Ben picked up the letter and read it to Wes. It was from Rench’s father, reporting that several people in Williamsport had learned that Rench was going south to join the rebels. He said that the anti-Confederate feeling was so strong in town that a mob had pulled him from his horse, brutally beaten and then shot him. They had left his body lying in the street as a warning to others who might want to turn rebel.
Ben went off to find Kyd while Wes reread the account of the boy’s death. A cold fear swept over him as he realized that the same fate might be in store for him if he ever returned to Gettysburg. He sat in thought for a long time, staring north into the darkness.
A few days later, the brigade received word of another Federal advance. When they arrived in the area of the sighting, the brigade was divided in half, the Second remaining in place with the Fourth while the other two regiments continued on toward the enemy. This time there was a tension among the officers that Wes had never felt before. Everyone seemed to sense that this was the real thing, at last.
The quiet was suddenly broken when hundreds of guns began firing up ahead. A deathly silence fell over the two reserve regiments as the troops watched the horizon intently and listened to the sounds of battle. Several minutes later, a horseman galloped over the hill at full speed. It was one of the younger officers on Jackson’s staff. He proceeded to Colonel Allen who was waiting impatiently on his horse several hundred paces in front of his men. The two consulted for a moment, after which Colonel Allen spurred his horse back to the waiting troops. Wes watched him breathlessly, excited but almost dreading his words.
“By rank, forward...march!” The men moved ahead mechanically, heading directly toward the clamor of battle. Wes, feeling as though he was walking in a dream, knew that his first real test as a soldier had arrived. All the preparations had been leading him to this place, equipping him for this moment.
As they came up over the rise, they were met by the other regiments retreating toward them. No one was running, but the two forward units were marching slowly back in Wes’ direction. As they came, they fired into the distance behind them, the smoke from their guns obscuring their targets. The smell of gunpowder stung his nose and an electric energy hung in the air, creating a sense of both excitement and dread.
Then, a shifting breeze lifted the smoke and, for one heart-stopping moment, Wes could see another group of men, this one in blue, firing in his direction. His heart pounded as he realized that he had just caught sight of his first Federal soldiers. They were moving directly toward him.
The Second was ordered to halt, to stand in place while the other regiments passed through them and formed in the rear. Wes was now standing in the front line of Confederate troops, looking down the road at the approaching enemy. There was no one between him and these men whose only purpose was to kill him and his friends. Wes ducked instinctively as a bullet whizzed by. It was a familiar sound to him but altogether unnerving when he realized that he was the target. He waited to be hit, every muscle in his body tensed with fear. The bullets continued to fly past but he and the others managed to remain in place, waiting until the enemy got a little closer before they fired their first volley.
Then Wes realized that the bluecoats were no longer moving. They had stopped and were holding their position just beyond range of the first rebel volley. After a few minutes of incredible tension, during which the two sides sized each other up, the Federals began to move away. It took Wes a moment to realize what was happening. Then everyone understood, and a wild cheer went up from the men in gray.
It was unbelievable, too much to comprehend. Wes’ mind whirled as he cheered at the top of his lungs along with the rest. They had met the enemy. And they had beaten them.
Chapter 11
MANASSAS
Winchester, Virginia
July 17, 1861
For a week after they met the Federals, Wes and the rest of the company could talk of little else. The other regiments had fought a majority of the battle, but it was the arrival of the fresh Second Regiment on the field that had put the Yankees to flight.
Now, back in camp at Winchester, the military drills no longer seemed quite so harsh. Talk of going home had almost ceased, and the men yearned to have another shot at the Yankees. Wes could not forget the thrill of facing the enemy across a field, standing firm, and seeing him turn and run away. He thought back to that moment again and again, obsessed by their success.
It was the seventeenth of July and the heat had risen to an oppressive level. Wes, Kyd and Ben shed their woolen coats and sat down to dinner with the rest of the company after a hot morning of drilling, chatting like veterans about the ways of war.
“I think those northern politicians are having second thoughts about this whole thing,” one of the privates was saying. “I bet they’re pulling their armies back to Washington and we won’t even see them again.”
Sgt. McGuire snorted and scooped up a mouthful of broth with his hardtack, shoving it into his mouth and wiping his mustache. “Well, you boys are quite something, God’s truth.”
The others quieted, turning to look at McGuire. “What do you mean, Sarge?” one of the men asked.
“I mean, you’re all sitting here, talking tough, thinking tough. And ain’t a one o’ you been in a battle yet.” He chuckled sarcastically to himself.
The men protested, talking at once, backing up each other’s claims about the regiment’s accomplishment. Wes watched McGuire quietly continue his meal. Tommy Green, one of the boys whom Wes knew fairly well, spoke up. “What do you call what we did last week, Sarge?”
McGuire shook his head, a condescending smile on his face. “I call it an afternoon’s outing. ‘Twere barely a scuffle. You boys don’t know what a real fight is. But you will. Them Yankees ain’t gone. They’re just testing us. They want to see if we’re really serious.”
Tommy struck a manful pose, thumping his chest. “Well, just bring ‘em on, is what I say. We can whomp any damn Yankee any damn day.”
The others laughed and chorused agreement. McGuire looked at them, shaking his head, then retreated into silence, preferring to let the boys’ ignorance play itself out. Wes wasn’t laughing, however. He suddenly sensed that McGuire was right. He had stood there, staring at the northern soldiers, feeling that dreadful, exquisite fear crawl up his body, and he had known that, the next time, the Federals would not just walk away.
Tommy sat again, then leaned close to Wes. He had misread the serious expression on his face and said apologetically, “I didn’t mean you, Wes, when I was talking about the Yankees, you know.”
Wes nodded absently. He was watching a horseman gallop toward the captain’s tent. It was apparent that something was about to happen. A moment later, Captain Butler called McGuire over. The old Irishman jumped up and jogged the short distance. Ben was laughing at Tommy along with the rest of the group when Wes nudged him. “We’re moving out.”
Ben continued to laugh for a moment, then turned to his friend with a puzzled look. “What did you say?”
“I said, we’re moving out. Just wait. Here comes the Sarge.”
McGuire hustled back, a stern look on his face. He yelled over the boisterous laughter, “Form up!” The men froze for a second, slow to realize what was happening. Anticipating the order, Wes had grabbed his gun and was first in place. The others formed around him quickly, searching anxiously for some clue as to what was happening.
McGuire stood in front of the group, waiting for them to settle down. Then he snapped out the order in a tight, serious tone. “You’ve got five minutes to break camp and get ready to march. We’re going for a walk, boys. Now, MOVE!”
This last word was a roar, and the men shouted their approval. Chaos exploded within the camp as men tore down their tents and gathered their belongings. It took only seven minutes. By the time the men were back in line, Captain Butler had appeared, sitting high astride his horse. He examined the men carefully, then shouted the order to fall in line behind
Company A. They began moving out even before some of the other companies had formed. Obviously, something important was going on. Wes noticed Jackson, already mounted, consulting with General Johnston. Junior officers hurried about them like worker bees, carrying messages to all parts of the army.
They were was marching southeast; the Federals were north. Even a child could figure out what was going on. Winchester, a little town too far north for its own good, was being deserted by the only people who could save it. A sense of betrayal was written on the faces that Wes saw. People lined the road, silent, resentful. Wes imagined their thoughts. They had worked all their lives to be free; they didn’t care about slavery because most of them were poor; it was the rare man in these parts who owned even one slave. This was the rich man’s fight, and now the army was being pulled back to protect the rich people further south, and the poor were being abandoned. In a fight that really didn’t concern them, they would be the first victims.
Wes’ company was in the van of the army, Wes himself only a few ranks behind the front line. Company A, being used as skirmishers, had been sent on ahead. Thus, it fell upon Company B to set the pace for the entire army. The men were proud of this honor, determined to make their unit look good.
Captain Butler flashed up on his red roan, which screamed in protest as he yanked on her reins. The sun shone down on the captain’s face as he halted the men for a moment. When he spoke, his deep voice carried easily to the hundred or so troops gathered before him.
“I’ve just had a word with General Johnston. He wished me to convey to you the urgency of this operation and the vital part we will play in it. The Confederate Army is drawing together near the towns of Centreville and Manassas, just south and west of Washington. General Beauregard is there with a good sized army, but he is presently threatened with attack by a much larger northern force. We are to make our way to Piedmont as fast as possible, where we will board trains which will take us to the aid of General Beauregard’s men.”
He paused to let his words sink in, taking his hat off and rubbing his forehead thoughtfully. “Men, if we do not reach our destination in time, General Beauregard may be defeated. His defeat may mean that we cannot rid ourselves of northern rule.” Wes was entranced by the rising passion in the captain’s voice. “We must not lose this battle. It’s time to fight for our beliefs. We must show that we are tougher and stronger than any northern unit ever formed.” He paused for effect, looking at his company with an expression of paternal pride. “Now, let’s move out!”
As one, the company broke into cheers, with Wes yelling as loudly as the rest. By now he had stopped thinking of himself as a northerner. A mere accident of birth could not outweigh the sense that he had become as southern as any man alive. He belonged here more than he had ever belonged up north. He was not fighting for the politicians or the rich and the powerful; he was certainly not fighting for the slave owners. He was fighting for his friends, fighting to defend his home, the only place where he belonged.
He began to run with the others, shouting, ecstatic. Their yells raised a stir which spread through the regiment, to the brigade, to the entire army. They ran to join Beauregard, the hero of Fort Sumter, to take their place by his side in history.
It was well after noon when they reached the Shenandoah River. Much of their earlier elation had evaporated, replaced by a grim determination. The intense heat made it difficult to maintain the pace. When, after a few hours, General Jackson called a halt, the men searched for shade and collapsed. Ten minutes later, the commander urged them forward again, setting a cycle which repeated itself for the remainder of the march: fifty minutes of marching, ten minutes of rest.
The men watched Company A, across the river, frolicking in the sun. Apparently, crossing the water had not been much of a problem. McGuire stripped off his uniform, rolled it into a bundle which he placed on his bayonet, and marched knee deep into the river. Turning to look back at his astonished men, he taunted, “Well, come on, lads. Are you a pack of old ladies, or what?”
As he turned to plow through the water, the men, hooting and laughing, stripped naked and followed him. The water felt so refreshing that Wes wished he could remain there all day. It reminded him of the water hole in Rock Creek back home. He knew it would be filled on a hot day like this. But then, he reasoned, most of the boys had joined up to fight with the North. He wondered where his brother was, whether he might be marching at this moment to confront him in the oncoming battle.
The water seemed to revitalize the company spirits and they set off again at a brisk pace. On they marched, as mile after mile fell behind them. Wes’ feet had grown numb as he stumbled on, past the point of pain, a human machine moving without conscious thought. The rest periods felt shorter each time and there was little talking in the ranks, only the lonely sound of thousands of shuffling feet. When the halt was finally called, it was well past midnight and Wes was asleep in an instant.
He woke with the bugle, so tired it felt as though he had not slept at all. His legs were badly cramped from the previous day’s effort. He and Ben stood quietly, sipping hot coffee and trying to ease their stiffness. Kyd rushed up from somewhere, looking fresh and ready for another day. “Did you hear about Old Jack?” he asked with a glow in his eye. Wes and Ben shook their heads as Kyd grabbed some coffee and took a gulp. “Well, after we called it quits last night, no one turned out for guard duty. The officers were going to kick some of the boys awake but Old Jack, he just told them to let us sleep. He stayed up all night and guarded us himself.”
Wes and Ben shook their heads in wonder and looked over to where Jackson sat on a fence rail, sipping coffee and reading from his Bible. He was by himself, absorbed in his reading, but just then he happened to look in Wes’ direction. For a mystical moment, Wes fancied that his commander was looking him straight in the eye. Then the general dropped his head and went back to his reading. Wes felt strangely invigorated, as though some of Jackson’s strength had flowed into him.
Kyd talked on and on about what a great leader Jackson was. He told them that he was writing some friends to see about getting an appointment as an officer, so he could become an aide for Jackson.
They set out as the sun rose, and in a few hours reached the town of Piedmont. It consisted of a few buildings around a new stop on the railroad. As they came over the rise into town, Wes saw three locomotives standing by the platform, a string of boxcars behind each one.
They halted near the trains and fell out of formation, using the time to relax, eat, and talk about the upcoming fight. Many of the men still didn’t believe there would be a battle. Wes did not share that opinion. On the contrary, his mind was troubled by what might lie ahead. He wondered what it would be like if he had to face a former acquaintance in battle. Then he remembered all the accumulated insults and humiliations he had endured across the years, the people in Gettysburg who had made fun of him, his brother who had always belittled him. Somehow, in that moment, all the frantic fist fights and painful defeats he had suffered throughout his life blended into one long battle which he had never been able to win. Now even Ginnie was lost to him, another casualty in his private war. The thought generated a rage that burned away considerations of friendship and home, even of compassion. He sat listening to the others, but in his mind he was fighting a new battle, one for which he had waited all his life. This time he would be victorious.
When the rest of the brigade arrived, they all filed onto the train, several cars for each company. Wes was pulled up into a dark and musty freight car that smelled of manure. There was barely enough room to sit, and many of the men found it more comfortable to stand. After a long wait, the train finally jerked into motion, slowly picking up speed. The clacking of the wheels produced a soothing rhythm and a cool breeze flowed in through the open door. Wes was soon asleep, knowing that he would have little time to rest in the days to come.
They off-loaded late in the afternoon, uncertain where they were. They could not hear
any gunfire, but the acrid smell of gunpowder in the air made Wes wonder if they had missed the battle. Ordered to form up, they set off again, passing a row of fresh graves. No words were spoken as the men walked by, but all eyes were focused on the mounds of dirt.
They made camp in a row of pines, and taps was beat early. Wes lay awake for a long time, thinking about the next day. He heard others nearby tossing restlessly in their bedrolls, and knew that they too were wondering about their fate.
He awoke with a start as a distant explosion shook the earth. The sun had barely risen. Wes sat up, listening as the booming continued. McGuire announced, “Cannon off to the north.” He was already up, making a pot of coffee. Wes struggled out of his bedding and sat on the log beside the sarge. The cannon fire was not close, but Wes couldn’t help feeling frightened. He tried to mask his fear from McGuire who was stoking the fire. “God-awful sound, ain’t it?” McGuire commented.
Wes glanced down at the sergeant and was surprised to see a flicker of fear in his eyes. He blurted out the question before he could stop himself. “Are you scared, Sarge?”
McGuire stopped his work, looked up at Wes and smiled. “Of course I’m scared, son. I’d be stupid not to be.” He struggled to his feet. “Trouble with you young tikes is that you’re afraid of your own fear. Fear ain’t bad unless it takes control of you. I’ve seen it happen to many a brave man. They hold it all bunched up inside themselves, pretending they ain’t scared. Then they see the enemy and their legs are running before their brains can stop ‘em.” He poured himself more coffee, then stared at Wes. “Don’t be afraid to admit that you’re frightened, son. It’ll keep you humble. And it may just keep you alive.”
The Calm and the Strife Page 14