by Ralph Peters
Dilger had no time to revel in his small victory. His turned his attention back to directing fire at the most urgent targets, the lunging shadows in the open stretch.
“Converging fires, midfield! Number two gun, drop a quarter turn. Report!”
“Number one ready!”
“Number three…”
The Rebs were undeterred, and they were a multitude. Man by man, then in small groups, the Ohio infantrymen faded into the shadows until only a hard-minded dozen or so remained.
Dilger had taken his orderly’s horse. He dismounted and returned it. His men were deafened and he had to grasp Lieutenant Dammaert by the sleeve to command his attention. He shouted in the man’s ear:
“Withdraw every piece but Allen’s, he’s got the last intact crew. Take them back to wherever the next line’s forming and go into battery. Listen to me: Leapfrog the caissons as you go, dump charges and all the canister that’s left by the side of the road, pile it every hundred and fifty yards, all the way back. Jump to it!”
“You—”
“Just go, Bill. Save the guns. Go!”
He strode over to Corporal Allen’s fieldpiece and told the men, “Rope her up and wheel her into the center of the road. Then load double canister. Don’t fire until I tell you.”
Turning to a last cluster of infantrymen, he announced:
“We’re staying. One gun. Glad of any support you choose to give.” And he turned his back, leaving them to their consciences.
With hard-practiced agility, the gun crews limbered up. Dead horses were cut from their harnesses and whips cracked.
And they were gone.
An artilleryman with a swab in hand fell bleeding.
The Rebs howled and rushed forward again.
Dilger let them come.
An infantryman, a man who had made the fateful decision to stay, dropped beside him and lay there with stilled eyes.
“Let them get closer.”
“Sir, for—”
“Closer!”
Und wenn die Welt voll Teufel waere … Yes, the world was full of devils, packed with them.
“Now!”
The doubled canister shredded man-meat four rows deep and ten yards in breadth.
“Haul her back, let’s go.” He looked to the remaining infantry soldiers, still a solid dozen. “Grab the ropes, half of you. Help us.”
Their fellow Ohioans pitched in. Chased by bullets and taunts, they dragged the cannon along the road at a dog’s trot, with Dilger limping beside them. The infantrymen who had not found a grip on the guide ropes returned fire.
The night was alive with blinks of light and brief glares. There was just enough last paleness along the road for Dilger to spot the piled ammunition.
“Halt. Load single canister. Then double it. Corporal Allen, fire when ready.”
An unexpected volley from a wood line swept the gun crew, leaving only the corporal and one man standing.
Dilger pitched in, putting his shoulder into the wheel to turn the loaded gun toward the wood before the Rebels had time to reload.
Infantrymen rushed to help.
“Drop trail. Now. Back!”
Corporal Allen yanked the lanyard.
The fieldpiece bucked and spit fire.
“Re-center, re-center.”
As they wheeled the gun back to face down the road, an infantry sergeant told Dilger, “We can crew ye up, Cap’n. For we’ve seen it done time enough.”
And they did. They gave the Rebs another double load of canister then manhandled the piece back another stretch.
The darkness was their last friend.
Thrice more, the lone gun and its guardians made a stand. Corporal Allen was wounded, as were men whose names remained unknown to Dilger. At last, out of ammunition and all but surrounded, Dilger ordered his tiny command to abandon the piece and save themselves.
Without a word spoken, the infantry soldiers chose to save the gun.
When they were safely behind a thickening Union line, with fresh troops pouring in, the infantry sergeant dropped the gun rope and told Dilger:
“Couldn’t leave her, yer honor, sir. For we’d formed us a fond attachment.”
* * *
The sin of pride was a danger unto him. He knew it and he resisted. He would not revel in what his men had done. Nor would he accept this verdict of weariness. The work was not yet accomplished, the last and sweetest grapes had not been gathered.
Sensing Hill’s presence in the smoke-addled darkness, Jackson said:
“We cannot stop. Not now. You must drive your men forward.”
“General Jackson, I can hardly find my men. We need to reorganize. Hooker still has entire corps uncommitted.…”
Jackson knew that Hill resented—perhaps hated—him. But it mattered not. Hill was a loathsome sinner, visited by the Lord’s enduring punishment.
Hill had been weak and derelict, at West Point and at Cedar Mountain, and here there could be no weakness.
“You will go forward.”
They were so close. Another half mile, perhaps less.
Cut them down, cut them in two. Smite them, drive them from Israel, from Judah, and then from Canaan.
They were close, tantalizingly close, to shattering Hooker’s pagan army by midnight, before the Lord’s day began.
Yes, there would be fighting on the morrow, whatever happened tonight. But less, less.
Cannon still thundered. Union guns. Their defense had begun to show character. This labor had to be made complete, Pharaoh’s chariots must be overturned, their masters drowned not in the Red Sea, but in a sea of their unholy blood.
One last, hard push.
He closed his eyes in prayer and beheld a pale horse.
SEVEN
May 2, early night
Hazel Grove, Union lines
Charlie Wickersham watched his fellow officers gamble. The rising moon was so full and grand that the campfire’s light was frivolous: The earth glowed and the tattered playing cards shone. Pete Keenan was winning, as usual, emptying the pockets of Haze Haddock and Chas Arrowsmith.
Leaning against a tree, Wickersham fended off intermittent gibes from Keenan, a major and chum. Wickersham had sworn off cards for the war’s duration, maybe forever. He suspected that a man had only so much luck in his account, and he didn’t want to squander his playing poker. The teasing was endless, though: A cavalryman who didn’t lay down bets was akin to one who feared horses.
He’d had his share of luck the day before, though, when his skirmishers from the 8th Pennsylvania Cavalry had sparred with the Rebs out on the Fredericksburg road. Today had been a different, duller story, with General Pleasanton—a braggart not much liked—issuing frequent and contradictory orders for a pursuit that never happened. The men were tired, annoyed, and still waiting to be told, at last, to stand down.
“Sure you don’t want to have yourself a seat? Just one quick round?” Keenan asked him.
“Reckon not.”
Keenan grinned and told the other players and spectators, “Captain Wickersham’s going to go for a Quaker after the war. Or maybe he’ll be one of those tightfisted deacons, kind who starve preachers to death. Possibly even a regular man of the cloth, given all that sobriety of his. Amen.”
“Only cloth I’ll want after all this,” Wickersham told him, “is a good wool suit that doesn’t stink of me.”
Another eruption of artillery caught the men’s attention.
“Something’s going on up there,” Haddock, the adjutant, said.
“Well, let them settle it.”
“Sounds closer.”
“This afternoon they were at it down the other way,” Keenan responded. He shrugged. “Not enough guns for a real to-do. You going to draw, or not?”
Haddock brought his cards closer to his face, pondering them.
“Cripes, Haze … we’re playing poker, not chess. Shit, or get off the pot.”
“I fold.”
Keenan look
ed over at Arrowsmith and the low fire lent him a devilish look. “How about you, Charlie? Up the stakes a little?”
Arrowsmith made a disgusted face. “I’m out.” He threw down his cards.
Keenan cackled. “Whipped by a pair of nines, in case you’re curious. God bless you boys. I was thinking about investing in a little farm back home, but now I’m considering taking up one of these plantations I keep hearing about and not seeing. Reckon they’ll go cheap, by the time we’re done with ’em.” Shuffling the cards, he looked around at the idlers who’d been following the game. “Anybody else care to try his luck?”
“Not with ‘Golden Pete,’” a lieutenant joshed.
“That’s ‘Major Golden Pete,’ Lieutenant.’” Keenan laughed. He was a merry companion even on the rare occasions when the cards ran against him. Tonight, he was almost elated, despite the day’s frustrations. He said, “Lord, here comes Pen. Who, I believe, has suffered a visit from the distinctly unpleasant Mr. Pleasanton. No rest for a man’s tired bones.…”
Major Pennock Huey, commanding, came up at a sharp pace. Before he could speak, Keenan asked, “Now, why do I feel that you’re about to break up some fine entertainment, Pen?”
Straight-backed, stern, and tired-eyed, Huey said, “Boots and saddles, gentlemen. Howard’s got himself in some sort of fix and he needs cavalry.”
“Nothing but brush between here and the Eleventh Corps, sir,” the adjutant said. “About the same beyond. Cavalry isn’t much use in this—”
“Adjutants are supposed to draft orders, not question them,” Huey told him. He looked around. “Oh, I don’t know what the devil it’s all about. But it’s an order. On your feet, gentlemen.”
Rising and growing serious, Keenan nodded toward the combat sounds in the middle distance. “Rare for them to keep scrapping after dark. I’m with Haze, though. Cavalry won’t be much good in those woods. Nighttime, too.”
“This isn’t a town hall meeting, Pete.” Huey wasn’t in the best of moods. “Let’s go. Everybody.” To Keenan, Wickersham, and Joe Wistar, he said, “March by battalion, numerical order. Column of twos.”
“Delighted to share your company,” Keenan told him.
Mounts had not yet been unsaddled and the regiment set off quickly, with barely kindled cooking fires tramped out and half-warmed rations gobbled or stowed again. The greatest delay stemmed from the need to file into the forest trail two by two, with flags furled and clutched low to avoid the branches.
In the tangles, the moonlight deserted them, trailing a sickly paleness above the treetops. Riding at the head of the second battalion, Wickersham heard another flare-up of musketry. It was closer now, but not near enough to be dangerous. Still, he warned himself to stay alert and not let his mind wander: He’d been thinking of home all day.
He’d come to hate the war, though he hid his sentiments. The excitement of battle captivated him, as it did every man, but, win or lose, the carnage left him with doubts he could not put into words. The only thing he liked about military life was the camaraderie, the community, the warm, unmasked humanity around the campfire.
Smiling wryly, he wondered if Pete Keenan might not be on to something: Maybe he should give the Quakers a try.
He knew he wouldn’t, of course. He was too fond of life’s lesser delights.
In the stagnant darkness, he smelled horses and men, ripe growth and gunpowder. Sheaths caught spurs and chinked, saddles creaked, and reins slapped easily, but the men behind him remained unusually quiet. They didn’t like the confines of the grove, it made them feel trapped and vulnerable. As it did Wickersham.
Cavalrymen liked open spaces, rolling hills, firm fields.
Just get through it. Get through the wood and maybe things would make sense. Had to be a purpose. Same as with the war. Just get on through it. And trust it would make some sense, once all the smoke cleared.
After covering less than a mile at a stop-and-start pace, Wickersham heard a shot that sounded close.
A sprinkling of shots followed, a few hundred yards ahead. Then full volleys ripped out, dazzling through the trees.
He heard the shrieks of horses, heard men shouting.
The order came down the column: “Sabers! Charge!”
It was madness, impossible. But Wickersham drew his saber and repeated the command.
The pace of the horses ahead of him—Pete Keenan’s battalion—increased, but fitfully. His own stretch of the column never achieved a trot, let alone a gallop.
Mounts collided in the dark and men blasphemed. The firing ahead intensified. Men shouted, their words indistinct.
It would have been impossible to reverse the column. And no trails branched off. They might as well have been swallowed by a cave. Apparently, Huey had decided to charge right through whatever he had encountered. With no other choice.
A branch caught Wickersham’s saber, nearly jerking him from the saddle. His pennant-bearer’s horse bumped hard against his.
The firing—maddened and just ahead—smothered any complaints.
The horses in front of him picked up speed. Wickersham increased his battalion’s pace.
The trail broadened into a compact field. Smoke veiled the moonlight, but muzzle flashes revealed pandemonium: riderless horses, sabers slashing, bayonets jabbing, and men brawling on foot.
To his surprise, a Reb at his mount’s foreleg raised his hands and cried, “I surrender,” even as Northern voices begged, “Don’t shoot me, Johnny.”
Wickersham held back his mount, letting the first of his men fill in around him, sabers ready and, for the moment, useless. It was all but impossible to tell friend from enemy, until it was too late.
Another volley crackled and flashed, cutting down soldiers from both sides, though the horses suffered most. Only then did Wickersham realize that volleys were coming from multiple directions, indiscriminate. He spurred his horse rightward, where Union troops might be, and called to them:
“Don’t shoot, cease fire! We’re Union, we’re Union!”
“Up your shithole, Yank.”
Bullets hissed past, fired by men he’d thought must wear blue coats. But the Johnnies seemed as confused as anyone, firing at Yankees, phantoms, and each other.
The way ahead was utterly clogged, his battalion was penned, with another pressing behind it. In the nightmare flashes, he glimpsed a pack of Rebs bayoneting a horse and its rider, as if assaulting a centaur.
Rising in his stirrups, he hollered:
“Second Battalion, by the right flank … charge! Cut through them, cut through.”
It was a forlorn hope, at best: attacking not just the Rebs but nature itself, this Virginia jungle.
Forgoing his saber, he drew his Colt and kicked his horse to full life. Plunging into a confusion of Rebs, thorns, and muzzle flames close enough to blind.
“Charge!” he cried again, mindlessly, reduced to a beast fighting for his survival and that of his pack.
His bugler, thought lost, blared out the call but broke off halfway through it.
Tangles ripped him, stealing his kepi and clawing his face. His mount complained and shied. He spurred it to bleeding.
Just in time, he chest-shot a Rebel swinging a rifle butt.
“Second Battalion! Ride for our lines! Keep going!”
An immense thrashing of horses underlay the sharp report of rifles. Men shouted, cursed, and died.
Wickersham yelled to rip out his throat, unsure if anyone heard him, let alone whether they would follow his orders.
What had just happened?
His horse didn’t want to go on. He punished it, digging in the spurs like blades. Torturing a creature he all but loved. He jammed the spurs deeper. The mount cried and reared slightly. But it bashed on.
The shots were fewer now and not so close. Other riders struggled through the brush, he could hear them. It sounded like a vast number, but Wickersham knew better.
A shot flashed ahead. He heard, almost felt, the round.
Taking a chance, trying to think, to locate himself, he shouted, “Eighth Pennsylvania! Eighth Pennsylvania Cavalry, don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”
Miraculously, the men ahead held their fire.
When he emerged from the brambles, he saw a long gun line in silhouette and dark rows of massed troops. The skirmishers let him through, and he waited, in a nether-realm, for any of his men who might rejoin him. Several did. Then ten, maybe twenty. Out of a battalion.
A few more troopers emerged from the brush on foot. And that was the end.
Men panted and cursed, a few wept. Horses bled sweat and shivered. In anguish, a sergeant reported, “Major Keenan’s dead, sir, I saw them finish him.”
Wickersham didn’t respond. He thought of that last round of cards.
Afterward, he lingered on in the hope that more of his troopers would appear, and he found himself shaking almost uncontrollably.
A skirmish-line officer stepped up by his boot. The flood of moonlight revealed a fellow captain. The fellow asked:
“What the hell was cavalry doing out there?”
* * *
“Nothing,” Pickens said in disgust.
“Same thing over here,” Joe Grigg responded, dropping another Yankee haversack. “Just ain’t right.”
“Seek justice not upon this earth,” Doc Cowin told them. But his voice, too, was fraught with hunger and weariness. “Something for you, though, Sam. Nice pair of stockings.”
“That’s a kindness, Doc,” Pickens said. But it only reminded him of his suffering feet.
In their belated efforts to sift through the wealth abandoned by fleeing Yankees, they’d met with grave disappointment. The men who had followed them in the attack had picked this portion of the battlefield clean. The moonlight, a force unto itself, revealed only looted packs, strewn letters, and, once, a pack of vile pictures of women that made Pickens sick to puking, confirming the infinite virtues of bachelorhood.
He still smelled that bacon, he swore he could smell it. The bacon he never even got a look at.
More Yankee artillery joined the fireworks show. Mad as hornets, the blue-bellies were. Ashamed of themselves, most like. Hadn’t they been turned upside down and spanked? Hadn’t they just? They had so many guns in action now that they must have been lined up wheel to wheel ahead, just to say, We ain’t done, Johnny, don’t you go thinking we’re finished.