So Blandon stayed out of the way and out of sight. The colonel would wonder why he’d disappeared, but he’d cross that bridge at some later time. He was a loner by nature, so this kind of life suited him. He had built himself a den in the nearby woods and was comfortable. He also had a piece of paper with Colonel Wade’s forged signature on it authorizing him to work independently as a scout.
It was getting toward fall now and the Pennsylvania weather was surprisingly chill and moist. He would need a more permanent place to hide before long. Either that or he would go back to Wade and take his chances. But to go back safely he would have to bring something of value, and that did not mean the money strapped to his waist. Wade was the kind of honorable bastard who didn’t take bribes.
He heard a noise and froze. A horse whinnied, fairly close. He slid deeper into the bushes and waited. A short while later a lone rider appeared. It was a Union soldier and he appeared to be lost. The Confederate lines were just too close for him to have come this way intentionally. He judged the rider to be in his late teens and the confused expression on his face confirmed the fact that he was lost. It would be only a little while before a Confederate patrol picked him up. Blandon smiled as he saw the leather pouch draped over the rider’s saddle. The foolish boy was a courier and what was in those pouches could easily be valuable.
He moved stealthily but quickly towards the rider, approaching him from the rear. He didn’t want to spook him and send him riding off. Likewise, Blandon didn’t want to shoot him. Even in the woods, the sound could easily carry to ears that didn’t need to know about him.
The soldier had actually taken out a small compass and was trying to fathom its meaning when Blandon pounced. He grabbed the rider and dragged him off the horse and onto the ground. For a second, the soldier didn’t resist, but then realized he was in deadly peril. He began to thrash wildly, kicking and punching. Blandon was the more experienced fighter and got his hands around the boy’s throat. He began to squeeze with all his strength. The soldier was strong and became even more desperate, using his hands as claws that almost gouged out one of Blandon’s eyes. Blandon was in agony, but forced himself to continue the pressure. He had a knife, but he would have to stop strangling the courier to get it. Finally, the soldier’s body sagged and there was the smell of urine and shit as he fouled himself in his death throes.
Blandon lurched back from the body and fell down. Blood was running down his cheek and he was covered with scratches and bruises. I’m getting old, he thought, as his breath came in gasps. Once upon a time he would have killed that boy in only a couple of seconds, not the eternity it seemed to take this day. And he wouldn’t have gotten hurt. Already, his eye was swelling. It would close soon and his vision would be seriously impaired until the swelling went down. Shit, he thought, what a mess. What the boy was carrying had damn well better be important.
He staggered to his feet. Where the hell were the horse and the saddlebags? He smiled through a badly swollen lip when he saw that the horse was a few steps away and grazing contentedly.
He took the saddlebags and opened them. As he’d hoped, there were many messages, all neatly bundled for delivery. His eyes widened as he read them. They were virtually identical and all directed to commanders telling them to get their men ready for a major offensive operation that would commence in a week or two. This would all become common knowledge in a few days, since no one could keep secrets in the District of Columbia, but right now it was priceless information. He would take the saddlebag and the messages back to the colonel and come out of this a big hero.
Blandon ignored his pain and mounted the horse. He did so awkwardly, since he’d managed to hurt his knee in the fight. Damn, he really was getting old.
Thorne had heard the news from brigade. Immediately, he began getting his men even more prepared than they were already. He would purge them of the bad habits that they’d accumulated after living in what amounted to a garrison. The enemy was close and the army was finally going after it.
Thorne had never been the type of commanding officer to let the men lose their fighting edge for any extended period of time. He had them marching and maneuvering until he was confident that many of them hated his guts. Well, so be it, he thought.
Other officers disagreed with him. “Let the boys have some fun, blow off steam. They’ll be ready for a fight when the time comes.”
Thorne was confident that the Sixth Indiana was as ready as any regiment in the Army of the Potomac, but there was still room for improvement. There always was.
Both General Meigs and Josiah Baird visited, professing pleasure at the shape the regiment was in. Baird had laughed. “If you can control my daughter the way you do these troops, you might have an interesting life ahead of you.”
Steve had turned red with embarrassment. There had not yet been any mention of marriage between him and Cassandra. Even their earlier and intense passion had cooled. Of course, the major reason for that was the lack of any opportunity. They were too old to go sneaking into the storeroom off the kitchen although they did use it for some furtive kissing and caressing if no other place was available.
Cassie did not mention her encounter with Dover to her father. If he ever learned of it, he would halt her visits to Hadrian and his people. She would not have been able to bear that. But she had gone over it with Hadrian, who had simply frowned and nodded to himself, as if he’d expected as much, then went off to speak in low tones with the rest of the men.
Shortly thereafter, Cassie had noticed a cluster of horsemen eyeing the camp from about a half mile away.
She quickly borrowed Hadrian’s telescope and focused on the horseman in the middle. It was Dover and he appeared to be examining their camp through his own telescope.
“Can we go to the soldiers and have them chased away?” Mariah asked plaintively.
“Not likely,” Cassie told her. “You see, there’s nothing actually illegal about it. Dover is an official and he’s keeping an eye on something in his area. He could simply argue that it’s his responsibility.”
Mariah made a disgusted sound and moved away. Cassie decided that the two of them would make no attempt to go home this night. Instead, they would bunk on the ground and be thankful that the weather, while chill, wasn’t all that miserable. Or maybe she and Mariah could squeeze into somebody’s tent. Mariah would be in Hadrian’s while she would have to find one of her own.
She would, of course, send a messenger to inform her father. Perhaps her father could arrange for something terrible to happen to one Councilman Ronald Dover.
She would have to depend of her own wits, Mariah’s, and of course, Hadrian’s. She smiled. It seemed like a fair fight. While she was contemplating this, the horsemen wheeled and departed. Dover waved his hat at her, verifying that they’d been staring at each other. It infuriated her, but what could she do?
The highest rank in the Union Army was that of major general. There had been no lieutenant generals since George Washington held the rank. Now, Winfield Scott was a brevet lieutenant general, but he was the only one.
The result of this stinginess with rank was a logjam of two-star generals trying to figure out who was senior and, thus, who was in charge. Sometimes presidential orders enabled men to leapfrog over generals who were old and doddering. It was also a dangerous policy since it meant that a political general, like Major General John Alexander McClernand, was senior to the aggressive and skilled William Tecumseh Sherman. So far, Lincoln had managed to keep the political generals, so titled because of their political clout and ability to bring support to the war and, oh yes—the 1864 presidential elections. What truly galled other generals was the fact that McClernand was running for the presidency, and was not terribly interested in commanding an army. Nor was he particularly skilled. It was widely conceded that the political generals would have their heads handed to them in a battle with any one of a number of capable Confederates. Giving them an independent command of any size would be equiv
alent to murder.
Thus, Major Generals Henry Halleck and George Meade were both equal and unequal. Halleck was the commanding general of the armies while Meade commanded the Army of the Potomac. Generally, they tolerated each other well, but this was not one of those days. Halleck wanted to know everything and Meade was neither able nor willing to accommodate him. In Meade’s opinion, Halleck was a goggle-eyed staff officer who had failed at command and was jealous of anyone who might do better. A case in point was Halleck’s intense dislike of Ulysses Grant. Once Halleck’s subordinate, it now looked as if Grant would be put in command if he, Meade, faltered. Thus, Meade had good reason to dislike both Halleck and Grant.
“General, I will not give you the details of my plans for the simple reason that they are not fully formulated yet.”
Halleck had had a fine reputation as a thinker and a military theorist. One of his nicknames was “Old Brains,” which had been a compliment until it was noted that his army moved extremely slowly, even stopping to dig field fortifications each night. Finally, Halleck had been replaced and returned to Washington with the nominal title of commanding general. There, he did what he did best in organizing the army.
Meade cared nothing about all that. He just wanted Halleck out of his hair. Rumor had it that both Reynolds and Grant had turned down command of the Army of the Potomac for the simple reason that they would have to spend so much time dealing with Halleck and his preoccupations.
“General Halleck, you tell me you represent the wishes of the President. However, I see nothing in the way of proof to support this contention. I am beginning to believe that you want nothing more than to be given credit for this campaign which, I am certain, will go a long way towards ending this awful war.”
“Meade, I pray that you are correct in that it will end the war. However, I must admit that I have my doubts. You have seven infantry corps and one of cavalry and they all report directly to you. That is far too much responsibility for one man. Lee has apparently split his army into two grand corps, Hardee’s and Longstreet’s. Might I suggest that you do so as well? If might prevent a debacle like that which occurred when Lee was retreating.”
Meade bristled and his face turned red, “Kindly recall, sir, that both you and the President wanted me to do exactly what I did, and that was to chase Mr. Lee and destroy him.” Meade ran his hand through his mussed red hair. “How in God’s name was I to even suspect that a badly beaten Lee would turn around and become a tiger? I was the commander in the field and I bear responsibility for the defeat. Keep in mind, however, that I was following direct orders that made no sense. Part of the reason for that defeat was because I lost control of the army. That will never happen again. This time they will all report directly to me and I will keep my finger on the pulse of the army. It will be difficult but it will work.”
Halleck’s expression told Meade all he needed to know. Halleck disagreed vehemently but was not going to say a thing that would offend the hair-trigger Meade. Well and good. Halleck might be “Old Brains,” but he, George Gordon Meade, was a fighter. He would pin Lee into a position of his own choosing, grab onto him like a bulldog and never let go. In a brawl at close range, a fighter would always prevail. Now, he thought ruefully, all I have to do is find Lee.
The men of the Sixth Indiana cantered out of their encampment in a long column of twos. They were in high spirits. They were actually going to try to do something, rather than ride patrols around their camp with their thumbs up their asses. The column included several wagons that carried additional supplies and that could be used to transport wounded.
The regiment owned two very small six-pound cannon, but these had been left at their camp. Most of the officers considered them to be nothing more than loud toys. Thorne wasn’t that comfortable with denigrating them or leaving them behind. With their barrels stuffed with pieces of glass and metal, they could do some terrible damage to human flesh. Well, it was too late now.
The regiment was at the head of the column heading down this particular dirt road that seemed merely to connect four or five farms. He wondered if they were all related. Archie Willis thought it was a clear case of incest.
As always, Thorne had scouts and outriders keeping an eye open. Thus it was no surprise when one of the scouts came galloping down the road towards him. “Damn it, soldier, you kill that horse and you pay for it.”
“Sir, the horse is in fine shape. She just got a little lathered up because of the heat and the fact that so many people in this world seem to hate us.”
“I sure as hell hope you’re right. Now what’s got you all hot and bothered?”
“Sir, there’s a hill up ahead and this excuse for a road goes right over it with trees on each side. Looks like a perfect spot for an ambush, if you ask me.”
The scout had done excellent work in the past, so there was no reason to doubt his assessment. Thorne spurred his horse and, along with the scout and half a dozen men, rode to the crest of a hill that fronted the enemy position. The potential enemy position stood higher than the hill they were on. Of enemy soldiers, however, they could see not a one.
Willis rode up. “What’s your pleasure, Major?”
Thorne continued to stare through his telescope. It told him nothing. “Well, if I was either Pleasonton or Custer I’d simply mount up and have the regiment ride though yonder trees. But I’m not either of those men and I have too much respect for the lives of our troops to even consider it.”
“That’s why we all love you, Major.”
“Go to hell, Willis. No, instead send one company around each side of the woods and attempt to penetrate from the rear.” He looked over Willis’ shoulder. “Damn it, here comes Pleasonton. Get the men started real fast before that man gets here and tries to change everything.”
Willis rode off quickly and within minutes had two companies of mounted infantry performing an attempt to envelop the hill which, he realized, was smaller and lower than he had first thought.
“Thorne, what the hell is going on here?” snarled Pleasonton. “Are your men going to dance around that shitty little hill or are you going to drive any Rebs off it?”
“Sir, I thought I’d figure out how many there were before maybe getting my men shot.”
“I’ll tell you how many Rebs are up there, Thorne. Not a one, and you’re holding up the entire column and with it, my reputation. Don’t ever pull a trick like that again.”
“Understood, General.” Thorne also understood that Pleasonton did not get along with anybody and desperately wanted to get promoted to the rank of major general. As the annoying regular cavalry officer prepared to ride off, Thorne noticed two things. First, the men around them were looking elsewhere and ignoring Pleasonton. Second, he noted with dismay that the two companies he’d sent were entirely into the woods.
Pleasonton noticed it as well. “See, Major, there’s not a damned thing to worry about. No Rebels here, there, or anywhere else for that matter.”
No sooner had Pleasonton spoken than the woods erupted in gunfire, in seconds covering the hill with smoke. Thorne responded quickly, before Pleasonton could say a word. “Willis, get the rest of the regiment up there and tell them to hack their way through to our men.” He wheeled and saluted his commander. “By your leave sir, I’m going to join the fight.”
The cavalry general grinned wolfishly. “Not without me you aren’t.”
The remainder of the regiment fell in behind them and they galloped up the hill. “Thorne, where the devil is the rest of your regiment? They told me it was a small one, but this is ridiculous.”
“Most of the missing are either healing in a hospital or lying dead on Cemetery Ridge, sir.” The general went silent and Thorne was afraid he’d pushed the bad-tempered cavalry leader too far.
Finally, Pleasanton spoke. “We lost too many good men. There are a lot of prima donnas in this army. I know I have the reputation of a shit, but I don’t want to waste lives.”
Thorne had heard ot
herwise about him, so he kept silent.
The actual site of the skirmish was nothing much. A number of trees and bushes had been scarred or broken down and there were a good dozen dead and wounded lying about. Captive Rebels clumped together sullenly while the Yankees were unabashedly relieved that they’d survived another encounter with death.
“What now, Thorne?”
“That’s easy, sir. We’ll ask our wounded Union men and anyone else who has an opinion as to what happened. The captured Rebels will be questioned about anything they might know and then they’ll be forwarded to any one of a dozen prison camps where they will starve for the duration of the war. I don’t envy them.” Prisoner of war camps on both sides were a disgrace and the death rates among inmates was extremely high.
“It sounds like you don’t approve, Thorne.”
“I’m fine with killing people in combat, but to neglect them, leave them to starve and rot, is just plain barbaric.”
“I’ll agree with that, Thorne, but don’t let anyone hear you. There are still a lot of people who think we’re too soft on those we do put in prison. Now, I am going to do you a helluva favor. I am going to write up a report about this little skirmish and I am going to praise you to the skies. I will mention that I am doing it because you deserve it, which you do, and because it showed intelligent initiative.”
Thorne was flabbergasted. Pleasonton was very slow giving out praise to anyone. Was something going on here?
Pleasonton answered it for him. “No, I am not getting soft in the head. I know I am controversial and make enemies without breaking a sweat. I still want a handful of people who will give me a fair judgment. You’re an honest man and you’re even a lawyer, which means you won’t go far in your chosen profession.”
The Day After Gettysburg Page 20