by Alison Hart
Corporal Vaughn stands upright and salutes. “That’s General Burbridge,” he tells me. Snapping to attention, I salute as well, hoping the general will bring news of a victory. But he and his attendants keep right on riding, their eyes toward camp. A captain peels off from the group and begins passing the word that Colonel Hobson is now in charge of the division.
I watch General Burbridge’s retreating back as he canters briskly past a wagon filled with wounded soldiers. I can hear their screams and moans as the rough ground jostles the wagon bed, but the general doesn’t even glance at them. He’s in a hurry.
“Gabriel!” someone shouts hoarsely, and I whirl to see Private Crutcher stumbling down Sanders Hill. I hurry toward him, leading the horses, and he falls to his knees in front of me.
“Are you shot?” I ask.
He nods. His palm is clasped to his chest, and his breaths are wheezy.
“You need a surgeon!”
He shakes his head. “Help . . . me . . . on . . . Whistler,” he croaks between scabby lips.
“But you can’t ride,” I protest. “You need doctoring.”
Ignoring me, he crawls like a dog toward Whistler. He grabs the stirrup and slowly, his face drained from the effort, pulls himself upright. From there, I boost him into the saddle and loop the reins over the pommel. He slumps forward, one hand still on his chest, the other limply holding Whistler’s mane, and gasps, “Farewell—Gabriel.”
“Goodbye, Private Crutcher.” I salute him, biting back the tears. Turning Whistler toward camp, I swat the horse on the rump. I watch as he trots off, Private Crutcher bobbling in the saddle. There are so many questions I wanted to ask him. Are Pa, Captain Waite, and Private Black still alive? And what of the other men in Company B?
I fear Private Crutcher has only enough life left in him to fulfill his last request—dying in the Union camp, not on Rebel soil.
“Loose horse!” a soldier shouts. Then I hear a high-pitched whinny. Dusk is settling in the hollow, but I recognize Champion’s white star and gleaming black coat as he gallops down Sanders Hill.
My stomach sinks when I see that his saddle is empty and his neck is splotched with red. A soldier runs toward Champion, who bolts in the other direction, careening into a group of prisoners.
“Corporal Vaughn!” I call. “That’s Captain Waite’s mount. Hold these horses while I catch him.”
Corporal Vaughn hurries over and takes the reins from me. I wave away several other soldiers bent on catching Champion, who has darted behind Sassy and Hero. His sides heave and his nostrils blow, but he seems relieved when I grab his rein and stroke his sweaty neck.
“You’re safe now,” I croon, checking his near side before walking to his far side. There’s a slash on his neck, as if a saber blade sliced him, but it’s not deep. “Champion, where’s Captain Waite?”
I glance in the direction of Sanders Hill, which is suddenly swarming with soldiers. They spill over the summit and flow down the side, fleeing from an unseen enemy. It’s grown darker, and it’s hard to tell if their coats are blue or gray, but hurrahs rise up around me, so I gather they’re Union.
Corporal Vaughn hurries over with the other horses, his face grim.
“Sir!” I call. “What’s going on?”
“Our troops reached the crest of Chestnut Ridge, but they’re out of ammunition. Colonel Ratliff has been ordered to bring the 4th Brigade back to camp. Horse holders should help all cavalrymen find their mounts.”
“Yes sir.” He hands me the three sets of reins before rushing off.
For what seems like forever, the returning soldiers walk, fall, roll, and are carried down the hill in chaotic spurts. Like Private Crutcher, many are severely wounded, yet they flee in panic as if the devil is after them. I spy Colonels Wade and Brisbin, who are still mounted. Their faces are weary, but they continue to aide and encourage the soldiers of the Fifth. Colonel Ratliff returns with the 12th Ohio and 11th Michigan, and gradually all of Pa’s squad staggers from the battlefield to claim their horses.
All except Pa and Private Black.
Still holding Sassy, Hambone, and Hero, I frantically search for Corporal Vaughn. He’s under the surgeon’s tree, wrapping a bandage around a private’s head.
“Sir, we need to form a detail to find Captain Waite, Private Black, and Sergeant Alexander.”
“I’m sorry, Private Gabriel. There will be no detail.” Corporal Vaughn keeps working, as if unable to meet my gaze. “Colonel Hobson has commanded all available soldiers to build bonfires here and along Broddy Bottom. Then we are to retreat.”
“Retreat?” I’m so stunned I can hardly utter the word. “But what about those left on Chestnut Ridge? What about my pa?”
He shakes his head, and I notice that sweat has dried in tear tracks down his cheeks. He’s aged ten years during this journey. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice so low I can barely hear him above the shouts and confusion. “But it appears we’ve been ordered to abandon the fight—as well as the wounded and dead.”
Chapter Twelve
Corporal Vaughn’s words ring through my head like the trumpeter’s song of retreat. Abandon the wounded and dead.
“But Corporal Vaughn, we can’t just—”
“We have no choice!” he cuts off my protest, and I see the anguish in his reddened eyes. “We’ve been given our orders.” He turns his back to me, ties off the wounded soldier’s bandage, and then moves on to help another.
Before I can follow the corporal, Hambone’s reins are wrested from my hand. “I need this horse!” a soldier barks.
“B-but sir, that’s Private Black’s mount,” I stammer. The soldier’s face is streaked with grime. His head is bare, but the epaulets on his shoulders tell me he’s an officer. I’m forced to step back and let him take Hambone.
The trumpeter sounds “to horse,” and the soldiers hasten to join what’s left of their squads and companies. A lieutenant commandeers Sassy. I blink back foolish tears as her gray rump disappears in the dark. Then the exhausted surgeon asks for Hero so he can accompany a wagon of injured. No, I want to shout, he’s Pa’s horse! But I hand Hero over. I know how hard the doctor has been working all day to save as many men as he can.
Darkness falls over the valley. The regiments are mounted and moving off. I’m left standing with Champion, who’s resting his muzzle on my shoulder, watching the brigades retreat. No one wants the blood-splattered, wild-eyed mount of a fallen captain. And no one cares that 1st Squad’s stable hand is staying behind: a lowly horse handler who never gave an oath to the United States to obey without question.
A small detachment has remained here to gather wood for bonfires, and I listen to the soldiers talk. General Burbridge has ordered the lighting of the fires in hopes that the Rebel scouts will peer down Sanders Hill and into Broddy Bottom and be fooled into thinking that Burbridge’s division is camped and waiting until morning to reassemble and attack Saltville.
As the men pass this information to each other, a few chuckle at the clever plan. If the Rebels are fooled, they won’t chase after the retreating division. But others complain bitterly that General Burbridge should have stayed the course. Instead he has turned tail and run—abandoning his wounded and dead.
Step by step, I slip away from the light of the fires, leading Champion. His wound has crusted over, and the horse walks without a hitch. Patting his neck, I whisper my plan to him: We must find Pa and the others.
I check his girth, tighten it, and raise the stirrups for my shorter legs. Mounting, I settle in the saddle. I’m exhausted by the long day and no food, but I’m fired up, too. I aim Champion up the hillside, staying in the shadows cast by the flickering flames. He climbs steadily until we reach the top, where I halt him, unsure of what I’ll find on the other side.
All I can see is the glow of a light in the window of a small building. Is it the lantern of an enemy or a friend? I can’t tell from this far away, so I squeeze my heels into Champion’s sides. I listen fo
r calls from fallen soldiers, but the night is silent except for crickets and the crunch of gravel as the horse picks his way down the hill.
A few feet from the building, I stop Champion again, slip from the saddle, and make my way toward the window of the cabin. Inside, Union soldiers with bandaged legs or patched chests lie on the floor of the cramped space, while a surgeon in blue tends to them.
I tie Champion to a tree branch and approach the sagging doorway. The surgeon is crouched in one corner, holding a rag to a man’s left side.
“Sir, permission to help,” I announce myself.
He gives me a quick glance. “Permission granted.” He nods to the soldier, who I now see is colored. “Hold this. The bullet pierced the flesh. Fortunately it went clean through, but the wound is bleeding profusely.”
I step around the prone men, searching the black faces shining in the light of two lanterns, but I recognize no one from Company B. Stooping next to the surgeon, I take over for him and press the rag against the man’s side. Despite the layers of dirt and gunpowder, I can see that it’s a friend of Private Black’s, a soldier from 2nd Squad. “Private Lewis?” I ask.
He nods. “That you, Gabriel?”
“Yes sir.”
“Am I goin’ to die?”
“No sir. Surgeon says it’s just a flesh wound. Private Lewis, do you know where Sergeant Alexander is?”
His face contorts. “It was bedlam on dat hill. Men was droppin’ like feed sacks tossed from a haymow. Smoke was so thick I could barely see de end of my rifle.”
“You never saw Sergeant Alexander or Private Black?”
“I couldn’t see nothin’ after de Rebels started shootin’. We was almost atop dat godforsaken mountain—Chestnut Ridge, dey called it, when dem graycoats attacked like wild animals. We would’ve beat ’em, ’cept we run out of shot.”
“What about Captain Waite?”
“Last I know of him was when he told us to charge.” He snorts. “Only how could we charge with no shot? Dem Rebels was hackin’ us down like wheat in de field.”
“Where was Captain Waite when you heard him give the command? On your right or left?”
“Gallopin’ dat horse up de left side of de hill.” Private Lewis licks his lips. “I could sure use a sip of water, Gabriel.”
Keeping the rag pressed against his side, I look around for a canteen. I spot one within reach, drag it over by the strap, and give him several sips. Lewis nods toward the surgeon. “Doc’s a good man. Stayed behind to carry us off dat hill. I didn’t want to be found by no Rebel. I seen hate in dem Rebels’ eyes, Gabriel, pure hate.”
His feverish words send chills through me.
Then his breathing grows shallow, and I gather he’s drifted back asleep. The surgeon checks his wound. “It’s quit bleeding. I’ll bandage him later. He should be fine to move in the morning.”
I nod.
The surgeon motions me to stand and walk with him to the doorway. “There are more wounded on Chestnut Ridge,” he whispers as he wipes his hands with a bloody rag. “We moved as many as possible before it grew too dark. I heard you asking about your father and Captain Waite. It’s more than possible they’re still out there.” He reaches down and picks up one of the lanterns. “Take this. You’ll need it to find your way.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He points down the hill. “Tread carefully, Private. At the bottom, there’s a ravine thick with brush. Only a few men fell there, and I believe we retrieved them all. The rest were gunned down as they advanced up the hill.” His voice catches, and one of the soldiers cries out. I wonder how the doctor keeps his wits, surrounded by so much pain. He thrusts some bandages into a rucksack and hands it to me.
Holding the lantern high, I hurry to Champion and mount.
With the light to guide us, we plow through the brambles in the ravine and leap out the other side. As Champion climbs, I sweep the lantern back and forth, but I can make out nothing more than a jumble of rocks and low brush. Then the beam catches a glint of metal. I pull Champion to a halt and lower the lantern. First I see a boot, then what looks like a man’s leg. As my eyes adjust, more bodies come into focus. My heart jolts. We are standing at the edge of a field of bodies, all still as death. In the midst of such horror, my mind goes numb. Only one thought repeats in my mind: How will I ever find Pa?
Blowing nervously, Champion shies from the bodies. I rein him to the left, skirting the outside line of fallen soldiers. I have to keep my wits about me. Private Lewis recalled that Captain Waite was riding left of the ranks, so that’s where I start my search.
Fewer bodies are scattered here, and my light shines on none who are alive. I say a prayer and press on, unmoved by the sight of so many lifeless souls sprawled on the ground as if tossed there by the wind. My mind goes back to my fright at the corpses in the dead house. Oh, how this journey has hardened me!
Then the lantern light falls on a soldier propped against a rock as if he dragged himself there. His slouch hat is tipped off his forehead. Could it be Captain Waite?
Jumping off Champion, I kneel next to the wounded man. I’m overjoyed to see that it is our captain, clutching his rifle as if expecting bad company. Blood is crusted on his neck.
“Captain?”
His eyelids flutter. I grab the canteen and rucksack from the saddle. I’ve doctored enough horses to know how to care for a wound. I pull out a rag, dampen it, and dab the gash.
Captain Waite’s head jerks and his eyes fly open. He stares at me in confusion.
“It’s Gabriel, sir. You’ve a cut on your neck. I’m trying to clean it.”
A weak but relieved smile replaces his pain and confusion. “I knew there was a reason I brought you along, Private Alexander.” He winces. “I believe I broke my ankle, too. I left the boot on as a splint, and now it’s swollen tight.”
“We best leave it on until you see the surgeon.”
He drinks some water while I bandage his neck. After he gathers his strength, I help him to his feet and he hops closer to Champion. Before mounting, he clings to the saddle, swaying unsteadily. “This horse carried me into battle like the purebred he is,” he says, but then he shakes his head sadly. “The Rebels were entrenched behind fences and rocks. Company B fought courageously, Gabriel. But many fell.” He averts his gaze from the shadowy hillside beyond us. “Did your pa make it back?”
I shake my head. “Nor Private Black.”
“Last I saw them, they were side by side, waving the men forward. Soon after that they disappeared in a cloud of smoke from the gunpowder. Not far from where I was shot, I believe.”
Standing on his good foot, the captain grasps the pommel with one hand and the back of the saddle with the other. I crouch down and give him a boost from behind, and he pulls himself high enough to place the toe of his good foot into the lowered stirrup. With a muffled cry, he swings his injured ankle over Champion’s rump to the other side.
“Cavalry Tactics never mentioned mounting with a broken leg,” he gasps.
As I lead Champion slowly down the hill, trying not to joggle the captain, I list the men from Company B who made it back to camp.
“The others will be found as soon as it’s light,” Captain Waite says forcefully. “General Burbridge and Colonel Ratliff will send out detachments. As hard as the Fifth fought, it’s only right that all receive a proper burial.”
I clear my throat. “Um, sir, the division retreated. By now, the brigades are probably climbing Clinch Mountain.”
I glance over my shoulder. Captain Waite is staring down at me in astonishment. “Gabriel, I’ve never known you to lie. But what you say is incomprehensible.”
I gather that he, like many others, doesn’t understand the General’s decision. “The surgeons and their assistants are the only ones who stayed behind,” I say. “From what I saw on Chestnut Ridge, there aren’t enough men left to gather the wounded, much less bury the dead.”
Captain Waite falls silent. I believe if it
was up to him, he would have defied orders and stayed behind to care for his men. But there’s naught he can do with a bleeding neck and a broken ankle.
When we reach the cabin, approaching dawn is turning the horizon gray. A thick fog covers the hills and valleys. I summon the surgeon. By now, Captain Waite is slumped in the saddle, half-conscious.
“Take the captain to Governor Sander’s house,” the surgeon says brusquely. He takes the lantern from me and points to a brick chimney sticking up from the mist. “Officers from the 11th Michigan and 12th Ohio are being cared for there.”
“Yes sir.” I start off, hoping I might beg a bite of food to eat there, which lifts my spirits some. A slice of bread or cheese will rally me, and once I know the captain is well cared for, I can set off again to hunt for Pa and Private Black.
Just as we come within view of the governor’s house, Champion halts, jolting Captain Waite awake. Pricking his ears, the horse spins in the direction of the surgeon’s cabin. I hold my breath and listen, wondering what Champion heard.
Hoofbeats thud in the foggy distance. Then angry words drift down the hillside from the cabin. “Drag them coloreds outta there!” a gruff voice hollers.
The surgeon’s voice rises in protest, but moments later the report of revolvers echoes through the hills. I startle with each shot.
“Oh my god!” the captain cries out hoarsely. “They’re killing the wounded. During the battle, I heard them yell ‘no quarter’ but I paid them no mind. Now I realize they meant it.”
Private Black’s words flash in my mind like a warning: When those Confederates see our black faces charging them with rifles and bayonets, they’re going to attack us with a vengeance.
Captain Waite stares into the fog. “I gather they aim to kill every black soldier and their officers without mercy. That’s why General Burbridge hightailed it out of here.”
Clucking to Champion, I hurry him along a fence toward the house. When we trot into the yard, a Union surgeon’s assistant meets us. “What’s going on?” he asks.