The Calm and the Strife

by David J. Sloat

  Wes mulled this over as he sipped McGuire’s coffee. After a few minutes, there was a flurry of activity and shouted orders. The stiff and sleepy men grabbed their things and formed up, marching off to cover a distant bridge threatened by the Federals.

  They had been standing for nearly three hours, waiting for the Federals to attack their bridge when, just before noon, a courier galloped up to Capt. Butler and delivered a message. A moment later, Sgt. McGuire ordered an about face and Wes found himself running back the way he had come. They jogged more than a mile, moving along a slight rise which bordered some woods. To their right sat a little farmhouse overlooking a valley in which, from the sound of it, the fight was happening. The brigade formed, the 2nd Regiment toward the left, next to the 33rd. Wes was sweating freely by this time, anxiously trying to see what was happening. They formed two double rows. Wes was in the second rank of the front row, so that he was looking over the head of the man who was kneeling in front of him.

  The pounding from the big guns was getting louder and each new explosion etched deeper anxiety on the men’s faces. They faced the white farmhouse, a hundred yards to the north. Beyond, in the valley, a cloud of smoke hung, blue and ominous in the afternoon sun. Capt. Butler walked across the front of the line and yelled at them to lie down. They fell on their bellies, gratefully hugging the cool grass. The explosions marched toward them until the shells were roaring overhead. The noise was overwhelming, intermingled with moans, and Wes began to feel real terror for the first time. From the valley in front of them, they could hear the sounds of men screaming, but the battle itself was still invisible.

  Then, over the rise, came a group of bloody men, running as fast as their wounds would allow them. They were in gray, although it was difficult to tell because of the grime and gunpowder and blood that covered them.

  “We’re beaten,” one particularly bloody soldier yelled. “Go back. Save yourselves while there’s still time.” The men shot frightened looks at each other. Ben’s eyes were enormous and bright with fear, and Wes felt his terror intensify, realizing that he was surrounded by people who were as frightened as he was. McGuire stood and began to walk among the prostrate men, talking all the while in a soothing voice. “Steady boys. Steady. They’ll have to do better than that to scare us.”

  The retreating soldiers passed through the Second and disappeared over the hill behind them. Another wave of soldiers came after them, a little more military in their bearing, loading their guns and turning to fire as they retreated. They moved through the Second and the 33rd, then paused just behind them in front of the woods.

  Wes’ heart was beating so violently that he could feel it in his throat. He knew that no one was left between him and the Federals. The thunder of the guns in front of them seemed to redouble as the bluecoats found the range to the top of the hill. Suddenly, several deafening explosions sounded to the right. Wes quickly realized that these were their own cannon returning the fire. Although the waiting was difficult, it felt good to know that someone was shooting back at the Federals coming up the hill toward them. Wes could still see nothing of what was going on in the valley below him; billowing tempests of smoke obscured nearly everything.

  McGuire yelled to the men over the incredible noise of the battlefield, but Wes could only hear a few words. He saw others beginning to load their guns and he did the same. It was a difficult job because his hands were shaking badly, but Wes put the stock on the ground, the barrel pointed upward. Reaching into the pack at his waist with one hand, he grabbed a charge, tore off the edge with his teeth, the familiar taste of gunpowder burning his tongue. Carefully he poured it down the barrel, pressing the wadding and minie ball into the barrel after the gunpowder. He pulled the rammer from its place under the barrel and flipped it around, hammering the minie ball down tight. After he replaced the ramrod, he carefully opened the tiny tin that carried the caps. Picking one up with trembling fingers, he replaced the cover, put the tin away in his waist pack, cocked the musket’s hammer and tried to press the round cap onto the firing pin. It took him three attempts before he succeeded.

  With his musket loaded, Wes felt a little more secure. The cannon fire was getting louder, and suddenly there were explosions to the left and a howling noise that ripped close over their heads. Several shells hit at once near the cannon to the right. Wes could see the troops off to his left begin to move back toward him as they retreated from Federals who were firing obliquely into their flank. Two Federal cannon were only a few hundred feet away and Wes could see their crews working feverishly to reload them. Since each was serviced by only a few men, Wes wondered why the 33rd was running away from them.

  Those retreating men spilled over them in a wave, forcing Wes and the others in his regiment to fall back in confusion. But others, on the far left of the 33rd, sensing perhaps what Wes had seen, began yelling for their comrades to return. The tide shifted again, reversing its course, and the 33rd flowed back to its former position. The confusion made it difficult to understand what was happening: horsemen rode in all directions, cannon fire on Wes’ right was answered by Union artillery from the bottom of the hill, geysers of earth erupted all around him, blasting screaming men into the air.

  Suddenly, another great cheer rose from the men of the 33rd. They were running down the rise away from Wes toward the two cannon. The whole regiment charged at the battery as the undermanned Federals tried to reload their pieces. To this point, Wes had seen nothing of the bluecoats except the tiny battery that the 33rd was attacking. The firing intensified dramatically as Wes tried to make out what was happening with the large mass of men struggling off to his left. The smoke covered their frantic contest, obscuring all but muzzle blasts and an occasional glimpse of flailing barrels and bayonets. Drawn into this desperate struggle, the entire regiment seemed to disappear before Wes’ eyes, devoured by the smoke.

  Then, looking toward the rise, he saw the 33rd returning in disarray, many of the men being dragged back by comrades. The straight lines and crisp formations had been shattered, and all that remained was chaos. As they approached, Wes turned to look for Jackson. He sat calmly on his horse, tall and straight, looking through his binoculars at the valley below. Wes could see the intense expression on his face. He gave orders to several mounted men who galloped off.

  Captain Butler paced the lines with McGuire, calming and helping where he could. As the men from the 33rd fell back through their lines, many of the troops from the 2nd tried to follow, jumping up and heading for the rear. But Butler and the junior officers worked them back into place, trimming up the lines once again. An officer raced up to Butler, who listened intently to the message from the colonel. He saluted and turned to the men. They all watched him expectantly. “Bayonets!” he roared. As one, the men pulled their knives free and shoved them home over the barrels of their muskets.

  “Now, men,” Butler cried, “wait until they are fifty yards away. Then fire and fire well. Aim low. After the volley, we will charge, and when we charge we will scream like the furies of hell and frighten them back to Washington.”

  They stood, nervously watching the confusion ahead. Gradually, like evil apparitions, rows of men emerged from the smoke, marching toward them, their guns lowered, the sun glinting from their bayonets. Wes felt his throat tighten. Jackson rode by yelling, “Steady, men! Steady! Don’t forget to yell when you charge.” Wes watched the blue-coated men grow larger as they surged up the hill. The Federals opened fire and a few men near Wes were hit and fell out of line, cursing loudly, but most of the shots missed completely. The Federals kept coming, and Wes ached to fire at them, impatient for the signal.

  Time slowed, each moment seeming an eternity, waiting, waiting. Then McGuire yelled, “Fire!” Wes fired, not really aiming. He pulled the trigger, then started to run down the hill, following the men in front of him. All around him the air was filled with a high-pitched wail which rose over the din of battle. Wes added his voice to the hellish sound. They could see the
Union soldiers stop, shaken by this unexpected charge. The blue line faltered, then began to turn back, but those in front ran into the secondary lines. The perfect order which had existed a moment before dissolved into frantic disorder, and Wes and the others rushed forward, plowing madly into the enemy on a full run, abandoning every thought in their insane passion to kill.

  Instantly, they found themselves in a horrifying nightmare, all order gone, man battling man, hatred smashing into rage as elemental instincts broke loose. The roiling mass of men turned into maddened animals filled with a consuming blood lust.

  Wes faced a terrified young boy who pointed his gun tentatively at him. Wes deflected the gun with the barrel of his musket, then rammed his bayonet into the boy’s chest with such force that the blade pierced his back. The boy shuddered and fell, pinning Wes’ gun to the ground. Wes, momentarily disarmed, was panicked by the realization that three or four men were charging directly at him. Desperate, he stood on the corpse’s belly and tore his bayonet loose, ripping the boy’s small chest apart in the effort.

  Wes charged on, following the front wave as it continued forward. All around him, a maniacal scene was acting itself out. Muskets exploded at close range, the wounded shrieked in agony, metal clanged on metal as bayonets dueled, the air filled with the grunts of men straining to kill other men, curses and yells rose louder than the gunshots.

  The ground beneath him became slick with blood and he lost his footing, falling face down into a mangled mass that had been a Union soldier. Rolling off, he looked down at himself, smeared with blood and, for one mad instant, thought he had been killed. But, realizing it was the blood of other men, he jumped up and moved on. Ahead of him, one of the men he knew fell to the ground holding his eye, blood trickling between his fingers.

  McGuire ran to and fro, yelling at his troops, warning them of imminent attacks, punching, tearing, stabbing, shooting at everyone in front of him. He turned toward a cannon guarded by three Federals, running the nearest one through with his bayonet. The others turned to run, but were pushed back into position by a blue-coated officer. Wes and several others arrived at the same moment to help McGuire. Tommy Green was beside Wes and, using his musket like a club, he smashed the head of one of the remaining bluecoats. As the man fell away, another Union soldier tried to stab Tommy but ran into Wes’ bayonet as he charged by. He hung there for a moment, turning to Wes with a stupid look on his face, before crumpling to the ground.

  With the cannon’s crew down, only the officer was left standing behind the piece. He was armed with a large revolver which he pointed coolly at McGuire. Just as Wes yelled a warning, the officer fired. McGuire staggered, paused, then reached down to his chest which had a huge black hole in its center. A moment later, the black turned red and McGuire slid to the ground. Wes, screaming in rage, turned to see the officer reloading his revolver. Racing toward him around the cannon wheel, Wes held his musket out for a bayonet strike. But in his blind fury, he missed his thrust and crashed into the man, knocking him flat and dropping his gun. The officer, lying on his back, frantically tried to reload his weapon. When Wes leaned over to retrieve his musket, the Yankee grabbed Wes’ collar. Trapped, whimpering with terror and exertion as he stumbled on top of him, Wes butted his head viciously into the man’s nose, then rolled off and scrambled to his feet. With a howl of animal rage, he smashed his musket butt like a pile driver into the man’s face.

  Spotting McGuire on the ground, he ran and knelt by him and stared into the old man’s pale face and glazed eyes. The sergeant tried to speak but no sound came. Wes bent low, trying to hear his words, but the Irishman only choked, spitting blood all over the side of Wes’ face. Then he was silent, his eyes staring up at the sky. Wes wiped the blood off his own face with revulsion, as if the death it had brought to McGuire might be contagious.

  Standing again, he looked around self-consciously, realizing that for a whole minute he had been vulnerable, oblivious to everything except McGuire’s body. Anyone might have come up and killed him. But the tide of battle had moved on, its roar having subsided into a constant low moaning from the wounded, sprawled everywhere among the dead,

  The remainder of the fight was a blur. He was numb, unthinking, unfeeling. The hand-to-hand combat continued for some time as Jackson’s men chased the Federals back into the valley and beyond. Wes, able to find only the fringes of the fight, was too dazed to understand any longer what was happening. At one point, it seemed to him that the overwhelming horror and excruciating effort of this battle blotted out all memory of the rest of his life, that it distorted his consciousness to where he believed that he had always been in the midst of this ghastly nightmare, knowing that at any second he might die screaming.

  The two sides fought to an exhausted standstill, until fresh Confederates arrived and drove the remaining Federals into a flat-out retreat. By then, Wes had been reduced to a mindless machine, running, pausing to reload, firing, running again, until there were no targets left to shoot.

  Darkness finally made it difficult to see more than a few yards ahead. When the fighting finally wound down and the halt was called, Wes realized that he didn’t recognize any of the Confederate soldiers around him. He turned back and began searching for the rest of his company.

  Chapter 12

  PROMISES

  Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

  July 28, 1861

  Ginnie was restless with anticipation. She had risen early, trying to keep herself busy with housework, but her mind kept wandering. Georgia, looking drained, came out of her room and slumped in a chair beside her. “I can’t stand it any longer,” she moaned to Ginnie. “Time is just crawling by. They said they’d be home days ago.” Georgia’s frustration and anxiety were so pathetic that for once Ginnie could truly sympathize with her sister.

  News of the first big battle of the war had swept the town a few weeks earlier. Near a small creek called Bull Run south of Washington, the Federal army had been thrown back in chaos. Ginnie tried to imagine Jack in the battle, wondering how he had fared. Since the battle, she had not heard a word from him, and she had no idea if he was all right. Lou, on the other hand, had sent Georgia a wire saying that he and the rest of the company were coming home because their three-month enlistment had expired.

  But after the wire there had been no word at all, and the town was gripped by a silent tension. People in the northern part of town would stop and gaze up the tracks toward Harrisburg where the regiment was supposed to be stationed. Anxiety hovered like a gray cloud over the town since most of the people knew someone involved in the fighting. A few weeks ago it had all seemed unreal, as if the military maneuvers were a staged political drama designed to frighten the South into settling the dispute peacefully. But Bull Run had changed all that. Some were saying that three thousand Federal soldiers had been killed, wounded or captured, three whole regiments. The hopes of peace had been swept away, leaving only fear and determination.

  A train whistle broke the town’s quiet at 11:00 am. Ginnie and Georgia, working blocks away in their home, heard it. They looked at each other in excitement, then raced for the door. By the time they arrived at the station north of the Diamond, the train had arrived. The ex-soldiers had not even had a chance to detrain before the station was flooded with ecstatic wives, lovers and parents. The returnees were preceded from the train by functionaries whose duty it was to escort the soldiers home, make certain that the paperwork was done properly and then, if possible, to re-enlist the men for an even longer term.

  President Lincoln, suddenly realizing that the war would not be easily or quickly won, and faced with the expiration of short-term enlistments, called for 300,000 more recruits.

  The accompanying military staff chased the civilians back from the train, established barriers to keep the public at bay, and only then allowed the company personnel to get off the hot, crowded train. Although the men were officially civilians, most of them wore their uniforms for lack of other attire. Non-commissioned
officers yelled orders at them and they formed into ranks from sheer force of habit.

  As they lined up, they scanned the crowd for familiar faces, a few here and there waving and smiling as they caught sight of loved ones. Only about fifty of the original seventy-five men were on the train, the rest having left the company for various reasons. Some had been discharged earlier because of illness or when it was discovered that they were unsuited for military life, others had already re-enlisted and chose to remain in Harrisburg. Still others had simply decided to go elsewhere, and a few families were distressed to find their men missing from the train with no notion of where they might be.

  As the company formed, the spectators marveled at the splendid sight they presented, far different from the stumbling recruits in baggy temporary uniforms they had seen fourteen short weeks ago. They looked like soldiers. The men were tanned and toughened, their uniforms were official and fairly neat, they wore them like veterans, and they stood to attention in even rows, their eyes straight ahead of them.

  When the company had formed, Capt. Buehler stepped down from the train. Ignoring the crowd, he stood before his command and spoke a few words. He was pleased by the way they had adapted to military life, proud of the opportunity to serve with them, and anxious that they re-enlist, now that they were experienced veterans. Pointing to the recruitment officers who would take care of the paperwork, he explained the benefits of signing up once again, in money, rank and glory. Finally, he said his farewell and climbed back onto the train. The men did not move until the sergeant screamed, “Dismissed!”

  Then there was pandemonium.

  Georgia and Ginnie were standing in the middle of the crowd, halfway down Carlisle Street, which was as close to the station as they could get. From there they could see little more than the smoke from the train’s engine. The crowd jostled them as people shoved forward to get a better view of the troops. When the word “Dismissed!” was heard, a roar erupted from the station platform as the men broke ranks and ran madly in every direction, looking for family, embracing loved ones, shouting, laughing, crying. The hubbub continued for almost half an hour, and turned a quiet Monday into an instant celebration.