Balthazar sent skirmishers to the northwest to see what was behind the tree line there. There was a brick building partially hidden by the trees. Adam Gallagher, the professor from VMI took ten riflemen there to know what could be seen from the roof.
“You come back quick if they’re there,” Sergeant Major Roarke yelled at Gallagher’s back.
The Irishman waved as he and his soldiers trotted toward the trees and the building.
Balthazar and Captain Rafael Harris conferred. Then Harris took a group to the farm buildings around the Belle Grove plantation house to search for tools with which to entrench the two Napoleons first and then the infantry. Balthazar had done his best to teach the lessons of recent European warfare to his American comrades. More and more the hard truth of the value of entrenchment in the field was “soaking” into minds that had for too long sought to slavishly imitate Bonaparte’s methods.
With his men in place, Balthazar went to look at the wounded Union officer.
Doctor Smith and Joe White knelt beside the man in the tall, brown grass. Smith looked up as Balthazar approached.
He shook his head and rose to take the colonel aside. “Looks like a shell burst hit him and his horse. There are pieces of the horse all over the ground over there, all mixed up with this man’s intestines. He’s missing an arm as well and his legs would have to be amputated, if it were worth the effort…”
“No?”
“No. It would just hurt him a lot for nothing. He’ll be dead in a few hours no matter what we do.”
“Laudanum?”
“It will kill him if we give him enough to help when the pain starts. He is so much in shock that it does not hurt much yet. Someone on the other side left a muzette bag full of drugs with him.”
“What does he want?”
“Ah, he wants one of us to shoot him. We don’t have to do that. I can put him down with the drugs…”
The Frenchman nodded and then walked over to the doomed soldier. The grass all around was bloody with half dried red-brown stains. There were pieces of torn tissue everywhere. Some had to be the dead horse. Its carcass lay nearby nearly cut in half. Its viscera were everywhere, and the stench of the contents of its gut lay upon the scene.
Joe White held the man’s remaining hand.
Balthazar knelt beside the mutilated man. “How are you my friend?” he asked.
The wreckage of the officer’s body was appalling. His entrails lay on the ground bizarrely intertwined with those of his horse. The yellow background of his shoulder straps showed him to be a cavalryman.
“What is your regiment, major?” Balthazar asked.
“Secon’ Wess V’ginya. Weah fum jus’ up the road, jus’ up the road…” Shock slurred his speech. His eyes were bright but unfocused. “Pleass kill me,” he mumbled. “Pleass. I kin see that I’m finish’d. One minute I was up on ‘Jimmy’ over there.” He waved at the dead animal with his remaining hand. “Then we wur like this. My men leff me for you…”
“Do you want my surgeon to help you on your way?” Balthazar asked.
“Yess, bruthah, yess.”
“Are you a Christian?”
The dying man nodded.
“Balthazar gestured for Doctor Smith to join them.
Smith opened a bottle and poured the opium solution called laudanum into a tin cup. He filled it half full and then added a solid shot of whiskey from his own pocket flask. He held the cup to the Yankee officer’s lips.
After a few minutes the man was unconscious.
Balthazar stood bareheaded with Joe while one of the Louisiana sergeants led a few men in prayer,
“Notre père qui es aux cieux…”
They covered him with a US flag that they found in his dead mount’s saddle bags.
Claude found the cavalry two miles from Middletown. They were placed away from the infantry fighting in meadows and woodlots to the south. The troopers had hobbled their horses and put them to grazing on the grass while they sat in squad mess groups or lay down to rest. The only evidence of the battle was the deep rumbling of distant cannon and a far off rattle of musketry.
Major General George Armstrong Custer was the senior officer in command. Custer was a member of the West Point class of 1861 where he had graduated at the bottom of his class. He was twenty four years of age. If he had remained in the Regular Army he might have reached the rank of captain by 1864, but a transfer to the volunteer service of the troops raised by his native state of Michigan and the favor of the governor of that state had made him a general.
George A. Custer
Devereux saluted as he halted his horse near Custer. Custer was as “gorgeous” as ever in one of the uniforms he designed for himself. Dark blue velvet with gold bullion braid and a yellow silk neckerchief were the major design elements this day. Devereux had met Custer several times and was not impressed. Custer knew that.
“Devereux, what’re you doing here? Aren’t you a long way from the president and the War Department?” Custer looked around for appreciation of his witticism.
No one seemed amused at Devereux’s expense. Perhaps the Medal of Honor pinned to his tunic had some part in that.
“Sir, even I have to leave 17th Street from time to time… Is General Merritt about somewhere?” Claude hoped that Wesley Merritt would be available to help him avoid dealing with Custer.
Behind Custer he saw a familiar face. It was George White, his cousin.
Custer was annoyed by the question. “He has gone off with his troops to the east somewhere. You did not meet him?”
“General Sheridan asked me to tell you that he will attack in an hour or so and that he wishes you to turn the Rebel left with all available mounted force at that time. The signal will be …”
“Will you stay with me, general?” Custer asked. His previous nastiness was, for him, no bar to seeking favor from someone so close to the president.
“I thought to return to General Sheridan…”
“He has many staff; I have only these, and also Colonel Farinelli from the Cavalry Bureau, who is here to learn if I can do my job…”
A short, stocky man astride a big bay horse protested that this was not true. “No. I am here to offer instruction to your volunteer officers, Generale,” he said.
“No. General Kautz is the ‘god’ of cavalry now that Buford is dead, and he doubts me. He was one of my teachers. Do you see, Devereux? Please stay with me. I will need your help today.”
Claude walked his horse around Custer’s group of “followers’’ to approach his cousin. “Why are you here, George?” he asked. He saw that George White was now a lieutenant.
“I should introduce you to Colonel Farinelli,” White replied. “I am assigned to his office at the Cavalry Bureau.”
Farinelli appeared to be focused on something else, something in the air. “I beg your pardon, Generale,” He finally said, “but there is a great quiet, is there not?”
Claude listened. It was true; a silence had fallen on the battlefield.
“This happens,” Farinelli said, “when one or both sides have halted and prepare for some new action. Is that true, in this case, Generale?” Farinelli asked.
“You are Italian?” Claude asked.
“Yes, I am Roman. May I ask your name, Generale?”
“Claude Devereux. How do you know this lieutenant?”
Farinelli smiled. “Ah… I met your brother, Joachim Devereux, a Rebel officer.”
Claude risked a glance at White who shook his head behind Farinelli’s back. “We call him Jake at home. How did that happen?” His guts trembled at what might have been said to this little Italian.
Farinelli looked at him. “I was his prisoner in May, taken by his regiment. His company commander gave me dinner. He was named Fowle, this captain. I met your brother then. He was well. Then, I met this sergeant, and we escaped together from captivity. He works for me… His name is ‘Georgio Rinaldi’ now. You understand why, I am sure, Generale.”
“Did you meet Rinaldi’s brother as well?”
“I did. The family resemblance is clear, but, you know that…”
Claude absorbed that for a moment and then smiled. “Yes, we are very alike, but, you can see that.”
Farinelli bowed slightly. “If you excuse me, I will now give Generale Custer the benefit of my thoughts on the message you brought.” With that he walked his horse to Custer’s side and waited respectfully for the man’s attention.
”Rinaldi” followed him. “What will you do about my family?” he asked.
“Not now, we are occupied, perhaps later, perhaps never…”
Devereux dismounted, and poured half the water in his canteen into his kepi to give his horse a drink. The Morgan had made the long journey. He was a fine horse. Claude sat in the grass beside Corporal Concannon. “Did you hear all that?” He asked.
“I did, Sor. Colonel Farinelli is a good officer, not enough of those about.” He looked at Devereux to see if there was a reaction. “He misses nothin’, nothin’. Yer relative, the lieutenant is pretty good, kind of a surprise, him bein’ colored and all. How long ‘til we go?”
“About an hour, wake me when it starts.” With that he lay back in the grass, placed the still dripping kepi over his face and slept.
It had been six months since Smoot lost his hand. The stump healed cleanly and now looked like a shiny pink knob at the end of his arm. The dutiful, indeed devoted nursing given by the Devereux women had restored his strength. The family physician was pleased with his progress and let him walk in the garden. His status as a Confederate officer deep behind Union lines kept him off the streets of Alexandria for fear of an accidental encounter with someone who knew him in his previous residence there.
James Fowle continued to work at Devereux and Wheatley as a teller. The work bored him but gave an apparent reason for him to be in the town. His task of providing support to Claude Devereux while watching “General” Devereux for signs of wavering loyalty did not require him to be constantly in the presence of the man. He liked that.
Bill White worked in the big Devereux residence house on Duke Street but lived at home with his wife and children. His wife was surprised to have him at home but had learned not to ask questions about his comings and goings He signed her manumission papers. She was pleased with that.
Hope Devereux spent more and more time with Smoot over the months. This could be explained as a natural consequence of Victoria Balthazar’s need to devote her time to her three children including the infant girl, Elisabeth, named for Balthazar’s mother. Clotilde, her mother in law, was still in mourning for her husband and was increasingly withdrawn from society.
These were excuses that the family could give to each other. In fact, she had decided that she wanted Smoot. Her husband saw that at dinner the night before. He knew her well enough to see the guilt that she felt at the thought of what she was going to do. That had not kept him from using her that night as fiercely and ravenously as usual.
As she climbed the stairs to the tiny third floor bedroom that was so full of Smoot’s sickbed, she felt the bruises that Claude had given her, not in violence but in lust.
Smoot sat by the window looking at the street below. Autumn was truly come.
Standing in the doorway, she was washed in the love evident in his face. She had known of his love since Victoria returned from Richmond at Christmas. Her sister-in-law had been quick to tell her.
Balthazar had told his new wife of Smoot’s feelings because he was concerned by the potential for family trouble.
His bride’s attitude was different. She loved Hope as a sister. Hope’s need for someone to care for her as Balthazar cared for Victoria was all that mattered to her.
I am selfish, Hope thought. I love my husband. I will continue to be his wife in all things, but Claude will never be wholly mine… I share him with Amy and God knows who else…
She shut the door behind her and locked it.
Smoot stood up to meet her.
She took his handless arm in her hands and kissed the stump.
He seized her in his arms. “I love…”
“I know,” she said. “I am here for your love.” She turned her back to him and asked that he undo the hooks. She did not wear corsets at home. She did not need to wear them. She let the bodice fall away and turned to face him. He held her at arm’s length to appreciate her beautiful skin and breasts. The rosy nipples stood erect and proud.
Claude’s constant sexual attentions had greatly deepened her response to man.
She led Smoot to the bed. “You are mine, now,” she said.
He brought this on himself, she thought. She thought that again just before Smoot took her for the first time that day.
The four guns fired. The reports echoed and rolled across the Shenandoah Valley. Cheering could be heard from the direction of the Valley Pike north of Middletown.
Corporal Concannon reached to shake Devereux awake, but the general was already sitting up.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Custer’s staff was mounting. Subordinates raced away to their commands.
Colonel Farinelli beckoned to Concannon.
Devereux reached Custer’s side. “Where do you want me to be?” he asked.
Custer was distracted and annoyed by the interruption.
Farinelli had lectured him patiently, tactfully, for an hour, and Custer had decided to do what the man advised, but the experience of being tutored by this foreigner angered him. Now, he had to deal with this presidential “pet.” “Ride with the Michigan Brigade,” he said to Devereux. “They are over there by the mountains.” He pointed to the looming wall to the west. “Farinelli will loan you his corporal to show you the way. You will, won’t you?”
The Italian nodded but the impassivity of his expression made clear what his real opinion might be.
Devereux and Concannon spurred away. Looking back, Claude saw Sheridan’s red and white swallow tailed command flag above a group approaching. Good, he thought, Phil will kick his ass…
“General Custer,” Sheridan began. “The Sixth Corps and the Army of West Virginia have begun to advance. What will you do?”
Custer blinked, hesitated slightly and looked at Farinelli.
“Generale Custer has ordered his division to attack the rebel left flank,” Farinelli began, uncertain how long he would be allowed to continue.
Sheridan looked at him. “You are?”
“Farinelli, Cavalry Bureau.”
“Kautz speaks well of you, all right, what else?”
“We will sweep the left flank of the enemy after XIXth Infantry Corps breaks that flank.”
“They have been told?”
“Si, Generale.”
Sheridan looked at Custer. “You do that. Get on with it. Colonel Farinelli will ‘accompany you.’”
Custer nodded, his face flushed with anger. He rode south with his staff behind him.
“Farinelli!” Sheridan called, demanding his attention.
The Italian pulled up his horse to listen.
“You stay with him, understand?”
Marco Aurelio Farinelli nodded.
“We are grateful,” Sheridan said. “There will be a place for you, afterward. Now, go!”
Farinelli and George White galloped away in pursuit of Custer.
Balthazar and the battalion heard the four guns and the cheering.
Gallagher’s picket detail came out of the woods on the far side of the big meadow. They ran for their lives.
The Yankee infantry were not far behind. Masses of them emerged and halted to straighten their lines. Their blue regimental colors and U.S. flags were visible all along the lines.
Three batteries of artillery came next, dashing through gaps in the infantry lines. The gun teams swung in half circles to bring the cannon to bear. The horses halted to be unhitched. They knew the drill as at least as well as the “red-legged” cannoneers. The horses also knew from long experience
that they would soon be led away. They waited.
Harris’s two 12 pound Napoleons opened fire on the nearest battery. The last hour had been well spent digging the two guns in behind horse shoe shaped emplacements. Their first explosive shells burst among the enemy gun crews bringing down horses and men and scattering all nearby as they ran for cover in the tree line. Having done severe damage to that battery, Harris shifted fire to the second.
The third federal battery began firing into Harris’ positions. His teams had been taken farther back behind frame buildings near Belle Grove Plantation house. Nevertheless, the weight of fire and the fall of shot soon began to tell.
At Rappahannock Station, Rafael Harris had been a sergeant gun captain in the Louisiana Guard Artillery. There, his three inch ordnance rifle dismounted several Yankee guns. He had fired from within a redoubt atop the ridge under assault by the U.S. Second Army Corps. The twenty thousand Union soldiers in the assault on the hill were supported by one hundred pieces of artillery arranged in a “grand battery” half a mile wide. The four rifled guns of the Louisiana artillery were utterly destroyed, pounded into shards of metal and splinters of wood. The gunners’ bodies lay around their pieces as the Confederate line was overrun.
Raphael Harris’ two Napoleon smoothbores were destroyed on this field in much the same way. The process was inexorable. The weight of metal built steadily in the Union gun line across the big meadow. For ten long minutes Harris’s two guns dueled with the federal artillery. Then, as he watched, half the federal guns switched from counter-battery fire against his cannons to direct fire against Balthazar’s infantry in their shallow trenches. He knew that meant that the time for the infantry assault against the battalion’s position was near.
The blue infantry surged forward in long, wavy lines, marching steadily ahead through the knee high yellow grass. Their rifles were at “carry arms,” held vertically against the right sides of their bodies. As they passed, they kicked up clouds of grasshoppers and game birds. Quail and grouse flew wildly across the field, frightened by the noise and the sudden presence of so many men.
Down the Sky: Volume Three of the “Strike The Tent” Trilogy Page 14