One of the musketeers got a shot off just as Thorne opened fire. A couple of the Rebels dropped to their knees to fire back. The rest just kept coming. They were less than a hundred yards away.
Two of the men had picked Wittfield up and were carrying him with his arms slung over their shoulders. Thorne covered them, backing up slowly and taking slow, deliberate shots. In a moment they were back among the shelter of the houses.
Several of the Indianans finished loading their Spencers and opened up on the Rebels. “There’s one down,” one of them said.
Thorne went over to where Wittfield rested against a tree. His entire jacket front was soaked in blood. Thorne couldn’t even make out where the wound was. His mouth was working and a trail of blood dripped from one corner.
Thorne leaned close to him. “Steady, Francis,” he said. Wittfield was new, scarcely six months in harness. He’d left college to join up.
The carbines roared behind him. “That stopped ’em,” somebody said at last.
Wittfield’s lips contorted again. His mouth fell open and blood gushed out in what seemed be a steady stream. He said something that Thorne didn’t catch. He leaned closer. “What’s that?”
“I didn’t know it would be like this . . .”
Thorne moved back, trying to think of something to say, anything at all that would serve as an answer. He was still thinking when Wittfield suddenly contorted and collapsed against the tree.
“Oh, Christ,” somebody said.
Thorne got to his feet. A sound caught his attention, the clatter of feet from the next street over. The Rebs were trying to flank them.
“All right, let’s go,” Thorne said.
Someone gestured toward Wittfield.
“Leave him.”
Wade led his horse up the middle of the street. He was holding his pistol in his other hand, cocked and ready to fire. The air was hazy with smoke—he could see clearly little more than a block ahead. Somebody said it smelled like coal smoke. There was a coalyard not too far from here.
The horses were nervous, whinnying and stamping their hooves. He told the men to dismount after that affray with the bluebellies just now. They were too easy to see on horseback. Where the Yankees had gone, he had no idea. He doubted that they’d hit any of them. They’d sure as hell chewed up those houses, though. Somebody had been crying inside one of them as they’d left the street.
Shapes were moving onto the street up ahead. He raised the pistol, but let it drop as the figures became clear: Yankee civilians.
There were dozens of them, all of them coming from the direction of the thickest smoke. Many of them were carrying various items—keepsakes or family treasures that they wished most to save from the flames, most likely. A few of the women had children in their arms.
The ones in the lead came to a halt as they caught sight of Wade and his men. A few of them lowered their heads and walked on, keeping as far away from the troops as they could. “Let ’em pass,” Wade called back.
The others pushed on when they saw the first ones pass Wade’s cavalrymen unmolested. By now they nearly filled the street from one curb to the other. They walked past quickly, saying nothing. Many of them were stained by smoke. A few had suffered what looked to Wade like burns.
A woman—a young one—came rushing up the street faster than the rest. Her hair was disheveled, and a sack of some sort slung over one shoulder was heavy enough to bow her down toward the street. She was heading straight for Wade. He realized too late that she didn’t even know he was there.
“Miss . . .” he called out as she collided with him. She started to fall and he gripped one of her arms to help her keep her feet. As she caught her balance she looked up at him. Her eyes widened and she let out a high-pitched scream.
He raised a hand to ward off the fists beating at his chest. He let her go, but she kept on flailing at him all the same. At last he reached out gave the sack a sharp shove to move her on her way.
Two civilians stood glaring at him. They turned and resumed walking. He glanced over his shoulder to see the girl dragging the sack down the street. She looked back at him, her lips quivering. Somebody shouted, “God damn you Rebels.”
He turned away. What had she been thinking, anyway? What had she taken him for? He thought of Blandon, what he’d done in that farm village. She couldn’t have thought that. That couldn’t have been it, could it?
A sense of unbearable shame shot through him. Up ahead they were still coming, looming like wraiths out of the thickening smoke. Waving to the men behind him, he started pushing through them.
The butternuts had stuck to them like bone glue. They fought a running gun battle for a good three-four blocks until Thorne led the men into the smoke-covered section of town. Now they’d lost the Rebs at last—at least he hoped so.
He gave his arm a shake. His sleeve was soaked with Wittfield’s blood. It was starting to get tacky. It really bothered him. Cold as it was, he was considering taking the jacket off and dumping it.
Shapes appeared in the smoke up ahead. He lifted the pistol, paused with it halfway raised. There was something about them . . . .
Around him the men opened fire. The shapes began to drop. At least some of them were wearing skirts.
Thorne raised his hand. “Cease fire!” The shots continued. “Goddammit, I said cease fire!”
He swung toward them. Emmet was staring ahead of him, his face contorted. Thorne reached out and seized his carbine barrel. It burned his hand. Emmet had already fired.
Beyond him someone else fired. Thorne opened his mouth to shout but Archie Willis had already laid hands on him.
“Oh my God,” Emmet said.
Thorne pulled his hand back, squeezed his burned palm. Turning, he saw several of the civilians standing in confusion, gesturing at the bodies at their feet. A woman was sobbing loudly.
“Come on,” he told the men. He was finishing his first step in the direction of civilians when dimmer shapes appeared in the smoke beyond them. Flashes pierced the smoke, and the remaining civilians began to drop.
“Rebels,” Thorne shouted. He raised his pistol and started firing.
Firing burst out very close by, no more than a block away. Wade swung in that direction, hand instinctively falling on his pistol butt. A man grabbed two children by the arms and rushed them past him.
The firing died down, but then returned louder than ever. Wade drew his pistol. Around him he could sense his men doing the same. A woman ran by, one hand stifling sobs.
His horse suddenly neighed and rose slightly on its rear legs. Wade awkwardly reached over to pat its neck with his left hand. It dropped back and shook its head fiercely.
The firing died down once again. After a moment, Wade let himself relax. “Steady,” he said to no one in particular.
Thorne stood alone in the smoke. He could see no one around him. Any nearby sound was drowned out by the constant firing in the distance.
“6th Indiana,” he called out. There was no answer.
He turned and went back to where the civilians had stood. No one stood there now. Whoever had been left alive had fled, leaving behind five bodies lying on the dirt street.
He paused above one girl wearing a blue dress. Even though she was lying face down, he could see that she was young. That much he could tell. No older than Cassie, if that. He crouched over her and, gripping her shoulder, turned her over.
He recoiled, nearly falling over backward. She had no face. It was just blood and bone, not a face anymore at all.
He let out a sound, gripped the pistol with both hands, as if to rip the barrel from the frame. He tore his eyes away, but immediately turned back to the ruined face. He heard a voice, speaking as if into his ear at this very moment:
“I didn’t know it would be like this.”
He gazed down at the pistol, its cylinder empty. He hadn’t fired it at these people. Or had he? He was almost sure he hadn’t. Almost sure. He thought back over it again, trying to pin
the moment down. Dear God, he had to know he hadn’t done this. . . .
He made a gesture as if to throw the pistol aside, instead resting the barrel on the ground. He reached up and rubbed his face. He could smell the spent powder on his hand.
He heard a sound and looked up. Amid the smoke, a man was aiming a pistol at him. At last, he raised the barrel. “Sorry, sir.”
Thorne got his feet. The man came forward. “Captain O’Doinn, 69th New York.”
“I’m Thorne. 6th Indiana. I’ve lost track of my men.” He gestured toward the Confederate corpses to his left. “We had a gunfight here . . .”
“I heard it. There’s some Midwesterners up the way by my people.”
“Very well.” He glanced once again at the girl, wishing he had something to cover her with. The officer followed his gaze. “Poor lass.”
“What a madhouse,” Thorne said as they stepped over the butternut corpses.
“Sure and it is,” O’Doinn told him. “Shouldn’t have been this way. It’s a true thing that Baldy Smith paused during the advance to dress his lines. That allowed the Rebels to get in behind Sedgwick’s troops.” He smiled crookedly at Thorne. “Which is to say ourselves. It’s been like this ever since.”
Thorne didn’t answer immediately. He was thinking of that girl back there. He wondered what her name had been. Had she been a beauty? Had she been admired by the men of her circle? Did she have a beau? Or had she been married, and had children, children who would wonder why mother had gone away never to return . . . Oh dear God, he had to stop thinking of this. He would lose his mind if he didn’t stop. “Well . . . what can you say about a general nicknamed Baldy?”
Several shapes appeared in the smoke up ahead. A voice called out, “Go bhfuil tú, Captaen?”
“Mar sin, tá sé,” O’Doinn answered.
They paused among O’Doinn’s troops. Thorne realized that he was still holding his Colt. He instinctively opened the cylinder to find it empty. Rummaging inside his cartridge case, he found nothing there either. “I’m out of ammunition,” he muttered.
O’Doinn broke off from speaking with his men in whatever language they were using to point up the street. “He won’t be needing his.”
Thorne walked over to see a southern officer sprawled on his back. Under his gray overcoat he saw a cartridge case. Crouching down, Thorne reached for it only for his fingers to jerk back as they brushed against the body.
There was a roar from somewhere behind him as he rubbed his hands together. “There goes another house,” somebody shouted.
Thorne flipped open the cartridge case, His hands shook as scrabbled at the balls and wads inside it. He became aware that somebody was speaking to him. He looked up to see Archie Willis gazing down at him.
“Steve . . . are you all right?”
Behind him a man appeared leading a horse. “All you men follow me,” he called out. “We’ve got the Rebels on the run!”
“. . . we’ve got the bluebellies on the run,” the officer shouted at Wade. He was on horseback, and it didn’t seem to bother him that Wade and his men had nearly opened up on him just now.
“General Longstreet is organizing a charge,” he went on. “You boys go on up there and join him.”
He continued on past them. “Where’s he at, exactly?” Wade called out.
“Just go on ahead, you’ll find him.”
Thorne crouched at the far side of the intersection. He was not at all sure what he was facing, who was in command, or much of anything else. Around him a hundred or more troops waited behind bushes and trees. Not a single organized unit among them—they were all just as mixed as his own troops.
Willis scrambled up beside him. “Talked to a major from Sedgwick’s staff,” he said breathlessly. “There’s supposed to be a lot of Rebels in these next few blocks. They think they’re coming together somewhere around here. We need to bust ’em up.”
Thorne gazed at him, unable to collect his thoughts. He started at a nearby crashing sound.
“There goes another goddamn building,” somebody said.
“All right,” Thorne said. “Let’s run over there, take a quick look.”
“Okay. Weber, Emmet . . .”
Thorne had taken no more than three steps out from under the trees when a sudden burst of gunfire from down the street drove him back.
“There’s somebody up in that church steeple there,” Emmet said. “I just saw him move.”
Thorne looked in that direction. While the smoke here was not quite as thick as it was elsewhere, the steeple, a block and a half down, was still little more than a silhouette in the dimness. He pulled out his glasses. That was a little better . . . Yessir, somebody was up there, all right. “Did he fire at us?”
“Don’t think so,” Emmet said.
“He’s spotting, that what he’s doing.”
Thorne nodded. “We need a sharpshooter.”
Willis called out. A second later, a short, clean-shaven trooper approached. He saluted. “Sergeant Bauer, sir.”
“Sergeant . . . that steeple over there . . .”
“Ja . . . I see him.” Without another word, he shouldered his rifle, a very expensive model, and fired. Thorne looked at the steeple just in time to see a shape fall out and slide over the edge of the roof.
The sergeant set his rifle down and turned to the troops behind him. “A ’61, bitte. Rifle loaded, ja?”
Taking the gun, he put it to his shoulder and fired in one smooth motion, then studied the steeple for a second. “Another Johnny in there. Gone now. Not sure if I hit him.”
Thorne squinted at the church. “You actually saw somebody in there?”
“That I did.” He nodded. “Sir.”
“Why don’t you stick with us?”
“My pleasure, sir. Can’t find my unit, anyway.”
A figure appeared behind them. “Start moving forward in five minutes,” he said. He was gone before Thorne had time to answer.
Wade stopped and raised one hand. The men came to a halt behind him.
He studied the street ahead, examining it as closely as the smoke allowed. There had been gunfire in this direction a moment ago, one furious burst followed by two distinct shots. Now it was quiet, the street empty. There weren’t even any civilians in sight.
He ran his gaze across the empty intersection and on to the church to the right. He couldn’t say what he was looking for, but something up there had him spooked. It was the kind of thing you picked up after being in battle but could never explain to anybody who hadn’t seen the elephant.
“What is it, Colonel?”
“I don’t know. It’s something, though.”
“I reckon.”
“You feel it?”
“That I do.”
“All right. Let’s saddle up.” He got his foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself onto the horse. He looked back. The rest of the regiment was doing the same. “Pass this on,” he told Mayfield. We’re going to take this at a gallop. You see anything, just open fire. Don’t wait or hesitate.”
He waited until he was sure they’d all heard. Nodding at nobody in particular, he raised the reins and started down the street.
Waving the men on, Thorne looked across the street. He saw no sign that anyone was over there. He’d led them around the backs of the houses facing the church. Any Rebels awaiting them would expect them to come across the intersection. He wanted as much in the way of surprise as they could get.
He slipped out his watch. It seemed as if a lot more than five minutes had passed, but it was right on the nose.
Guns started firing somewhere to their left as he put the watch away. “Let’s go.”
He set off at a lope past the side of the house and on toward the street. There were bushes up in front, enough to mask their movement. There was no response at all as they poured into the front yard.
He was moving out into the street when he heard just about the last sound he’d ever have expected: horses appr
oaching at a gallop.
Spotting them emerging from the smoke from the corner of his eye, Thorne threw himself across the street just as the gunfire started. He returned fire, not even bothering to aim. Behind him the men lurched backward out of the street. One of them wasn’t quick enough. His musket went clattering as a horse knocked him over.
His men began firing, and a horseman stiffened and fell. The man behind him attempted to dodge but barged into another horse and went down. The second man slipped from the saddle but somehow managed to hang on as he was dragged down the street.
A ball splintered the church steps beside Thorne and he missed the next few moments. When he again looked up, the soldier who had been knocked down was struggling under the hooves of a horse. The rider was gazing down at him. It looked as if he was trampling him deliberately.
Thorne shouted and fired. He couldn’t tell if he’d hit him, but the rider slumped and, after a moment, went over. The horse reared wildly before racing off after the others.
Getting to his feet, Thorne fired at the oncoming riders. His mouth was wide as he howled wordlessly. He realized that he was empty just as something knocked him off his feet. When he raised his head the last of riders were disappearing into the dust and smoke.
He forced himself to his feet. They’d gotten four of them. A few of the men were down as well but . . . they’d gotten four of the bastards, and half a block back a horse was shrieking as it attempted to rise from the street.
The Rebel who had fallen began moving his arms. The Union soldier he had trampled lay unmoving a few feet away. Two troopers walked over. The man grunted as they began kicking him. Willis walked up behind them, his pistol dangling from his hand.
Thorne strode across the street. Without a word he took the pistol from Willis, took one more step and then shot the bleeding Rebel in the face.
★ ★ ★
Wade didn’t have time to check on their losses or anything else. He reined in as he became aware that they were among friendly troops, and turned to watch the men following him in. An officer came over and said, “Hey there, fella—we nearly opened up on you—” Then the Yankees attacked.
The Day After Gettysburg Page 36