Colonel Nadenbousch, Wes’ regimental commander, stormed by on horseback, field glasses out, surveying the Federals who were riding west down the Hanover Road toward them. He could see that they were sending skirmishers forward, so he called for his own skirmishers. One of his aides rode over to Wes’ company commander. As the two of them conferred, Wes held his breath; he knew what was coming.
He was to go forward with the rest of the company as skirmishers for the entire regiment, to fight in the very front lines. This was done to blunt the enemy attack by harassing them and weeding out any possible ambushes. In theory, the skirmishers were then to give ground, falling back to the main line where the battle would be joined. In both cases, the skirmishers were vulnerable, the first targets the enemy would see.
Wes heard the sergeant yell, “Form skirmish!” This was echoed down the line and the men stood, spreading out several paces from each other. “Forward, march!” echoed across the ridge. Wes felt the fear settle in his knees, the thick, heavy knowledge that the enemy was in sight, and that he saw you. He also knew that the eyes of the entire regiment were watching them move down the hill. Wes marched with his gun in front of him, waist level, the bayonet glinting in the morning sun.
It was difficult to see the Federal skirmishers because of the sun. But as the troops moved forward, he began to feel the firmness return to his step. As he waded into the foot-high wheat, he could make out the horsemen, now dismounted, moving forward to the right of a clump of trees in Storrick’s yard. A high-pitched whizzing sound over his head made him instinctively flinch. The line stopped, without a command, at a shallow indentation in the ground. Wes saw several of the others lie down and followed suit. Raising himself to look over the wheat, he fired his first shot, aiming with great care. He could see the Federals strung out along a line a hundred yards away. The pop-pop of the Federal carbines was higher-pitched than the low concussions of the Confederate rifles, and the morning air was filled with a continuous exchange of fire.
It had taken Wes time to get used to his new rifled musket. But like his old smoothbore, he had shortened its stock and carved his name in it, and by now was something of an expert marksman. He lay on his back to reload, pulling the ramrod up past his head and leaning it against his shoulder. He reached down into his waist pack, pulled a charge from it, then leaned off to the side to tear the paper away with his teeth. Carefully tilting the rifle up as far as his arms would allow, he poured the powder down the barrel. A sudden breeze blew some into his eye, temporarily blinding him with pain. After trying to clear his eye with filthy hands, he pushed the ball into the mouth of the barrel, holding it tight with his left thumb. With his right hand, he reached up, took the ramrod leaning against his shoulder and shoved the bullet home. Then, as he had a thousand times before, he rubbed the carved letters of his name for good luck and looked toward the enemy to pick a target. He squeezed his trigger and felt the familiar concussion against his shoulder.
This maneuver was repeated over and over with mindless precision: loading, aiming, firing, reloading. It was difficult to tell whether he was actually hitting anything. But he didn’t really care, and it seemed that the men across the way were equally unconcerned. Both sides seemed content to hold each other at bay with only cursory attempts to gain ground. Occasionally, one of the Confederates would run forward a few paces and dramatically throw himself down behind a larger boulder or into a deeper gully which offered a little more protection. It looked heroic but Wes knew that in most cases it was motivated only by a desire for self-preservation.
Wes had a veteran’s knowledge of what created heroes in war. It usually had nothing to do with cowardice or courage; most often it involved sheer luck. To this point, Wes reflected, he had been a little shy on luck, always too late or in the wrong place. A common foot soldier’s primary goal was to fight and to stay alive. But now, in this place, perhaps his luck would begin to change.
The sun began its descent into late afternoon. He had lain in the field most of the day and his waist pack was almost empty for the second time. A brave ammunition boy scurrying along the line had filled it once. Somehow, the boy had managed to avoid the bullets that whizzed past him, his movement among the men making him a prime target. But Wes, searching for him now, could not see him anywhere and wondered briefly whether he had been killed.
Suddenly, he heard a loud cheer somewhere to the rear, the high-pitched wail of Confederates on the move, and he knew that the order had been given to advance. He was up on his knees before the sergeant gave the command.
The skirmishers moved forward as one, hunched low and sweeping through the wheat toward the slight rise which the Federal troopers occupied. Wes’ heart pounded with excitement, his fear vanishing as adrenaline surged into his blood. Bullets whistled past him, but as they closed the space between the lines, leading the way for the rest of the brigade, he saw the troopers begin to waver. Wes ran, still holding his rifle at waist height, bayonet forward. The Federal troopers watched them come, the sun from the west now in their eyes.
One enemy soldier, directly in front of Wes, looked at him, then turned his head from side to side as if trying to see what his comrades were doing. They both noticed that the Yankee line was beginning to collapse. Finally, as the distance closed to several hundred feet, the man in front of Wes aimed and fired directly at him, then turned and ran. Wes never missed a step, never heard the bullet pass, which told him that it had missed by a wide margin. The Confederate skirmishers paused at the top of the rise that had until a moment ago been held by the Federals. They turned to the main body of troops, storming up behind them, and shouted their triumph. Wes waved them forward, then took off down the hill after the retreating bluecoats.
It was a wondrous feeling, exhilarating. He was on the leading edge of this victory and the glory lust was in his blood. The main line of Federal troops waited at the crest of the next rise, off the Hanover Road toward the Storrick farm. Wes and the rest of the skirmishers sprinted toward the troops with a blood-chilling yell, caught up in the fury of battle.
A bugle call sounded ahead of him. Wes recognized it as a call for retreat and ran all the faster. The enemy line began to recoil away from the assault in confusion. Up ahead, Wes saw a man on horseback, his epaulettes marking him as an officer. He was looking the other way, his pistol raised over his head, trying to control his men as they pulled back. Thus, he was momentarily unaware that the leading Confederate skirmishers were bearing down on him.
Wes never broke stride. Holding his empty rifle by the barrel, he swung it with all his strength, using his momentum to add power to the blow, and struck the horse solidly in the chest. The mare, rearing, caught the officer off guard. The man slid out of the saddle, his hands clawing at the air as he fell. The horse bolted and the officer landed squarely on his back, the pistol bouncing out of his grasp. Wes grabbed it from the ground just as another Federal soldier rushed forward to cover the fallen officer. His rifle was pointed directly at Wes, the bayonet twenty feet away. Wes fell to one knee and fired instinctively, hitting the man in the shoulder. Spinning from the impact, he fell sideways with a scream.
The unhorsed officer was struggling to his feet, but Wes immediately rammed the tip of his bayonet against the man’s chest, shoving him back to the ground and holding him there. Looking around for support, Wes realized that the three of them were alone. The rest of the Federals had retreated, and the main body of Confederates was still several hundred feet away, marching forward at a deliberate pace. Wes stood waiting, his bayonet point firmly pressed against the chest of the officer, whom he now saw to be a captain. The trooper whom he had shot lay on his back, and Wes could see that he was too badly injured to cause a problem.
The Confederates finally arrived, running past him in pursuit of the main body of northern troops. An officer riding past stopped to gaze down at Wes and the captured officer.
“Good work, soldier. Take them back to General Walker. He’s up on the hill.”
The officer returned Wes’ salute and spurred off after the troops. A tingle of pride worked its way up Wes’ spine. Trying to sound gruff, he ordered, “On your feet.” He watched the officer struggle up from the ground and pause to brush off his soiled uniform. The wounded man had his eyes open now, and Wes walked over to kick the man’s rifle away. The officer turned to the wounded man and, ignoring Wes, knelt beside him.
“Sergeant Dow, can you walk?”
The sergeant tried to rise, grimacing in pain. “With a little help, I believe I can, sir.”
The captain assisted the sergeant to his feet, holding him up by his good arm. Without pausing to see if Wes was ready, they began to stumble toward the Confederate rear, a ridge now vacant save for a few officers peering through field glasses.
Wes followed behind the men, his bayonet at the ready, the pistol tucked into his pants. The fading light cast a golden hue on the wheat, and a gentle breeze blew over Wes’ face. Never had he felt prouder than at this moment. For once, he had been in exactly the right place at the right moment.
Wes’ charges stumbled to a stop before the officers lining the ridge, watching the action below. Indicating General Walker, the brigade commander, sitting on a fence rail eating an apple, Wes nudged the men in his direction. He escorted them proudly to the general who looked up with a slight smile.
The Federal captain stepped forward, after judging that the sergeant could stand alone, and saluted. “Captain Lownsbury, 10th New York Cavalry. Sir.”
General Walker returned the salute, his pocket knife still in his hand. “At ease, Captain.” Wes stood back as the general quizzed the prisoner about the forces in the field below, trying to discover whether there were reserves beyond sight.
Ben walked up to Wes and nudged him. “Looks like you had a good day, soldier,” he said quietly, so as not to disturb the General’s conversation. Wes beamed at his friend, nodding. “You’d better knock that grin off your face,” Ben added, “or somebody’s going to think you enjoy capturing Yankees.”
In an instant, Wes’ mood changed. He whispered urgently, “Ben, I have to get a pass. I have to make sure she’s all right.”
Ben looked at Wes for a moment, considering the request. Then he broke into the familiar smile which Wes knew so well. “You think you’ve earned it, eh? Well, see what I can do.”
Wes closed his mouth, trying to look serious but the grin kept creeping back. The General was talking and Wes tried to concentrate on what he was saying to the prisoners. “Well, I think this battle is well in hand. If we’re victorious here, I believe it’ll just about end the war. Which means that you shouldn’t be a prisoner overly long. But, until we can properly dispose of you, you’ll be placed in a holding area to the rear. Pendleton!”
Ben stepped to the general’s side and saluted. “Sir?”
Walker craned his neck to look at him. “See that these men are taken to the stockade, and make sure that the sergeant gets some medical attention.” The general, paring another apple, used the knife to indicate Sergeant Dow.
Ben said loudly, “Yes, sir.” Then he leaned toward the general, speaking quietly. Walker listened intently, then looked at Wes. He stared fiercely for a moment until Wes’ neck began to prickle. Then he said something to Ben, who beckoned for Wes to approach. Wes walked up awkwardly, both frightened and in awe at being in the presence of a general.
“General Walker, this is Private Culp,” Ben said quietly
“At ease, Private.” Wes relaxed slightly, allowing his eyes to brush across the large man’s collar with its silver star.
“Pendleton here tells me this is your town.” Wes was momentarily confused, wondering if the general disapproved. “He also tells me that you’re a damned good soldier,” Walker continued. “I must say, it’s a pleasure to have a Pennsylvania man fighting in the Stonewall Brigade.”
Wes was so surprised by this unexpected remark that he looked the general in the eye and was rewarded with a broad smile.
“Take these men you captured back to the stockade near town. And in return for your good effort today, you’re granted an eight-hour pass to see that your people are safe.” The general’s expression sobered as he added, “As long as you promise to get back here on time. We’ll need every man we have tomorrow.” He scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to Ben.
Walker saluted as a sign that Wes was dismissed. Wes stood there for a moment, astonished that the general had saluted him first and, eventually, had the presence of mind to return the salute. But the general had already gone back to the business of peeling his apple. Wes turned smartly and marched off to where Ben stood.
“Well, get out of here,” Ben said. “Time’s a-wasting.” He handed Wes the pass, then pushed him and his prisoners off in the direction of Gettysburg.
Chapter 21
TORMENT
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
July 2, 1863
The hours before dawn seemed to drag by so slowly that time almost stopped. Ginnie desperately groped for sleep, but her mind was so laced with the stimulant of fear that she was unable to relax. She shuddered, listening to the noises that spewed from the darkness. Moans, curses, screams of pain and pathetic cries for help were blown into her room by the hot July breeze, adding to her torment. She could hear her mother tossing in her bed. The baby lay quietly next to Georgia, innocent of the chaos surrounding him.
She must finally have dozed because she became aware that her mother was in the kitchen, working by the light of a single candle. With a sigh, she rose quietly so as not to wake Georgia or the children. She joined her mother and, without a word, began to knead the dough that she was preparing. They worked until the light from the window finally overwhelmed the candlelight.
But with the light of the new day came the sounds of gunfire from all sides of the house once again. As Ginnie stopped kneading to listen to the shots, she could feel the terror returning. She turned back to her work and was surprised to see her mother, her face buried in her hands, weeping softly.
“Mama!” She moved to her, putting a hand on her back to comfort her. Seeing her mother like this was almost more frightening than the violence all around them. Mary Wade had always been the pillar of strength upon which they all relied, never crying or showing any sign of weakness. Ginnie could do nothing but hold her and feel the dread that shook her body. Finally, Mary straightened, wiped her eyes with the back of a flour-covered hand and returned to her work without looking at her daughter. Knowing better than to press her mother, Ginnie also resumed her work, her waning sense of security even further shaken.
As the morning progressed, the gunfire continued. There seemed to be no pattern to the shooting; sometimes it was intense, then it would stop for fifteen minutes or more. Each renewed barrage made Ginnie cringe, but with the sunrise her fear decreased and they worked faster, the warm loaves piling up on the kitchen table.
Even before the sun was fully up, there were renewed knocks on the door by soldiers looking for food. Since both of the doors to the house were in view of Confederate guns, it could be a dangerous mission to stand there waiting for bread. Many men made it with no problem, but often they had to dodge bullets as they dashed off with their prize. Ginnie and Mary stood well clear of the door each time it was opened, closing it quickly when the visitors left. Ginnie heard one man receive a gunshot wound as he tried to get around the back of the house with two loaves of bread. She glanced quickly out the window to see him crawling painfully for cover on his knees and elbows, holding the loaves carefully in his hands so as not to soil them.
As the heat increased in the early morning, the cries of the wounded near the house could be heard: “Water. Water!” Georgia lay with her baby in the next room, her face to the corner, listening to the pleas from outside. “Why can’t they be quiet?” she exclaimed finally, more frustrated than angry.
Ginnie felt the same way. She wished it would all stop. The agonized pleas were making her sk
in crawl. Finally, she jumped up, grabbed a bucket and a small cup, and said, “I can’t stand it anymore. I have to go out.”
Mary looked up from where she sat, her eyes reflecting her concern. But she nodded silently. Ginnie held her white flag out the open door and waited for a moment. With a final glance at her mother, she took a breath and stepped into the light. Standing there for a second, she could imagine the rebel rifles across the way trained on her, and she waited for the first shot to come. But there was only quiet, so she stepped around toward the well on the opposite side of the house.
Cranking up the bucket for the first time that morning, she glanced around the area, stunned that one day could so totally transform the place. Everywhere there was wreckage. Carts had cut dark brown gashes into the green grass. Men lay in every possible spot where there was protection from rebel guns, some wounded, others just resting, still others firing from time to time. Countless small breakfast fires burned all the way out the Baltimore Pike, sending columns of black smoke aloft like a forest of spectral trees.
The eyes of nearby soldiers followed her as she went about her work, pouring water from the well’s bucket into her pail. The faces that watched her were completely devoid of emotion: no fear, no pain, no happiness, no apparent feeling at all. It seemed to Ginnie that she had been suddenly transported to some alien place where life had taken on a violent and inhuman aspect, and she realized how alone and vulnerable she felt.
She went to the nearest wounded man, knelt cautiously beside him and dipped her cup into the water. He took the cup gratefully and held it to his lips, while his eyes remained locked on hers. Finally, he lowered the cup and she saw that he was smiling. “Thank you,” he whispered. She nodded and moved on to the next soldier. The bucket was repeatedly emptied as Ginnie knelt by dozens of wounded men, spending a few moments with each one, talking and trying to bring relief.
As she walked back to the well the fifth time, she noted that everyone else was either lying or sitting, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. She, on the other hand, was the only one standing and moving about. It filled her with a constant fear, and yet, during this period of time, the firing had ceased. Men on both sides seemed to be watching in fascination as Ginnie went about her work. Soon, Federal troops at some distance were shouting for her to bring them water, also. She could even hear a few calls from equally tired and thirsty men on the rebel side of the line.
The Calm and the Strife Page 27