The Way of All Soldiers (Gone For Soldiers)

by Jeffry S. Hepple

  Jackson nodded. “The matter concerning Major Kemp is hereby closed. Unless the Judge Advocate General decides to prosecute him for attempted murder. You then would be a material witness, Major Van Buskirk.”

  “I will, of course, testify if ordered to do so, sir.”

  Jackson looked at Stuart. “I’ll need a new copy of those promotion orders. They must have been lost in the fog of battle.”

  “I’ll see to it, General,” Stuart said.

  “Actually, sir,” Johnny said, reaching into his tunic pocket. “I have the carbon copy, if that would be helpful.”

  “Yes it would.” Jackson looked surprised.

  “It’s barely legible, I’m afraid,” Johnny said, handing him the copy. “Colonel Stuart scratched it out with a pencil using his pommel as a desk and the carbon paper didn’t transfer well.”

  “I can read enough to verify the intent,” Jackson said with a smile. “This makes me feel much better. Thank you.”

  “Good night, sir,” Stuart said.

  “Good night, gentlemen.” Jackson went into his tent and buttoned the flaps.

  Stuart waited until they were some distance from the tent. “Why didn’t you show him that carbon copy when he said he hadn’t received the original?”

  “General Jackson thought you were lying and I wanted to see if he was willing to go along with you.”

  “Truth or lie, what I said was correct. My word was enough proof that you were a major when you confronted that cracker.”

  “Still, Jackson thought you were lying about the promotion, and he went along.”

  “It means he’ll stand up for the men in his command,” Stuart said.

  “It also means that he hasn’t the courage of his convictions.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Without proof of my promotion, my grandfather would have had me drummed out of the Army. In fact, seeing the promotion in writing might not have helped. He’d likely have considered time in grade.”

  Stuart chuckled. “You’d see that as courageous?”

  “Self-sacrifice in the name of duty pretty well defines courage.”

  “It sounds very noble. I hope I never find myself tested in that manner.”

  “I saw Pug on the field yesterday,” Johnny said after a short silence.

  “Yes. So did I.”

  “I saw him fall. But instead of going to him, I led that infantry charge against the Union forces on the road.”

  Stuart looked at him for several seconds. “I’m sure that I don’t have the kind of courage you’re describing, Johnny.”

  “I’m sure it was the right thing to do,” Johnny replied, “but it’s made me feel very bad.”

  “I’ve yet to hear your opinion of our new general or his nickname,” Stuart said to avoid any further discussion.

  It took Johnny a moment to adjust to the new subject. “I have no opinion. The nickname was apparently spawned by General Bee who commented that Jackson was standing like a stone wall against a fierce attack.”

  Stuart chuckled. “General Bee’s comment was in regard to Jackson’s stubborn refusal to reinforce him. He actually said: ‘Look at Jackson standing there like a God-damned stone wall.’”

  Johnny laughed out loud. “That’s a lie.”

  “If it is, the liar’s General Johnson’s chief of staff.”

  “I suppose we’ll never know the truth, unless Bee returns from the dead,” Johnny said, sobering again.

  “No, I suppose not.” Stuart adjusted his hat. “You saved my life at least twice yesterday. I believe that I should thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I got caught up in the glory of the moment. I won’t be so imprudent in the future.”

  “You set a fine example for the men and you’ve given the South another hero. I’m proud to serve in your command, Beauty. Very proud.”

  Stuart grinned and slapped Johnny on the back, then recoiled when Johnny grimaced in pain. “What’s wrong?”

  “One of those riflemen with Major Kemp was a pretty good shot.” He touched the back of his left shoulder gingerly.

  “How bad is it?”

  “It’s nothing. The round was nearly spent. Corporal Vincent dug it out and cleaned the wound. But it aches.”

  “No, no, no,” Stuart said excitedly. “You’ll see the surgeon and that’s an order.”

  July 23, 1861

  Washington, D.C.

  Quincy awoke with a gasp.

  “You’re okay, Baby.” Nancy stroked his cheek. “You’re safe and I’m right here beside you. You’re in your mother’s suite at the Willard and you just had another bad dream.”

  “What happened?” he croaked. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “You were in a battle and a bullet creased your skull. You’ve been confused and your memory fades in and out.” She squeezed his hand. “Are you thirsty? Hungry? Do you need the bed pan?”

  “What day is it?”

  “Tuesday. You’ve been here since Sunday. You’re okay, Baby. Honestly you are. Please calm down.”

  “Where’s Mother?”

  “At the White House. The President sent for her about an hour ago.”

  “Is Washington still in Federal hands?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who won the battle?”

  “They’re saying that Irvin McDowell was routed and will soon be replaced by George McClellan.”

  “Did it look like that to you? Like McDowell was routed?”

  “From what I saw, there were more Confederate dead than Union dead. And since there’re no rebel troops in the city and we’re not being shelled, I think the press and public are being too hard on General McDowell.” She put her hand on Quincy’s forehead. “Your fever’s broken. That’s a good sign.”

  “Is there a bullet in my brain?”

  “No, no.”

  “Mother said…”

  “She was distraught and she talks too much when she’s distraught. You have a deep crease in your skull, a half dozen other wounds and you had a high fever. Are you thirsty? Would you like some water?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  Nancy slipped her left arm under his head and held a cup to his lips. “Do you think you could manage some broth?”

  He drank greedily, then nodded. “Can you prop me up?”

  “Yes. Don’t be shocked by the process.” She hiked up her skirts, crawled onto the bed and threw her right leg over him. “Give me your hands. When I pull you up, hold onto me and I’ll reach around you to adjust the pillows.”

  Quincy did as she told him, then sank back into the pillows. “I just realized that I haven’t thanked you. But I don’t know how.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’ve been the love of my life since the day you were born. I’d die for you and be happy doing it.” She climbed off the bed and crossed the room to the dressing table. “The hotel supplied us with this little alcohol burner that we can use like a miniature stove to make tea, coffee or heat broth. It’s ingenious.” She turned to look at him. “Or, if you think you’re ready for solid food, I can ring for room service.”

  “Broth sounds wonderful.”

  Nancy lit the little stove. “You look better. Do you feel better?”

  “Yes. I think I do. I’m not confused, anyway.”

  “Good. We’ve had several doctors examine you and after all was said and done, the consensus of opinion was that you’d mend on your own.”

  “Any word from the rest of the family?”

  “Johnny sent a note to say that he was slightly wounded but otherwise okay. We don’t know where Pea is, or if he was involved in the battle.”

  “Uncle Robert and Uncle Thomas?”

  “Robert’s still in Missouri, as far as I know. I don’t know where Tom is. Jane says he’s east, which isn’t terribly informative. Jack’s with your Grandmother in Arizona.” She blew out the alcohol lamp and poured the contents of a small pot into a mug, then came back to sit on the bed. “Carefu
l. It may be too hot.”

  He tasted it gingerly. “Perfect.” He sipped the broth. “Don’t stop talking.”

  “Aren’t you getting tired?”

  “No. My head’s clear for the first time since the battle. It feels very good to talk.”

  She took a moment to think of a subject worth discussing. “Do you know George McClellan?”

  “Not well, but I know his wife, Ellen.”

  “Do you? I heard that she was a reluctant bride.”

  Quincy nodded. “She was in love with Little Powell Hill but her father, Major Randolph Marcy, refused to let them marry.”

  “Little Powell? That’s a strange name.”

  “Little Powell was his West Point nickname. His full name is Ambrose Powell Hill. He prefers A.P. Hill, but the nickname, Little Powell, stuck. He and George McClellan were close friends at West Point, by the way.”

  Nancy smiled. “Your memory seems to have returned.”

  “Yes it has,” Quincy said. His face showed the depth of his relief.

  “So tell me about Mrs. McClellan. You know how I love gossip.”

  “There’s not much to tell. She eventually acquiesced to her father’s demands and broke off her engagement to Hill. But she refused any other proposals, including McClellan’s. Until last year that is, when she married him.”

  “Proposals? Plural?”

  “She had dozens of suitors. McClellan himself proposed to her a half dozen times.”

  “Were you one of her suitors?”

  “I was interested, but never quite that interested.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Blonde, quite pretty and very tall. Not as tall as I am, but taller than George McClellan by quite a bit. His nickname is Little Mac for good reason.”

  “Is McClellan a good choice to replace McDowell?”

  “He’s done well as a civilian. He was vice president of the Illinois Central Railroad and later president of the Ohio and Mississippi Railroad. I didn’t know that he’d returned to the Army until I read in the paper about his victory in the Battle of Philippi Races.”

  “Your mother doesn’t like him at all.”

  “That’s mainly because he’s her political rival. He managed the campaign of Stephen A. Douglas in the last election.”

  She took the empty cup from him. “Do you think you could eat some solid food?”

  “Yes. I actually feel pretty good and I’m starved.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. One of the doctors said that you would just wake up feeling fine and as hungry as a wolf. I was afraid to believe him.” She pulled the bell cord.

  “I’d have been food for the wolves if you and Mother hadn’t rescued me.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. As soon as you’re well, I’m going to start investigating some of the women’s groups that are offering to volunteer as nurses. With my recent experience dodging shell craters and rubble, I think I’d be a fine ambulance driver.”

  “Your method of helping your patients sit up in bed might be a bit questionable.”

  She giggled. “I couldn’t lift you so Anna showed me how to do that. I suppose straddling patients might be frowned upon in a hospital.”

  “I wonder how she learned.”

  “I asked her and she said it was useful for rolling drunks. I’m not sure what that means.”

  “I think I’d prefer not to know,” Quincy said.

  Nancy laughed. “Your mother’s unique”

  “Yes. God bless her.”

  July 25, 1861

  Mesilla, New Mexico

  Jack Van Buskirk rode into the village and stopped the first man he encountered. “Where is the Gringo army commander?” he asked in Spanish.

  “The cantina.” The man pointed.

  Jack thanked him, then rode on to dismount in front of the cantina.

  A sergeant in a Confederate uniform eyed him suspiciously. “The bar’s closed, Mister.”

  Jack tied his horse next to several others and ducked under the rail. “I didn’t come for a drink; I came to talk to your commanding officer.”

  The sergeant moved to block Jack’s way. “He’s busy. Come back next week.”

  “He’s not too busy to see me.”

  “I say he is.”

  Jack was about to lose his temper when he noticed that four of the horses tied to the hitching rail were wearing US Army brands and saddles. “Did you steal these horses?” He pointed.

  “Not yet,” the sergeant replied. “The Yankees that rode ‘em in here is temporarily alive.” He nodded toward the cantina.

  Jack took a cigar from his pocket and lit it. “Do you have a family somewhere, Sergeant?”

  “Don’t everybody?”

  Jack nodded. “Do you see that big adobe house out there in that grove of cottonwood trees?”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “So your cannons are aimed right at it and that’s where my family is.”

  “Then I’d advise you to get yer family outta there real fast, mister, because that house is in too good of a spot to leave to the enemy.”

  “I just came from there. There aren’t any Union troops anywhere near it.”

  The sergeant shrugged. “They’re out there somewheres ‘cause there’s a Union colonel in the cantina tellin’ Colonel Baylor to surrender. Unless he’s plumb crazy, he’s got some troops out there close by and ready to attack us.”

  Jack was about to answer when the cantina door opened and two Union officers followed by two enlisted men came out. “Colonel Lynde,” Jack said, offering his hand.

  “Get out of town, Van Buskirk,” Lynde said, stepping around him. “We’re going to level it with our mountain howitzers in the next few minutes.”

  Jack gaped at him, then turned toward the Confederate colonel who had followed the others out. “Colonel Baylor? I’m Jack Van Buskirk.” He held out his hand.

  “You should take Colonel Lynde’s advice and get out of town,” the Colonel said, ignoring Jack’s offered handshake.

  “If you’ll just listen, please,” Jack said pointing. “Your guns are zeroed on my family home. My wife and my mother are there and…”

  “You better get them out now,” Baylor said. “I intend to level that house and clear our field of fire all the way to the river.”

  “God damn it.” Jack moved menacingly toward the colonel.

  “Arrest this man, Sergeant,” Baylor said.

  Jack reached for the pistol on his hip and was struck from behind with a rifle butt.

  July 26, 1861

  Washington. D.C.

  Anna paced the length of the suite’s living room. “The President is already surrounded by a nest of vipers and now he’s appointed George McClellan, the king of all snakes, as major general.”

  “Oh, Anna,” Nancy chuckled. “You’re so dramatic.”

  “Mark my words,” Anna said. “McClellan will use his position to make himself a dictator.”

  “Nancy’s right, Mother,” Quincy replied. “You’re making a mountain of a mole-hill.”

  Anna picked up the newspaper. “Did you read this?”

  Nancy and Quincy both nodded their heads affirmatively.

  Anna continued as if they’d said no. “He started contradicting government policy in his very first public statement from western Virginia.” Anna found the spot she wanted in the news story and punched it with her index finger. “Listen to this: ‘Notwithstanding all that has been said by the traitors to induce you to believe that our advent among you will be signalized by interference with your slaves, understand one thing clearly – not only will we abstain from all such interference, but we will, on the contrary with an iron hand, crush any attempted insurrection on their part.’” She looked at the other two expectantly.

  “What do you want us to say?” Quincy asked. “After the debacle at Bull Run the country needed a hero and McClellan’s victories at Philippi Races and Rich Mountain have given them what they need.”

  “T
he New York Herald ran a story entitled, ‘General McClellan, the Napoleon of the Present War,’” Nancy chuckled. “I wonder if they were referring to his military leadership or to how short he is.”

  “This isn’t funny,” Anna growled. “McClellan used his railroad connections to travel from western Virginia to Washington by special train over the main Pennsylvania Railroad line from Wheeling through Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, and Baltimore. He gave speeches at every stop. He’s declared himself commander of the Army of the Potomac and openly stated in public that he’d be a better general-in-chief than Winfield Scott. He’ll be calling for Lincoln’s impeachment before long, and for his own coronation. Mark my words.”

  “I take it that you’ve shared your fears with the president and he doesn’t agree,” Quincy said.

  Anna sighed. “Mr. Lincoln never actually agrees or disagrees with me. When I told him that I thought that McClellan was a bad choice he said: ‘Give me six hours to chop down a tree and I’ll spend the first four sharpening the axe.’”

  July 29, 1861

  Richmond, Virginia

  Thomas Van Buskirk made his way through the crowded hospital and stopped at the busy nursing station. “Excuse me, Miss. I hate to bother you but I’m looking for my son.”

  “You and half of Richmond,” she said wearily. “What’s his name? Maybe I know him.”

  “John Van Buskirk. Johnny. He’s a captain in J.E.B. Stuart’s cavalry.”

  “Ah. Stuart. The one with the peacock feather and too much Southern charm.” She pointed. “Your son’s in that ward with the amputees. He’s a major, by the way.” She saw the look on Thomas’s face. “No, no. Don’t worry. He has all his limbs, but he has an infection that’s similar to what amputees suffer from, so he’s there as a matter of convenience to the staff.”

  “Thank you.” Thomas picked his way through the casualties who were everywhere and walked into the ward. He stopped suddenly as the smell of death and decay assaulted his nostrils.

  “Father.” Johnny was in the bed nearest the door and he swung his legs out to get up but Thomas stopped him.

  “Stay there. How do you feel?”

  “I have a fever so they’re keeping me, but I really don’t feel that bad.” He moved his legs aside to give Thomas room to sit on the bed. “I’m surprised to see you in civilian clothes.”