by Andy Kutler
The Union men continued to fire hot lead at the Virginians, with a rate of fire that was heavy but rushed and inaccurate. Some of the Union men had already turned and fled their lines. Those who had the sense to hold their ground had difficulty keeping their rifles steady. But there were always veterans who could not be flustered and knew how to pick a target. That was likely the case when Chet Dinkins suddenly caught a bullet high in the chest, flipping him over the back of his saddle.
Cal gritted his teeth and rode on. He remained in the front with Ozzie’s company. They crossed over another fence, this one with Federals behind it. Some of the Confederate troopers slowed to hack at the enemy with sabers while others took aim with their pistols and carbines.
They had already taken much ground from the Yankees, most of whom had abandoned their positions and were sprinting to the Federal rear. Cal sheathed his saber and pulled his Colt, taking aim at a Federal and bringing the man down. He knew he had only minutes until there was a counterattack. He ordered his men to dismount and began directing them into defensive positions from his saddle. Stuart would want him to press forward but that was madness. The Federals were going to hit hard in response and his regiment would be prepared for it.
It was then he heard the enemy bugle.
No. Bugles.
He looked to the southwest and saw a large column of blue charging into the field. Cal began to reload the Colt, and in doing so he did not see the wounded, gray-haired Union sergeant, lying on his side barely thirty yards away. The man took careful aim with his Spencer and pulled the trigger. The shot hit Cal in the left bicep, knocking him from his horse. He landed hard and rolled twice. Cal clenched his teeth in pain as he lay on the ground, gripping his shattered arm. He saw the man was on his feet now, bringing the Spencer up again. Before he could get his next shot off, a saber sliced through the back of his neck, nearly taking his head off. It was one of Cal’s men, who sheathed his bloody sword and galloped over to Cal. He dismounted, pulling a cloth from his neck, and wrapped Cal’s arm in a makeshift bandage.
“Much obliged, Corporal,” Cal said, wincing in pain.
“Geary, Sir. Adolphus Geary. B Company. You want me to stay with you, Colonel?”
The tattered uniform and gaunt features aside, Cal knew a good soldier when he saw one. Still, he could not ignore the youthful face. This boy should be in a schoolroom somewhere. Instead, Geary’s face was splattered with the blood of the man he had nearly decapitated.
“No, lad.” With considerable discomfort, Cal rose to a sitting position, clutching his bloodied arm. He could see the boy’s cloth was already soaked through with blood. He picked his Colt up off the ground, and handed it to Geary.
“Load this for me and then rejoin your company.”
The young man took the pistol, threw in new cartridges, and handed it back to Cal. Geary climbed on his horse but then his body suddenly convulsed, struck by a volley of balls in the face and chest, fired from a line of men nearby. They in turn were each cut down by Confederate fire, most of it coming from those who had formed a position behind a fence trying to ward off the waves of Union cavalry that had now entered the field.
Cal surveyed his surroundings. It was as if a swarm of blue-shirted wasps had spilled across the battlefield. The Federal Cavalry poured from virtually every direction and what was left of the 1st Virginia dashed back to their lines. Cal emptied his revolver into the hordes of Yankees overrunning his position. When it was spent, he picked up his saber and planted his feet on the ground. But the Federals did as he would have, kept riding, past the remnants of his regiment, pushed hard by their officers. Cal turned to avoid the mass of horse flesh charging past him, but one rider caught his injured shoulder, spinning him to the ground. He rose up, a survival instinct, trying to keep from crying out from the intensity of the pain. He quickly examined his arm, mangled now. His last vision was that of his arm, not a single inch of skin or sleeve visible, completely soaked in blood. Whether he was weakened from the blood loss, the heat, or the collapse of his regiment, Cal felt himself falling again. As the sounds of war grew more distant, and eventually silent, Cal fell into deep unconsciousness, not even remembering if he hit the ground.
***
The two Union men stood over the Confederate officer, the left side of his tunic stained with fresh blood.
“He alive?” asked the first, poking the man with the barrel of his rifle.
“Looks like we got ourselves a general, Pete.”
The man stirred and the two soldiers raised their rifles.
“The hell you do,” said a sharp voice. “That’s a colonel, I believe.”
The two men came to attention as a tall, handsome young officer climbed down from his horse and removed his gauntlets. He squatted down next to the wounded man and snapped his fingers near the man’s ear. “Colonel, can you hear me?”
Though Cal still felt lightheaded, he blinked his eyes open, feeling someone pulling on his good shoulder until he was sitting up. He looked up and saw a Union officer standing before him. Behind him was a mounted entourage of staff officers and orderlies milling anxiously. The Union man’s blouse was torn and covered with splotches of mud. But what caught Cal’s eye was the absurd amount of gold braid that decorated his uniform and epaulets.
The officer saw Cal staring and became suddenly self-conscious, standing up straight while dusting off his britches with his hands.
“My apologies, Colonel, my horse went down, and took me with her.”
Cal grimaced as he held his bloodied arm. “No apology necessary, General. My own appearance is hardly worthy of a parade ground. I also had a horse shot out from me today.”
The man grinned. “I’m on my third today and it isn’t even time for supper yet.” He turned to one of the aides perched nearby. “Find an ambulance for this man. Use all speed and my name as necessary. Take it by gunpoint if you must.”
“Yes, Sir!” the aide said, spurring his horse to the Federal rear lines.
Cal looked across the field, littered with corpses of soldiers and horses. Orderlies and stretcher bearers from both sides stepped carefully, looking for survivors. He saw a Union man reach into his haversack and share something, bandages perhaps, or other supplies, with a Confederate counterpart. The man was handed something back, probably the only thing not scarce among the Southern soldiers, a plug of chewing tobacco.
An officer rode up, out of breath. “General, we got the Rebs on the run. Major Hollingsworth sends his compliments, and asks if he should give chase.”
“Hell yes, chase them back to Richmond if he must. And find Major Summers. Tell him to move his reserves into these positions. We will not surrender this ground again.”
The man saluted and galloped off.
The general knelt down again, examining Cal’s arm. “Well, Colonel, it appears the day is over for you. Your men fought well considering the odds. We sure as hell didn’t expect a charge from such a small force. You caught us unawares at first.”
“We would have had you too, if General Stuart had only committed those two brigades we have in reserve.”
Cal felt the embarrassment as soon as the words left his mouth.
The general was not fooled, of course. He smiled and removed his plumed hat. “Two brigades? Then perhaps I should surrender my sword.” He held out his hand. “George Custer.”
Cal’s face registered surprise for a moment. He then laughed, despite his pain, and grasped the general’s extended hand with his own good one. “Calvin Garrity. First Virginia. We’ve heard quite a bit about you, General.”
“Oh?” Custer was amused. “And what are the Southern newspapers saying about me, if I may inquire?”
“Well, enough to cause a bit of envy in General Stuart. But I’m really talking about those of us who were educated on the Hudson. I’ve heard you were near the bottom rung of cadets.”
Custer hooted and slapped his knee with his hat. “Dead bottom, to be precise. Thirty-fourth out of th
irty-four.” He eyed Cal carefully. “What year?”
“Class of fifty-eight.”
Custer nodded approvingly. “Class of sixty-one. We must have brushed elbows at some point. A small world indeed. Where were you posted after graduation?”
“Texas, and then New Mexico Territory. Second Dragoons.”
Custer’s eyes went wide. “Hallelujah. A real dragoon. My compliments, Colonel. The commander you had out there in New Mexico…Gordon…”
“Gaylord, Sir. Nathan Gaylord.”
Custer snapped his fingers. “Gaylord, right. The man has a reputation.”
“A deserved one. It was a privilege to serve under him.”
“Well,” noted Custer, “not that much of a privilege, apparently. Here you are.”
“Here I am,” he agreed. “General, what are you hearing about the town?”
“We heard the same barrage as you did, Colonel. It appears General Lee attempted one last push, but did so in the center of our lines. And with but a single division.”
Cal’s face fell. “It’s over, then.”
“Mostly, it seems. Oh, there will be skirmishes here and there. Why, my own division commander split my command to rescue one of our regiments trapped within your lines. Miles from here, near some place called Fairfield.”
“Well, hopefully we gave your men a fight today.”
“I’m sure you did your best.” The words were delivered with a tone that suggested Julius Caesar’s best would not have sufficed that day against George Custer.
The general gestured toward Cal’s arm. “I’m no surgeon, but that looks to be a serious wound. The ambulance should arrive shortly.”
He turned to an aide. “Wilcox, draft a letter for my signature. Colonel Garrity is to be afforded every courtesy and receive proper medical care as long as he requires it. Use my personal seal.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And find out where the division hospital is. See to it that the colonel is taken there with all haste.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Cal said, surprised by the man’s generosity.
“Our surgeon is first rate. Unfortunately, I cannot keep you.”
Custer knelt down again and leaned in close. “You understand about the prison camps up north? They are no worse than those in the South, but no better I fear. I have heard stories, as I am sure you have. Deplorable conditions.”
He clutched Cal’s good shoulder and then climbed into his saddle. “Luck, Colonel.”
“General, I wonder if I may ask you for a personal favor.”
Custer looked down at him wearily. “I’m a little busy at the moment.”
“I would be in your debt forever, Sir.”
“Bully. I don’t like debts much. My father pounded iron horseshoes fourteen hours a day to make sure he never had one. What is your request?”
“Could you have a letter delivered for me? I’d like to write a note to an old dragoon friend. I have no idea where he is serving now, but maybe your staff could find him? I know I’m asking a great deal and—”
Custer spun to an orderly. “Henry, find some paper and ink. See to our friend’s correspondence.”
Custer gave Cal a half salute, wheeled his horse, and galloped forward, his harried entourage dashing off to keep pace with the boy general.
CHAPTER 19
July 3, 1863
Near Fairfield, Pennsylvania
Kelsey and Terrell were laying on their sides, low in the gully, savoring the brief respite from the fighting. They each dug into a hasty supper from tin cans, the beans already warm from the blistering heat that pressed down mercilessly on the Pennsylvania farmland. Despite the shade of a small apple tree, the canopy offered little protection from the stifling humidity.
He had hoped the food would galvanize him, but Kelsey felt instead as if something had died in his stomach. He never realized how good shipboard chow was until his first taste of salt pork, the insect-infested hardtack, and nineteenth century canned goods. Kelsey closed his eyes, trying to forget the vile food despite the nauseating taste festering in his mouth.
It was barely mid-day and the stamina of the Union men was faltering. They were already sweltering, exhausted, and sapped of energy. The Confederate fusillade had finally tapered off and the men had managed a hoarse cheer as the enemy scurried back to their own lines. It was the second attempt at a frontal assault, this time led by two full regiments. The Confederate commander was counting on the Union men to break and run. Six months ago they would have. But not today. Not yet.
No sooner had the Virginians retreated than orders came down the line for the Union men to conserve what was left of their ammunition. They all knew the Confederates had a third and perhaps fourth regiment not yet engaged. Kelsey had gone through nearly forty rounds already and had maybe a dozen remaining. He could feel the warmth of his carbine’s barrel even through his leather gauntlet. Kelsey figured they had enough to stave off one last assault. And if the Rebels managed to encircle them, the regiment would be cut off from any possible retreat.
While casualties to this point had been relatively low, their situation was beyond grim. Kelsey and Terrell had just conferred with Major Royston, the man growing discouraged and for good reason. His brother and best subordinate in the field was out of the battle, fighting for his life back in Fairfield. The dismounted cavalrymen were fully exposed to the intermittent shelling the Confederates were lobbing their way. And no matter what happened next, Royston would surely be compelled to commit his paltry remaining reserves. After that, there would be nothing more holding the Confederates back, and the rout would begin.
Kelsey opened his eyes, hearing a trumpet in the distance. “Officers call for the Rebs,” he murmured.
“Perhaps their brigadier is going to come up with an actual plan now.”
“More artillery?”
“Oui, and he will not hold back any of his regiments this time.”
“And then the party will be over.”
“Party? What party?”
“Never mind.”
Terrell gazed across the orchard where Royston huddled with his subordinates. “What do you think they say?”
Kelsey shrugged. “I know what they should say. Horse holders forward, and let’s haul ass out of here.”
“Haul ass. I love your colorful words, even when I do not know what they mean.” Terrell paused. “You tell me nothing about yourself. This I understand. But surely we can discuss your parents. Where are they?”
“My old man died about eight years ago, a heart attack. The man was a picture of health other than the two packs of Luckies he went through a day.”
“Luckies?”
“Lucky Strikes. Cigarettes. He smoked.”
“Ah.”
“My mom, she’s still in California, though I haven’t seen her in three, maybe four years now. She was sick…forgetting things…”
Terrell smiled. “Like you.”
“Yeah, like me. Sometimes she didn’t even remember me, or Lu—anyone else. She’s at some facility back there. Probably good for her to be around other people. She and my dad were close. Together thirty-five years.”
Terrell was silent for a minute. “We have been together for two years, and still I do not even know your first name.”
“As you know, I have no memory of that.”
“As you know, I don’t believe you.”
“You know my terms,” Kelsey replied, loading his carbine and certain he had just sufficiently doused the other man’s curiosity.
Terrell was the one man Kelsey had stopped feigning his memory loss with. He wasn’t sure how, but Terrell had seen through him almost from the beginning, knowing that there was more than Kelsey was sharing. Perhaps it came from his own enigmatic past, whatever that was. To his credit, the Frenchman respected his privacy and kept his suspicions to himself, and only occasionally tried to coax Kelsey into revealing more.
“Yes, yes. And I have refused those terms each time.”
>
“Yes, you have.”
“Until today.”
Kelsey lowered the weapon into his lap and looked at Terrell in surprise. “Come again?”
“Oui. Aujourd’hui. I trust you, my friend. It is time I shared my story with you. The story of how I came to America, by Henri Luc Terrell. Then perhaps, you will share a story with me.”
Kelsey stared at his friend, understanding why he was hearing this now. It was a confessional. The battlefield remained still, both sides continuing to catch their breath, and Terrell sat up a little higher.
“Several years ago, I was a Capitaine in the French Army. I had served almost six years in Africa, and my superior there, he had many connections in Paris. Because of him, and my English education, I received an appointment as the diplomatic liaison to the English ambassador to my country. As you know, relations between my country and the English have been poor for many years. This post was a position of great sensitivity and importance. I was honored to have been selected.
“I began my work with the ambassador, a man named Barkley. He was a man of honor and integrity. A true professional. He had been a career military officer, served here in America in the early part of the century, in your second war with the English, and later against my country.
“Sir Robert had a secretary, a Mr. Halloren, who was most unlikeable. Halloren had served under the ambassador during the war against France. But unlike Ambassador Barkley, Halloren did not serve with honor. My colleagues in the Foreign Ministry believed he had committed atrocities against our civilians, but for diplomatic reasons, they insisted I keep this information to myself.
“About a year after Barkley’s arrival in Paris, the Ambassador sent for his family, his wife and daughters, who were in London. It was then that I met his oldest daughter Catherine. She was perhaps ten years younger than I. Barely a woman.”
He paused, staring off, and Kelsey saw the emotion on the man’s face. Terrell looked up, saw Kelsey watching him, and quickly continued with his story.
“She had breathtaking beauty. She would remind you of Madame Garrity. You recall her, yes? Catherine had a grace and manner that were, well, indescribable. She was so charming, with imagination and vitality that were as…what is the word…seductive, yes, as seductive as her physical features, and she had those as well.”