Death Piled Hard: A Tale of the Confederate Secret Services

by W. Patrick Lang

“Battalion! At my command!”

  Balthazar’s deep voice could be heard among the Maine infantry across the way. They were loading their rifled muskets but in their guts they knew that the Rebels would fire before they finished.

  “Present!”

  The muzzles came up

  “Fire!”

  The scythe swung. Dozens were knocked back or to one side. Their falling bodies and grasping hands added to the disruption of the regiment’s ranks. Men on the ground reached up for help. An officer shouted that they should fire at will. Muzzles came up. Single shots crossed the space through which Balthazar’s men advanced. Through the noise on the field, he could be heard.

  “Battalion! Charge! Bayonets!”

  The brown line swept forward. At first they stumbled across tree roots and stared to left and right to be sure that all would go forward. Then, as their hearts filled with pack cohesion, their focus shifted to their collective enemy. Soon, men were running forward, racing away from control. Rifles reversed along the line and were carried as clubs. The screaming started half way to the blue line.

  Among the Maine soldiers a sudden conviction took hold that each would be left alone to face these faceless beasts. The Downeasters turned to flee and found their route to safety blocked by the old Confederate trenches and beyond that by an earthen wall.

  This ditch was filled with other Union soldiers seeking the safety of the far side of the wall of dirt. Men scrambled everywhere to reach the top and escape the likely end of those still there when Balthazar arrived.

  Maine soldiers jumped down into the ditch and tried to push their way among the others to gain the top of the earth berm.

  The battalion arrived at the lip of the ditch. Most stood on the rim firing into the surging blue backs. Some jumped down into the ditch and swung wildly at the heads and backs around them.

  Devereux was one of the first into the trench with a pistol in either hand. He had not fired in the charge and had ten shots in the two Navy Colts. At this moment, he was not the man whose cultivated charm won so many in polite society. Now, he was his own self, a berserker who would kill until the enemy was gone and then sob convulsively while rage ebbed away.

  White put himself at Claude’s back. Their shoulder blades touched.

  Devereux looked back for an instant, saw Joe and then turning away shot a Union Army corporal in the back as he tried to climb the dirt embankment to safety.

  Behind him Joe swung his rifle. The steel shod butt had a deadly effect

  Devereux’s revolvers were quickly empty. Blue soldiers scrambled over the top of the wall trying to reach safety. He chased them up the dirt slope swinging with both pistols at available heads.

  At the top, bullets buzzed past his head.

  Joe heard this and pulled him back down into the trench.

  Twenty yards away, Captain Isaac Smoot leaned back against the trench wall clutching what remained of his left hand. He had seen Devereux in the ditch and impulsively had followed... A Maine soldier tried to bayonet him there and failed because Smoot grabbed the muzzle of the rifle to keep the sword bayonet out of his chest. The soldier had fired, blowing away most the hand wrapped around the opening in the end of the barrel.

  Now he held the wrist, pinching the vessels to slow the bleeding. Looking at the chaos that had been his hand, the old soldier expected to die of blood loss before anything could be done for him. He looked down the trench at Devereux and smiled. His wound did not hurt yet. Perhaps it never would.

  O’Brien, the A Company commander lay at his feet, his head crushed on one side. He was dead.

  Dead and wounded were everywhere in the trench. The Northern wounded moaned and clutched at themselves. Some tried to crawl over the dirt wall.

  Devereux reloaded his two revolvers and then walked up and down the ditch shooting enemy wounded in the head. He said nothing.

  Joe White followed him, watching but not interfering,

  Balthazar’s soldiers watched him.

  Balthazar watched as well. He said nothing. There would be an enemy counterattack. It would be massive. What would they do with the Union Army’s wounded when that came? Nonetheless, he saw the madness of the battlefield in his cousin. It was a familiar madness.

  Balthazar’s men began to follow Devereux’s example.

  A handful of prisoners and ambulatory enemy wounded stood nearby under guard, watching. At a gesture from Balthazar, Sergeant Major Roarke sent a few men with them to the rear and out of the fight.

  The enemy had not left the scene. Some of Hancock’s men clung to the outside of the earthen breastworks over which they had just escaped. The meaning of the random shooting was unmistakable for them. They cursed and screamed their hope of revenge. At the moment there were only a few of them on the far side of the wall. They could not leave. They were trapped with an open field behind them...

  Fagan, the “C Company” commander went to Smoot. He laid his black roll of oil cloth covered medical instruments on the edge of the trench. “Let’s see that, Captain” he demanded.

  Smoot held out his arm. Fagan whistled. “The rest of that should come off and the blood vessels tied until a surgeon can make it into a stump, but I can’t do that.” Smoot was still gripping his wrist. He shook his head.

  John Smith, the “D Company” commander spoke from beside Fagan. “I can. I am a surgeon.” He had seen Smoot holding his wrist.

  Balthazar stood above them on the bank. “I thought you were a cook…”

  Smith spoke without looking up. “I took that up after I lost my medical license.” He turned to Fagan. “Is there chloroform or ether in that collection of yours?”

  “Yes, both.”

  Smoot listened with interest to that. He knew that he would be in a lot of pain soon. He was beginning to feel dizzy. Even so, his responsibility as a leader still ruled him. “What do you see?” he asked Balthazar.

  After one more look from his elevated position, Balthazar jumped down into the ditch with the others. He sank to the top of his brogans in the soupy mud.

  Rain was falling steadily, soaking everyone again. Bullets whizzed across the top of the dirt wall.

  Northern soldiers continued to yell from beyond that wall. “You better run, Johnnies… You better run! Our friends will be here in a few minutes and then it’ll be your turn! Run now!”

  Balthazar’s men looked for openings in the log breastworks. When they found them they fired through the holes or stabbed with bayonets. Then they filled the holes with mud. There were occasional screams from the unlucky on the other side.

  “What else is in there?” Smith enquired.

  “Basic surgical kit,” Fagan said. “I have a bottle of brandy as well.” “Suturing?”

  Fagan nodded.

  Smith looked at Smoot, “You are turning very white... You’ll be in shock

  soon if we don’t get you wrapped up in something. The rest of that must come off. I’ll tie the blood vessels to stop the bleeding and make a flap over the end where the ends of the arm bones are. Someone will have to take you to the rear…”

  Smoot managed to smile at the man who was going to cut his hand off. The world was starting to revolve.

  Joe White looked up at Balthazar.

  The Frenchman nodded. “Get on with it, gentlemen,” he said. “We are going to be busy soon. “Sergeant Major!” he roared.

  “Sir!” Roarke answered from a few feet away.

  “Go back and tell Captain Harris to bring our guns forward! I want them right over there.” He pointed to a slight rise in the ground twenty five yards behind the trench. Behind the rise were two horseshoe shaped revetments from which Confederate guns had been withdrawn the night before.

  In the old gun position they spread a rubber rain cape on the ground. Smoot lay down on this still holding his left wrist in his right hand.

  Smith knelt beside him with Fagan and Joe White. After looking through the contents of the black rubber pouch, Smith said he would need som
ething hollow with which to make a drain.

  Joe searched in his shoulder bag and found a clean, new, clay pipe. It was quite small and the stem was hollow. “I don’t smoke,” he said. “My brother’s wife gave it….”

  Smith broke off the bowl and the flared mouth piece and laid the shank on the black bag. He then removed his belt and made a tourniquet of it, tying a knot around a stick he found on the ground. Fitting this around Smoot’s left forearm just below the elbow he turned the stick until satisfied with the color of the arm, and then handed the end of the stick to Joe. “Hold that tight until I tell you to let go. If you do not, he will bleed to death right here.”

  Joe nodded, grasping the stick while Smoot smiled at him.

  “You don’t want that, do you, Joe?” he said. “Your momma would be unhappy with you over that, Fine woman, your momma. Maybe Miss Hope would be sorry too…”

  By this time Smith had made a pad from a fairly clean pocket handkerchief, and sprinkled on it a small amount of chloroform from a can in the pouch. He handed the cloth to Fagan who held it over Smoot’s nose and mouth.

  The wounded man was still talking about Alexandria. He said something about beauty too great for a real woman, something about blond hair, and suddenly he was asleep.

  Fagan looked at Joe. “His wife?” he asked.

  Joe shook his head. “No, not his wife. It is a family matter,”

  Smith took the knife he wanted out of the bag.

  Fagan poured brandy on it as well as the surgeon’s hands.

  Smith cut through the flesh on the palm and the back of the hand and laid back the red, bleeding meat so that he could see the shattered bones and the blood vessels. He cut the bones out of the mess. The thumb and fingers dropped on the ground. The round, white ends of the arm bones were clearly visible.

  Fagan poured more brandy on surgical gut from the bag.

  Smith tied off the blood vessels using a “surgeon’s knot” as he always had.

  Fagan reached over and cut the ties leaving an inch or so of loose end.

  Balthazar stood over them, watching the amputation.

  Only a few minutes had passed since the battalion captured the trench.

  Smith poured brandy into the wound and then made a flap of tissue from the palm of the hand. He folded it over neatly covering most of the wound. He then folded the flesh and skin from the top of the hand over that. He looked through the pipe stem and then fit it into an opening he had left between the flaps. He then sewed the whole thing together.

  Joe had a clean cloth in his knapsack from which they made a bandage.

  Smith wrote a note on an old envelope with a piece of pencil. The paper was bloody but the writing could be read. He gave Joe the note. “Give this to the doctor. Tell him an old eleve of the Medical College of Virginia did this. The drain should come out after a week.” He looked up at Balthazar. “If it does not inflame too much he will live…”

  Balthazar nodded. “You are appointed Battalion Surgeon. If we live, I will take care of the details.” Smith grinned at him, opened his mouth and then said nothing...

  “Fagan. Find a man to help Joe take Captain Smoot to our bivouac.”

  In a few minutes the three disappeared into the sodden forest.

  John Smith walked back down the trench line to his company. He wiped his sticky, bloody hands on his pants. Soldiers patted his arm and back as he passed.

  Soon, there were dead men floating everywhere in the thigh deep water of the trench. Some bodies were only partially concealed. The mud seemed alive. Some men drowned in the mud because they happened to lie face down. Their wounds and exhaustion kept them from rolling over and that killed them

  The Confederates began building low walls between the rifle pits behind the berm. This was to keep hot pieces of artillery shells from hitting them in the sides or back. To build these walls they used the only materials available, dead bodies. If a body hoisted out of the mud for placement in a wall made a sound of life, that body was thrown as far back out of the immediate line of fire as exhausted men could manage. The rain poured down, a rain that soaked and dripped from clothing, hair and beards.

  Balthazar’s battalion held their little section of the line for several hours while Lee poured every man and gun he could find into the job of preventing another breakthrough. After a time they pulled back to the gun positions where Smoot’s hand still lay in the dirt. Raphael Harris’ two bronze Napoleons stood within the revetments. The section’s animals were hidden in the woods. Harris hoped to save enough of them to avoid pulling the guns out by hand.

  Grant’s Army counterattacked the trench line all day long. There were so many attacks that they could not be remembered as separate events by the survivors of either side.

  The attacks were all the same. A new group would form beyond the works and then would clamber across the barrier while hurling rifles and bayonets like legionary javelins. In the rifle pits the sodden, wretched scarecrows in brown grappled with the blue men in innumerable little combats.

  During each attack, Balthazar waited next to Harris’ guns to know when the big weapons should be used and when his rifle companies should be committed to the fight. When that was clear, he would blow his whistle and point. The company commanders needed no more than that. The advance into the imperiled section of the line took only a minute or so. Rifle butts, knives and fists were effective. The bodies of the Union soldiers who died in these attacks were thrown back over the barrier for the emotional effect that this had on those who had held back.

  Harris’s two guns fired all day at irregular intervals. The shots were aimed to pass just above the wall as another message to those crouching beyond. This harassment was useful but the main task of the two-wheeled killers was to break any assault that could not be stopped at the rifle pits. When that happened the gunners swept the space in front of them with canister, canvas bags filled with one inch lead spheres. The bags burst when they left the muzzle and the mass of balls spread in a lethal cone as they traveled away from the gun.

  There seemed no end to this calamity. The day and the rain appeared to be eternal. The fire was so heavy that a large hardwood tree that stood in front of the dirt wall was cut down by rifle bullets and fell, crashing across a sector of trench.

  After several hours, Hancock’s men were exhausted and Grant knew from the lack of progress that more troops were needed. He was unhappy with the performance of many of the commanders of Meade’s army. These men had the habit of defeat by Robert Lee. For that reason alone Grant did not trust them. Now, after a week of trauma and misery in the rains of springtime Virginia, most of the generals showed the effect of exhaustion and exposure to the elements. Grant thought that the only corps with enough fight left in it to deal with looming failure in the Mule Shoe was the Sixth Corps. This was the army corps which had lost its commander, John Sedgwick, to an English hunting rifle even as Claude stood by and watched

  Obedient to his wishes, these men moved back from the line on Grant’s right and “slid” to the left. Brigade by brigade they moved through the woods and fields until they reached the circle of death outlined by the dirt wall. There, they gathered in their multitude, prepared to make one more grand effort.

  Lewis Grant’s all Vermont Brigade attacked first. The fallen hardwood tree lay across their path.

  In the brigade, the 2nd Vermont Infantry Regiment was thought to be the

  hardest core of fighting spirit. Accordingly, the brigade commander decided to attack in a column of regiments with the 2nd Vermont at the head of the column.

  The column of attack struck the tip of the salient. The Vermonters came across the top of the mud wall in silence. Their attack was only sixteen men wide, and they did not fire their weapons until they were already in the muck of the Confederate rifle pits. The ferocity of their advance overwhelmed the forward defenses.

  The South Carolinians among whom they suddenly appeared had thought until that moment that they had the situation in
hand. Suddenly, they found themselves grappling with men who were unmoved by the carnage in the watery trenches.

  Balthazar’s soldiers watched this from the holes they had dug around Harris’s two guns. They gathered themselves up emotionally for the charge they knew to be inevitable. The Vermonters continued to pour over the wall. Their officers yelled and screamed at them, trying to pull them around to face the Confederates to either side. More and more blue soldiers came over the wall.

  The whistle sounded in the rain. The battalion ran to the gap through which the men from the far north were still coming.

  Devereux ran beside Balthazar. He expected to die and the prospect of an end was welcome.

  The collision of the battalion with the Vermonters was heard up and down the line. The surging, heaving struggle rolled up the inside of the earthen wall and over the top. On the far side Confederates were dragged down and clubbed into submission or death.

  Devereux stopped half way up the slope.

  An officer on the far side came to the very top. He had a rifle and bayonet in his hands and lunged at the first man he saw on the other side.

  Claude took the blade through a shoulder and fell back into the muddy, bloody water.

  Balthazar saw him fall and picking up a rifle tried at first to fire it. When that failed, he threw the weapon at the Yankee who had struck his cousin.

  The captain fell back and out of sight.

  Suddenly, there were no more Vermonters coming over the wall.

  At three in the morning, Lee began to vacate the Mule Shoe. Balthazar’s battalion was among the units left to cover the departure. Harris’ guns went first, then the infantry. As they crossed the new trench lines in the misty night, Balthazar found Jubal Early waiting.

  Early shook his hand, thanked him and handed him a flask of whiskey. “Any idea how many men you lost?” he asked anxiously.

  “Oui, my general, we counted them just now. We lost perhaps thirty men dead, a miracle…”

  “Thank God. We are going to need every one of these madmen of yours. Was that Devereux I saw on a limber?”

  “Yes. My cousin is a brave man, foolish even for this army, but a brave man. He is wounded but would not be taken out until all came out. My surgeon thinks he will mend, somehow.”