Muzzle blast covered his scream of fear and agony when the ball smacked into his chest and burst his heart. He flew away to crash into the sturdy trunk of a tall birch. Swiftly Griff dropped the trigger guard lever and broke open his carbine. The wide-rimmed brass cartridge popped out and he inserted a fresh live round. He no sooner closed the weapon than he heard thudding footsteps behind him. Desperately Griff cocked the hammer and primed his piece.
Sergeant Corey Gower immediately recognized a ranking Confederate officer when he got a glimpse of Griff Stark. What a prize. He’d be given leave for bringing in this package. Visions of whiskey bottles, lined up like troops on parade, filled his head. And cigars. And women. And a chance to get away from the blood and misery for a while. He wanted to get this one alive. In order to do so, he sent Private Mulvaney ahead, then circled around with Private Quinn and roughly shoved the boy ahead of him into a charge.
Suddenly the major whirled on them and the Maynard barked again. Quinn bent double, a .52 caliber slug in his guts, burning him agonizingly and sapping his strength. He took a stumbling step and fell to one side. Gower rushed on.
No time to reload! Griff’s mind shouted at him. He let loose of the smoking carbine and grabbed at his saber. Then something seemed to smash him in the side, a tremendous force that drove him back against Horse and then onto the ground. For an instant, blackness veiled his sight and his head rang from the loud report of the sergeant’s carbine. The blue-clad figure closed on him.
Groping, Griff’s hand closed around the braided haft of his saber. He managed to come to his knees and heft the long blade a split second before Corey Gower reached him, carbine clubbed to strike a knockout blow. The sharp edge of the sword sang in the air.
“Unnnh!” Sergeant Corey Gower stopped abruptly, a puzzled expression on his face, then staggered off as though he had lost all interest in capturing a Rebel major. A solid sheet of blood ran from the shallow slash that neatly bisected him from left shoulder to right hip. Blood loss and the sudden realization of his wound bludgeoned him into unconsciousness.
Shakily, Griff rose to his feet arid checked the dead and wounded men around him. The private that the Yankee sergeant had used for a shield would be dead in a matter of minutes, Griff decided. He willed himself to wait. Carefully, favoring his wound in the side, he moved on to the noncom.
Not a fatal cut, but one that would definitely put him out of action. Off to a hospital for him, then perhaps to Andersonville. He approached the two corpses with less caution. From each he stripped the boots, cartridge pouches, powder flasks, and arms. His men could use them. He rummaged the pockets and produced a twist of chewing tobacco, a leather bag of smoking mix, and a carton of hardtack. He returned to the comatose sergeant and relieved him, too, of his boots, weapons, and ammunition. The sergeant, he found, also had a small cloth sack of tea. A weak voice spoke behind him and Griff whirled, surprised.
“H-hail Ma-Mary … full of Grace ...” The words broke off into a grunting, choking sound and lastly a familiar rattle that spelled the final end of Private Quinn. In the distance, Griff heard running footsteps, then the retreating sound of galloping hoofbeats. The final Yankee had run.
Cautiously he explored his own wound, probed to determine its seriousness, then tore a corner from his shirt tail to staunch the flow of blood. For a moment he thought he might lose consciousness, then it passed and he retrieved his carbine, shoved it into the scabbard, and pulled himself into the saddle. A groan escaped his tightly clenched lips and he wavered. He gave Horse his head and the animal started off at a leisurely pace toward Ox Creek Road. Dim figures formed in Griff’s mind and he saw his wife and child.
A strange apparition entered the small clearing where the squadron command post had been established. Gaunt, face stubbled with beard, reeling in the saddle like a drunk, Major Griffin Stark rode past the sentries and into the center of camp. Two hours of the night remained and the impenetrable blackness of predawn gripped the cluster of soldiers huddled around a ring of stones where the self-appointed cook for the day worked to light a fire. The clopping of Horse’s hoofs drew their attention.
“My God, it’s Major Stark,” one soldier blurted out.
“He’s been hurt.”
Four gray-uniformed soldiers rushed to their leader’s side. Gently they lifted the semiconscious man from the saddle and laid him out on a blanket. More troops gathered.
“Bring something to patch him up with. Where’s that damn hospital orderly?”
The squadron first sergeant and the quartermaster sergeant bustled up, the latter with a small dark lamp, which he opened to expose the area of Griff’s wound to light. “Gawd, he’s shot clear through,” the supply N.C.O. exclaimed.
“All the better,” First Sergeant Angus McNair observed. “A clean wound. Should heal well.”
“It had better,” Griff growled in a rusty voice, consciousness returned. “We have a battle to fight tomorrow. Sutter,” he commanded the quartermaster sergeant, “bring me some of that whiskey you keep in your wagon. Then get some clean linen cloth, some of that tinctured moss, and a long strip of something I can use to tie it all in place.”
“Yes, sir, Major.” Sutter hurried off, not the least disconcerted that his secret stash of liquor was known to his commanding officer.
Men drifted away, returned to the cook fire and began to prepare what little had been assembled for their meal. When the sparse medical supplies had been gathered, Griff administered his own treatment, except for the wide strip of muslin that Sergeant McNair tied over the dual compresses. Griff thanked the men and leaned back against the bole of a large sycamore. Slowly he drifted off into deep slumber. It would be all he would have until the battle ended.
“Uh … sir, beggin’ the Major’s pardon, sir. The men have put together some slumgullion made outten two rabbits and a squirrel, some of them soft potatoes and barley meal. They’d take it kindly if you ate a big bowl,” McNair told him half an hour later, wakening Griff from an uneasy sleep.
“Thank you, Sergeant. Are you sure the men have enough?”
“Of course, sir,” the first sergeant lied.
Griff took the bowl and dug in. The aroma nearly addled his senses. More solid food than any of them had seen in days. He chewed the stringy meat with relish. “That reminds me. My saddlebags are full of shot and powder, and some hardtack for the men. There’s spare weapons, too. Compliments of the Army of the Potomac.”
“Take ’em off Yankees, did ye, sir?”
“That I did, McNair. That’s how I got this hole in my side.”
“Mighty high price to pay for a little extra ammunition.”
“Worth it, though.”
At first light, Griff had McNair assemble the troops. He dragged himself into Horse’s saddle and sat facing them. For a long moment he wondered what to say. Then he decided on the plain, unadorned truth.
“Men. We’re going out there today to die. But before we do, we will take every damned Yankee with us that we can. Our orders are to attack the enemy flanks. Both flanks at the same time. Captain Bittern will command the wing that will hit the Yankee left. I will be with Captain Cunningham’s company in the center of the probe on the right. Captain Cunningham died in surgery yesterday afternoon. I’ll be wearing two hats during this and I hope I can count on every one of you to do your job with precision and valor.
“We are expected to fight until we can no longer attack, then to stand and fight on until we can no longer fight. We’re short of powder and shot. Take them from the enemy. If a weapon malfunctions, take that of a dead Yankee. When a man goes down, there are others who can use his horse, weapons, and ammunition. Time is what we are fighting for. Time for General Jubal Early to move his infantry into position for a frontal assault. We have to keep the Yankees looking our way and expecting some sneak maneuver. I know you can do it. You all have the heart. Now, let us ask Almighty God for his blessing of our enterprise.”
The men shifted in ranks,
removed their hats and bowed their heads.
“Merciful Lord, Creator of all in this universe, look kindly upon these brave men, sustain them with Thy hand, succor them with Thy compassion and protection, and lead them safely through the fields of shot and shell to a new day tomorrow. Spare as many of us as You, in Your wisdom, can allow. All these things we ask in the name of Christ Jesus. Amen.”
“Amen,” the assembled men chorused.
“Move them out,” Griff commanded.
A young drummer boy and two fifers began to play “Dixie.”
Chapter Seven
MIST ROSE OFF the distant Potomac; its tendrils extended through the woods, blanketed low hills, and filled the shallow valleys. Here and there the casual observer could see a gold eagle or spiked finial and upper portion of flag staff extending above the undulating miasma. At rare points, the brilliant colors of the flags would break through; the rich scarlet field and blue emblem cross, with the thirteen stars of the Confederacy, or the stars and stripes of the Union. Drums made a martial roll and fifes and bugles transmitted commands. Thirty thousand men, unseen in the low fog, maneuvered on the field for the North, opposed by seventeen thousand Rebels. The Yankee high command prudently held in reserve an additional twenty thousand. At the outset, no one knew exactly where his enemy lay.
Then the artillery began to rumble. Massed nearly wheel hub to wheel hub, the Yankee guns bellowed their fury into the early morning stillness. An answering clamor, from behind the lines of Early’s infantry, challenged them. The explosive shells howled like demented demons, bursting at last to a chorus of screams. More cannon opened on the Union flanks, which only served to locate them for the vengeful falcons of the Confederate cavalry who swept down upon the exposed gunners.
In the initial charge on the Union right, Griffin Stark led the way. Piercing Rebel yells penetrated even the furor of the cannon. Shirtless gunners, their red long johns blackened with sweat and powder grime, looked up in terrified dismay as the saber-wielding cavalry raced down on them. Some abandoned their guns, legs making a blue blur as they ran toward imagined safety. Elements of the attacking force broke off in pursuit. The rest, under Stark’s inspired leadership closed on the guns.
“This way!” he shouted to his men. “Spike the guns and take the powder. Hurry! Hurry! Trumpeter, sound Recall. Get those wild men back here.” Griff seemed to be everywhere at once, tall and proud in the saddle, saber in one hand, Le Mat pistol in the other. An artillery sergeant reared up from behind a caisson and split the air beside Griff’s head with a Minié ball. Griff’s left arm went to full extension, the long barrel of his revolver steadied on the Yankee noncom’s forehead.
The Le Mat’s hammer fell and the muzzle rose in the midst of a sharp bark. Tremendous force accompanied the ball that punched a ragged-edged hole in the sergeant’s skull. He flipped over backward, reflexes heaving his Springfield high in the air. Griff reined sharply to the right and waved his saber over his head.
“Withdraw to point A!” he shouted.
Immediately, the trumpeter sounded recall again and the gray tide receded from the Union flank.
At the rendezvous point, Griff stood in his stirrups and exhorted his men. “Captain Cunningham can look down from Heaven and feel proud of you men. Why, my own company could not do better. The Yankee guns are silent and we have more powder. Volunteers to distribute it to the squadron.”
A chorus of “Aye!” rose from the begrimed men.
“You four,” Griff returned. “The rest of us will make for the Union infantry. At the center … forward … ho!”
Soon the easy pace accelerated to a gallop as the mists cleared slightly and a line of intense, staring men in blue appeared. Their rifles aimed southward, to where Early’s infantry had massed prior to an attack. Taken by surprise, many rose and ran screaming at the sudden appearance of Stark’s yelling cavalrymen. Like Nemesis, the gray line descended on the Union flank, sabers flashing in the pale morning light, pistols roaring. A thick haze of powder smoke enveloped the brief skirmish as more Union soldiers abandoned the field, fleeing for their lives.
Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse, the Confederate riders swarmed over their enemy. Here and there a Rebel fell, screaming or in the utter silence of death. Swiftly, a comrade would dismount, strip the victim of ammunition and return to the saddle, often with words of prayer on his lips for a fallen friend. Bullets buzzed, howled and zipped through the air and confusion became the order of the day. A chubby, boyish-faced Union lieutenant tried to rally his men, his voice breaking upward into a soprano register on every third word.
Unmindful of the boy-lieutenant’s shouts, the soldiers struggled or retreated as their individual valor dictated. Suddenly the entire right flank collapsed and a long stream of blue fled the field, many weaponless, eyes wide and round, faces blank with terror. A bugle sounded and the gray menace swirled away to seek another weak point.
“We’re taking heavy losses, Major,” the squadron first sergeant reported to Griff Stark.
“That’s what we’re here for, Sergeant. At least that’s what Colonel Braithwaite said the plan was. We spend our lives dearly while Early wields the final blow. My compliments to Captain Bittern and have him press harder on the left flank.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll send a galloper at once.”
When the volume of fire from the Union left flank suddenly and rapidly increased, Griff led his men—the decimated remains of a company and a half—on a wide sweep that took them behind the main Yankee line. They found ample troops, though. Cleveland’s brigade and the balance of the twenty-thousand-man reserve. No cannon sheltered them and the slaughter became horrible as the left flank crumbled against the pressure of Bittern’s men and streams of panic-stricken bluecoats raced in among the besieged reserve. Hundreds died, but for each century of blue corpses, ten or more of the precious few Confederates toppled from their saddles, lifeless eyes staring at the sky.
Sweating and straining to keep track of the swiftly evolving engagement, Griffin Stark bolted his big gray, Horse, from one part of the rear area to another. A bullet tugged at the sleeve of his jacket and it took several seconds for him to register the pain from the wound. He fought on. When the Le Mat was empty, he slashed with saber, hacking a path between ten Yankee soldiers who formed a pocket of stiff resistance. In another instant, the Union forces rallied and counterattacked.
“Pull back!” he heard himself shout. A quick count showed only thirty men in saddles, their blood-spattered, gray-clad arms hewing at the swarm of blue around them. “Back!”
Too late. A wall of Yankees now separated them from the relative safety of the woods. Griff stood in the stirrups, swung his sword in a wide arc and bellowed at the top of his voice. “Charge!”
“Never heard of a charge to the rear before,” one grizzled Confederate trooper beside him muttered. “But … Bluebellies is Bluebellies.”
Caught unprepared by the abrupt attack, the Yankees opened a wide hole in their line and the escaping cavalry burst through with triumphant whoops. Back in the woods, limbs snapping and popping under a rain of Minié balls, Griff once more gathered his men.
“We’ll take the flank again,” he decided, improvising now that his original estimate of a half-hour fight had gone over. “Keep ’em mixed up. Sergeant!” he shouted.
“Yes, sir!”
“Captain Bittern is to make a sweep through the rear echelon and join us on this flank.”
“Yes, sir.”
A long ten minutes went by, then Union rifles opened up in a calamitous volley, then a second and a third. Someone had organized the reserve and resorted to one of the few effective tactics infantry has against cavalry: directed fire. Griff waited anxiously. Another volley roared.
“Let’s take those Yanks in the rear!” he yelled to his men. “Echelon right and left, in a line. Charge!”
The Maynard carbines came out now. Their staccato reports rent the air as the small force raced down on the Unio
n soldiers, their backs turned to offer fire on Bittern’s men. Half a dozen died before the beleaguered reserve discovered they were under attack from both sides. They gave ground.
When the two mounted forces met, Griff regretfully counted only nineteen men with Bittern. The squadron was being slaughtered. At his command the unit returned to the woods.
A galloper raced toward Griff, skidded to a dusty halt, and saluted while he shouted his message. “General Early’s compliments, sir, and can you swing in on the Union main line of resistance? The Yankees have beaten us to a standstill,” he volunteered in clarification.
“We’ll come at once.”
Not a desirable order to Griff’s way of seeing it. His squadron of four companies, reduced to three before the start of the engagement, had now been winnowed down to thirty-eight men. What good could they do against the combined firepower of three Union corps?
The sun had risen high in the blue vault above and burned off the fog. The wide, fan-shaped valley could be seen clearly from any rise around. A surging mass of blue became visible—the stars and stripes waving overhead—forming into precise ranks, spread across the entire front. They were preparing an attack. Griff urging more speed on his men and swinging down out of the trees at an oblique angle, struck the leading edge of the Union assault and rolled it up. Earlier panic returned and the Yankee charge broke. When Griff’s command whirled away from the enemy, he counted only twelve men left on horseback. Three others, he saw afoot, locked in deadly hand-to-hand combat with an equal number of Union soldiers. While he watched, one of his men fell. Then another. The third downed his opponent and snatched up the reins of a stray horse, swung aboard and made a dash for safety.
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