The Way of All Soldiers (Gone For Soldiers)

by Jeffry S. Hepple

  “I would have agreed yesterday, sir,” Buford replied. “But Magruder started reinforcing that position soon after we engaged him. He brought nine regiments up and positioned them here on the west bank, overlooking the dam.”

  “A bit of an overreaction to a probe from a small cavalry unit,” Baldy Smith said.

  “It might have been a reaction to the needless artillery barrage,” Paul mumbled.

  “We brushed his skirmishers back pretty easily, sir,” Buford said quickly. “I think that must have made him realize that he was weak there.”

  “I told you specifically to probe and not engage,” McClellan said sharply.

  “We probed, they ran away,” Paul said. After a long moment he added, “Sir.”

  McClellan looked at him as if he might chastise him, but changed his mind and turned again to Baldy Smith. “General.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to hamper any Confederate attempts to improve their works at Dam Number One.”

  “Hamper, sir?” Smith asked.

  “Yes. You are to avoid a general engagement.”

  “Hamper without engaging them, sir?”

  “Exactly,” McClellan said. “Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Smith replied. “I think so.”

  McClellan walked closer to the map. “I don’t want anything to impede the deployment of our siege batteries along here. You will commence operations at 08:00 tomorrow. Any questions?”

  “Yes, sir,” Smith said. “Can I have Major Buford’s cavalry? We don’t have any fast strike and retreat capabilities, and Buford knows the ground.”

  “That’s fine with me so long as General Hancock has no objections,” McClellan replied.

  “Major Buford doesn’t report to me, General,” Hancock said.

  McClellan knitted his brow at Buford. “To whom do you report, Major?”

  “To you, sir,” Buford answered.

  “Ah.” McClellan nodded. “Now I remember. Yes, General Smith, you may have Major Buford’s cavalry squadron for the duration of this operation.”

  April 15, 1862

  Lee’s Mill, Virginia

  Baldy Smith opened his “hampering action” with an artillery bombardment at 8:00 AM. When the bombardment ended, he sent Buford followed by skirmishers from the 3rd Vermont forward, and the Confederates withdrew. Smith was unsure of what he should do next and sent a message back to McClellan requesting clarification of the difference between hampering and engaging.

  McClellan visited the front in person and instructed Smith that, if it appeared that the Confederates were withdrawing, he was to cross the river to occupy the Confederate positions.

  Smith’s original message to McClellan had stated that the Confederates were withdrawing so he was still not sure what McClellan meant and sent four additional companies of the 3rd Vermont across the dam where they quickly routed the remaining defenders. As the Vermont infantry began to occupy the Confederate foxholes, Confederate General Howell Cobb and his brother Colonel Thomas Cobb counterattacked.

  Baldy Smith, concerned about McClellan’s prohibition of a general engagement, withheld reinforcement and ordered all four 3rd Vermont companies to withdraw across the dam. When they climbed from the rifle pits, they immediately fell under heavy fire, wounding many and scattering the rest toward their own lines in panicked confusion. Several men who tried to swim the small lake behind the dam drowned.

  In desperation, Smith moved the 4th Vermont closer to the dam but out of rifle range of the Cobb brothers’ infantry. At the same time, he sent the 6th Vermont to attack the Confederate forces downstream in hopes that the combined movements would relieve some pressure from the companies trying to retreat over the dam. The 6th Vermont charged across the water into a hail of small arms and cannon fire. It was about this time that Smith’s horse threw him for the second time that day. Cursing, he called for an immediate withdrawal and sent an aide to catch his horse. His losses were thirty-five dead and a hundred twenty-one wounded. Later Smith would be accused of drunkenness, but the charges were eventually dismissed.

  April 25, 1862

  Cairo, Illinois

  “Order, arms.” As the last clear notes of the bugler echoed from the rows of tombstones, the honor guard and the many assembled officers and men dropped their salutes in a sound much like a sigh.

  The flag detail, after folding the flag into a triangle, marched forward in unison to present the flag to Major General Ulysses S. Grant.

  “Now what?” Nancy whispered to Robert.

  “That’s all,” Robert answered. “Charlie had no family. Sam may want to speak to some of the mourners. We can wait for him here.”

  “I’m surprised at the number of people here,” she said, looking around.

  “Charlie Smith was a remarkable man. He was Commandant of West Point and a distinguished commander in the Mexican War. Afterwards he led the Red River expedition in Minnesota and commanded the Department of Utah before the war. This war, I mean.”

  “I knew what war you meant. What was that music that the bugler played?”

  “It’s called Taps or Day is done. Until very recently, they played a call that was written by Winfield Scott called Tattoo or Scott’s Tattoo. Dan Butterfield wrote Taps based on Tattoo.”

  “It’s haunting.”

  Robert nodded. “It brings back one of the most painful days of my life, when my father was buried in Mexico.”

  Nancy giggled.

  Robert gave her an odd look. “What’s funny about my father’s funeral?”

  “Your mother sent half your father’s ashes to Van Buskirk point in a pasteboard box. Anna opened the box and without reading your mother’s letter opened the urn. When she realized what was in the urn she went mad and insisted that we take it out immediately to bury it in the graveyard.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. We started to, but Abe saw us and took the urn from Anna. The next day he ordered a proper headstone and organized a funeral service.”

  “Good old Abe. I wonder how he’s doing.”

  “Do you know about Samuel?”

  Robert nodded. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

  “About what?”

  “About his changing his name from Van Buskirk.”

  “It wasn’t really his name, Robert. It was yours.”

  “I understand, but it still hurts.”

  “He didn’t do it to hurt you. He did it because of Dred Scott – so that there’d be no proof that he was descended from a slave.”

  Robert shrugged.

  “At least he has a country now.”

  “This is his country.”

  “You’re wrong,” Nancy said. “He didn’t have one after the Supreme Court opinion. Did you know that Abe tried to join the Underground Railroad and the U.S. Army and was refused by both?”

  “No, I didn’t. I understand why the Army refused but…”

  “Do you condone it?”

  “What?”

  “If you do, you’re essentially agreeing with the Dred Scott decision. You’re saying that Abe doesn’t have the right to join the Army because he’s got black skin. You’re saying that Abe’s not an American.”

  “Hey, hold your horses. I didn’t say anything of the kind. You’re putting words in my mouth and then arguing with the words that I didn’t say.”

  “Okay. Say something. Tell me why a man that was born free in this country doesn’t have the right to bear arms. A colored man.”

  “Are you ever going to give me a chance to speak?”

  “Speak. Please.”

  “In the first place, Abe’s an exception and you can’t talk about public policy with only Abe in mind.”

  “Oh come on, Robert. That’s a load…”

  “Let me finish. If the United States was to begin arming slaves…”

  “We’re not talking about slaves, we’re talking about a free…”

  “I started out by saying that Abe was an excepti
on but you interrupted me and…”

  “I didn’t interrupt you.”

  “You just did.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t before.”

  “Can I talk now?”

  “Who’s stopping you?”

  “Eventually the laws will change. Sooner or later Abe will be…”

  “After he’s dead and buried the laws might be changed but…”

  “That could be. Some things take time to…”

  “He should just sell his land and buy a big estate in the South of France. I’m going to write to Abe and Ginger to suggest they do that.”

  “There’s no way of having a conversation with you, Nancy. You’re too full of your own opinions.”

  “Me? You’re the opinionated one, Robert.”

  “How would you know? You never listen long enough to…”

  “Fine. Let’s just drop it.”

  “Fine.”

  May 4, 1862

  Yorktown, Virginia

  Under the watchful eye of Confederate General Joseph E. Johnston, General George McClellan had spent the entire month of April transporting and positioning his siege batteries along the Warwick River. McClellan’s plan was to begin a massive barrage tomorrow that would hurl seventy-tons of inert and explosive projectiles down on the Confederates with each salvo, and pound them to dust. Now, only hours before the attack would commence, McClellan was beginning to relax in anticipation of marching into Richmond and of his heroic return to Washington. “Yes,” he called in response to a knock on his office door.

  “General,” an aide said, opening the door. “Major Buford and Captain Van Buskirk are here.”

  “Like two peas in a pod; or one Pea at least,” McClellan quipped. “Send them in, Colonel.” He kept his seat as the two dirty cavalrymen came in. “Have you been somewhere picking a fight, gentlemen?”

  “There’s nobody to fight, General,” Buford said.

  McClellan gave him a blank look.

  “The Confederates have skedaddled,” Buford said. “They’re gone. Run away. Not there.”

  “Have you been drinking, Major?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “They can’t be gone.”

  “They are, sir,” Paul said. “We rode all through their works and there wasn’t a man left. They’re withdrawing toward Richmond.”

  “They fired an artillery barrage at us last night,” McClellan said.

  Buford and Paul nodded.

  “It’s physically impossible to move a hundred and twenty thousand men overnight.”

  “Who told you there were a hundred twenty thousand?” Buford asked. “There’s never even been half that many over there.”

  McClellan got quickly to his feet. “Are you questioning my competence, Major?”

  “No, sir,” Buford said evenly. “I’m questioning the information you’ve been given. Captain Van Buskirk and I rode out far enough to see the Reb column and it couldn’t have been any more than sixty-thousand including non-combatants.”

  “Why does the number matter, sir?” Paul asked McClellan. “The entire Confederate force is gone, regardless of how many were there.”

  McClellan’s face was very red. “You are a liar.”

  Paul’s face colored to match McClellan’s and he pointed out the door. “That observation balloon’s out there, sir,” he said angrily. “Send it up if you don’t believe me, but don’t you dare call me a liar.”

  “It won’t get shot down this time,” Buford said quickly, before McClellan could respond. “I guarantee it.”

  “Dismissed,” McClellan said.

  Buford, who was wearing his hat, saluted. Paul, who was unarmed and carrying his hat under his arm, turned and walked to the door, opened it and waited for Buford.

  Buford dropped his hand and turned toward the door.

  “Major,” McClellan snapped.

  Buford stopped. “Sir?”

  “You’re to fold your squadron into General Stoneman’s.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “No,” McClellan replied. “Report to him immediately and tell him what I said. I’ll write the order later.”

  “Yes, sir.” Buford walked out to join Paul, leaving the door standing open. “That smug little bastard,” he growled.

  “Shh,” Paul warned. “He can hear you. Keep walking.”

  “I don’t care if he hears me. McClellan was an upperclassman when I was a plebe and he took a disliking to me. For two years he made my life miserable.”

  “He can make your life more miserable now than he could when you were a cadet.”

  Buford shrugged. “It’d be almost worth time in the stockade to knock him on his ass.”

  “We’re going the wrong way,” Paul said.

  “What?”

  “We’re going back toward the Squadron. Stoneman’s the other way.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t you want to talk to General Stoneman before you tell the squadron that we’ve been reassigned?”

  “No. George Stoneman’s not gonna change anything. He knows we’re a light cav recon unit and he’ll use us as one. The men don’t need to know who I report to.”

  “Well, actually they do need to know their chain of command, but I don’t suppose they need to know it yet.” Paul turned around and walked backward for a few steps, then caught up with Buford. “It looks like General Heintzelman gets to go up in the balloon.”

  “Gets to? Don’t tell me that you wanna go up in that thing.”

  Paul shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  As the two walked into their assembly area, they were joined by Sergeant Major Louis Kemper.

  “Boots and saddles, Sergeant Major,” Buford said. “We’ll be riding skirmish and scout for General Stoneman’s heavy cavalry in pursuit of General Joe Johnston.”

  Paul strapped on his pistol belt. “When General Stoneman sees us in action he’s going to want our Spenser rifles.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Pea. George Stoneman’s a good friend of mine. We’ll be fine under his command.”

  May 31, 1862

  White House Plantation, Virginia

  Major John Buford was riding beside Captain Paul Van Buskirk with the four cavalry troops of his squadron strung out behind him in a long column of two. “Looks like George McClellan got to move into a temporary white house while Lincoln keeps the White House in Washington warm for him,” Buford said, pointing to the plantation house on the hill ahead of them.

  “Whose place is this?” Paul asked.

  “Rooney Lee’s. Robert E. Lee’s second son.”

  “Rooney? Is that a West Point nickname?”

  “No, he went to Harvard. I don’t know where the nickname came from. His full name’s William Henry Fitzhugh Lee. Maybe the family needed the nickname to distinguish him from your brother’s roommate, Fitzhugh Lee. Fitz is in Rooney’s brigade.”

  “Fancy house,” Paul observed.

  “Yes indeed.” Buford chuckled. “McClellan must have been as happy as a pig in shit to commandeer this place for his headquarters.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  Buford looked at him. “To the briefing? Hell yes. I’m not facing that bunch alone.”

  “Very well. But if the general calls me a liar again – well…”

  “If you knock him on his ass I’ll have the pleasure of seeing it without the jail time.”

  Paul chuckled.

  “Sergeant Major,” Buford shouted, turning in the saddle. “Disperse the squadron over there and have somebody that’s on report kick the horseshit around so it doesn’t burn the lawn.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sergeant major signaled the column to follow him and rode onto the grass, leaving Buford and Paul in the driveway.

  “Looks like every Union general in Virginia’s here,” Buford said, pointing at the guidons and staff officers collected near the front of the plantation house.

  “Fifth Corps, Sixth Corps, Second Corps and Third Corps,�
� Paul replied, identifying the colors and guidons. “Oh. There’s Fourth Corps.”

  “Sure hope somebody starts a fight while all the big brass is here,” Buford said. “We might just win our first battle.”

  Paul laughed. “I’ll be interested to see how you feel about big brass when they pin a star on you.”

  “That’ll never happen.”

  They reined in at the top of the driveway and gave their horses to the waiting grooms. A lieutenant colonel at the door asked their names, then directed them to the conservatory where the briefing would be held.

  At the door to the conservatory, a young captain stopped them. “I need your names,” he said abruptly.

  Buford gave him an unpleasant look. “John Buford.” He stepped around the younger man and went into the conservatory.

  “Achilles,” Paul said, and started to follow Buford.

  The captain stepped in front of Paul and put his right hand against Paul’s chest to hold him back. “I said that I needed your name.”

  Paul looked him in the eye. “What you need is a lesson in manners.” He caught the captain’s hand and bent it backward, then pushed him aside.

  The captain stumbled but recovered and started toward Paul.

  “That’s enough, Captain Custer,” General Stoneman shouted. He excused himself from the corps commanders who were standing in a large circle drinking wine from long-stemmed glasses and hurried toward the entrance. “What’s going on here, Major?”

  Buford shrugged. “Pea was about to teach this pup a lesson in manners.”

  “Sir,” the captain began.

  “What are you doing here, Custer?” Stoneman interrupted.

  “Making a list of everybody here,” Custer replied.

  “For what purpose and on whose authority?” Stoneman demanded.

  Custer looked uncertain and didn’t reply.

  “Get out of here,” Stoneman growled.

  “Yes, sir.” Custer picked up a hat that sported an ostrich feather like Jeb Stuart’s and left.

  “Who is that kid?” Buford asked.

  “His name is George Armstrong Custer. He’s Little Mac’s new aide-de-camp. It seems he captured a Rebel battle flag in a little skirmish, and General McClellan has made him a hero.”