by Andy Kutler
“I think it is a safe assumption that a major campaign is brewing. Maybe the entire army. We need food, munitions, hell, the infantry needs shoes more than anything else. We’ve picked Virginia clean. Best place to find those things is up north.”
“Another invasion.”
“It would also move the Federal Army off Virginia soil.”
There was silence for a few moments as they both thought about the last time Lee moved north in force. It was into Maryland, and the two armies met near the town of Sharpsburg, along the banks of a small creek called Antietam. It was a bloodbath for both sides, with a staggering number of killed and wounded. Cal had lost nearly thirty men in one afternoon.
“Cal, you ever think about Ethan?”
“Almost every day. I’m hoping he’s still out West. Could be with Grant’s army in Tennessee.”
“Or he could be here in Virginia.”
“He could be. I wrote his father in Wisconsin, but I doubt any of our mail is getting through.”
“What would you do if you saw him on the other side of the field?”
Cal laughed. “Surrender!”
“Seriously, Cal.”
“I don’t know. He certainly hasn’t been there so far. Union cavalry has been damned ineffective, not sure why. But they’ll get better, and one thing’s for sure, there sure are a hell of a lot more of them than there are of us.”
“Cal…” She hesitated.
“Yes?”
“Can you—when this is over, can you go back?”
He sat up. “That’s quite a question, Em. Let’s start with the first part…when this is over. You must believe the war is lost. Heresy!”
A gentle breeze floated by and Emily pulled the shawl tight around her shoulders. “I know you believe it’s likely. As does my father now. When the two of you are in agreement, I take note.”
“So, if we were to lose this war, can I go back? Back into the Federal Army?”
“Yes.”
“You know the answer to that. That bridge has been burned. For all of us.”
“You would never be able to serve again? At any rank?”
“I’ve betrayed my country, Em, as they see it.” He paused, searching her eyes. “But what if there was indeed a path back to the Army, and I didn’t want to take it?”
“What do you mean?”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. “Em, I’ve been a good soldier and I will do my duty until this war is over. But if I survive this war…I need more. I want more. Do you remember that conversation we had in New Mexico, that last day?”
“Of course I do. You wanted to build something, as I recall. Was it a house, or a business?”
He nodded. “I’ve been thinking about our own enterprise. You know, my grandfather raised horses, beautiful bay horses, down in Gloucester County. He had the farm too, but those horses were his passion. Made a good living, could have made more, but he always sold at a fair price. Was more interested in helping his neighbors, his community, than striking it rich. My father sold it all when Granddad died. He needed the money to keep the mill going, and horses required too much cash. He also believed the land was too valuable to waste on feed grains. He was right, financially. Got a right fair price from those tobacco planters. But he and my granddad had very different views of the world.”
He turned to her. “These two armies have laid waste to this land for the last two years. Farms, railroads, entire towns. You haven’t experienced it yet, Em, and I hope you never do. But the devastation, and the killing, it is abominable. And it’s going to get worse. Someday, when this is over, Virginia will need to rebuild, and I want us to be a part of it. So that’s your answer. Can I go back? Maybe. Do I want to go back? Hell no. Not anymore. My place is here, with you. That is all that matters. And when this is over, we can build something, just the two of us. Something lasting and meaningful. Something my granddad would be proud of. You think I can do it?”
She looked at him with wonder. “Cal Garrity. Nine years and three months, and you still manage to take my breath away.”
He smiled. “How’s that? The simple-minded thinking of a horse soldier?”
“There are two things I know for certain, Cal,” she said, grasping his hand with both of hers. “One, you are no simple-minded horse soldier.”
He looked at her expectantly. “And second?”
Emily held up a finger. She went into the house, the sound of her footsteps on the oak staircase carrying out to the veranda. A minute later, she returned, a small book in her hand. She sat close to him again, caressing the book cover as if it were a King James Bible.
“And second?” Cal repeated.
“I’ll get to that,” she said, turning to him. “But first things first.” She moved in close and put her hand around the back of his neck, pulling him to her. She locked her lips with his, his familiar mustache whiskers brushing her skin, and the embrace became more passionate. Finally, she withdrew, but not before giving his lower lip a gentle bite.
Cal grinned, as they both leaned back. He half-pretended to pant for his breath. “Was that the second thing?”
She shook her head, then thumbed through the book as she caught her own breath. She turned several pages before finding what she was looking for.
“Here it is. ‘The sound of a kiss is not so loud as that of a cannon, but its echo lasts a great deal longer.’”
“I’m guessing it wasn’t Major Saunders who wrote that?”
“Holmes. Oliver Wendell Holmes. A Yankee.” She closed the book, her eyes fixed on his and burning with intensity. “The second thing I know, Cal, is that yes, we can build something. Anything. Together. Do you know how I know that, my love?”
“How?”
“Because I can still hear the echo,” she whispered, moving closer again and pressing her lips to his.
CHAPTER 17
July 3, 1863
Near Fairfield, Pennsylvania
Six Miles Southwest of Gettysburg
A full regiment of cavalry, riding even at a casual trot, makes a hell of a racket. Though the men of the 6th United States Cavalry Regiment had left behind their supply wagons and light cannon in the interest of speed, they could not silence hundreds of horses laden with carbines, sabers, canteens, rations and other equipment. Their approach could be heard nearly a half-mile away, and it was little surprise that every time they passed a farmhouse, a family stood waiting outside. The civilians out here in rural Pennsylvania were eager to see such a rarity, the men in blue who rode so smartly.
And loudly, Ethan grumbled to himself.
There were traditionalists who believed the resounding arrival of the cavalry on the battlefield was an advantage, producing a paralysis among the quivering foot soldiers who dared to stand in the path of the charging beasts.
After two years of this, however, Ethan had come to believe that was mostly nonsense. Especially when they were several miles behind Confederate lines, vulnerable and exposed.
The regiment continued to move north, the column stretching nearly five hundred yards. Even with the din of so many men and horses on the move, the exchange of gunfire erupting in the distance was instantly recognizable. Ethan threw his hand into the air, bringing the regiment to an abrupt halt.
He unwound his field glasses from his saddle pommel and raised them to his eyes, sweeping the ground ahead. The break was welcomed by the lathered horses, pushed hard all morning. Despite the ground they had covered, they had yet to spot the enemy, either in Fairfield or on this road. Through the glasses, he could see the road ahead sloping upward, cutting through a hill of freshly plowed farmland. There was an orchard of some sort on the left side, and rolling pastures with a handful of grazing cows to the right.
He was more concerned with what he could not see, beyond the crest. There could be more vacant fields of tall grass. Or Jeb Stuart’s entire Confederate cavalry corps.
His chief scout arrived at his si
de as Ethan lowered the glasses. “Henri, get up on that high ground, see what that shooting is about and where the hell Thurmond is.”
Terrell gave him a quick nod and galloped ahead.
Ethan turned to Kirch. “Officers call. No horn.”
“Yes, Sir!” the boy said, wheeling his horse around to fetch the squadron and troop commanders.
“Kelsey!”
“Right behind you,” the man replied. “You don’t need to yell.”
Ethan smiled at him, gesturing toward the farmstead they had passed a minute ago, where half a dozen children of varying ages gazed at them from a rickety porch.
“Ride back there, see what they know.”
“Maybe they know how to cook up some bacon and eggs,” muttered Kelsey.
The regiment had moved out without breakfast that morning, eating cold biscuits in the saddle. Kelsey rode away, kicking up chunks of soil.
Ethan felt uneasiness in his own stomach but knew it had little to do with his appetite. He hadn’t felt right about this mission since General Merritt, his brigade commander, had summoned him a few hours ago. Confederate supply wagons had been spotted in the town of Fairfield, on the outskirts west of Gettysburg. Merritt ordered Ethan to investigate and intercede if necessary to prevent the wagons from reaching the tens of thousands of Confederate infantry entrenched in nearby Gettysburg.
After two days of savage fighting in scorching heat, the casualty counts on both sides were stunning, numbers neither army had ever processed. The battle was far from decided, however, and it was thought that Lee was massing his army for one final push against the Union lines. Perhaps today. Merritt wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to deny the enemy what could be valuable ammunition stores.
Of course, what the general didn’t say is that it could just as easily turn out to be wagons full of horseshoes and tent halves.
By noon, the regiment had passed through the small hamlet of houses in Fairfield. They were informed by the townspeople that the Confederate wagons were already on the move, heading north to Cashtown with unidentified cargo. Knowing they couldn’t be far off, Ethan had sent some forty men to give chase while the remainder of the regiment followed. But then came the gunfire that had halted the main column, coming from somewhere beyond the ridge ahead.
Kirch returned, followed by a pack of officers. Gunfire was still echoing in the distance.
“That shooting sounds awfully close, Major,” said Captain Fraser, his face flushed with excitement.
Milo Fraser was the youngest of his squadron commanders, just twenty-one years old, barely four months out of West Point. A case example of how hastily promotions had been handed out in recent months. In the pre-war Army, Fraser would have spent several years as a lieutenant before commanding a single troop, let alone the four that comprised his current squadron.
“I sent Terrell ahead. He should be back shortly. We’ll hold here.”
The scout returned within a minute, charging in fast and then rearing in his horse. “Lieutenant Thurmond is directly ahead, maybe one mile. He is fighting a retreating action.”
“Retreating? Against supply wagons?”
“Against cavalry.”
The group became still, Terrell’s words hitting them like a sledgehammer. They were some eight miles behind Confederate lines, alone, and now they had been discovered. “Strength?”
“Skirmishers only. But they are merely an advance, Major. There is a full column behind them, coming up this road.”
“How far?”
“By now, two miles, closing fast.”
“Who is it, Terrell?” asked Rudolf Haase, another squadron commander who doubled as Ethan’s second-in-command.
“I saw the pennant. It is Grumble Jones’ brigade, with the Seventh Virginia in the lead.”
“An entire brigade?” asked Fraser, more alarm in his voice.
“Oui, Capitaine. There is also perhaps another behind them.”
Some two thousand men, if Terrell is right. And I’ve got less than five hundred.
“Any good news?”
“You see the rail fences? They appear to be quite sturdy, and extend from both sides of the road.”
Ethan perked up. “A bottleneck?”
Terrell nodded.
It was something, and might give his regiment a chance. They knew Jones’ Brigade well, had tangled with them at Brandy Station not long ago. They were mostly Virginia men and tough as boot leather. Ethan also had to assume they might have their light artillery. He had none.
Ethan stood in his stirrups, scanning the fields ahead. He had no time to communicate with Merritt, but knew what the general’s orders would be. To stop a charging bull, Merritt would say, close the distance and punch him the nose.
More nonsense, of course. But Ethan knew what he had to do.
“This is as good of ground as we’re going to find.” He pointed ahead. “We’re going to deploy on that ridge and hold them here. Dismount your men and put them behind as much cover as you can.” His hand chopped through the air. “First Squadron will take the far side of the road, up among those apple trees. Third Squadron will cover the near side. I want enfilade fire on the road itself. Some of that grass looks at least waist high, should give the men some concealment.”
“One regiment cannot stop a brigade, Major, let alone two,” said Haase. “Nor will tall grass stop a bullet.”
Ethan pursed his lips, missing Tyler Whitaker and not for the first time. Whitaker had been such a reliable officer, well-liked by his peers and subordinates alike. Undaunted, measured, and of sure judgment. Ethan had always felt a kinship to Whitaker since they both rose from the enlisted ranks, but he had also been Ethan’s most dependable and experienced subordinate that first year. Now, Whitaker sat rotting in a grave along the banks of some river in Maryland that Ethan had never heard of.
And while he generally liked Haase, the man’s penchant for constantly stating the obvious was irksome.
“I’m aware of that. TJ?”
“Sir!” came the usual eager response.
“I want Second Squadron in reserve, and out of sight down here in case the Rebs find a way around those fences and attempt to cut us off. Keep your men mounted. Send a rider to find General Merritt and inform him of our present situation. Advise him that another regiment would surely be appreciated.”
“Sir, I respectfully—”
“I don’t want to hear it. You’ll have your turn before the day is through, I promise you that.”
“Understood, Sir,” saluted TJ, the disappointment, if not resentment, clear in his voice. He turned his gelding and headed toward his squadron.
“We’ll stop them cold, Major,” asserted Tad Donnelly, one of Fraser’s subordinates. His youthful, cheery voice was a stark contrast to the darker mood of Haase. “Don’t need reinforcements.”
“But the Rebs might,” another man boasted.
Ethan smiled, despite himself.
Big talkers now.
The early months of the war had been one bitter pill after another for the Union cavalry. The entire Confederate Army had been underestimated and no component more so than their cavalry, ably led by the dynamic J.E.B. Stuart. The Union men were better equipped and better mounted, but they had been outmaneuvered and outfought in nearly every engagement in ’61 and ’62.
Then suddenly, a glimmer of hope, just a few weeks ago when they had finally fought Stuart to a draw at Brandy Station, just outside Culpeper, Virginia. It was hardly a victory, but the Union men had shown a mettle that had clearly surprised their counterparts, eliciting a new confidence that was still rippling through the Federal Cavalry Corps.
It was welcome and refreshing; Ethan just hoped it wasn’t misplaced.
He dismissed the officers who hurried off to attend to his orders. The formation of men quickly melted away as two of his squadrons surged forward, dismounting along the ridge, their sergeants and lieutenants placing them into effective firing positions. Horse holde
rs gathered reins and pulled the animals to the rear. Those who had dismounted spread out across the open fields, looking for any shred of cover they could find. Most dropped to one knee, priming their rifles and carbines. He saw TJ positioning his men at the base of the slope, as directed.
Ethan felt the pride surging through him once again. His regiment was moving with efficiency and purpose, just as they once had in New Mexico. There were quite a few new men and officers, but they were learning quickly from the veteran dragoons that remained.
Dragoons, a word hardly heard anymore. The term that dated back to George Washington’s Continentals had been abandoned when the Army had reorganized. The mounted units were all simply referred to as cavalry now.
As the scattered shooting grew nearer, his men settled into their positions, enjoying a last smoke or sharing anxious laughter. Many were eating what they could, knowing it might be hours before they would have another opportunity.
He spurred his horse up the rise, passing the horse holders as he entered the apple orchard. Kirch had galloped ahead and now waved at him, pointing to some sort of depression in the ground near the back of the orchard where Ethan could direct their defense.
Ethan steered his horse through the men of his 1st Squadron, focusing on as many faces as he could. Many he recognized and knew by name. Others he did not.
He sighed. Too many of the former dragoons had fallen in the last two years.
Ethan felt the loss of each New Mexico man more than he let on. Despite the advice Colonel Gaylord had offered so long ago, he could not deny his attachment to these men. All of them really, but especially the dragoons. The new men who had filled his ranks were capable enough. His officers were earnest and not without courage. But most also seemed so damned young and wide-eyed.
I’m twenty-five, and I’m practically an old man here.
Haase was considered grandfatherly; the humorless former schoolmaster was nearing forty now, his hair thin and already receding. This was his second war, having served as an enlisted man in Mexico.
Though Haase kept it to himself, Ethan knew the Massachusetts man surely wondered why he wasn’t in command. Ethan could not blame him, still hardly believing he had his own regiment.