often, and a lot of the men get it too. When it happens, their friends wake them up and they shake it off. New guys don’t understand yet, but they will. Usually, I just wake up in my cot and will myself back to reality. Being held by you is a lot better.”

  “I’ll bet it is.”

  He sat up with a jolt. He’d just realized she was wearing nothing more than her nightgown. “You shouldn’t be here. Your parents will be furious.”

  “You worry too much. My father was out with friends and is sound asleep and my mother’s waiting outside. We both heard you and she felt it would be so much better if I was the one to come in.”

  Steve laughed, “Definitely the better idea.”

  She poured some water from a pitcher into a basin and dipped a cloth into it. She used it to wipe his head and neck.

  “There, doesn’t that feel better?”

  “Much, much better. How much time do we have before your mother gets suspicious?”

  “Not too much at all, I’m afraid, and you’d better stop what you’re doing before she comes barging in.”

  She had been sitting on the edge of the bed and the nightgown had ridden up above her knees. Like most men, he had rarely seen a woman’s legs and he found hers to be both fascinating and lovely.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said as his fingers traced a path from her ankle to her outer thigh.

  “You are very bold,” she said as she both gasped and laughed. She reluctantly removed his hand and straightened her gown. “You don’t want to get thrown out of here, do you?”

  “Not for anything.”

  “And I wouldn’t want that to happen either. I am now going to tell my mother that the patient will live. She will fuss over you, just not like I did, and we will both try to go back to sleep.”

  And she would have to ask her mother about the bulge at the base of Steven’s stomach. She thought she understood how men and women worked, but, like so many demure ladies of her station, her education in that area was far from adequate. Of course, none of her friends knew anything they would talk about either. But being caressed by Steve had been extraordinarily pleasant.

  Hadrian’s people had pulled into a tight perimeter. Those who had guns showed them, while others held axes, pitchforks, and anything else that could be used as a weapon. One old man had gotten his hands on a sword. Even the women had hatchets and knives of all types. In the middle of the defenses were the children and the elderly along with others who were helpless. Torches lit up the night and made the scene garish.

  Faced with this bristling threat, the mob of several hundred white men and women had pulled back. Much of their courage had come from a bottle and the effects of the alcohol were starting to wear off. Regardless, it was evident that black people were not wanted in this part of Maryland. The group had moved south toward the formidable defenses that ringed Washington without incident. The military garrison saw that they weren’t Confederates and let them pass without incident.

  During the nighttime they could see the glow of the city in the distance and it gave them hope. Abraham Lincoln could not be that far away.

  Even though the city was filled with soldiers, that didn’t stop roaming mobs from assaulting small groups of Negroes. Whenever Hadrian’s people had to move, they did so in large and well-disciplined groups. So far, this had kept them safe. This Saturday night, a number of white citizens of Maryland had gotten liquored up and were hunting for human prey.

  One brave soul worked up the courage to come close and throw a rock. Others followed. “Damn it,” Hadrian raged as a rock struck home, causing a woman to scream in pain. He hoped it wasn’t Mariah, who had casually “stopped by” that afternoon to visit.

  He organized a flying squad of men, but chose none with guns. The last thing he wanted to do was have a black man shoot a white man. Then the mobs would be out in full fury and the police would arrest everyone associated with them. The guns Hadrian’s people had were for intimidation and last-ditch defense.

  With a shout, he and the dozen others charged the loosely grouped attackers, who appeared surprised at seeing the worm turn. It was over in seconds. A few heads cracked and the rioters ran off shouting curses. A couple of them were dragging their wounded.

  “Well done, Emperor Hadrian,” said Mariah as she slipped her hand in his.

  Hadrian grinned and accepted the praise as his due. One of the advantages of being able to read was
that he had picked up a fair knowledge of history. He thought that Hadrian was one of the great Roman emperors. And if his name and actions impressed the delightful Mariah, all the better.

  A troop of cavalry arrived. They looked exhausted. Doubtless they’d been chasing reports of similar fights all night. A young lieutenant looked down on them and glared. “What’s been going on here?”

  Hadrian answered, “Just some boys making some noise, sir. Ain’t nothing to be worried about.”

  The lieutenant took the comment as an insult, “I don’t recall saying I was worried about anything, boy.”

  “Didn’t mean it that way, sir. We’re peaceful,” he said, hoping that all the guns were tucked away.

  “Where y’all from?” the lieutenant asked, mollified by the apology.

  “Just about everywhere, sir. We’ve travelled a long way to be free.”

  The lieutenant actually laughed. “Well don’t let me stop you if you want to keep on moving.”

  The troopers rode away. Mariah took Hadrian’s arm and steered him back to the tent he called home. “I don’t think it would be too smart for me to try to make it back home tonight. You don’t happen to know where an innocent young woman of color might stay the night, do you?”

  Otto Bauer spat in the general direction of the departing Confederate soldiers. He thought about standing up and urinating in their direction, but passed on the idea. Some southerner without a sense of humor might take a shot at him with one of their cannon. Several batteries were arrayed on the other side of the Susquehanna, pointed in his general direction. He thought he was out of range, but that kind of thinking had gotten young Henry Watson blown to pieces by a cannonball.

  Longstreet’s rear guard was about to cross the ford. They were laughing and joking. He assumed they could see him as well as he could see them. Their orders remained the same. The governor said they should hold their fire and the general had concurred. Rumors had it that General Couch was incensed, but rumors meant nothing. You couldn’t call what they were doing “retreating” as much as simply sauntering out of the way of any possibility of action. The Union had been defeated in more ways than one. What little fighting there had been had resulted in an effective surrender. The Confederates could do whatever they wished with the property of the people of Pennsylvania.

  At least he had made peace with Henry’s mother. Martha Watson had made the short trip and he was able to use a telescope and show her where her son had been buried. She talked about digging him up and reburying him in a churchyard and Otto had silently hoped they’d find enough to exhume and rebury.

  Martha had surprised him by fully understanding the situation. “I know what happened and that you were sending him back to be safe. Life is cruel and unfair, Otto. I had him go with you because both of us respected and admired you and nothing has changed. I felt he had a better chance of surviving the war with you, but God had a different plan.”

  Otto could only nod mutely. He ached at the thought of what she might say next.

  “And I will not be present when he is dug up. I am not strong enough to handle that. I lost my husband and now I have lost my son and now I must start over again.”

  Otto recalled that her husband’s death had not been considered any great loss. He and Martha had gotten married when he was thirty-five and she fourteen. He’d been a drunk and a bully and he’d liked to beat her. Martha today was pale and haggard, but she was still lovely. Her late husband had gotten drunk one night and ridden his horse so hard that it had stumbled and he’d been thrown and broken his worthless neck. Toby had been but a little boy and the two of them had been helped by Martha’s relatives.

  Nor had young Henry been a saint. He’d been showing disturbing tendencies that he might be very much like his father. He’d hadn’t yet struck his mother, but Otto heard that he’d come close. He’d also been involved in petty thefts and some beatings of fellow young boys. He’d needed a strong hand and Otto was disappointed that he hadn’t been able to provide it.

  “Otto,” she said. “Most men wouldn’t have done what you did. I respect that. I . . . would like you to come back.” She raised her head and looked at him frankly. “I want you to come back.”

  “Well, Mrs. Watson . . .”

  “Martha,” she said.

  They took each other’s hands and squeezed. Otto smiled, unable to find any words. Was it marriage that beckoned him here? A family, children? Perhaps so, but first he had a task to perform.

  Otto crossed the river alone and upstream from the ford. His horse had little trouble swimming the deep water and nobody appeared to pay him any attention. It was a cloudy night with but a sliver of a moon to betray him.

  Once across, he didn’t have to look hard to find the Rebel camp. The lights from hundreds of campfires created a glow that couldn’t be missed. It was perfect for a hunter, a stalker.

  As he drew closer, he didn’t have any particular target in mind. He just wanted to strike out at the invaders who had caused so much harm to his adopted nation.

  Nor was he out to commit suicide. He would fire once and escape quickly amid the chaos and confusion.

  The Confederates had guards and patrols out, but they were not paying much attention and were easy to evade. They were victorious and there was no Union army in the area. They laughed and joked among themselves, sparing no notice for the man moving slowly through the trees. He had put a brown shawl over his blue uniform, hoping it would help him pass for a Rebel if he had to.

  This night he didn’t have his army issue Model 1861 Springfield percussion rifle-musket. It was too big and cumbersome for his purpose and not all that accurate at long distance. Instead, he had a Whitworth rifle that he’d paid for out of his own funds, buying it from a dealer in Pittsburgh. It even had a telescopic sight, as if he needed one. The British-made rifle had a tendency to foul after only a handful of shots, but that was fine by him. One shot and he’d be gone.

  Otto swore as he looked over the area. There were too many targets. Several clusters of men appeared to be officers, but there were so many it implied that no single one was very important.

  Cheers erupted as another group rode into view. One rider waved his hat and the cheers rose again, much louder this time. The hat had a plume or feather on it. Otto nodded to himself. The choice had been made for him. He had set up a stable firing platform out of rocks. He took careful aim, caressed the trigger, and squeezed gently.

  He fired and absorbed the recoil. He didn’t stop to see if he’d made a hit. That was not in doubt. Instead he got up and made his way quietly and carefully into the dark woods. Behind him, chaos had erupted, with men shouting and running in every direction. That actually helped him by covering any noise he might make. He found his horse, mounted it, and rode towards the river. Again, he splashed across without incident.

  After a short ride, he reached the farmhouse where Martha was staying with friends. She greeted him wearing a robe over her nightshirt. When he told her what he had done and whom he thought he had shot, she smiled. “It’s not as good as Jefferson Davis or Robert E. Lee, but it will more than do. I want you to promise one thing. You will promise that you will never again stalk and kill someone. It’s bad enough that people are killed in battle, but not the way you just did. You may have helped the Union cause, but you put yourself in great danger and for no good reason. You will not do that again. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said solemnly. Inside he was rejoicing. She truly cared for him.

  “Good. But Otto . . . I am honored. Don’t doubt that.” She took him to her room and closed the door. “By the way, I don’t care what anyone thinks.”

  She snuffed out the candle and took off her robe. She slowly lay down on the bed. “Get undressed, Otto, we don’t have all night. Well maybe,” she smiled warmly, “we do.”

  Robert E. Lee warmly grasped the hand of his most reliable general, James Longstreet, Old Pete. “The prodigal has returned and I could not be mor
e pleased.”

  Longstreet returned the handshake firmly. His emotion was so great he almost reached out to hug the older man. “We succeeded, but we paid a great price, perhaps too great a price.”

  Lee shook his head. “People die in battle. It’s a tragedy, but killing is the nature of war. Killing in wartime is just so easy. Jeb Stuart will be missed, but, after all is said and done, he is only one man.”

  “But to be killed in the middle of the night by a sniper, a lone wolf, is hard to fathom. Stuart had his faults, but he was an inspiring leader and he didn’t die easily. The bullet went through his shoulder and into his chest. He bled to death but never lost consciousness. He was as shocked as a man can be. He told me to tell his wife how much he loved her. He thought he was safe among his comrades, but there isn’t any safe place in wartime.”

  “Which is why this war cannot drag on forever,” Lee said. “We will run out of people.”

  “The men are taking it as if we had lost another Stonewall Jackson. The circumstances aren’t quite the same, but they are close enough. Jackson being killed by his own men and now Stuart being shot by a sniper at long range—that’s weighing heavily on the troops. For whatever it’s worth, we found the killer’s trail, but it ended at the river. We presume the shooter rode across to safety.”