“Have you ever thought why they would rally around the banner? Freedom is a heady word, particularly for a slave. Yet they are there beside us, fighting for their rights ever so much as we. We are doomed men, fighting for a doomed cause, but we do so with honor and for all the Bobbie Jeans and towheaded Jerry-Bobs south of the Mason-Dixon line. At least... at least, that’s the way I see it.”
“Beggin’ the Major’s pardon, sir,” a lanky, mop-haired private from the Blue Ridge Mountains said hesitantly.
“Go on.”
“Well, Major Stark, sir, t’way I sees it, you done spoke for us all. My family ain’t ever owned slaves. Hell, slavery ain’t even the issue in this war by the way any thinkin’ person can figger it. We want to see our git grow up free, to run the ridges and hunt coon and possum, to fish and swim the cricks. Up North, from what I hear, folks has got to ask leave of someone else to even breathe. They ain’t had freedom, really true freedom like we enjoy, since the day after the War of the Revolution was ended. An’ now they wants to bring that type of money-rich tyranny down on us. I don’t know the way of it, I only know that I’ll damn well fight to the death to prevent it.”
“Well said, soldier,” Griff responded, his voice suddenly thick, the words difficult to get past the tightness in his throat.
“Major,” a sergeant in a ragged butternut uniform shirt and civilian trousers spoke up. “I got a wife and three kids. Like Lenny here, I don’t aim to see them bow to the yoke of privilege and power that the North wants to slam on our necks. All of us know what we’re fightin’ for. What I want to know is why are they fightin’ us?”
“Sergeant Goreman has the right of it. Ol’ Gen’ral Jubal brought us into this mess to try to take pressure off of Georgia. Well, it didn’t work, but that don’ mean we won’t keep on fightin’,” a cadaverous corporal added.
“I want to thank all of you men for what you’ve said. It … it restores my faith in my fellow man … and in myself. Tomorrow we will hit the Yankees and keep on hitting them until they desert the field. I will be proud to lead you wonderful roughnecks in battle anywhere.”
A ragged cheer went up spontaneously from the gathered soldiers. Someone produced a harmonica and began to play a familiar and spirited tune. The troops joined in singing:
“We are a hand of brothers, and native to the soil,
Fighting for our heritage we won by honest toil
And when our rights are threatened, to fight we do prefer.
Hoorah for the bonnie blue flag, that bears that single star!
Hoorah! Hoorah! For Southern rights, hoorah!
Hoorah for the bonnie blue flag that bears that single star!”
Above the sound of the singing, Griff heard the pounding hoofs of an approaching messenger. The galloper reined in at the edge of the camp, walked up to Griff and saluted smartly.
“The Regimental Commander’s compliments, sir, and would you report to headquarters immediately, sir. Captain Cunningham has taken a turn for the worse and your presence is required.”
“Thank you, Corporal. I’ll leave immediately.” A sense of foreboding descended on Griffin Stark as he made for his saber scarred but still valiant gray.
Griff reported to the regimental commander. “How did you find Captain Cunningham’s company, Major?”
“The men are starving, horse fodder is scarce, the uniforms are mere rags and ammunition is low. But the men were willing, eager to take another swing at the Yankees. About like the rest of the regiment, I would say.”
For a moment, Colonel Stillwell let his fingers stray to the three gold stars of his rank on the yellow field of his collar tabs. “I am proud to command such men. It saddens me. No, that’s not the right word. My brother, Anson, stayed with Stuart until the last. They offered him command and he refused. Took a regiment, though. That makes two of us colonels. I wonder what the end of this infernal war will present to us?”
“I talked to Cunningham’s men about that. If it’s God’s will, they, and I, think it will be freedom.”
“That’s talking in abstracts. But, enough of this, I called you here because Cunningham is in need of immediate surgery. He’ll lose his left leg. The doctor doesn’t give him much chance under any conditions. Come along, we’ll go to the hospital. Perhaps you can speak with him before they begin.”
A grimy tent, its sides rolled up for light and air, served for the field surgery. A doctor, his white jacket spattered with dried and fresh blood, stood at a table. Long grooves, crimson stained, at both sides and down the middle made clear their function, a grim reminder of the primitive medical care available. He nodded to Colonel Stillwell and glanced anxiously in the direction of another soiled canvas covering that served for a ward.
Two hospital stewards appeared at the front flap, bearing a wooden stretcher. On it lay the restless form of Captain Bruce Cunningham. Deep in the grip of a delirium caused by dysentery and opium, he muttered incoherently and made feeble efforts to move his limbs. Inured after three years of war to such sights, Griff watched dispassionately while the injured officer was borne into the surgery.
Immediately Dr. Daniels began to lay out his instruments. The amputation knife appeared to be a grim object, larger than a dissecting blade, curved slightly and wickedly sharp. The bone saw lay beside it. Griff noticed a large jar of white material that appeared to be writhing. He gave it closer examination.
“Maggots?” he inquired, incredulous.
“Those? Oh, yes. I came across an old medical text,” Dr. Daniels explained. “It recommended the use of maggots to cleanse wounds. I tried it on a number of amputee patients and those who received the treatment healed better and faster than those who did not. Now I pack all suppurating wounds with them.” The physician looked apologetic. “Many of my colleagues disagree, they still subscribe to the theory that a suppuration is a sign of healthy healing. Frankly, I think we lose too many men to postoperative infection to prove that idea.”
One of the orderlies took up an object that resembled a medieval strapanado and fixed it around Cunningham’s upper left thigh. He drew the leather strap tight and locked it in position by means of a large screw. “Ready, Doctor,” he announced in a disinterested tone.
Dr. Daniels cut away the trouser leg and drew a line with a reddish-brown fluid on a swab. “Oh, this is another little discovery of mine. This liquid was devised to indicate the correct parameters of an incision. I found it also aids in retarding infections. It’s called iodine.”
Swiftly, then, the doctor drew his knife along the diagram. A harsh, guttural scream tore from Cunningham’s throat. “Sorry. I used all of the opium we had and chloroform ran out this morning. More is on its way down from Army headquarters.” Daniels deepened his cut.
Bruce Cunningham shrieked as the keen edge delved into the subcutaneous tissues. Small bleeders began to spurt an arching streams of scarlet arterial blood spattered against the doctor’s besmeared coat. A stir at the entrance to the surgery caught Griff’s attention.
Colonel Chester T. Braithwaite, from Corps headquarters, stood at the turned-back flap. “Could I have a word with you, Major?” he inquired of Griff.
“Certainly, sir.”
The two officers walked away from the operating theater, accompanied by further and weakening screams from Bruce Cunningham. Braithwaite winced at the sound. “Pity about Cunningham. He was a good man.”
“As well as a friend,” Griff added.
“Hmm. Now, what I came down here for was to inform you of the plan for tomorrow. You will, of course, retain command of your squadron. You will use Cunningham’s men as the center, so you can direct overall operations. Use them hard, Major Stark. Use them to the last man if necessary.
“What must be bought now … is time. At any price. Early is still off balance from those defeats last fall. We need to harass the Union flanks with cavalry while Early’s infantry carries the battle to the enemy. Cunningham’s company will be in an exposed position. If your othe
r companies fail to suppress the artillery, it could be Cemetery Ridge all over again.”
“You’re asking me to deliberately sacrifice Cunningham’s men in order to give Early time to rally his troops into yet another charge?”
“Precisely. I don’t like it any better than you, Major, but orders are orders. General Lee has given his reluctant approval to General Early’s plan. All we can do is be good soldiers and carry it out.”
“I … see, sir.”
“I’m curious about something. Why did you quit your staff job at Lee’s headquarters? Being chief of intelligence must have been advantageous for you.”
“It was. It’s only that… classmates of mine from the Academy and friends I had made since joining in sixty-one were out there taking the risks and many dying for the Cause. I began to look on what I was doing as an excuse to avoid battle and possibly death. So, I am where I am now by my own request.”
A tremulous screech came from the hospital tent and the rasp of the bone saw could clearly be heard. Griff paled slightly and turned away, walking along a path defined by whitewashed stones. All the comforts of a headquarters. For a delirious moment, he wondered if some hapless private was assigned to pick up the painted rocks and load them aboard a wagon each time the headquarters moved.
“And you prefer it to the safety of Army Headquarters?” The colonel sounded dubious.
“It’s not so much a matter of preference. It’s what I do best. What I want, what I need to do. I’ll take care of Cunningham’s troops, sir. They’re highly motivated and anxious to do well. What I’ll try to do is spend as few lives as possible.”
A hoarse bellow of anguish issued from the surgery, then broke off abruptly. A long moment later, Dr. Daniels stepped from the tent. Griff looked toward him, anxiously.
“Captain Cunningham? Is he all right now?”
“Sorry, Major. Lost him on the table. Shock. If only that accursed wagon had reached here in time. We’re not butchers, please believe me. The sub* stances exist to make surgery relatively safe. Only try to get them out of the quartermaster’s hands. Excuse me, I’m airing my private agonies. Again, I am sorry, Major; you lost a fine troop commander in Bruce Cunningham. May God have mercy on him.”
Griff turned back to Colonel Braithwaite. “There’s part of your answer, sir. Too many good men like Bruce Cunningham have died. If there’s nothing else, I had better get back to my squadron command post and make arrangements for tomorrow.”
“That’s all, Major. Good luck to you.”
Luck. That’s what they all needed, Griff thought morosely as he strode across the open parade toward the picket line and his horse.
Chapter Six
TWILIGHT RAPIDLY APPROACHED as Griffin Stark turned the nose of his big gray in the direction of Ox Creek Road and cantered along toward his squadron command post. He had three miles to cover and caution rode with him.
Yankee scouts and foraging patrols were known to be in the area. It would be unfortunate indeed if he were to be jumped by any of these. Not that he thought of himself as an indispensable man. Captains Bittern and Corey could both be considered competent to take over command, but Griff preferred to avoid a Union prison camp. Like everyone, he had heard tales from the fortunate few who had managed to escape. Hellholes, ridden with disease, hunger and despair, had been how they described them. The Yankees treated their Southern cousins like animals. Brutality, drumhead courts, and summary executions were the order of the day. Many of the younger, weaker prisoners had suffered the shameful indignity of perverse rape. The fortunate survivors uniformly had nothing good to say about their captors. Griff determined not to share their experiences.
A loud grumble from his stomach reminded Griff that he had not shared a meal with Cunningham’s men, nor eaten at headquarters. Thin barley broth and perhaps some stringy rabbit were all that waited him at his own unit. Off to his right a crow cawed dismally, an eloquent commentary on Griff’s mood. From ahead in the narrow cart road a fox yipped its shrill call to its kits. It made him recall the hunt at Damien’s Oaklawn on the weekend after their graduation from West Point. He’d shot a man then.
God, how many men had he killed since? In the wild frenzy of cavalry engagements little time could be spared to wound. He had also discovered that no matter the size of the unit they engaged, there was always more air than meat out there. Clean misses consumed far more ammunition than balls that found flesh. Now, desperately short of powder, shot, and caps, his squadron faced possible annihilation if the Yankees didn’t break within the first half-hour of the battle on the morrow.
His thoughts centered on a plan for that assault. Bruce Cunningham had led his company aggressively. Consequently they were shorter on ammunition than most of the squadron. With direct orders to place the leaderless unit in the center of his line, he had no choice. What could he do to prevent a wholesale slaughter? Distracted with these details, he failed to hear any warning of approaching riders.
His first indication came in a flash of blue, that bobbed through gaps in the bushes ahead. He saw it a second and third time, at last identifying it as a Union kepi. No time to make a careful withdrawal, or to set up an ambush. He reined in his mount, whom he had named prosaically enough, Horse. To both sides, thick groves of beech, hickory, and birch screened the view.
“Come on, horse, we’re going in there,” he spoke in a whisper. He jabbed the round cavalry spurs into the animal’s flanks and reined him around to a narrow gap between tree trunks. Reluctantly Horse agreed and put out a tentative hoof. “That’s it, boy. Get movin’.”
Griff made twenty yards off the trail and wedged in among the second growth birch, his gray uniform blending with the peeling bark of the foot thick trees.
Horse was hock deep in fallen leaves. Griff wished them back on the branches, insuring further concealment. Now he heard the pounding of the approaching Yankees. In a moment they came into view.
Five of them. A sergeant and four privates, mounted on sleek, well-tended horses. A flying scout for McClellan’s cavalry, no doubt. Instinctively Griff tried to shove farther back into the grove. Without realizing it, he held his breath.
The Yankee cavalrymen rode on past Griff’s hiding place with only a cursory glance to each side of the trail. Griff reasoned that he had used up a considerable portion of the luck the headquarters colonel had wished him. Then he watched his good fortune literally crumble into dust.
“Hold up!” the sergeant commanded his men, his voice reached Griff clearly. “You see that?”
“See what, Sergeant?” a private with a New York accent asked.
“The dust. See it hanging in the air.”
“So?”
“It means, dummy, that there’s been a rider along here. Not long ago, either. Dismount, spread out and search both sides of the trail.”
The soldiers swung from their saddles and two of them started off in the direction Griff had taken when he left the road. The sergeant and two others took the opposite side. Griff eased himself from his mount’s back and drew his saber. He quickly formulated a plan.
Slowly the Yankee privates spread apart and entered the thick copse of trees. Norbert Settle had been a reluctant conscript with not enough money to buy himself a substitute. Resenting the army, fearing the savage howl of the Rebel yell, he had lived his short military career in a constant state of terror. This wild idea of the sergeant’s to search the woods left him less than inspired.
Vaguely, without conscious direction, he veered farther and farther away from the area where the sergeant had indicated they seek a hidden enemy. He glanced to his right, toward Bill Foster and saw nothing. His sole buddy in the outfit had disappeared into the trees. Norbert breathed easier and drifted farther away to his left.
Bill Foster loved the army. He saw in it a way to escape the drudgery of his four-dollar-a-week job in Manhattan. He felt even more fortunate that the man he worked for, a garment maker who had paid him five hundred dollars to take the place of h
is son, when little Howie’s name had come up on the conscription list. With that and the pay the army gave him, he would be free to seek a better life somewhere else after his service was ended. He squared his shoulders and cocked the short-barreled Ballard single-shot cartridge carbine. He regularly shifted his eyes left and right, peering into the brush and around trees in search of some frightened young Rebel, like that fourteen-year-old they had run to ground early this morning. Another easy prey, Bill gloated. And, if he caught him, there was a chance for promotion by his company commander. He took a deep breath and stepped farther into the trees.
Then he froze in the act of raising his other leg.
Right there in front of him was a for real Rebel major. Bill’s mouth gaped and his finger tightened on the trigger. “Give yoursel—ugh!” grunted Bill as he tried to bring the carbine in line ahead of the long flash of silver that whistled through the air toward his throat.
Griff’s saber bit into soft flesh, ripping open a second mouth, below the pimple-scarred chin of the Yankee who challenged him with a carbine in his hands. The dying boy made a wet, sucking sound and blood fountained out in a thick spray.
Bill Foster seemed to wilt, crumpling slowly from the knees. Reflexively his finger jerked on the trigger and a .54 caliber ball sped into the sky. The loud, flat report echoed off the low, rolling hills of north-eastern Virginia. It would, Griff thought with regret, bring the other Bluebellies running.
“Over there! On the double, you men,” the sergeant bellowed. Griff heard their inexpert crashing through the brush.
He stuck the tip of his saber in the ground, ready in the event of need, then drew his own .52 caliber Maynard carbine from its saddle spider.
Heedless of personal danger, a Yankee private thrust his way through the groping limbs of birch and beech, exploding out into the restricted clearing where Griffin Stark stood beside Horse. Before he could open his mouth to shout his discovery, he watched with horrified eyes while a thick ball of powder smoke blossomed at the black hole in the business end of the Confederate’s Maynard carbine.
The Confederate Page 7