The Day After Gettysburg

by Robert Conroy

  Looking around him, Wade could see nothing but butternut and gray. He ran a few more yards and found a clear view of the slope. There they were, the men in blue, running down the slope to the road below. Wade raised his gun, but heard only a click. He swung the cylinder open. By the time he cleared it, the Yankees were all well out of pistol range.

  Around him, men were cheering and hollering. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Mayfield.

  “Lotta Yankees, Colonel.”

  Wade eyed him. “No mules, though.”

  They were laughing like a pair of fools when an officer in gray appeared. It was the 3rd Alabama’s commander—Wade didn’t catch the name. He spoke in an accent so thick that Wade could scarcely follow a word he said.

  “I thankee yer cumin to th’ brigade’s hep, Cunnel.”

  He turned to regard the troops pulling themselves together around him. The line was bent nearly ninety degrees. The Arkansas boys couldn’t reoccupy the original trenches with the Yankees on their flank. “Dunno what the devil got into these heah boys. Nevuh done happen afore.”

  “It happens to everybody, Colonel.”

  The colonel shook his head fiercely. “Not th’ 3rd Arkansawr, it don’t.” He paused to examine the road below. “I’m a’thinkin’ we could clear that theah highway no trubba tall.”

  “I’m with you, Colonel.”

  The colonel frowned at him. “Say gin?”

  Wade didn’t answer. He eyes were fixed on the road, where a large group of horsemen—several hundred or more—were emerging from the Yankee lines.

  ★ ★ ★

  Thorne led the brigade, moving at a fast gallop. The staff officer had told him to advance and reinforce the troops holding the road. The Pennsylvania infantry would follow. They were to hold that position on the flank of the Confederate line until they received further orders.

  A few scattered shots greeted him as he arrived, but nothing to worry about. He got off his horse and looked things over. The slope suddenly plunged as it reached the road, providing excellent cover. Union troops reclined on the slope, occasionally letting off a shot or two. Well over a thousand of them, as far he could see.

  An enlisted man rode up beside him. “Get some men and take the horses into those trees. I want them out of sight.”

  The boy saluted and took the reins from him. Thorne ran over to join the men on the slope. A junior officer saluted him. “Sir . . . I’ll locate our commander.”

  “Do that.” Around him, his men were dismounting and moving toward the slope. “6th Indiana,” he called out. “Let’s notify Johnny that we’ve arrived.”

  The volley cleared the slope immediately. The few figures in butternut visible at the top of the ridge vanished. Thorne got to his feet for a clearer look. His stomach went hollow at the sight of all the blue-clad troops scattered across the slope. There must be hundreds of them.

  From where he stood, he could see the field leading up to the ridge. Even more lay in front of the slope. He was looking at a thousand dead men. Men who had been alive and talking and thinking only moments ago.

  And for what? They hadn’t even broken the line. Only bent it a little.

  He shook his head in disgust. So much for Grant. He was just as bad as the rest. Another Hooker, another Burnside. One more inept killer, efficient only at sending men to early deaths. Good for nothing at all else.

  “Excuse me, Major . . .”

  He realized someone had spoken to him several times. He turned to the officer beside him, evidently this unit’s commander. A captain. Sweet Jesus, were they down to that?

  The officer saluted him. “Glad you’re here, sir.”

  Thorne returned the salute. “Glad to be here.”

  They pulled back a few yards to get out of the line of sight of the Union cavalrymen. Wade was discussing their options with Mayfield when suddenly the Arkansas commander went wide eyed, shot to his feet, and straightened out his tunic. He strode past Wade without a word.

  Wade looked over his shoulder to see no less than General Robert E. Lee himself approaching, accompanied by two staff officers. Wade got up, brushed off his jacket and followed the Arkansas colonel.

  Lee saluted them and listened closely to the report. “Excellent,” he said at last. He looked between the two of them. “You’ve done magnificently well this day. The Army of Northern Virginia is grateful. I am grateful.”

  Wade nodded, nearly overcome. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now, how does the situation stand?”

  They led the general over to the crest, warning him not to go too far. As he was looking out over the road, a rider drew up behind them. General Longstreet dismounted and walked toward them. He gave Wade a sharp look but said nothing.

  “Well, General,” Lee said. “I believe we may have taken General Grant’s measure.”

  Longstreet nodded agreement. “He’s a pounder, nothing more. I can’t imagine why Joe Johnston couldn’t handle him.”

  “General Johnston was dealt a bad hand.” Lee gestured down the slope. “Here’s something of a postscript for us.”

  “I see.” Longstreet glanced at the troops around him. “We’ll have Hardee reinforce these boys and then clean ’em off the road.”

  “Yes.” Lee nodded. “Let’s give the men a rest first. They’re exhausted. It’s been a harsh and harrowing day.”

  “That it has.”

  “There’s plenty of time.” Lee grimaced at the federal troops. “Those poor boys aren’t going anywhere.”

  Longstreet seemed about to agree when he paused and swung to his left. Lee followed his gaze. For a moment both were silent. Then Lee spoke:

  “What the devil is this?”

  ★ ★ ★

  Thorne had told the captain to prepare his men for a fighting withdrawal back to the lines. They couldn’t remain hanging here—not with God alone knew how many thousands of Rebels peering down at them. The officer deferred completely. He seemed to be in way over his head, and overwhelmed by the events of the day.

  Thorne sat back on his haunches. Yet another withdrawal, leading to an overall retreat. Back to Lancaster, at least, maybe even back to Maryland. The newspapers would howl, Congress would whine, Lincoln would give one more brave speech. And then what? A new general, perhaps. And then another campaign . . . next spring, at the earliest. This year was shot. There was no point attempting to mount a campaign this late in the season. This war was going to stretch on for another year, perhaps even into 1865, with all the misery and death and suffering that entailed . . .

  God Almighty, how he was going to take it . . . ?

  Someone shouted; he looked up to see a trooper pointing back toward their lines. Thorne looked over his shoulder. Down the road, at just about the spot where they had waited out the battle, a large group of cavalrymen was riding toward them. And beyond them, visible amid the road’s curves, marched thousands of infantrymen.

  “Who does this fellow think he is?”

  Lee swung around to face Longstreet. “He’s behaving as if he hasn’t been soundly whipped.”

  “Just have to whip him again.”

  “Indeed we will.” Lee gestured toward the north, in the direction where the federal troops were vanishing behind the trees. “We can intercept him before he reaches York, take him in the flank . . .”

  “All marshes and streams, almost all the way into town.”

  “And he knew that.” Lee gazed across the fields to the trees which hid his adversary. “Damn the man!”

  Longstreet looked at him quizzically. Lee never spoke in that fashion about his opponents.

  Wade stepped forward. “Sir . . . General Lee. I volunteer to take my brigade and assault the Yankee line of march . . .”

  Lee turned toward him and smiled. “No, son . . . we need to save you and your men for a better day.”

  “He’s headed for Harrisburg,” Longstreet said. “Our supplies and powder.”

  “Yes he is. We’ll have to outmarc
h him.”

  “I’ll have Porter Alexander bring up a few guns. He’s got enough shot left to slow up these . . .”

  A sudden roar cut Longstreet short. They turned as one to look out across the field. A line of cannon had appeared just within the trees. A shell arced overhead and burst a hundred yards past them.

  They all ducked involuntarily. Even Lee reached up to clutch his hat.

  “Look there,” Longstreet said as they straightened up. Along the road below them several cannon were being deployed.

  “They’ll have this end of the ridge enfiladed in about five minutes,” Longstreet said.

  Lee turned toward Wade. “Pull your men back whatever distance may be necessary.” To his staff he said, “Inform Hardee, Hill, and Anderson to prepare to march.”

  As they turned toward the horses, Longstreet said, “I’ll alert Harrisburg to start entrenching.”

  “Yes, do that.”

  Another shell exploded, this one even closer. Wade moved to gather up to his men. It was going to be a long afternoon.

  ★ CHAPTER 22 ★

  Father was smoking a cheroot as he went through the day’s postal deliveries, which he was allowed to do only in his study, and with the door closed. He prepared and smoked it with such extraordinary relish that Cassandra was convinced that he actually didn’t care much for tobacco at all.

  She was in the study, bent over her embroidery, to keep him company. She had made an effort to be kind since their confrontation in the hall.

  “Now this,” he raised a sheet of paper. “Is a surprise—a letter from Edwin Booth.”

  “Truly?” Somehow, the thought of Booth’s family had not occurred to her. It was overwhelming enough to contemplate the fact that one of the great thespians of the era had been involved in such an atrocious scheme against the President himself.

  “Yes. He deplores his brother’s actions, and offers his most abject apologies.”

  “Ah.”

  “He offers his particular regards to, and I quote, “your daughter Cassandra, whom I hope was not unduly discomfited or unsettled by my wretched brother’s depredations.’”

  “He didn’t!”

  “He did indeed. Read for yourself.”

  “Yes—put it there. I’ll read it as soon as I finish with this.”

  “He asked about Hadrian as well.” Father sank back in his chair. “What a figure of a man that Hadrian is.”

  He’d been going on like that about Hadrian ever since he’d met him shortly after Booth was killed—and he was not alone. Reporters, officials, busybody old women, all of them, who would have crossed the street if they’d caught sight of Hadrian approaching before last week, now could not get enough of him. His people had benefited. They had been overwhelmed with offerings of food, some of it rich stuff of a like they had never before encountered. Cassie had intercepted some of the deliveries and had them sent to other freedmen encampments—Hadrian’s group was far from alone. They had also been given use of a building, which now served both as classrooms and sleeping quarters.

  But as for Hadrian himself—he had little use for rewards and none at all for praise. He had attended one abolitionist meeting called to celebrate his feat, wearing a suit that Cassandra had selected for him. But he had remained only a minimum amount of time, and had soon returned to his encampment and his accustomed well-worn clothes. He had gently discouraged Cassie from any further excursions of the sort, though the invitations had poured in.

  “He is better than what this world has to offer him,” she said.

  “That is unquestionably the case. Were his skin white, he would have the world at his feet. Nothing at all would be beyond him.”

  “We really must do something for him.”

  Her father took a contemplative puff of his cheroot. “Yes. I’ve been thinking the same.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes. He requires something that would fit his abilities, provide him with a decent livelihood, but not be beneath him.”

  “Exactly.” Cassie said after a moment. She was somewhat surprised that the direct and blunt Colonel Baird was displaying such depth of insight.

  “It presents a challenge. But we must come up with something.”

  Cassie eyed her father, wondering if the time had come to bring up her plan. He was relaxed, undistracted, and in a good mood, a conjunction of qualities that was rare at best. She would probably have no better opportunity to put forth her thoughts on the matter. “You know, Father, the best way to do something for Hadrian would be to do something for his people.”

  Her father eyed her, fingers curled around the cheroot.

  “They are in a predicament. They can never return to the South, but where is there a place for them in the northern states?”

  He grunted agreement. “Sadly true.”

  “But . . . it occurred to me that the north and south are not all that exists of the United States.”

  “’Course not. There’s the frontier.”

  “Yes. The far west.”

  “Plenty of room out there. An agricultural way of life, with which they have long experience . . .”

  “And no large cities, for which they are not well prepared.”

  Her father squinted over his cheroot. “So—what would be required for this venture? Seed. Tools. Horses, supplies, wagons, wood, firearms . . . It doesn’t seem like much.”

  “Land.”

  “Land! Yes . . .” Leaping from the chair as lightly as she’d seen him do since he’d lost his leg, her father went over to the map above the desk. “Plenty of land in the Dakotas. Especially with the Sioux acting up.”

  For the past year the Indians had been sweeping out of the Dakota territories, attacking settlers in Minnesota. It seemed that they had informed knowledge of the civil war going on between the white men and were taking full advantage of it.

  “Yes . . . a lot of settlers are afraid to set foot there now. The freedmen would have no competition for land.”

  “And there’s the President’s Homestead Act . . .”

  He snapped his fingers. “An amendment putting aside a certain percentage of frontier homesteads for freed blacks. Of course. That would work out very well.”

  “It would, Father. It would give them a place to stand. A place where they can build their lives as they see fit. These society women are cooing over them now, but in a month or two it will be something else. They are what this war is all about. They shouldn’t be forgotten.”

  He was still studying the map, his eyes intent, as if seeing something invisible to herself or any others. She relaxed. She recognized that expression. “The abolitionists will be good for some funds. They’re at loose ends since the Proclamation. The churches will certainly open their purses for this . . .”

  “And don’t forget your business friends either, Father.”

  “Hmm. I’ll put a bug in Cooke’s ear. Talk to Greeley and get him behind it. Bring in Mr. Douglass as well, he’ll have sound advice . . .”

  He was pacing the room, as if he had two flesh-and-blood legs carrying him. Cassie said nothing. Unlike many young women her age, she had a clear notion of when it was best not to speak.

  “. . . and you, young lady, you now have a subject for the talk you’re giving at that women’s gathering next week.”

  Cassie smiled. She already had an outline written. “Well, Father. Let’s get this on paper, while it’s fresh in our minds.”

  “Indeed.”

  She examined her embroidery. It was not quite finished as yet, but the rest would wait.

  “And what is this you’re working on?”

  “It’s a sash. She turned it around and displayed it to him. “For Steven. This yellow will go nicely with the blue uniform. And this is the emblem of the 6th Indiana.”

  “Ahh.” He nodded as he admired it. “My dear, you are lady of considerable talents.”

  More than you might guess, Father, she thought, as he set the sash down and went to the desk fo
r paper and a pen.

  Without even realizing it, Dean found himself in the midst of a battlefield.

  He’d been smelling the stink for some time without realizing what it must be. It was only when he nearly stepped on a body in the tall grass that he became aware of what he’d stumbled into.

  He stopped and looked around him. He hadn’t known there had been fighting here. He thought he was still in Maryland. Or had he reached Pennsylvania already?

  A few steps on, he spotted a knapsack and raced over to it. He yanked it open, letting out an inarticulate sound when he saw there was food inside it. Hard tack, a bit of dried fruit. He dropped into a crouch and wolfed it down. He was starving. He’d been avoiding people since he fled Washington. Cassie Baird had no doubt informed the authorities. He was certain a description had been sent out. They’d be scouring the landscape for him. The last time he’d eaten was a couple of handfuls of grain he’d found in a barn. Had that been yesterday?

  The knapsack dangling from his hand, he moved on, looking around him carefully. He spotted a few more bodies, a dead horse. Then he caught sight of something dangling from a clump of brush closer to the road and walked over to it. It was an officer’s greatcoat, hanging from a branch as if on display. Good, heavy wool, well tailored, with a fine red satin lining. He thanked God as he pulled it on. The last couple of mornings had been freezing. It was a little large, but not too bad.

  With greater confidence, he headed north. He’d been keeping to the fields to avoid being seen, but now, if he was in fact near to Confederate-held Pennsylvania, it wouldn’t hurt to use the roads. If any of the locals saw him wearing Confederate gray, they’d just turn around and run off anyway.

  He wondered what was going on back in Washington. Booth was dead, no question about that. Those niggers had killed him. He’d dropped like a sack when they opened fire. And who had given them guns in the first place? But Booth had been a silly ass anyway. Way too impetuous, too inclined to go off at a half-cock. Actors were like that. Look at how he’d tried to bag Lincoln. Jessup had been right. There hadn’t been enough planning. Instinct, Booth had said, as if that was the answer to everything. Well, he’d learned how that had worked out. If he’d listened more closely to Richard Dean, he’d have been better off.