"Ah yes!" Balthazar willed himself into a state of indifference to the oncoming throng. Again he thought of Victoria...
The grey horse ran wildly to the rear, scattering men, dragging a boneless sack of blue from a single stirrup.
"Three hundred. Perhaps a color sergeant of the center regiment?"
"Which?"
The roar of musketry and the metal clamor of the infantry's loading filled his head.
He thought of their own artillery, and looking that way, he saw the barrel of one Parrott lying atop a broken wheel outside the redoubt. Two of the Southern guns were still in action. These remaining pieces were trading blows with the whole artillery force below. Fire from two dozen guns descended in converging trajectories searching, searching.
"Will they go? Will they leave us?" he asked pointing with his chin at the remaining Confederate guns.
"No," Armand replied. "We are their countrymen. They will not go. Two hundred!"
"I know the range now."
The Federal infantry came up the hill leaning forward against the bullets as though they were hail.
Balthazar fished in his ammunition pouches and lined up a handful of cartridges on the lip of the trench. Methodically he loaded and fired at the blue figures that grew rapidly in size, detail and individuality before him.
A hundred yards away they broke out of the measured step that had brought them this far behind their flags and drums. The front line charged at him. It seemed that every man along a thirty yard stretch of regimental frontage was looking directly at him. The beards and red, straining faces grew and grew as he fired into them. They reached the abatis.
He shot a corporal in the head that was in the act of tearing at the interwoven branches.
The man fell heavily, wailing and clutching at himself.
To either side, the Tigers raged at the Union infantry, raged and fired in a blinding fury. Men howled and emptied their weapons at their enemy trapped for a moment in the embrace of the bony arms of the dead trees in the abatis.
Roarke, Armand and their captain scrambled out of the trench, and ran forward to grapple with a color party in the obstacles.
Seeing them go, the Tiger infantry scaled the earthen barrier to join them. Rumbling deep in their chests, they cleared the top. On their feet, in the forest of deadwood, the Rebel yell ripped from them to echo across the darkening land.
Balthazar found himself in their midst. He pushed between two riflemen to reach the front of the moving mass. Behind him he could feel the charge of the Tigers as he raced to the fight around the colors.
Armand lay writhing on the ground.
His captain held a U.S. flag in his arms and stood astride the soldier from which he had taken it.
Roarke fought with clubbed rifle to make a space around his friends.
Balthazar shot an officer with the Sharps carbine.
The blue lieutenant fell across Armand's legs.
The Frenchman drew his pistol with a free hand. The big Lemat jumped in his grip taking a man full in the face at a distance of four feet. He then killed two more with the scatter barrel as they reached to tear the flag from the Creole officer's hands.
The Tiger onslaught passed them by.
In the shadow of their ranks, he looked across the brightness of their courage into the fading light of the orange dusk. Across the backs of the fighting line, he peered down the endless distance to the woods.
A bullet hummed past his cheek. He brushed his face with the back of the hand that held the pistol, too intent on what he saw to pay much attention.
The Union assault began to give ground, driven back by the ferocity of the assault.
Across the distance, he watched the Grand Battery limbered up.
They will move closer in case the infantry needs more help in finishing us, he thought.
In the middle ground, in unending ranks of blue black uniformity more Federal infantry advanced. On they came, on and on, at the "double-quick", pounding up the grassy slope.
The earth was suddenly, overwhelmingly full of Union soldiers.
Roarke went down, stabbed through the body as the lines came together again.
Balthazar shot the victor in this little fight as he stood above the Irishman with a foot on Roarke’s chest, trying to pull out his bayonet.
Roarke crawled away, moving on his belly toward the river.
The sun set. Nightfall came on the hill with a suddenness that broke the combat into a crowd of invisible, but clearly audible fights.
A Union officer came at him from the left swinging a heavy sword in a powerful, descending blow aimed at the juncture of neck and trunk.
Balthazar brought the Lemat up and fired full in the face.
The head snapped back. The dim figure slipped to the ground, holding its face, screaming with an oddly muffled sound from behind the fingers.
Behind the dying officer, more riflemen appeared. Their bayonets filled the night, searching for him.
Confederate infantrymen grappled on all sides with their enemies. They were dark forms swinging clubbed muskets. In the midst of the fight Balthazar was surprised to hear them curse and scream, transported with feeling.
Next to him a Tiger beat a Yankee's head against the ground, and then battered the man's face with a stone to finish the job before turning his attention elsewhere.
Union soldiers fell before their wrath to left and right, but their places were filled by the blue tide flowing in through the abatis. The Yankees were everywhere, surging, pressing, cheering as they reached the trenches and swept past.
Abruptly, he was alone. He looked for his comrades, but they were not to be found among the still forms nearby. He backed away up the ground that led through the abatis. He stepped on something that moaned. He bent to see who it was.
An enemy soldier lunged through the darkness.
He clubbed the man with the barrel of the Sharps and then kicked him in the head to be sure.
It was now very dark.
He was a strong man. The blood of ancestors bred for the burden of chain mail and the weight of edged weapons was full in him. Grunting with the strain, he put Roarke across a shoulder and made his way to the rear, picking his direction cautiously through the deepening blackness, avoiding the sounds of victory that meant danger. He leapt the trench and moved to the right, seeking a route down the back of the hill. Below and to his left he heard a metal ringing, a clamor of voices, and the staccato crackle of small arms. Through the trees, he saw that the bridge was in flames. The last remaining artillery piece from the bridgehead was on the bridge. It was wedged between two pontons. One wheel was off the treadway and hanging down in the river. Around it the crew fought with sponge and rammer staffs against the Federal troops who had caught up with them. The bridge had been fired from the southern side of the stream. Flames spread along the planking and among the boats toward the combat in mid-stream.
Balthazar turned away. Settling his burden with a shrug of the shoulders, he went on down the slope. Holding the Sharps by the barrel, he used it as a walking stick to brace himself on the steep and treacherous ground. At the bottom, he found himself standing unexpectedly in a foot of water. The far bank was almost invisible, hidden by rising mist and drifting smoke. Behind him the brush shook and snapped ominously.
He waded out into deeper water. The current pulled at his legs. The cold felt at him, reaching with icy fingers for his groin.
Roarke groaned.
Balthazar looked down.
The wounded man's hand trailed in the black water, his fingers recoiling from the chill.
Balthazar pulled him around in front of his body so that Roarke's mouth was against his chest. He stepped farther into the stream, wading out until the cold water reached his arms. Holding Roarke under the chin, he pushed off, swimming for the other side with powerful scissor kicks. Intent on finding his way across the fast running river, he hardly noticed the rifle fire and drifting clouds of gun smoke from the banks.
The raging fires consuming the bridge lit up the surface.
Bullets splashed in the water nearby.
He kicked harder. The bank was close.
Surely the Christ of my fathers, the living Christ, will not leave me now. There is so much left to do.
The sheltering darkness of the shadow of the bank hid them.
Men splashed into the water. Hands took Roarke's weight from the leaden paralysis of his right arm.
Someone gripped his body around the chest to drag him up out of the killing numbness.
He tried to make his feet operate. Stumbling into a tiny “run,” he grabbed at tree roots and low hanging branches. He used the massive muscles of his back to haul himself up onto solid ground five feet above.
An encircling arm braced him in his ascent.
Standing in the brush with the fiery light of the bridge on his face, Balthazar turned to see Smoot. He straightened his back, arching the curve in the spine to ease the stiffness. "I asked you to wait at our bivouac."
Something passed on Smoot's face which could have been annoyance, or perhaps amusement. "I brought a couple of blankets. I'll get you one." He turned toward the road that Balthazar knew must be close by.
Two men carried Roarke noisily through the brush beside the river.
Balthazar followed, shivering uncontrollably in the wintry cold.
In the road there was a party on horseback, a dark, huddled mass of shifting men and snorting animals. Two were apart, deep in conversation. The others waited quietly.
The unknown benefactors carried Roarke into the open, laying him on the ground where he rolled slowly from side to side clutching his hurt.
Smoke drifted by. It reeked with the acrid, creosote smell of tarred wood.
Balthazar knelt by the side of his new friend. He took a blanket from Smoot's hands and tucked it around the big man. "You will be fine, do you understand?" he said. "You will live to fight again."
Roarke reached up to grasp Balthazar's lapel with a bloody fist. "Find the boys, major. Find them that's left. You belong with us. I'll see you...”
A stretcher party took him away.
"I'll take that, major." Smoot whispered while prying the barrel of the Sharps from Balthazar’s frozen fingers. Leaning the carbine against a tree, he wrapped another blanket around the shivering man’s shoulders.
Jubal Early dismounted and came to stare into his face. "My Gawd! it is you! I thought you were gone for sure."
Lee walked his grey horse to them, looking down in the dimness, saying nothing at first.
Smoot stepped back, took off his hat. "Evenin' Gen'ral Lee," he said softly.
Lee nodded, pausing in his inspection of the Frenchman to look at the ranger. After a moment, he smiled. "I remember now. You came from Washington last spring with information. Turn your head, sergeant," he said and after he had looked said, “I am happy to see that you heal well.”
Smoot looked away, his eyes filled with tears.
"Your men fought well, mon general," Balthazar rasped. "They are a credit to their people, and to you." His teeth chattered uncontrollably as he forced the words out. "In particular I would wish to commend the young Colonel Penn. A brave soul!"
"A pity," Lee muttered. "A pity!"
Early said nothing. His face was hidden as he stared at the far shore and the burning remnants of the bridge of boats.
Gripping the blanket tightly, holding his elbows against his ribs, Balthazar drew himself up to his full height. "May I ask a favor, mon general?"
"What do you want, John?" Early rasped invisibly.
"I would stay with the Tigers. You were correct. I find them...” He searched for the word.
"I am sure General Early will have no objection...” Lee said.
Jubal's laughter rang in the woodland, loud enough to cause the Yankee troops across the stream to yell at them in derision. "Glad to have you, John, glad to have you! Come see me tomorrow. Got somethin' in mind for you. Smoot, go thaw him out. Get!"
The saddle horses waited deep in the forest where Smoot had tied them.
Balthazar rubbed the mare's nose, and then mounted to follow through the trees. He rolled from side to side for a minute, thinking of the animal's owner, thinking…
Smoot looked back, surprised by the gentle snoring.
Balthazar slumped in the saddle, his fingers clenched in the mane, the blanket hanging from one shoulder.
The Ranger tucked it around him more tightly, and then led the mare toward the embers of their fire. He could just see it now through the sycamores.
Chapter 9
The Battalion
In the silver light of dawn, Hays' Brigade formed for muster in a clearing south of the river. First sergeants called the roll. Officers searched in the ranks for familiar faces. This led to questioning of those present and ended in the shaking of many heads.
They had come back to this place in the night. They came in small groups, groping their way through the dripping forest, carrying their wounded, shocked with the suddenness of their defeat at the hands of the hated and despised enemy.
Hays stood before them to watch his adjutant assemble the returns. He faced the thin ranks with hands clasped behind his back, unspeaking, fearful of the fact of his losses, knowing, but not wishing to know the truth.
Jubal Early waited with him. He had nothing to say. In one hand was a tin mug of something steaming.
The morning was cold. Men's breath hung in the air about them. The water poplars loomed over their small numbers.
Behind Early, Balthazar stood with Smoot. A little sleep wrapped in a rubber ground cloth had returned him to life.
"Four hundred and ninety-seven, sir," the adjutant reported, his saber hilt at his lips. The blade swung down until the point neared the frost rimmed earth.
"Sweet Jesus!" Hays cried out, unable to hide his emotion.
"Six hundred missing," one of the staff muttered.
Hays faced the division commander to make his report.
"All right, Harry," Early grumbled. "Don't brood on it too much. It's never as bad as it seems at first... We may get some back. More will come from Louisiana. They always do, somehow,"1
Hays’ features showed that he took little comfort from these words.
Early's hard, bearded face watched him with concern. "It wasn't your fault, Harry. We all know that. He knows it. We're goin' back 'bout ten miles, back in front of Culpeper. You lead... Be ready in an hour."
"Yes, general," Hays said as he walked away.
Early beckoned.
Balthazar crossed the grass, saluting with all the dignity he could summon from stiff joints.
"Oui, mon general?"
Had Coffee?"
"No."
"Justus!" Early pointed with his mug to Balthazar and Smoot.
1 500 came back of their own volition, exchanged a month before the Wilderness. Justus brought an enameled pot from a glowing heap of coals at the edge of the grass.
They stood together savoring the warmth and aroma of the brew.
"I would like your help," Early began. He glanced at Balthazar, looking for a reaction.
The Frenchman swirled his coffee around, and around.
"The troubles we've been havin'...” the general continued, “A whole lot of regiments beaten up.., bits and pieces broken off...” He looked at Balthazar again.
Nothing showed in the foreigner's face.
Early frowned. "I've got some Texans, Marylanders, Virginians, even some Louisianans, 'bout two hundred and fifty in all."
Balthazar was looking at him now.
Early smiled, looking more confident. "I'd appreciate it if you'd take 'em in hand for a couple of weeks. These fellows have lost all their officers, some of 'em are new people, from home. Some are...” His voice trailed off.
"What? Some are what?" Smoot demanded.
Balthazar held up a hand.
Smoot looked at it and cleared his throat.
"Yo
u were saying, sir?" Balthazar asked.
"Well, they need trainin’, they need organization, they need...”
Smoot blew his nose on a big, red bandanna.
Balthazar waited.
Tell me, mon general, he thought. Just tell me.
Early stopped talking. He drew in a breath, letting it out slowly. The white fog of his exhalation seeped from his lips. He sighed. "John, we've had a number of Northern soldiers come over in the last few weeks. Some are foreign, others are real Yankees, but most are our men who joined the enemy to get out of prison. Their own don't want some of 'em back. I don't want to take official note of 'em... The law, you know the law about, deserters. General Lee… Will you take this whole lot?"
Smoot snorted in disgust, opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it.
Balthazar was immersed in thought.
Early waited for a moment hopefully, then sighed and threw the remnants of his coffee to one side. "I'll find someone else. I know you're not here to do this, but I don't have anyone who can do what I think you can do, and after last night... Well, I hoped you could help me out with this for a few days...”
Balthazar waved a hand in deprecation. "I am pleased that you would make me such an offer. I am, after all, a stranger, but I have found over the years that it is not a good idea to have one officer train a bataillon de marche and another lead it in battle. Such units are inherently unstable and a matter of personalities. Therefore I would ask that you allow me to retain command so long as my conduct is satisfactory."
Smoot stared at him in amazement.
Balthazar reached into a pocket. The string of red stone beads appeared in his fingers. "As I said, I had hoped to stay with the Tigers."
Early bit a chaw of tobacco from a twist. He chewed reflectively for a moment, settling the plug in one cheek before speaking. "It's yours as long as you want, if you'll keep it, I'll see that you get all these strange folks as they come along."
"Not just the Yankee deserters?" Smoot wanted to know.
"No, all of them"
The partisan nodded, comforted by the thought.
"I will, of course, continue to report to my government."
Death Piled Hard: A Tale of the Confederate Secret Services Page 10