by Jeff Andrews
“We’re in Armistead’s brigade now,” Townsend replied, swaying with the motion of the train. “Folks is saying he’s one of Longstreet’s favorites. If anybody can find the action, he can.”
“I sure hope you’re right,” Henry said. “We’ve been from Richmond to Jamestown, across to Hampton, down to North Carolina, over to Petersburg, and now back to Richmond. I figured by now we’d be laying siege to Washington.” He pointed out the right side of the car. “Look yonder. There’s the Tredegar Iron Works. They’re the ones who forged our cannons.”
Two short blasts from the train’s whistle announced their arrival in Richmond. Henry braced against the door. The car lurched. Soldiers tumbled over one another as the engine came to a halt and a blast of steam marked the end of their journey.
“Everybody out. Let’s go,” the lieutenant yelled. “Sergeants, form your platoons.”
Inside the crowded boxcars, men in butternut and gray pushed, cursed, and fought to reach the open doors. Henry grabbed his bedroll and musket and jumped from the car. Sergeants barked commands, gradually bringing order out of the chaotic mob that gathered along the siding.
Captain Claiborne stepped to the front of the formation. “At ease, gentlemen. We’ve been a long time waiting to mix it up with the Yankee invaders, but that’s fixing to change.” He pointed toward the northeast. “McClellan has two corps facing us south of the Chickahominy, perhaps more troops north of the river. I can’t give you particulars, least ways not yet, but I can tell you this; we come to Richmond to fight, and we’ll be up to our necks in Yankees soon enough.”
A raucous cheer rose from the formation as the soldiers pumped their fists and waved their caps.
The captain raised his hands, silencing the men. “There’s a storm coming,” he said. “Keep your powder dry. Lieutenant, take charge and move the men to the bivouac.”
“Yes sir.” The lieutenant saluted, then turned and faced the company. “Right face. Shoulder, arms. At the route step, march.”
Company K turned east on Cary Street. Henry poked Townsend, pointing as they marched past the capital building. “Seems strange seeing those stars and bars flying where the old flag used to be.”
Townsend nodded.
“Down there,” Henry whispered, nudging Townsend as they marched past the Shockoe section of town. “Toward the river there’s the best little tavern you’ll ever see.”
“You’d best forget that,” Townsend said. “Didn’t the Captain promise to put you in front of a firing squad next time?”
Henry laughed.
They marched east, following the James River until they reached a clearing along Gillies Creek. There, the lieutenant halted the company. “Fall out. Set up your fixings as best you can. We don’t have any tenting, so get into them pines over yonder and build yourself some shelters. Try to stay dry.”
Henry and Townsend followed their platoon into the stand of pines and dropped their bedrolls beside a tree. Henry glanced at the gray sky. “We’ll be okay. The clouds appear to be breaking. I do believe we’ll miss the rains.”
_____
Townsend held the rubber blanket over the small fire, protecting it from the downpour. “Glad we missed that rain, McConnell.”
“That was yesterday. I don’t recollect making any such predictions for this morning,” Henry said. “Keep that fire lit while I get this cooking. At least we can enjoy some ‘pone until we float away.” He molded the corn meal into a ball and dropped it in the pan. The dough sounded a wet “plop” when it hit.
“Get some wood on that fire, Townsend, it ain’t hot enough to warm soup.”
“You want to show me where that dry wood might be, McConnell?”
“To hell with it.” With a sigh, Henry dropped the pan in the mud. “I never seen such rains. You got any hardtack?”
Townsend passed Henry a cracker. The two huddled under the poncho while the downpour extinguished their small fire and filled the cold frying pan.
“Townsend, come morning this field will be a river. Maybe it’s time we consider joining the navy.”
_____
Henry rolled into a puddle and awoke with a start. He flung caked mud from his face and scowled at the gray, rain-filled sky. “Tarnation. When’s it going to end?” He poked Townsend. “Hey, wake up.”
Groggily, Townsend peered from under the poncho. “You’d best be saying there’s coffee on and bacon cooking.”
“Our chances of finding a cup of coffee are about as good as our chances of getting a two week furlough,” Henry replied. “How are we fixed for hardtack?”
“Got two left,” Townsend said, handing Henry one of the rock hard crackers. “But we don’t have so much as a pan of hot bacon grease to soften it in, so watch your grinders.”
“Fourteenth Virginia, rise and shine. Formation in ten minutes.” The sergeant wandered the camp, kicking at piles of wet blankets.
“Looks like we’re moving out. It’s about time.” Henry said. “Maybe we’ll finally have us a go at them Yankees.” He rolled his blanket and grabbed his musket.
The Fourteenth marched to Gillies Creek, then stood in formation in the rain while another unit crossed the single narrow bridge.
Henry grabbed the sleeve of a passing noncommissioned officer. “Hey sergeant, can’t we get moving? What’s that outfit we’re waiting on?”
“Longstreet’s division. The general says his boys go first.”
The Fourteenth waited. Some spread their ponchos and sat. Others leaned on their muskets or milled about, cursing the weather, cursing the Yankees, and quietly cursing the division ahead of them. Finally, word came to move out, followed by a muted grumble from the troops. Soldiers grabbed their gear and slogged across the narrow bridge to the Charles City Road, where they turned south and marched another mile or so, then halted. After several minutes, the colonel gave the order to stand easy. They would be waiting again. A groan went up from the formation.
Henry and the rest of the regiment settled beside the road. Some wrapped themselves in ponchos and attempted to sleep. Others gathered in clusters talking quietly. A few tried to write letters home or read. Henry and Townsend pulled out the poncho they shared, spread it on the ground, and sat.
As the day passed the rain slackened. Distant echoes of musketry and the thunder of artillery rumbled across the fields.
“Waiting, that’s all we’ve been doing all the day long.” Henry tossed a stone into a nearby puddle. “Ain’t war grand?”
“From the sound of the guns, the Yankees can’t be far.” Townsend pointed toward the noise. “You think we’ll be called up today?”
Henry shrugged. “I reckon General Armistead figures we haven’t been tested in battle, so he’s afraid to use us. All I want is one chance . . .”
“Hey, you scared, Henry?”
Henry looked at his friend, but didn’t respond.
Twilight faded as the lieutenant finally called Company K to formation.
Henry grabbed his Enfield and joined the march through a stand of pines and into an open field. Mud tugged at his feet, sucking off his shoe as he raised his foot. He stopped to retrieve the shoe. Through the gathering darkness he could make out rows of tents. He nudged Townsend and pointed. “Look there, that outfit knows how to travel. We ain’t seen a tent since Jamestown.”
“Company, halt. Order, arms. Left, face,” Lieutenant Bruce commanded. “Platoon sergeants take charge of your platoons and set the company in bivouac. Dismissed.”
“You heard him,” the sergeant said. “Time to bed down, and it appears we have us some tents tonight, so make yourselves to home. Reveille at four thirty. Dismissed.”
Henry raced to the nearest tent, tossed his gear inside, and crawled in. Townsend threw his bedroll on the other side and clambered in beside him. “Who do you reckon set up all these tents?” Henry said. “It’s not like the army to be so thoughtful.”
“I expect it weren’t our army what done it.” Townsend held up a ha
versack he’d found in the tent. “Looky here.” Stenciled across the flap were the words, “11th Maine USA.”
“Now don’t that beat all?” Henry said. “We’re sleeping under canvas tonight, courtesy of Uncle Sam.” He chuckled as he unrolled his blanket.
“Hey, would ya look at this,” Townsend said. He pulled a bag of coffee from the haversack, followed by cans of meat and beans and a box of hardtack. “Tonight we’ll eat like Billy Yanks, then we can sleep like ‘em too.”
They shared the cold rations, then Henry settled in for what promised to be a comfortable night. The occasional pop of musketry on the picket lines would not keep him from a sound sleep. He pulled his blanket around his shoulders, closed his eyes, and dreamed of hot coffee.
Several hours later, Henry awoke. He stretched and drew back the tent flap. Fog hung over the muddy field, while above, stars flickered in the blackness. To the east, hues of pink and pale blue painted the dawning sky. As he gazed upon the new day, something out in the field caught his eye. Long, dark—a pile of equipment, perhaps? Henry pulled on his brogans and crawled out of the tent.
The dark mound lay no more than fifteen feet away. Henry moved closer. A soldier? Must be he couldn’t find a tent. Since Henry was already awake, perhaps the soldier would appreciate spending the hour or so before revelry under his blanket in the tent. He poked the man with his boot. “Hey, fella . . .” Suddenly, Henry gagged and turned away. Dawn’s first glimmer revealed a bloated Yankee, most of his face blown away, festering in the muck of yesterday’s battlefield.
He must go tell somebody. Shouldn’t they dig a grave?
Henry started to call out, then caught himself as the early light revealed other forms through the mist. A wave of nausea swept over him. The field where he had enjoyed his night’s rest held in its muddy furrows scores of enemy, now resting forever.
“Dead, all dead—and left to rot.” He shook his head. “I don’t reckon I have the stomach for this side of glory.” Henry turned away.
_____
A clutch of officers raced through the camp on horseback. The call went out to form for battle. It was impossible to ignore the now visible corpses half buried in the ooze of the plowed field. Henry took his post in the formation just as Colonel Hodges, the regimental commander, reined his horse in front of the unit.
The colonel raised his hat in the air. “Sons and patriots of Virginia, General Armistead sends his regards.”
The regiment cheered.
The colonel put on his hat, then held up one hand, signaling for silence. “The general asks that we steel ourselves for the task at hand.” Colonel Hodges pointed. ”To the east, the enemy awaits. It is there our swords will quench their thirst for Yankee blood.” He drew his sword and held it above him.
The soldiers cheered again, eagerly waving their muskets and kepis.
The colonel rested the blade of his sword on his shoulder until the cheering subsided, then continued. “We will not put out skirmishers. The undergrowth is too thick. Maintain your alignment and be certain of your targets before you fire. Companies F through K, form a line of battle from left to right. Companies A through E follow in column and be prepared to deploy on line and respond as required.”
The officers saluted.
Henry leaned toward Townsend and whispered, “We’re to the front . . .”
Captain Claiborne faced Company K and drew his sword. “Load in four times, do not prime, load,” he commanded.
The company went through the manual by rote—charge cartridge, ram cartridge, shoulder arms.
The captain faced the colonel and saluted with his sword. “Company K formed and ready, sir.”
Colonel Hodges returned his salute. When all companies had reported, the colonel stood in his stirrups and raised his sword. “Regiment, at the carry, route step, forward, march.” On command, the drummers sounded a cadence and the front line companies stepped off.
“This is it, Henry.” Townsend nodded toward their front. “That elephant’s waiting up yonder. Come tonight, we’ll still be eating Yankee food, but this time it’ll be spoils we took in battle.” He marched beside Henry. His eyes seemed to dart from tree to bush, as though searching for rattlesnakes in the dense undergrowth.
Henry’s stomach twisted in knots. Was Townsend scared too?
The Fourteenth pushed into the thicket, clawing through tangles of vines and cat briars. The early morning light had yet to penetrate the dense canopy above, adding to the difficulty of keeping the formations aligned. To the right, the battle line bent toward their front. Henry poked Townsend and pointed. “If they stray out any further, they’ll be masking our fires.”
Muskets popped suddenly to their front. Someone had made contact. Smoke drifted through the dense forest.
“Halt!” The captain ordered. “Order, arms. Prime your weapons.” The rattle of musketry mixed with the distant thunder of battle. Henry capped his Enfield and thumbed the hammer to full cock.
“First rank, take aim . . .”
Henry peered out to the front. Nothing but trees and thick underbrush. Aim at what? The captain must be getting edgy. He’s seeing things . . .
“Fire!” A wall of flame belched from the line of muskets. “Second rank . . .” The soldiers in the rear hurried through the front rank and took aim. “Fire!”
The roar of muskets echoed through the dense thicket; a blanket of blue smoke spread throughout the forest. Bits of leaves sheared by the volleys fluttered to earth as an eerie stillness settled over the woods. Henry stood agape, the pounding of his heart drowning out any other sounds. Then, without warning, the forest to their direct front erupted in a thunderous blast. A line of jagged flames lashed out from the hazy underbrush. A soldier to Henry’s left grabbed his face, blood spurting between his fingers, and crumpled to the ground. Another soldier down the line cried out and fell.
“Reload, fire at will!” The captain yelled.
Henry pulled a paper cartridge from his pouch and bit off the end, struggling to steady his trembling hand as he poured powder down the muzzle. He rammed the bullet home and tapped it twice with his ramrod, seating it tightly against the powder. Primer . . . don’t forget the damned primer. He pulled a brass cap from his pouch and pushed it over the nipple under the hammer. Full cock. Can’t see . . . nothing but smoke and brush . . .
Without aiming, he pointed his musket in the direction of the enemy and fired.
The captain stepped in front of their line, waving his sword. “Forward! Follow me.” He pointed his sword at the enemy. The Yankees greeted their advance with a smattering of uncoordinated fire, then withdrew.
“Push them. Push forward, men.” Captain Claiborne stepped over a wounded Yankee and fought his way through the mesh of wiry vines.
Henry ducked beneath a low branch, turning to pull his arm free of a tangle. When he faced to the front again the fallen soldier was at his feet. He was just a boy, couldn’t be no more than sixteen. The wounded soldier stared at a dark puddle spreading across the front of his blue uniform, then looked up at Henry with pleading eyes. Henry hesitated, then looked away and pushed on.
They drove the Yankees through the thicket. Ahead, musket fire cracked sporadically.
“Halt!” Captain Claiborne ordered. “Hold and reform your line.” The captain stood in front of the company, holding his sword by the hilt and the tip of the blade, indicating where the front rank should form.
“Fix bayonets.”
“Prepare to charge.”
Movement to the front. Henry strained to make it out.
“Gray . . . gray. They’s Confederates,” someone hollered. Nobody fired.
More commotion, clattering of equipment. Bayonets became visible through the brush. Henry nudged Townsend and pointed. “We’re in for it now . . .”
Townsend rolled his eyes. “There’s gonna be hell to pay, that’s for sure.” He wiped a hand across his sweat-stained face.
Captain Claiborne held the company at the re
ady, his sword in the air. “On my command . . .”
To their front, branches snapped as hundreds of footfalls trampled the undergrowth. Sweat dripped from Henry’s cheeks. He held his musket at the ready. Leaves rustled with movement. Suddenly, the forest in front of them filled with Union blue.
“Fire!” The captain ordered.
The Yankee line disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
“Reload. Fire at will.”
Henry grinned at Townsend as he fumbled for another round in his cartridge box. “Looks like those blue bellies got more than they bargained for.”
Townsend tore the end of a paper cartridge with his teeth. He nodded and smiled, his face smeared with black powder. “We seen the elephant, Henry McConnell, we sure enough did, and now we’s whupping them Yankees. We’s whupping ‘em good.” He turned to load, then spun back toward Henry, the smile still pasted on his face. A wet, dark hole appeared above his right eye.
Henry dropped his musket, catching Townsend as he crumpled.
“Forward, men. Push them.” The captain entreated the company to move.
Gently, Henry lowered his ashen friend to the ground. Townsend stared into the forest canopy above, his smile locked in death. Henry placed his fingers over Townsend’s eyes and pulled them closed. “Goodbye, friend . . .”
“Let him go, McConnell, there’s a war a-waiting.” The sergeant prodded Henry with the butt of his musket.
A final glance, then Henry hefted his musket and ran to catch up with the company, now halted fifty yards ahead. The sulfurous stench of gunpowder hung in the air. The company formed on line again, firing at movement to their left front.
“Reload. Fire at will.”
The staccato popping of muskets filled the woods.
A figure broke through the brush to their front waving frantically. He pointed behind him as he hollered, “Cease fire! Cease fire—53rd Virginia . . .” The rebel soldier collapsed, his gray frock soaked in blood.