1862

by Robert Conroy

  Melcher had supervised the placement of ranging sticks out to a quarter of a mile in front of the Union lines. As the gray column approached the farthest stick, Melcher raised his sword.

  “At my signal, volley fire, one round.” He paused and hollered, “Now.”

  Four hundred and fifty rifles crashed in unison. “Load,” ordered Melcher and the men replaced the one missing shell. “One round, fire!”

  The rifles thundered and the head of the Confederate column seemed to shrink. A quarter of a mile was too far to be accurate, but the rebels were massed and the host was impossible to miss. The rebels shook off their losses and came on. They could see that there was only a small force between them and victory.

  The mud and the narrowness of the road compressed the Confederates and slowed them. Melcher was able to get off a couple more volleys before they reached the two-hundred-yard mark, and each one was more devastating than the previous.

  The Union soldiers topped off their magazines each time they fired: thus, they still held a full complement of bullets in their Henrys. The rebels were unaware what they were facing.

  At two hundred yards, the order was given. Rapid fire. The Henrys fired and never seemed to stop. The rebel column shook as if it was a beast in torment. Men fell by the score and others fell on top of them.

  Melcher had wisely ordered only half of his men to fire. When their guns were empty, the second half took up the rain of bullets while the first group reloaded. This continued until the road before them was choked with the dead and dying. The head of the rebel force had made it to about a hundred yards away, but had not deployed as skirmishers. Their units were too mixed up to permit any maneuvers.

  The slaughter continued. A handful of rebels took up the challenge and returned fire, but did little damage. The repeating rifles enabled the shooters to fire while prone or kneeling behind their hastily thrown-up earthworks. This and their shallow entrenchments meant they presented themselves as very small targets.

  Nathan ordered his flanking units to advance and enfilade the Confederates. These didn't have Henrys, but their fire was almost as effective, silencing the few rebels who'd begun shooting back.

  The Confederates could stand no more. The gray-clad mass inched back beyond the apparent safety of the quarter-mile markers. Nathan ordered a cease-fire. It was a standoff. They had bought time. But was it enough?

  In Fort Stephens, John Knollys could scarcely hear. He had been directing the fire of a pair of cannon that had been manhandled into position to fire at Union guns, and the blasts had nearly deafened him. While the Union guns had originally been sited to provide overlapping fire to protect Fort Stephens, they had not been set so they could fire on other Union positions. As a result, much brute force was required before they could be used.

  The Union gunners in the adjacent Fort Slocum had several advantages that they used to the fullest. For one thing, they were skilled artillerymen and knew how to both move and fire their dreadful charges, while the British were infantry trying to learn about the great guns in the middle of a battle. Despite the British efforts, it seemed to Knollys that the Union fire was becoming more effective.

  “How long can you continue with this?” Wolsey asked. He was filthy with mud and had lost his hat. The brigadier general had been supervising the construction of ramps and the filling in of trenches to enable incoming Confederates to pass through more quickly. As a result, a steady column of men, two and three abreast, was flowing through the gap created by the capture of Fort Stephens. D. H. Hill's entire division was almost through, as were parts of McClaws's.

  Knollys had him repeat his question. “Not much longer.” He pointed to an overturned cannon and the bloody mass that had been its crew. “I had four guns and now only three. We've got to expand this or we'll be blown to bits.”

  “Hopefully it'll get better soon. Did you see those horsemen ride through?” Knollys hadn't. “It was Lee. and he's gone ahead to take charge. Right now, the Confederates are just a mob. Lee'll make them an army.”

  Knollys had been too preoccupied to notice any riders. He was about to respond that a man must be either brave, foolish, or determined to ride a horse while under artillery fire when a massive explosion hurled him to the ground and buried him in soggy dirt. He gasped and reached for daylight. A soldier grabbed his arm and pulled him free of the mud. Shaken, he checked himself, stood, and thanked God that he was unhurt. A couple of others standing nearby weren't as lucky. One man had been decapitated and yet another of Knollys's precious guns had been destroyed by Union soldiers who weren't about to give up.

  Then it dawned on him. Where was Wolsey? He heard a moan that turned into a low, primal scream. Wolsey was sitting on his haunches and holding his head in both hands. There was blood on his head and it streamed down his hands and onto his chest. Knollys stumbled over to his side and gently pulled Wolsey's hands from his face.

  Knollys gasped. Wolsey's face was little more than a large lump of raw meat. I’m blind,” Wolsey said. “I've lost my other eye.”

  The Confederates' second attack was much better organized than the first. This time they moved out into the fields in long battle lines that were three deep and presented a much more difficult target. This also enabled them to use the weight of their numbers to fire on the outnumbered Union soldiers and largely negate the advantage of the Henrys.

  But not entirely. The Henry^’ s firepower was awesome, and it was apparent that the advancing rebels were at a distinct disadvantage. Nathan ordered the double line of riflemen thinned out to a single line to prevent his small force from being flanked. If it became necessary, he hoped to retreat in that order. The few hundred men without repeaters were his farthest flankers. It was nothing more than two lines of soldiers facing each other and trying to kill each other. There were no brilliant or subtle tactics, merely murder.

  For the second time, the Confederate attack stalled and fell back. Melcher found Nathan and reported. The captain had been wounded in the arm and was pale from loss of blood, but he declined to be taken to the rear.

  “We have a problem, Colonel.”

  “Too many rebels, I presume,” Nathan said in a feeble attempt at humor.

  “No, sir. Ammunition. The curse of these repeaters is that they devour ammunition at a prodigious rate. The men only have what they brought with them plus what little I managed to add, The men have already stripped our own dead and wounded. I figure we have about ten rounds per man and they'll use that up in a heartbeat.”

  Nathan looked behind his force. Where was Meade and the reinforcements? Where the hell was Thomas and the army from Baltimore? He could clearly see the unfinished Capitol Building and much of the city of Washington proper. They must be just as visible to the rebels, and stood as a taunting goal. The Confederates would be back and this time they would push through to the city itself. Gray-clad soldiers would stream down Pennsylvania Avenue and take the Capitol Building and the White House. Perhaps they would storm the Treasury and capture Mr. Lincoln.

  He despaired at the thought of rebel soldiers in his house and capturing both Rebecca and General Scott.

  High above the fray soared a pair of Mr. Lowe's balloons and they were doubtless reporting on the situation. What they saw wasn't the truth, however. What they thought they saw was a stalemate, which was to the good for the Union, but reality was that the slender Union defenses were about to unravel.

  Nathan squinted and thought he saw motion in Washington's streets, but it was hard to tell. If it was it might be Meade. They had to buy more time. “Rebels are getting organized,” Melcher said. “Looks like they found themselves a leader.”

  Nathan pulled out his spyglass and turned it on the Confederates. Melcher was right. Someone on a horse was giving orders. A crowd of infantry and a couple of other horsemen were clustered about the man. Whoever he was, he was dangerous. And he was the rebels Achilles' heel.

  “Captain, get me a shooter.”

  The summons to
join the officers behind the firing line didn't surprise Billy Harwell one bit. In fact, he was disappointed it hadn't come earlier. It had occurred to him that he and his skills might have been forgotten. He'd killed a bunch of rebels this day, but they had killed a goodly number of Billy's friends, including poor Olaf. who'd had the top of his head blown off by a rebel bullet, spattering his brains all over the place. But crouching or lying in a line with other riflemen wasn't what he was there for.

  Billy had the Henry in his arms and the Whitworth strapped to his back when he stood in front of Colonel Hunter. The colonel blinked in surprised recognition and grinned at him.

  “You bragged once you could hit anything. You still feel that way?”

  “Wasn't a brag, sir. Was the truth. Who do you want shot?”

  Such a cold statement from one so young, Nathan thought with momentary sadness. “You see the man on the horse? He may be a general.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Can you get him?” Nathan didn't like the wordkill, but what he wanted done was little more than murder. “He's getting the rebels all fired up for another attack and we can't take another attack.”

  Billy knew all about the ammunition problem and knew they'd be running for their lives if he didn't do something about it, He didn't relish running while Johnny Rebs with rifles tried to shoot him or shove a bayonet up his ass, He figured the range at over six hundred yards and told the colonel that it was doable, but the man was moving and not alone, Other people crowded around him and made the sighting unclear.

  “I gotta get higher and I need someone to help me: sir. Olaf used to help me but he's dead now.”

  Nathan had no idea who Olaf might have been. “I’ll help. Where do you want to go?”

  Billy looked around. A tree was about twenty yards behind them. It wasn't much but he could climb about ten or so feet up and be above the people swirling around the target. It would have to do.

  Nathan held the Whitworth while Billy climbed. When Billy was settled in and tied to the tree by a rope to stabilize himself. Nathan climbed partway himself and handed the rifle up to the boy. Billy checked it over. It looked all right. He had long since taken off the telescopic sight. He would go with the stepladder range finder.

  Billy loaded carefully, making certain there was nothing apparently wrong with any of the precious bullets he'd made by hand.

  He aimed. Whoever the horseman was. he was still moving. Damn. Stand still, he wished. He figured he d get one shot. A miss and they'd be alarmed and pull the son of a bitch back out of range. He'd been wrong when he told the colonel that the distance was six hundred yards. He now guessed it at closer to eight. It would be a truly prodigious shot if he made it.

  On the ground, Nathan wanted to scream at the young sergeant to hurry. He bit his tongue. He didn't want to rattle his shooter. The rebels were forming for an advance and looked like they would move out in a very few minutes.

  A dozen feet above him, Billy realized his situation wasn't going to get better and might just get worse. He was far from invisible in the naked tree and someone might realize why he'd climbed up there, and a rebel shooter might start making life uncomfortable for him. He could see the target but not well. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He squeezed the trigger.

  Expected as it was, the sound of the rifle shocked Nathan. “Did you get him?”

  Billy cursed in disappointment. The Confederate was still on his fucking horse. He'd missed.

  Then both horse and rider disappeared from view. A demonic howl came from the soldiers surrounding the rider, and those preparing to advance turned and looked towards their rear.

  “He's down,” Billy said. “Just don't know if he's dead. The rebels do seem mighty pissed off, though. Want me to shoot again?”

  At what? Nathan thought. “No. Get down now.”

  Billy hastened to untie the rope that held him but the knot had gotten stuck. Someone in the rebel lines spied him and desultory shooting began, sending bullets whistling through the tree. Then it picked up in a thunderous roar.

  At eight hundred yards, most men couldn't aim at and hit a large building, but a thousand men shooting at a tree were bound to have some bullets score.

  While Nathan watched in horror, lead whipped and screamed through the tree, splintering it. A bullet hit Billy's arm, shattering it. He sagged and hung from the rope that still held him in the tree. A score of bullets smashed into Billy. He grunted and writhed. His dangling body danced like a demented puppet while the bullets pulped him. A thousand more shots were fired and another score of bullets continued to destroy his corpse.

  Nathan hugged the ground and crawled away. Hundreds of men had been killed and wounded this day, but the death of the slight young sergeant pained him. It was like the Apaches all over again.

  Sergeant Fromm helped Nathan to his feet. “They ain't comin', Colonel. They don't know what the hell to do.”

  Fromm was correct. Nathan didn't need his telescope to tell him that the Confederate lines were in confusion. For a while, at least, they were leaderless. He looked back towards Washington and allowed himself a weary, sad smile. He'd been right about the motion in the streets. Columns of blue-uniformed soldiers were advancing at a trot. Meade and other officers were riding in advance of them. To the east, he could see additional soldiers moving to flank the rebel column. Logic told him these were the first of Thomas's men. They'd done it. This bloody field would be the high-water mark of the Confederate advance.

  He only wondered just who the hell Billy'd shot?

  John Knollys saw the knot of rebels carrying a man on a stretcher away from Fort Stephens and towards the main rebel army that was still outside the Washington defenses. They were followed by several score Confederates, who were yelling in anger and despair. Something was terribly wrong. He grabbed a passing officer.

  “What the devil's happened?”

  The officer, a young lieutenant, was in tears. “They shot Lee. Some goddamn sniper blew him right off his horse!”

  Impossible, Knollys thought. The commander of the combined Anglo-Confederate armies couldn't be dead. He pushed his way through the throng and looked at the man who lay on the stretcher. In life, Robert E. Lee was just under six feet tall and sturdily built. In his early fifties, he'd been almost godlike in his aloof and regal bearing. This thing on the stretcher was not godlike.

  Nor was he dead. Lee's chest rose and fell, although each breath seemed to be an agonized gasp. His face was pale and drawn with pain. He appeared to be unconscious, and his right leg was heavily bandaged.

  The young lieutenant was still at Knollys's side. “He was standing there getting us ready for an attack on the Yanks. They were using repeating rifles, and it was a slaughter until we caught on and got organized. Then he just let out a howl and both he and his horse went down. Lee'd been shot in the leg and the bullet went through the general's leg and injured the horse.”

  The boy began to sob. “Damn horse rolled over on General Lee's hurt leg and smashed it some more. There was bone sticking right through his leg. Traveller’s gonna be okay, but the general might die.”

  Might indeed, Knollys thought. Such a wound was often fatal, although it looked like the bleeding was under control. Even if Lee recovered, it would be months at best before a man with a smashed leg could resume his duties. Knollys had seen enough battlefield casualties to know that amputation was a likely prospect, and recovery from losing a leg was a long, arduous, and chancy process.

  Soldiers were streaming back from inside the Washington perimeter, and the sounds of battle were growing. Cannon fire from the adjacent Union positions had died down and he felt the risk of exposure was worth it. Knollys climbed to the top of an earthwork and tried to see what was happening to the Confederate advance. Unlike the night before, the sun was shining and he could see well off into the distance. Washington City was clearly visible and he wondered if Abe Lincoln was looking back at him.

  More important were the Union
forces that now confronted the Confederates on two sides. They were more numerous than the rebels and were steadily pushing the demoralized Southerners back.

  He jumped back to the shelter of the earthwork just as Union cannon fire resumed. Lee and his grieving entourage were gone. Now, he wondered, just who the devil was in charge of the army? Napier was by far the most able, but the Confederates would never permit a foreigner to lead them. Even if they did. Napier was in the tail of the army fighting a rearguard action against the federals.

  So that left Beauregard’ Longstreet or Jackson. Jackson was likely the most competent, but he was a strange individual who ate lemons and sometimes held his arms in the air because he thought that the natural circulation would be improved. It was also rumored that Jackson was exhausted and near collapse. Longstreet was an enigma. Sometimes tremendously skilled, he was some days less so and did not have the confidence of Jefferson Davis.

  It would be Beauregard, Knollys thought. Along with his numerous disagreements with Davis, Beauregard had been ill. After all was said and done, all the Confederacy had left was Beauregard.

  Knollys felt a wave of depression. Their best general down and their second-best ignored, the Anglo-Confederate army was in bad shape. Then he realized he hadn't given any thought to the implications of repeating rifles in the hands of a large body of troops. Like the ironclads at sea, a new dimension had been introduced into modern warfare and, like the ironclads, it had not been Great Britain who had made the introductions.

  The Irish Legion had been bumped from its trains by Sherman's men and had to march overland from Baltimore to the point north of Washington where the enemy rearguard protected the Anglo-Confederate retreat.