Casca 27: The Confederate

by Tony Roberts

  “No sir!”

  “And neither would they. They are brave men. Our men are brave men. And when brave men on both sides clash,” he resumed peering through his telescope at the carnage, “we have many brave men dying.”

  And died they did, in heaps. At the end the Confederates were thrown back in defeat but the exhausted Union troops could advance no further. McClellan nodded in satisfaction. The Rebel left and center were decimated and had been fought to a halt. Now for his left hook against the Rebel right which should crush them and sent them reeling back into the remains of the center and left, and he would then send in his Fifth Corps which was still fresh. Victory would be his by nightfall!

  Case came to the same conclusion. He’d watched the battle progress through the day. Now it was past midday and it was their turn. “We’re in trouble, boys,” he muttered, staring ahead at the stone bridge. Grouped around it were a brigade of Confederate soldiers, dug in and ready to repel whatever came at them. “Who are they?” he asked, pointing at the waiting men.

  “Georgians, Sergeant,” Captain Skivenham said, coming to stand by the burly sergeant’s side. “Under the command of Brigadier General Robert Toombs.”

  “Toombs? Never heard of him.”

  “A political appointment,” Skivenham replied, his voice tainted with a slight edge. “Was formerly our Secretary of State but resigned to get a military post.”

  Case groaned. “He has no military experience?”

  “None, Sergeant.” Skivenham stared long at Case before moving off, his head fixed on the backs of the Georgians. The sound of horses’ hooves stopped him and he saw Brigadier General James Lawton Kemper approach, accompanied by his staff. “Good afternoon, Captain,” Kemper returned Skivenham’s salute. “Colonel Williams tells me this is his best company. I’m gratified you are holding our right flank. Are your men ready to face the enemy?”

  “Yes, sir. Every man will stand and fight here.”

  Kemper nodded. “Men of ‘J’ company, you are the best of the brigade. You may be the best in the regiment. This is my regiment; I know it is in good hands. Good shooting!”

  The men cheered, hats being raised on bayonets and waved in the air. Case grunted; they’d need more than good shooting to stop what was coming their way. “Boys, make sure your rifles are clean and you’ve got plenty of ammunition.” The men bent to check their guns and cases hurriedly, for the Georgians were now shooting at Burnside’s advancing troops. Across the creek the blue uniforms were massing, but no-one seemed to be taking the responsibility in making the first move to attack. The Georgian defenders, hopelessly outnumbered, kept shooting and only the Union skirmishers traded shots. Captain Skivenham wandered out front and stared downhill at the scene. “Why don’t they attack?”

  The same question was on the lips of General McClellan, watching from his vantage point with his staff. “For God’s sake!” he exploded, “why the devil doesn’t Ambrose send his troops over that bridge?” He turned to a captain of engineers. “How deep is that creek at that point?”

  “No more than knee deep, sir,” the captain replied, his face unimpressed.

  “Captain Murray,” McClellan called across an orderly, scribbling hurriedly on a piece of paper, “take this to General Burnside and tell him I’m ordering his troops over that creek!” The orderly saluted and left with the message, grabbing the reins of his horse and galloping off south towards II Corps.

  General Burnside himself was having his own difficulties at that precise moment. His famous cheek whiskers were bristling with frustration at the near mutiny of his soldiers. They had chosen this particular moment to make a somewhat unique complaint. The New York and Pennsylvanian troops were refusing to attack until their request was met. Burnside was virtually apoplectic. “Whiskey! They want whiskey? Now?!? What in the name of….”

  The Colonel commanding one of the regiments spread his fingers helplessly and made as apologetic a face as he could. “I’m sorry, sir, but they are demanding their whiskey rations for the past three days before they will attack. No whiskey, no attack.”

  Burnside’s response wasn’t for the faint hearted. Furiously he turned to his quartermaster. “Very well, break out the whiskey rations, and make it quick! I don’t want to be stuck here for the rest of the day!”

  Captain Skivenham frowned and peered at the scene. “They’re not attacking. Anyone got a telescope?”

  Colonel Williams came up a few moments later and put his telescope to his eye and stared at the Union forces. “Well, I’ll be damned. They’re taking a drink!”

  Skivenham looked at his superior in amazement. “Sir?”

  Williams laughed and passed the eyepiece to the captain. “Whiskey, sir. Those Yankees are taking in whiskey, and not a little of it either! Gentlemen,” he turned to face his grinning men, “you will be facing a drunken rabble if they proceed this far. What an enemy!”

  General Burnside glowered at the drinking men who were getting louder and more high spirited with each passing minute. “Colonel! Get those sots across that bridge!” The regimental officer saluted and dashed to his unit and began barking orders, joined likewise by the other officers of the other regiments. Slowly, reluctantly, the Northern troops picked up their rifles and packs and moved towards the bridge and the Georgian defenders.

  General McClellan read a dispatch sent by a scout and frowned at the words. He grunted and resumed watching Burnside’s belated attack on the bridge. “About time,” he commented. The scout waited patiently, expecting a reply to the message he’d brought from his commander. McClellan seemed to suddenly remember he was there. “Ah, yes. My compliments to your Colonel and thank him for the message.”

  “Sir, any commands?”

  McClellan shook his head. “Just extend my compliments to your colonel. Dismissed.”

  The scout looked amazed, but turned and left, shaking his head, muttering about incompetence. McClellan looked at the expressions of his corps commanders who had arrived after the morning’s battles. Many were displaying wounds and of course, Mansfield was not there, having died. Sumner, the old warhorse, nodded at the paper stuck in McClellan’s pocket. “Trouble, sir?”

  McClellan shook his head. “Nothing to worry about, Edwin. Ambrose will win us the battle before any problem asserts itself.”

  Case was fed up with waiting. The battle had ceased everywhere except for the area right in front of him and his men. The Georgians had put up a spirited defense but finally had been pushed back by superior numbers and now were streaming uphill to the right, away from the approach of the Union corps. The men of the brigade tensed and readied themselves. Once the New Yorkers and Pennsylvanians and whoever else was part of that corps got organized at the bottom of the slope, they’d advance up against the thin gray line and in all probability smash it to pieces. Kemper sent the 7th infantry regiment to the right in the gap between the Georgians and Case, their backs to a small wood. In front of Case stood an artillery battery, about 50 yards ahead.

  “Wish they’d hurry up and get on with it,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “Yeah,” James Llewellyn agreed. “Bad mannered of these Yankees to keep us waiting.”

  The mood of the men changed and they became silent. To their right the Georgians reformed and prepared to take the oncoming storm. Even with the artillery pieces scattered amongst them, it was clear they were in for a rough time. Case felt more relieved now there were troops to his right, but their numbers didn’t inspire confidence.

  The Yankee guns began opening up as they became organized and the troops lined up by regiment, ready to carry the day. “Okay boys”, Skivenham said loudly, “don’t forget to give ‘em hell when they come into range.”

  Metallic clicks rattled along the line as hammers were cocked back and lips were licked by suddenly fearful men. The line of blue began advancing up towards them, skirmishers in advance. The Confederate artillery began pounding away and a few fe
ll, but the mass approached, and the gunners began frantically cramming canister down the muzzles of the smoothbore ‘Napoleons’ of the Loudon Battery, blasting gaps in the ranks of the blue coats, but the attackers were too many and the gunners fled as they were reached. Now only Jones’ Division stood between Burnside’s Corps and Sharpsburg.

  “Front rank, ready,” Skivenham said calmly. Rifle barrels raised and pointed evilly at the young men of New York who approached. The 89th New York regiment, led by their Major, Edward Jardine, cheered as they ran at the enemy. Case aimed for a lieutenant on the right urging his men onwards with a wave of his saber.

  The New Yorkers passed in between the abandoned cannons. “Fire!” Captain Skivenham barked.

  Flame rippled along the line and Minié bullets span through the air at the oncoming men. The front rank shuddered and men toppled, some instantly, some in slow motion, but their places were taken immediately by their colleagues behind. Case’s shot struck the officer in the shoulder, low down, and he spun round, face twisted in agony, and sank to the ground clutching his wound. Men passed him by to left and right.

  The smoke from the volley drifted up and ramrods rattled as the Rebels reloaded frantically. Case bit his cartridge in two hurriedly, constantly glancing up at the onrushing enemy. His ramrod pounded the ball and powder down into a compact mass inside the barrel and he yanked it out, spun it and slid it into the groove. He cocked the hammer to the ‘half’ position and tore the spent percussion cap off the nipple and threw it away, reaching for a fresh one. He pressed it on and fully cocked the hammer, at the same time bringing the barrel up to face a corporal running towards him, yelling. Case’s mind went blank and he aimed at the man’s chest. He squeezed the trigger, the rifle kicked and the corporal was staggering back, the projectile buried in his ribs, blood staining his jacket. As he fell the men around him halted and raised their rifles. A few fell to desperate shots from the Confederates but now they faced a volley from two ranks at a distance of 100 yards.

  “Down!” Case yelled, realizing they would be obliterated unless they took desperate measures. He pulled Billy onto his back as he dived and had time to see Munz ducking and a few others falling onto their faces. A tremendous blast and spattering sound filled their ears. Screams came from those too slow to get out of the way. Case got to one knee and saw the Yankees getting to their feet to charge.

  “Fall back!” Colonel Williams screamed, appalled at the volley that had cut down a fair few of his regiment. Three of ‘J’ Company lay where they had fallen; none, fortunately from Case’s platoon. His shout had probably saved them. To the right another Union regiment was advancing unopposed into the gap in between the 7th and the 1st Virginia, seeking to cut their retreat off. Just 150 yards to their rear was a road, bordered by a stone wall. It was to this the men ran, leaving behind their dead and badly wounded. This would be their last stand before they were overrun.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A rider galloped up to General Robert E. Lee’s tent and flung himself off even before a soldier came to take the reins. He ran to the general and his staff, worriedly looking to the south. The rider saluted and breathlessly made his report. General Lee, his face creased with worry and the dread certainty of defeat, suddenly cracked into a laugh and nodded emphatically, pointing to the right flank where clouds of smoke were billowing up into the air. The rider nodded, turned and ran back to his mount. He vaulted up, swung into the saddle, reared his horse and waved his slouch hat and was gone within seconds.

  Across at General George McClellan’s command post, an officer pointed to the south west, beyond the fighting. Movement could be seen of soldiers advancing. “General, sir! More men!”

  McClellan swung his telescope round and found the men advancing towards the battlefield. He stared at them for a long time, then smiled. He saw blue uniforms amongst the myriad colors. “They’re ours! Coming in behind the Rebel right! They’ll be crushed!”

  “Whose men are they?” Edwin Sumner demanded. “We don’t have anyone that far to the south!”

  “They must be Burnside’s; didn’t he send some men to the south to find another crossing point?” McClellan looked at his subordinates. He swung on a liaison officer who had kept on riding between Burnside and McClellan, passing on messages. “Didn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir. Rodman’s brigade.”

  “Then that’s who they are. Brilliant maneuver! We’ve got them now!”

  The men of Case’s company had reached the stone wall and jumped over it gratefully onto the road. Rifles were aimed once more at the oncoming men. The 89th New York had swung to the north and was heading for Sharpsburg which was now exposed by the retreating Confederates, but the 8th Connecticut came up behind, advancing towards the wall, flags flying. “Here come the Yankees,” Case hollered, catching everyone’s attention. Most of the men were still catching their breath, sheltering behind the stone wall.

  A line of barrels pointed over the jagged uneven top of the wall at the approaching men. At 120 yards Captain Skivenham shouted the order to fire and a volley tore into the men from Connecticut. They toppled like a rotten fence but more came on. Case reloaded and caught sight of movement to his right. “Hey, there’s a whole regiment coming to the party!”

  The men swung their heads, momentarily distracted by the new arrivals. “What?” Joe Siddeley stared, his eyes growing wide. “Blue? Gray? Yellow?”

  “Hell, that’s a Reb flag they’re flying,” Munz’s laconic drone cut through the babbling.

  “Yeah!” Billy yelled, “they’re our boys!”

  The Virginians yelled in delight as suddenly it dawned on them these were men of Ambrose Hill’s division. “Hey, those are South Carolinian boys!” Llewellyn shouted. “Go get ‘em!”

  The newly arriving men waved briefly as cheering from those behind the wall rose to a crescendo. Indeed, some of them were wearing blue, plundered from the Federal depot at Harper’s Ferry. They had marched seventeen miles since that morning, desperate to come to Lee’s aid, and they had just made it in the nick of time. They emitted the now familiar Rebel Yell and crashed into the stunned regiments on the left flank of Burnside’s advance. The 4th Rhode Island took one withering volley and broke, fleeing in panic. Two Connecticut regiments swung in to meet the charge and things got confused. The Union attack stalled.

  “Now lads!” Case screamed, “give these Yankees all you’ve got!” He brought his rifle round and aimed at the flag bearer. His shot plowed through the man’s throat, sending his arterial blood spraying. The bearer sank to his knees, clutching his throat, and the flag fell. Another picked it up but Munz’s shot smashed into his ribs, splintering them and sending the man falling backwards over the corpse of the man killed by Case.

  The regiment commander, Lieutenant Colonel Hiram Appleton, turned to the men nearest to the fallen flag. “Never leave the colors!” Case spotted him and brought up his reloaded gun once again. Closing one eye he aimed deliberately. All round him men were cursing, crying, shouting; the noise was deafening. The smoke made the figures shady and indistinct. Rifles spat, cannons roared. Shot hit stone and flesh. The rotten egg smell of gunpowder filled the air. Case blocked all this out and concentrated on the target.

  His shot took Appleton in the side, sending him stumbling to his knees, and then over onto his back. Men rushed to his side and dragged the screaming man to safety. As Case reloaded, Billy took a bead on the third man to lift the colors. His shot crashed into the man’s chest and he looked at Billy with a stupefied expression before falling onto his back, eyes open to the sky.

  The Union shots were striking stone. The Virginians were too well protected by the wall to be bothered by the return fire, and the Connecticut men were being decimated. Siddeley snarled and blasted a fourth standard bearer over. The pile of bodies around the flag was growing. Furlong shot a sergeant organizing the rank of men nearest them, and the Yankees began to edge backwards. Their new commander, Major John Ward, saw it was a slaughter and o
rdered the men back away from the unequal contest.

  The relieved men ceased fire and stared ahead through the thinning smoke at the field in front of them. It was littered with bodies. They could see the survivors of the 8th Connecticut marching back downhill with their colors. “Hell, they were tough,” Munz commented.

  The others agreed and slumped in relief, suddenly fatigued. Case leaned his forehead against the wall and thanked the gods for the timely arrival of A.P. Hill’s men. They had arrived literally at the last possible moment to save them. Over on the right their attack had pushed the Yankees back down the hill but more reinforcements had been rushed to plug the gap and now the fighting was dying down with a stalemate. They had fought each other to a standstill.

  * * *

  “Ours?” Edwin Sumner barked angrily his eyes flashing at McClellan. “Ours? The devil they were, sir!” He snatched the paper from McClellan’s pocket before the shocked general could stop him and watched as the old campaigner read the contents. Sumner’s eyes came up, his cheeks red with fury. “This says a division of Confederates are approaching from the direction of Harper’s Ferry. You knew they were Rebels and you did nothing!”

  There was silence around the command post. McClelland faced an incandescent Sumner. Sumner thrust the paper into the hands of William Franklin, commander of VI Corps. “You could have sent our cavalry against them, stopping them from getting here, but you did nothing! We could now be celebrating a victory but we are not, and only because of your incompetence, sir!”

  “How dare, you, sir!” McClellan snapped. “I believed that the reinforcements from Harper’s Ferry would arrive too late to make any difference. If Ambrose Burnside’s attack had taken place when I commanded it we would have won. I shall find out why it took him five hours to cross that creek. In the meantime you will modify your tone and words towards me; I am your commanding officer, sir!”