by Ralph Peters
Born to hate the English he was, to spit in the tracks of the county families who traipsed off to London to avoid famine and plague, their great houses shuttered and looked to by keepers with shotguns at the ready, not even a bed in a barn allowed to a boy of ten, but a great lesson he gave them, for all that, for killing was in him. And the family fool enough not to go when the going was still fair, the Cuthberts of Sligo, had a son, and the son had a pony. And when the boy rode down that narrow lane, between the fields gone bad, he was not known to Daniel Francis Gallagher by name, not yet, but white were his golden curls and his riding suit bright as a flash girl’s borrowed petticoats, and Daniel Francis Gallagher, aged ten and proud, brought him down with a rock well hurled, and as the boy lay bleeding on the ground, all the lovely sight of him, the same rock retrieved came smashing down between the stunned blue eyes, again and again it came down, until there were no blue eyes left, only a pulp, and no coins in the young master’s pockets, but thick slabs of bread with butter and jam in the saddlebags, and him, Gallagher, no murderer but his blood’s avenging angel, rolled the corpse over and sat on its rump to eat, caring not, for life had no more value than that and hunger the master of all. He ate the bread with a trembling hand, shaking not from fear but from the joy of feeling the soft, sweet bread give in to his teeth. They could have hanged him on the spot, for all he cared in the moment, so lovely it was to have a full mouth, if not yet a full belly.
Two tramps were hanged for the murder, and guilty they may have been themselves for doing something shameful to the body, but not for the killing, and when he heard about their taking he was halfway across Sligo going the other way, outraged that another man—men—should have the credit of his bold deed. He always had a good eye for the land and the ways of it, even then, and made his conqueror’s way back to the cottage that was little more than a shed for human animals, but no one had taken the bodies away and they were gone black as the year itself, as black as English hearts.
There was nothing left but America, his passage paid by doings of which he tried never to think, shaming even now, and if the hunger left him smaller than he might have been, oh, he was a mean one, a hard boy, steeled by the shame on his father’s face before he had luck and died, and the chimney-by tales on cold nights of his ancestors rising, all hanged by the lobsterback beasts in the ’98, and more than a few, his father included, suspected of being Whiteboys long thereafter, hobbling Englishmen’s cattle for practice while waiting to hobble men. For if all the tales of Oliver Cromwell were true, they were as nothing to the slow-murdering policies of London come to pass, and the hunger, the shriveling hunger, his mother naught but cheekbones and a nose above the skeleton clutched by her rags, his sister thin to vanishing, and his father weeping for shame and helplessness, with not even a glass to stop his thoughts. And then the typhus, which spared him, he was certain, for this day.
This day on a sun-punished field, with a sergeant’s stripes upon his sleeve and the boyos of the 69th Pennsylvania sweating around him, taking up the good time by rattling in brogues so thick that even Colonel O’Kane, sweet man that he was, when he wasn’t a right bastard, could not catch but stray words of it, for O’Kane was a Derry man, who knew not the secret languages of the West.
“Get out there again, boys, go on,” Gallagher said, in a voice that could empty a shebeen by the docks, “and farther this time, get on with ye, for there’s beautiful rifles and such to be had, just laying there for the taking, with the Johnnies who left ’em awaiting for their comeuppance.”
“Cripes, we were halfway to their batteries last time.”
“Then go the other half, dearies, and give ’em all a kiss from Sergeant Danny. Now go bring in every rifle ye can find. Ye’ll be thanking me, come the circus. Now go on.”
“Will we be having our dinner, then, d’ye think? It’s been two famishing days.” Walsh was a fellow Mayo man, but a cocky one.
“Ye won’t need to eat when you’re dead, me boy. Now get ye over the wall and do as you’re told.”
The point might come when Walsh wanted a thrashing.
Gallagher turned back to the other task, the holy work of filling barrels with death, then laying the rifles nicely side by side behind the low wall, ready to greet the high Southern gentlemen bound to come calling round. For Daniel Gallagher could smell a fight from the Delaware to the Schuylkill, and old Pennsylvania was bound for some killing this day. Let the generals prance and the gun-navvies do their duty, the hour would come and soon enough when the high English Rebels, those narrow-nosed gents in gray, would get worse than he’d given that young master. Oh, let them come, do, Daniel Gallagher thought, and I’ll have the manners to greet them as befitting.
The 69th Pennsylvania were fighting lads, as their strength for the day, hardly 250 of the thousand Irishmen who’d marched out two years before, would tell anyone who wasn’t a fool or an Englishman. They were men let loose to do all the damage they could to an aristocracy that couldn’t put chains on Irishmen over here, so clapped them on niggers. And damage they did do. Gallagher himself took special pride in keeping his wits about him, cool as a jug laid by in a mountain stream, and taking careful aim at the Rebel officers, the finer the uniform, the sweeter the satisfaction when the man tumbled bloody in agony, and may his last thoughts be of Mother. Given a choice between shooting down a colonel in an old coat and a lieutenant in a uniform fresh from the tailor, he’d shoot the boy first, returning to the colonel, time permitting. Such killing was a joy, a joy, as it had been for the warriors of legend. And the landlord’s son, on the old sod or here, was always Erin’s enemy.
Before the war was kind enough to come, he’d worked his way, not twenty-four then, to a mastery of the docks along the Delaware, ensuring that what was meant to be paid on the sly was paid on time, and no man challenged him twice. And if the high and mighty of Philadelphia looked down on Paddy and Mick, any man could see they’d be broken, too, that this was the promised land for the suffering Irish, that a man could get up, stay up, and then climb higher, if man enough he was to bust his knuckles. Even the stones thrown at the regiment’s flag as they marched down Broad Street had not soured Daniel Gallagher. For he took things in their turn, thinking, First the Rebels, dearies, then you’re next.
He had no watch, for the last one he’d picked from a beautiful corpse in gray had gone smash the day before, in repelling the last attack, and a donnybrook that was. But watches there would be in plenty, not too long from now. Meanwhile, he judged that the sun had inched past noon.
Oh, let them come, dear Jesus, let them come. Let them march over those fields to say hello.
The detail he had sent forward returned with two dozen more rifles. Gallagher took those in the best condition for himself. He’d not stand behind the boys this day, encouraging them to hold their ground and keep their blue lines tidy. Today was a day for sport and plenty of it. The old Philadelphia Irish Militia was in the ring and ready.
Detail done, a few of his boys worked up shade using their blankets. Bayoneted rifles stabbed in the earth lofted the wool. Others undid their canteens and drank too deeply. A few men mumbled, eyes closed. Gallagher knew they were praying, but too embarrassed to get on their knees in the daylight. He granted them all peace in the sultry hour, other than barking at Flannery not to drink up his last drop, with plenty of thirst to come. Himself, he went back to inspecting the line of spare rifles.
Killing made it clear that a man existed.
Gallagher still had plenty to prove to the blackhearted, bestial English. And to their landlord kind in coats of gray. Oh, he had no love for the nigger, who was an animal. But there was a greater principle involved.
He could not understand how any famine-born Irishman could take up arms to serve the Southern cause. Unless it was for the sheer pleasure of the fighting, a reason Daniel Gallagher could respect.
Ever wary, Gallagher was a difficult man to surprise, but Colonel O’Kane came up on him in his reverie.
Gallagher rose, panting a bit. “Hot, sir. But ready for mischief.”
The colonel gestured at the hundreds of extra rifles lying ready. The men had wanted to prop them against the stones, barrels high, but the artillery that was bound to come would have played havoc with them. A nice grassy bed would do for the rifles. For now.
“Not sure I’d want to be on the other side of that wall today. If they come at us.”
O’Kane was a born saloon-keep with his banter, keeping the feel for his lads on the line as any good publican minded his paying customers. Better he was, a thousand times, than the Welsh drunkard gone before him.
“Colonel, sir, ’tain’t a matter of ‘if.’ The blackhearted buggers are obligated.”
O’Kane raised an eyebrow, amused. “‘Obligated’?”
Gallagher smiled. He knew his smile was not pleasant, but that was the good of it. It kept men, even colonels, at the right distance.
“To me, sir. After all the work my lads have done.”
The regiment’s commanding officer appeared about to extend the conversation, then changed his mind. Pivoting, he said in a fare-thee-well voice, “Remind the men to aim low, Sergeant Gallagher.”
“That I will, sir, that I will,” Gallagher assured him. As far as his own aim went, he shot for the groin.
* * *
Meade felt like a cadaver in the saddle. He had slept for three hours in the night, but it had not been enough for mind or body. Moving about, inspecting the lines, seemed the only course to avoid collapse—the way you had to march soldiers through their exhaustion, or see them fall apart when allowed to rest. He envied the men lounging under the shade of blankets or tentage rigged as flies and felt that he could sleep all the day and night, had he the freedom.
After Meade had a brief exchange with Hays, in which his speech sounded slow in his own ears, Hunt rode up on him.
Meade reminded himself to show good posture, to look every inch the commander. It took an effort.
“Well, Henry? How are your guns?” The question did not have to be asked. Hunt was one man who never let others down.
A substitute for the injured Old Baldy, Meade’s horse pawed the ground, a creature of more energy than its master.
“If Lee comes on, he’ll be sorry,” Hunt told him.
“What do you make of the big display?” He meant the Confederate gun line. Hunt understood.
“They’ll hear the noise in China. Sir, I’ve ordered our guns to refrain from returning fire for fifteen minutes after Lee’s batteries open.” The artilleryman made a lemon-eater’s face. “Given how junior officers tell time when the guns go off, they might wait ten. If I’m damned lucky. I just don’t want them squandering ammunition.”
“We’re not short?” Meade heard the alarm in his own voice. Hunt had assured him, a few hours before, that their remaining stocks would be more than enough. With the question blurted out, Meade steadied himself again.
“No,” Hunt said. “Not in terms of reserves. But there won’t be time to replenish the guns on the line between the bombardment and the charge. The forward batteries need to have rounds in their chests to repel the infantry.” Hunt slapped at a fly. “An artillery duel’s a fool’s errand for us, anyway. Our guns are Lee’s problem, but Lee’s guns aren’t ours. Our problem’s their infantry.”
Meade’s horse swished its tail, attempting to lash its rider, as if the beast were determined to wake him fully. Meade forced his thoughts back into a functional order: Hunt was right. His artillery and Lee’s did not have a symmetry of purpose on this field. His guns were meant to kill soldiers on foot, while Lee’s were obliged to stop them. He and Hunt understood each other, sharing the veteran’s taste for parsimony: The time to spend without restraint was when the crisis arrived, not a moment earlier. The day before, Meade had lost his temper with an artillery lieutenant who had opened up on an obscure, worthless target.
Waste not, want not. The old verities.
Breathing deeply to fuel his fading senses, Meade said, “Hancock won’t much like it.”
“No, he won’t,” Hunt agreed. “He thinks ammunition chests are bottomless and the artillery exists to put on a minstrel show. He’ll be sorry enough, if he doesn’t have canister loaded when they’re on top of him.”
But was Lee going to charge them, after all? Meade had been thinking more about that and confusing himself. Fighting down new doubts. The night before, he had been clearheaded and certain that Lee would come against his center, that it was inevitable. Now he found himself fearing a move past his left again. Who had raised that last night? Newton? Gibbon? The candlelit argument of twelve hours before had blurred. His thoughts were a smear.
“I’ve been thinking, Henry … Lee could come around our left flank, after all. Those guns might be a ruse. Or a barrage could even cover a retreat, give Lee time to get his trains moving, start his men. That’s what Hancock suspects he might be up to.”
Hunt looked at him sharply. As if he only now sensed the depth of Meade’s weariness. “No. Lee’s coming straight across those fields. And he’s going to hit Hancock dead on.”
“You sound damned sure.”
“General Meade … they’ll come. And we’re going to squeeze them with fires from both flanks and stampede them into a mass in the middle of that field. They’ll bunch toward their own center, as soon as they take raking fire. It’s the way infantry react. They do it every time, our men or theirs, and I don’t care how disciplined or experienced they are. They’ll come at Gibbon and Hays in a shot-up, angry mob. And if Hancock doesn’t waste his ammunition, his guns will finish them.”
Meade followed Hunt’s description as best he could, envisioning the flanking fires and the crowding of the attacker’s bloodied ranks. Hunt understood battlefields and men, not just his guns. But the images filled in more slowly than they should have done.
I must get through this day, Meade told himself. Surely, this day will end it.
“Malvern Hill again?” he said.
“Better. Or worse. Depending on which side of the guns you’re on.”
“You’re awfully sure of yourself, Henry. Lee’s always been one for surprises.”
“Not today,” Hunt said fiercely.
Meade closed his eyes, then snapped them open again. He hoped that Hunt was right. That, for once, Lee would do what they expected, wanted, needed him to do. “I wonder why they haven’t opened fire. Artillery issues?”
Hunt shook his head. “They spent all morning fiddling with that gun line. Then they stopped, about an hour ago. Either their infantry isn’t ready, somebody’s having doubts … or their chain of command’s gone to Hell.” Hunt smiled. His smiles, notoriously, were almost as rare as Meade’s. “Maybe all three. I’d give twenty gold dollars to listen in on the talk over there right now.”
Meade found himself drifting away from Hunt’s words again. When he realized the artilleryman had finished speaking, he said, “Very good … good…” A bright red impulse gripped him. “I really must see Hancock … haven’t defined his responsibilities, not precisely … make sure he’s ready…”
“For God’s sake, sir. Give yourself time to breathe, you need to rest yourself. Hancock’s ready to fight. The man’s always ready to fight.” He pulled a face. “I just hope that bull elephant’s ready to think.”
The image of Hancock as an elephant charmed Meade. His mouth widened. A war-elephant, to be sure. Still, an elephant. Win had trouble buttoning his coat over his belly nowadays. It was a rare man who gained weight on a campaign.
“And you?” Meade asked. “You’ve been riding up and down all morning, Henry. If you won’t spare yourself, at least spare that horse of yours.…”
“I need to have one more look from Little Round Top.”
Meade’s thoughts caught up with the muscles around his lips, which were oddly pleased with the world, despite countless worries. “You’re going to be a disappoi
nted man, Henry. If Lee doesn’t follow your plan.”
Hunt looked at Meade ferociously.
“He will,” the artilleryman said.
* * *
Heading for the back side of the ridge in search of Hancock, Meade let his horse find its own way between the regiments. The ghosts and hobgoblins of error plagued him, insistent fears that, despite Hunt’s bolstering confidence, he had been mistaken all along and had deployed his army poorly for what was to come. His tactical flanks were well defended—but what if Lee swung deep and turned his left? Or surprised his right and cut the Baltimore road, as he’d feared from the outset? He had bet on a late-night hunch, trusting his instincts, and had strayed from the rigor of an engineer.
General Gibbon intercepted him, hurrying up on foot despite the heat.