by Andy Kutler
When the war began, their squadron had been absorbed into the 6th U.S. Cavalry. The new regiment was led by Winston Thatch, promoted now to full colonel, and they joined the Army of the Potomac just before Bull Run, the first major engagement between the two belligerents. Anticipating a one-sided contest, the 6th Cavalry entered the war with an infectious swagger that Ethan shared and did little to tamp down.
Their confidence had been shattered within a matter of months, the regiment part of a poorly-led, badly-misused Federal cavalry force that was consistently bested by the enemy, mocking and toying with them at every opportunity. The officer ranks swelled with men appointed from politically-connected families, hindering the effectiveness of even the Regular army units. At the same time, few had anticipated the acumen and tenacity of their Southern counterparts.
Well, Cal Garrity had. Once upon a time.
Early in ’62, Thatch took a musket ball in the hip and was reassigned to a staff position in Washington until his wound healed. The regiment was handed to the popular, hard-nosed Harris Rudman, until he was shot in the heart by a sharpshooter, his death a staggering blow to all of them. As the next senior in line, Ethan Royston, still devastated by the loss of Whitaker and then Rudman, took command on New Year’s Day, 1863.
In the months that followed, the performance of the regiment, as with the rest of the Union cavalry corps, had improved exponentially. The men, officers and enlisted alike, had come far in recent months, steadily regaining their lost confidence from the last two years, advancing far more often now than retreating.
He finally circled back to Kirch, once again marveling at the boy’s talent for picking a command post. There was a sweeping view of the farmland and road ahead, both sloping down into a lush valley filled with fields of wheat and corn. He did not need his field glasses to see the small cluster of blue-uniformed men on horseback, perhaps a mile away, fighting off a larger force of Confederates attempting to stymie their retreat. The small pops echoed across the hills.
Ethan chewed his lip, the only outward sign of his anxiety he would allow. He had faith in his men but that was Virginia cavalry out there. Stuart’s best, in overwhelming numbers. And he was alone with no supporting artillery and limited ammunition.
He could not help but wonder how many more he would lose today. There were times he would have preferred commanding strangers. He climbed down from the saddle, handing Kirch his reins while he looked out at the men positioned in the orchard, their carbines at the ready, patiently waiting for the enemy to arrive.
“They’re good,” a familiar voice said behind him. He turned, seeing TJ gesturing toward the Confederate lines. Kelsey had returned and was behind him. “But we’re elevated here. And our boys are ready for a scrap.”
“It’s not the men, TJ, or this ground. It’s the numbers.”
“Damn the numbers, these men will fight. They’ve got steel in their spines now. And they’ve grown quite a bit this last year.”
Kelsey cleared his throat. “Major, a word?”
Ethan looked at Kelsey. “Only if you smile.”
The two officers grinned while Kelsey’s face remained fixed in stone. “That family didn’t know a damned thing, just seemed to be worried the Rebs are going to butcher their cattle for meat.” He looked around. “Two squadrons dismounted and mostly exposed. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“Sergeant Kelsey, you disagree with the major’s plan of defense?” asked TJ mischievously, stoking the fire.
They had grown accustomed to Kelsey’s unique style of discussing tactical matters, often framing his opinions in the form of questions. However he communicated it, Ethan appreciated Kelsey’s unexpectedly perceptive insights. He had gained considerable respect for the man these last two years. Kelsey could still be frustratingly aloof at times, sullen at others, but his questions, seemingly rhetorical, often revealed something else. In this case, doubt.
Kelsey had surprised them all with how swiftly he adapted to Army ways. He endeared himself to Ethan and others with his quiet resolve to shape into a good cavalryman. His horsemanship was expert now and he had learned much about scouting and reconnaissance under Terrell. His intuition was sound and he seldom seemed flustered or panicked. But with Terrell capable of operating on his own, Ethan found Kelsey’s presence more useful around the men, particularly as replacements filled their ranks. They looked to Kelsey for direction, as if he were born into this. With that in mind, Ethan had made Kelsey a sergeant last year and placed him in TJ’s squadron, hoping the man’s good sense might rub off a bit.
Kelsey wore the stripes well, though TJ occasionally grumbled to Ethan about Kelsey’s cautiousness and his obsession with weighing the risks to the men before taking action. With the regiment awash in young and often inexperienced officers, that won Kelsey points from Ethan. The man was also not afraid to challenge his superiors, which Ethan either viewed as exasperating or indispensable, depending on the circumstances.
“Don’t mean to question your judgment, Major. But it seems we are heavily outnumbered here. You can see those columns moving up the road down there. If things go south, we’ll lose our mobility. The horse holders won’t have time to climb this rise.”
Ethan chuckled. “Go south. Clever, Sergeant. Look, if we are going to stand and fight, this position gives us a clear tactical advantage. And we can’t fight an effective defense from the saddle.”
“And you are certain we should stand and fight?”
“I am. If Grumble Jones wants a fight, we’ll give him one.”
Kelsey swept his hand across the fields ahead of them. “This doesn’t remind you of anything? Antietam?”
Ethan stiffened, another reminder of losing Whitaker. He took a step toward Kelsey and lowered his voice. “We turn tail and we’ll set this regiment back a year.”
“Yes, Sir,” replied Kelsey, unconvinced.
Ethan smiled. “Look at the bright side, Sergeant. Your squadron is still mounted. At least you’ll get out of this death trap.”
The gunfire was closer now, as was the rumble of galloping horses.
“It’s Lieutenant Thurmond, Sir,” called out one of his men. “He and his boys are high tailin’ it now!”
Ethan sent TJ and Kelsey back to their squadron. He raised his field glasses, focusing them up the road several hundred yards. Thurmond and his men were in a loose column, a hard retreat, his men no longer turning and firing un-aimed shots at their chasers. He could make out the main Rebel force now, riding at a steady trot, four men abreast, with a color guard in the lead. He counted the guidons in the long column; it was indeed a full brigade. Ethan could also make out several cannon being placed on a ridge in the distance.
Ethan cupped his hands and shouted to the men in front of him. “Pass the word. When Thurmond passes us, fire on my command. We will level that brigade.”
It wasn’t intended, but that brought a stout cheer from the men in the orchard.
***
It was mid-afternoon now, the sun mercilessly beating down on the combatants. The 6th had managed to stop the initial enemy advance cold, forcing the enemy—caught in a crossfire between two Federal squadrons—to abandon the road. Most of the Confederate force turned into the pasture where Ethan had fortunately placed the majority of his men. The Union fire was heavy and concentrated and a number of the Confederates fell from their saddles as they beat a hasty retreat. But they were veteran soldiers and the Rebels quickly regrouped, attacking in force and without caution. The Union men had held them off again, barely, while sustaining casualties that continued to mount, worrying Ethan. As did their dwindling ammunition.
The two sides were momentarily disengaged, catching their collective breath and emptying what was left in their canteens. Ethan was sure they would be facing a fresh regiment and knew he had to commit part of his reserves now. He had sent Kirch to summon TJ, but that was nearly five minutes ago.
Where the hell are they?
He heard the stead
y boom of cannon in the distance, and a handful of shells continued to whistle through the air, raining down behind his forward positions. Ethan lifted his glasses. The Confederate battery was roughly a half-mile away and still struggling, surprisingly, for accuracy.
He wondered again what the devil was taking TJ so long.
Kirch finally returned, alone. Ethan saw the look on his face, instantly reminding him of when Kirch had informed him about Whitaker. “What?”
“Captain Townes is down.”
Ethan felt his entire inside go cold.
He scrambled out of the trench, following Kirch as they ran from the orchard and down the slope of the hill. The Confederate artillery was still firing long, and the two men ducked as cannon shot fell around them. They saw Kelsey, his arms hooked under TJ’s armpits, attempting to drag the wounded officer to a nearby tree line. The captain’s lower body was soaked in blood and what was left of his legs twisted grotesquely. Ethan grabbed one of TJ’s arms and helped pull him to the relative safety of the trees.
Ethan fell to his knees. TJ was unconscious and his face was the color of plaster. He had a deep cut over his left eye, part of his right ear was missing, and his frock coat had been torn to shreds. Ethan looked down and almost vomited at what he saw. Both legs were badly mangled and blood was still pouring from gashes in his lower body. There was a trail of crimson streaked across the field from where they had dragged him.
Kelsey pressed his hand to TJ’s neck and waited a few seconds.
“There’s a pulse, but it’s pretty weak.”
Kelsey quickly removed his own shell jacket and then peeled off his sweat-stained blouse. He ripped the shirt into strips, tying one piece around the upper left thigh. He threw another piece at Ethan.
“Tourniquet, now!”
Ethan broke off his gaze and grabbed the cloth, tying it around the other leg, just above the remnants of the knee. Kirch found two small sticks and handed them to Kelsey. Ethan and Kelsey worked to finish the knots, inserting the sticks and then twisting the tourniquets into place.
Kelsey tied off both as Ethan looked on, his face contorted in anguish and horror.
“We need to get him to Doc McGowan, Major.” The regimental surgeon had been sent earlier to Fairfield to set up a field hospital. “Kirch and I can carry him.”
Ethan shook his head and grabbed Kirch’s arm. “Find Haase. Tell him he’s in command until I return.”
Kelsey and Kirch shared a look of surprise.
“You’re not staying?” asked Kelsey.
Ethan ignored him as Kirch ran off. He moved to TJ’s side, sliding one arm under his back while he slipped his other arm under what was left of a bloodied leg. “We’ll need to carry him like this. Thank God he’s out.”
It was more than a mile to Fairfield, and they needed every ounce of energy as they labored in the thick humidity. They finally arrived, twenty minutes later, exhausted and sweat-soaked. McGowan had placed his hospital in a church on the edge of the town and a few dozen wounded were recuperating outside. Two orderlies met them at the door and quickly took TJ inside, placing him on a blood-stained table. McGowan, a gaunt, forty-something man who had tied his long hair in a ponytail, approached the table, his apron splotched in crimson. He hunched over TJ and performed a quick examination.
Ethan was still breathing hard, the perspiration pouring from his face. “Can you save him?”
The doctor looked glum as he lifted one of TJ’s eyelids and then checked his pulse. “I don’t know, Major. He’s lost a great deal of blood. Those legs would have to come off, and I don’t know if he would have the strength to make it through the surgery.”
“Take them off,” Ethan ordered.
The surgeon looked up at him. “We have depleted our anesthetic, Sir.”
“Can he live with his legs like that?”
McGowan shook his head. “No, they will become infected and gangrene will set in. The blood may already be poisoned.”
“Take them off,” insisted Ethan, his tone making clear the surgeon had no other option.
Kelsey stepped between the two men and gripped Ethan’s arm. “Maybe we shouldn’t put him through that. Just let this run its course.”
“No.”
“Major, he’ll suffer. Likely for no reason. Let him go.”
“I can’t, Kelsey!” shouted a tearful Ethan. “He’s my damned brother.”
Kelsey released his arm. “What?”
“He’s my kid brother,” said Ethan, quieter now, as he wiped his cheeks. Kelsey stepped back, stunned.
Ethan turned again to McGowan. “If it is his only chance to live, you take those legs off. Now.”
The surgeon shrugged, emotionless. “As you wish, Major. You’re the next of kin.” He motioned for his two orderlies. They bound each leg to the table and then wrapped another restraint around his waist. They then stood on both sides of TJ, holding his shoulders down.
“He will wake up once I make the incisions,” the surgeon cautioned.
Ethan removed his hat and stepped to the table. The surgeon nodded at one of the orderlies, who moved away and allowed Ethan to take his position. Kelsey stepped forward as well, taking the position of the other orderly. Ethan met his eyes, nodding his gratitude.
“Firmly now,” the surgeon said, as he poured alcohol over a bone saw and then a small scalpel. They pushed TJ’s shoulders to the table. The doctor leaned in, and as his scalpel sliced into the skin, TJ awoke with a piercing scream that Ethan instantly knew he would never forget.
***
The two men stumbled out of the house, nauseated and light-headed. They welcomed the fresh air and the relative quiet, though sporadic gunfire could be heard to the north. They were both shaken, still unable to speak.
It had taken just minutes to remove the legs. TJ had mercifully lost consciousness again before the bone saw had been put to work. Ethan had been sickened; never imagining such savagery could exist, even in a hospital.
Kelsey grabbed a canteen hanging from a nail and offered it to him. Ethan took a long swallow, and then poured some on his hands, washing off as much of TJ’s blood as he could.
He knew they had to return to the ridge, but he wanted Kelsey to know.
“I left home when I was seventeen, against my father’s wishes. He’s what people call a man of influence, as you might have heard. He would have found me so I knew I had to change my name. Townes became Royston. A few years later, I wrote him and told him where I was, knowing it was too late for him to do anything. I had made sergeant by then. A few months later, my company commander in Colorado calls me in, says they’re giving me a commission. Can you believe that?”
“It happens,” Kelsey offered.
“It happens,” repeated Ethan, his tone clearly indicating it doesn’t.
It happened because my father used his bribe money.
“By that time, TJ was finishing up at West Point. Imagine that he is assigned to the Second Dragoons and sent to New Mexico not long after I had arrived. Quite a coincidence, eh? We were even made platoon leaders in the same company. That’s the long arm of Edward Townes there.”
“You made captain, he didn’t.”
“True. I did that on my own. I got stinking drunk the night Gaylord gave me those captain bars. I celebrated like I had won some sort of competition with TJ. Me, the black sheep, was now going to order the golden boy around. But it wasn’t his doing. He wasn’t competing for anything. I knew that, but still…I liked the idea of him serving under me. I was grateful for it. Not just because I wanted to prove something to my father. I thought I could protect TJ. Be a real big brother for once.”
Ethan paused, trying to keep his voice even. “TJ, being TJ, took it all in stride. He couldn’t have cared less I was his commanding officer. Never questioned my orders, not once. Never missed a salute. Never showed even a shade of resentment.”
“Maybe he admires his brother.”
Ethan gave a half smile. “Not likely.”
/>
“Surgeon says he’ll live.”
“He’s got no legs, Kelsey.”
“But he’ll be alive. That’s got to count for something.”
Kirch galloped up and saluted. “Sir, Major Haase sends his compliments. Says the Rebs have another regiment in position and are preparing to advance.”
“Get down from there, Kirch. Kelsey and I are taking your horse, you’ll have to leg it back.”
“Aw, Sir, I’ve had this Grey since—”
“Down, Kirch!”
Dejected, the boy dismounted and Ethan lifted himself into the saddle, with Kelsey climbing on behind him. Still distraught, Ethan slapped the reins on the mare’s back and they galloped back to what was left of their lines.
CHAPTER 18
July 3, 1863
Two Miles Southeast of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
“Why’s he always doin’ that, Sarge,” Briscoe asked, chewing on a twig.
Ellerbee ignored him as he spat a stream of tobacco juice, half of it splattering his horse’s ear. He wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.
“Sarge, I say, why’s he always doin’ that?”
Hap Briscoe was his best corporal, but damn his questions were tiresome.
“Don’t you pay the colonel no mind,” admonished Ellerbee. “He knows what he’s about.”
Truth was, the first sergeant had served under Garrity for years, dating back to New Mexico, and still couldn’t explain it. But Briscoe and the others within earshot didn’t need to know that.
There was a soft breeze filtering through the dense line of spruces sheltering the 312 men of the 1st Virginia Cavalry. Ellerbee loved the scent of those fragrant needles, but anything might smell sweet compared to the human stench that surrounded him. None of these men, himself included, had seen a bar of soap in weeks.
It was their second visit that day to the outer edge of the battlefield where Union and Confederate cavalry had been clashing all morning. Colonel Garrity had ordered the regiment to form into skirmishing lines inside the tree line and await his return. Some of the men, the veterans at least, gave each other a smile or wink, the colonel’s unique ritual well-known.