The Confederate

by Tony Roberts

  The Colonel nodded, neglecting to advise the helpful Givens of his own regiment, which of course, he didn’t belong to. “Do you have members of the Rebel 1st Virginia amongst these animals?”

  “With respect, Colonel, these are soldiers, not animals.”

  The Colonel’s look turned icy. “Major, these are dregs of society supporting a vile system that requires stamping out. As far as I’m concerned they are nothing but cockroaches. Now answer my question!”

  Givens unhappily indicated a group of men sat in a huddle. “Some of them are wounded; our surgeons haven’t gotten round to treating them yet.”

  “So?” the Colonel replied, unconcerned. “I require one from the 1st Virginia Regiment. I don’t care what condition he’s in as long as he can talk.”

  “May I ask why you need to speak to one of them, sir?”

  “You may, but I’m not going to tell you, Major. Now bring me one from that regiment.”

  Givens’ lips moved with dislike, but he stiffly saluted and snapped an order to the guard sergeant. There came a few moments of dialogue amongst the prisoners before a scruffy man with a large blanket roll slung around him shoulder was prodded forward reluctantly. He stopped next to Major Givens and looked at the two officers warily. His eyes were bloodshot and his thin, emaciated appearance contrasted with the healthy physique of the Union officers.

  The Colonel wrinkled his nose in distaste. The man stank. “You are from the 1st Virginia Infantry?”

  “Yup. Who’s askin’?”

  The Colonel’s gauntlets blurred in the air and the Rebel shrieked as they sent his head snapping sideways. Givens stepped forward in shock. “Colonel!”

  “Shut up!” the Colonel snarled, indicating his men to come closer. Givens eyed the tough looking platoon and glanced at his small detail. The Colonel’s men outnumbered his 3 to 1 and were armed whereas many of his weren’t. The Colonel drew out his revolver and pointed it at the prisoner’s leg. “If you show such insolence to me again, you piece of garbage, I’ll shoot you.” The hammer cocked.

  Givens stepped back, his eyes wide. “Colonel, I must protest!”

  “Major Givens, you are in the army. You obey the orders of a superior officer, no matter what your personal feelings may hold, do you understand? I order you to shut up and stand to attention.” The Colonel glared at Givens, then ignored the outraged officer and returned his attention to the gasping Confederate prisoner, who was clutching his red and stinging face. Givens choked back his feelings and stood to attention. This wasn’t what he’d joined up for. He had a sense of right and justness, and no matter these soldiers represented a system he despised, they were human beings and deserved to be treated as such.

  “What’s your name, you worm?” the Colonel snarled at the Rebel.

  “Private Isaiah Vickery.” Vickery shrank from the ominous figure in front of him.

  “Very good, Vickery. Now, tell me, did the man known as Sergeant Lonnergan in your regiment survive this slaughterhouse?”

  Vickery nodded. “He made it back – at least I think so. I last saw him carrying young Billy Brady away from the wall. Why d’ya want to know?”

  “That is none of your concern. Where are they now?”

  Vickery shrugged. “Back at Seminary Ridge, I guess.”

  The Colonel grunted, eased the hammer of his revolver and slid it back into its holster. He turned to face Givens. “You may resume your noble care of these prisoners,” he sneered. “Goodbye.” He threw an ironic salute and turned his back on a silent Givens and moved off, escorted by his soldiers. He walked to the top of Cemetery Ridge and looked across the valley into the gray opaque world of the falling rain. “Somewhere out there, Longinus, I’ll find you.” He waved to his men to follow him and they stepped back towards the battlefield and their own campaign.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The retreat from Gettysburg was carried out at night in pouring rain. Case and his small detachment had been reinforced by one, the recovering Corporal Buckley. They escorted their line of prisoners along the road to Cashtown, further north than the most direct route, Lee hoping to fool any pursuit. Thunder masked the sound of the retreat and a seventeen mile long wagon train of wounded and supplies made their painful and slow way further south towards Fairfield.

  But no matter what route the retreating men took, sometime or other they’d have to converge on Williamsport and the crossing there across the Potomac. Once Meade realized the Confederates were no longer in front of him he’d set off in hot pursuit. So every step the tired and sodden men took was one step closer to safety. Case kept on walking back and forth between the men in his unit, making sure they were all there and still escorting their prisoners. Ahead and behind trudged more men in similar situations to those of Case’s ‘A’ platoon. He stood on the raised gutter ridge by the roadside and ignored the stream of rainwater that dripped off the brim of his slouch hat. The tally at Gettysburg amongst ‘J’ Company had been awful; six dead, thirty-one wounded and ten missing, presumed captured. Thankfully only about nine of the wounded were too badly hurt to resume duties. Most had received flesh wounds.

  James Llewellyn had gone, now hopefully being well tended in a Yankee hospital. Joe Siddeley would join his father in Richmond, never to fight again. Colonel Williams had died leading the charge and General Kemper, despite being dragged back to friendly lines, had been too badly wounded to take back on the long retreat and had, like many in his condition, been reluctantly left for the Union surgeons to take care of. There were fewer and fewer of them. How many more will fall before it’s all over? Case asked himself, watching the bedraggled column pass him by. Munz was still there, tall, dependable, phlegmatic. Case realized he had come to rely on the big man a lot in recent months.

  Billy passed by, the rifle slung over his right shoulder, his left still swathed in bandages and behind him walked Furlong, his beard dripping rainwater. He nodded at Case as he passed and Case dipped his head in response. More water poured to the ground at his feet. He cursed under his breath. Still, the weather would be their ally tonight, helping mask their escape.

  Passmore appeared, tugging the front of the rope the line of prisoners were attached to and the rest of the squad appeared, passed by, then vanished into the damp darkness ahead. As the last of them passed him by he rejoined the road and squelched after the last of them.

  A short distance behind them the Union army remained in position, huddled against the elements, waiting for another attack that they feared might come at any time. All that is, except one small unit of men. They were already beyond the old Confederate positions on Seminary Hill and striding purposefully westwards. Their leader, the Colonel, rode while the rest walked. He alone knew the Confederates were retreating. He went on, not wishing to report to Meade’s HQ that the Rebels had gone, for that would mean pursuit and that would get in the way of his mission; the mission to capture Longinus. For all he cared, once he had the Beast, then both sides could annihilate themselves.

  Case passed the prisoners who he’d learned had been captured on the first day of battle and belonged to the XI Corps and checked they were still all there. The senior ranked of them, a corporal, glanced at him. “Scared we’ll break free and capture you?” he jeered.

  “Not really,” Case replied. “Protecting you from the nasty creatures of the night. Want to make sure you boys are nicely safe and snug with us here.”

  The corporal laughed briefly. “You’d make better progress without us. Cut us loose and we’ll not stop you going.”

  Now Case laughed. “Sure, and you’ll go back to your lines and tell them where we are. Think I’m simple? Try again, Yankee.”

  The corporal lapsed into silence and looked thoughtfully at Case who passed by and went to the rear. Here Corporal Buckley walked with Private Isaac Gatscombe, a long-faced clean shaven man with brown trousers, a loose open fronted grey jacket and a white cotton shirt. The famous blanket roll was slung around one shoulder. “All quiet?” Ca
se asked.

  “Yep,” Buckley nodded. “Can’t hear much with the rain, thunder and mud being squished, anyhows.”

  Case grinned momentarily and peered behind the two men. There was a gap of about twenty yards to the next unit, the remnants of ‘B’ platoon with their prisoners. Case waved at the front man and returned back up the line. The dripping trees and bushes on the roadside added to the pouring rain and made them all drenched through. They marched on and on, endlessly so it seemed. Eventually the rain slackened and with it came the dawn, revealing a grey, wet depressing world.

  Still it rained, on and off, throughout that day as the weary men plodded south west down towards the Potomac. Word was passed round that the enemy forces had finally learned of their retreat and were in hot pursuit, but the Confederate cavalry were keeping them at arm’s length and away from the tired men. The urge to press onwards was strong and men now slipped into a nightmare world of putting one foot in front of the other, splashing through pools of water, enduring rivulets of rain running down their backs, dragging saturated footwear and trousers through mud. Onwards, onwards to the Potomac and safety!

  Case rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted. His men were almost spent. Enough was enough. They had lost contact with the unit behind them and he ordered a rest for half an hour. The men dragged themselves off the road into the long grass and shrubs bordering the rutted and cloying road, glad to be off their feet at last. The prisoners were herded into a sullen group and made to sit with two guards watching them. Case pulled off his caked boots and began wiping off the worst of the mud, grimacing at the sight of the sole of his left shoe beginning to part company with the rest of it. He upended it and a thin, grey liquid dripped out onto the grass. His sock was soaked and he wrung that out too. It didn’t feel much better after he put them on but at least the worst was out.

  The rain came down in a constant drizzle. He checked on Billy and saw him ruefully examining a hole in his trousers that went from his right knee to his ankle. The jacket wasn’t much better, torn and still ruddy from the blood he had lost. He wiped his face and sat there miserably. Case felt the same but as he was in charge he daren’t let the others see that. As he returned to the group of prisoners, set in a hollow by a gnarled hawthorn, he stopped in shock. They were gone, and lying unconscious on the roadside, half hidden by the long grass, was Corporal Buckley. He grabbed him and rolled Buckley over, exposing his face to the rain. Buckley groaned and a large bump was beginning to swell on his temple.

  “Damn,” Case said under his breath. He turned full circle and looked into the grey rain. He could see nothing. Billy came over. “Hey, what’s happened?”

  “Buckley’s been overpowered. His gun’s gone. Those damned Yankees have taken it. Go get the others, but be quiet about it.”

  Guns would be useless in this rain; the powder would be sodden in seconds. He eased out his bayonet and affixed it to his rifle and probed forward through the undergrowth, jabbing the bayonet into the thickets. He saw no Union men but he did come across Wendell, slumped against a beech tree stump, blood trickling down his face. Like Buckley, he’d been struck without warning. His gun was gone too. Swearing, Case edged through the foliage and peered out the other side. A field ran off into the grayness but no sight came to him of the escaped prisoners. The ground was churned up, however, and the remains of a rope lay on the ground, severed neatly.

  He returned to the roadside, dragging the unfortunate Wendell up and half walking, half carrying him. By the time he reached the rest Buckley was sitting up moaning about his head. Case deposited Wendell carelessly onto the mud. “Those bastards have taken two guns and at least one knife. The rope is cut. They’ve gone north.”

  “What do we do, Sarge?” Passmore asked, looking worried.

  “What we do is to go after these Yankees. They’re on the loose and could create havoc. They’re our responsibility and they won’t be too far ahead. Besides, they could alert the Yankee army to our presence here and we don’t want that, do we?”

  “What about the Corp and Leonard here?” Furlong asked, pointing at the two injured men.

  “Get them up and pass them any spare weapon. Fix bayonets. Powder won’t be much use in this weather. Come on, we’re wasting time.” His unwilling men helped the two up fully and dragged them in their wake, Buckley rubbing his head and Wendell more unaware of his surroundings than he ought to have been. The rain had subsided to the point now it was hardly more than minute droplets, faintly caressing the skin, but Case had more urgent matters on his mind to appreciate the beauty of nature’s wash. His men were tired, most were carrying injuries and wanted to be heading down the road the other way, but they had to find the escaped Yankees.

  They emerged onto a field of corn, tracks crushed through it by the escapees, so it was easy to follow them. Clouds raced past, grey and full, but the rain now stopped, and visibility improved. Night wasn’t far off and they would have an infinitely more difficult time finding the fugitives in the dark than now.

  Case plowed on, forging ahead of the rest. He reached a wooden fence and noticed mud scrapings on the crossbars, more evidence of the prisoners’ passage. They couldn’t be far ahead, he rubbed one lump of mud and it was sticky and wet. Hadn’t been there for more than a few minutes. He heaved himself up and onto the fence, and ahead saw movement. “Ah, there they are,” he muttered in satisfaction. Another field lay there, this one a wheat field, and men were wading through it, stumbling and pulling each other onwards in desperation.

  Case jumped down and plowed through the wheat, his gun in one hand. The fact it had stopped raining now meant he could use the rifle, but he wondered if the Yankees had managed to steal cartridges off the unfortunate Buckley and Wendell. Probably, he mused, should’ve checked! He reprimanded himself, cursing at his carelessness. One of the escapees turned to look behind and, catching sight of Case closing in, yelped a warning. All the Union troops turned to see what the threat was, and saw one man heading for them. Beyond him, a second man was painfully clambering over the fence, twenty yards further back.

  The corporal in charge of the prisoners took two paces back towards Case and lifted the rifle he was carrying. They had argued whether they should take the guns but the corporal had insisted, and now he felt vindicated. He had a few cartridges, hastily grabbed from the luckless Reb he’d sapped from behind, and had given his best shot in the unit the others together with the second gun. He now loaded up, smoothly and without haste.

  Case saw the man preparing to shoot and stopped, clawed for a cartridge and bit the end off in a rush. He knew he would be second to shoot at this rate but had a rash plan to speed things up. As Case poured the powder down the barrel the enemy soldier had finished ramming the ball. Case sweated as he threw the lead bullet, a conical headed projectile with a three-grooved cylindrical neck, onto the ground, then swiftly hauled out the ramrod and slammed it into the barrel. Without pulling it out he raised the gun, half-cocked it and grabbed a percussion cap from his pouch and literally jabbed it onto the nipple before fully cocking the hammer. Even as he was doing this he raised his firearm to his shoulder.

  The Federal corporal had loaded in a more orthodox manner and hadn’t panicked when he saw Case load up, but now he frowned as both raised to aim simultaneously. What had the Reb done to speed things up? Both fired together at a distance of fifty yards, insanely close for a weapon of that accuracy. Case’s quicker than expected aiming had distracted the corporal and his shot spat past Case’s left ear. Case’s shot was more accurate; the corporal screamed as the ramrod speared into his gut, impaling him and sending him staggering. He fell back onto the ground and was surrounded by his anxious men.

  The other man with a rifle now loaded, his face dark with anger. It would take him fifteen to twenty seconds and the Eternal Mercenary raced forward, his free hand grabbing for his bayonet and lifted it clear above his head. As the Yankee raised the rifle, Case hauled hard and sent the bladed weapon blurring through the air. It
sank point first into the soldier’s throat, penetrating the esophagus and filling it with blood. Choking on his own life fluid, the soldier dropped the rifle and staggered about clutching at the bayonet which was embedded up to six inches deep, emerging out of his neck. He couldn’t even scream, instead emitted a gurgling obscene noise, blood spattering out of his mouth onto his uniform.

  Case was now holding a useless gun and no bayonet, and two more were closing on him, determined to get revenge for the hurt he’d done. From behind Case a deep voice boomed: “got the rest covered, Sarge.” Munz. The ever-reliable, no-nonsense corporal. Case said a silent prayer to the gods of thanks, and faced the two Yankees. Munz probably couldn’t see these two properly as he was almost certainly in his line of fire. No matter, two desperate Federal privates were better than fifteen or so.

  The rest of the escapees were grouped around their two fallen comrades, eyeing both the tensed Case and the un-blinking and silent Munz. Munz was standing, chest heaving, his rifle barrel slowly moving to cover them all. He hoped they all remained where they were, too afraid to try anything. The other Confederates were slowly making their way towards him, tired and drawn. They’d found the chase too much and what with lack of sleep, no food and their wounds, they couldn’t keep up with the fitter sergeant and corporal.

  Case watched the two Federals as they closed in on him. Murder was in their eyes and even the presence of Munz nearby didn’t deter them. One had a kepi on his head, the other had none. Both were tall, one had a beard, the other was clean shaven. “Come on,” Case challenged them, “either try to take me or surrender.”

  The two glanced at each other and saw the arriving rag-tag remainder of the Rebel unit. Flight was clearly impossible now, the number of guns coming to bear on them made it madness to try, and they looked at each other and passed a silent message to each other. They relaxed and slowly raised their hands. Case breathed out and waved curtly to the arriving Corporal Buckley. “Go get your gun and get these men lined up properly.” He advanced on the first corpse and pushed a prisoner away.