Casca 27: The Confederate

by Tony Roberts

  Occasionally they heard a scream of agony as some unlucky soul was hit, but thankfully these were few and far between. Shooting could be heard from the opposite side of the encircling perimeter, where the majority of the Carolinian troops were stationed, and Case guessed they were leading the assault. At dusk the shelling abated and the ships retired to their moorings, and the men breathed sighs of relief and stood up, dirt encrusted, white eyes standing out starkly against the blackened faces.

  Captain Skivenham slid into the trench and slapped Case on the shoulder. “We’re to stay put while the main attack goes in tomorrow against the Yankee forts guarding the eastern approaches to the town. Watch the river tomorrow, you might be in for a show, or so headquarters tells me. No idea what it is, but they’re confident those Yankee ships are going to be surprised.” He shared a little small talk with the men before clambering out and making his way to the next position.

  “What do you think of Captain Skivenham?” Case asked Munz in the quiet of the evening. The only sound they could hear were the soft murmurs of the next trench and the chirping of crickets. The smell of turned moist earth and sweaty bodies battled for supremacy but it was the scent of cooking meat that the men turned their heads towards with any enthusiasm. Munz scratched his chin. “Knows his job. Looks after the men. Good officer.”

  Case agreed. “One of the oldsters. Not too many of us left, Herman.”

  The next morning began the same way the previous day had, but the men were all looking towards the river expectantly. Noise erupted over to the east but they only glanced there occasionally. The river was filling up with Union ships again, and two suddenly turned and made for the west, upriver. Men in the trenches began shouting and pointing and Case craned his neck to the west. Coming along the river, its single stack belching black smoke, came a low sleek shape with a raised central hump from which the chimney jutted. The Southern Cross fluttered from a lanyard in front of the stack and guns protruded from embrasures in the side of the central section. It was, Case could see, entirely plated in iron.

  “What the devil...” he exclaimed, quite forgetting the proximity of the Federal gunners as he stood higher. He needn’t have worried, for the gunners in their redoubts had all turned to watch the duel. The two Union boats cut across the approach of the Rebel ship, both steam powered paddle gunboats with high central stacks. They appeared to have been tied together at the stern and now they looked to ensnare the approaching Confederate ironclad. “I’ve never seen one of those before,” Case remarked to Corporal Buckley who was standing next to the Eternal Mercenary.

  Guns from the Union forts around Plymouth fired into the river, sending up guts of water, and a few shots hit, but bounced off the iron plates. “Hell, she’s cannon proof!” one of the privates shouted. The soldiers began cheering the Rebel ship, which everyone soon was told was the Albermarle. Word came the two Union ships opposing her were the Miami and Southfield. All action along the land front ceased as men from both sides turned to watch the enactment out on the water.

  The Albermarle suddenly veered and bore down on the Southfield, the ship closest to the southern shore. Shots crashed out from the Miami and the targeted ship, bouncing off the water and the Confederate vessel, undeterred, plowed straight on at the hapless Southfield. There was a distant crash and all the onlookers could see that the Southfield had been rammed. It slowly keeled over, pulling the Southern ship with it, and rolled under the water. The men groaned as the Albermarle began to slip under the waters of the Roanoke, but suddenly the ram broke free and it bobbed up again, evoking raucous cheering from the Confederate troops. The Miami swung around, enraged at the death of her fellow ship, and sent a shell at it from point blank range. The shell bounced off the iron casing and flew back at the Miami, exploding on deck. A blue-dressed man could be seen flying backwards, shredded by his own shot.

  The Albermarle began to target the Miami but the Union ship turned and made off at top speed eastwards, leaving the triumphant Confederate ironclad mistress of the river. The Rebel troops cheered and threw hats into the air in celebration, hugging each other in delight. Case wiped his brow and turned to Buckley, smiling. “Well, that was something!”

  Buckley grinned, pumping the air with a clenched fist. “Showed those damn’ Yankees!”

  A shell from the nearby fort crashed overhead into a copse of trees, sending the men diving for cover. Various oaths contesting the parentage of the gunners followed from the trenches. “Now that’s got to Yankee!” Taylor said loudly from the bottom of his hole.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Union forces surrendered the next day, having lost control of the river and a couple of forts that had been stormed by the North Carolinian troops. Case and his unit entered Plymouth and were astounded at the amount of supplies they found, both in military hardware and food.

  They were assigned to load up wagons with the food ready for onward shipment to the armies fighting in the field. They caught sight of the Federal prisoners being marched off to captivity on the Tarboro road. They didn’t look too dejected, reminding them of the prisoners they’d escorted from Gettysburg.

  That evening Case and his men commandeered a riverside tavern and took a fair amount of alcohol upstairs to a large room. They sat round a stout oaken table and produced food all of them had secreted amongst their clothing and equipment during the loading during the day. Laughing, they tucked into the feast, eating with gusto items they’d not seen for years. Beer and wine flowed and the men became louder with ever mug consumed. Case downed a yeasty ale and eyed the room. Something was missing. He stood up. “Carry on, boys, gotta go get something. Will be back soon.”

  He left the room and shut the door. The tavern was also being used by other units downstairs and Case held onto the rail as he descended to the smoky and loud main saloon. He stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs and looked round. Seeing what he was after he lurched unsteadily off to one side, bumping into a table, then correcting himself he pushed through soldiers to the far side.

  At the back of the room a few doors led to the rear of the building and in front of these a number of women were standing, their breasts half revealed, skirts lifting up now and again to show long legs adorned with garters. A posse of admiring North Carolinian soldiers stood around them, ogling at the acreage of flesh on show. It seemed two of the men were bidding on one particular young girl, and she was slowly revealing more of her body the higher the bidding went. The other girls were standing in the background, pouting. Case weaved up to the first of them, slipping an arm round her narrow waist. Her red corset felt hard on his arm, and he pulled her close. “There’s a room full of good Virginian boys upstairs who badly need to show their appreciation to the fine girls of this state,” he said quietly in her ear.

  “Have they got money?” she asked, black mascara heavy around her eyes.

  “Not much,” Case conceded, still holding onto her tightly.

  “Well, mister, ah’m sorry but we ain’t goin’ upstairs for nuthin’.”

  “They have food,” Case said into her ear. “Chickens, beef, champagne. All taken from the Yankee depot today!”

  “You kiddin’?” the girl looked at Case in disbelief.

  “Come see,” Case leered, peering down the pure white cleavage. “Want champagne poured down that ripe looking chest of yours? I’ll lick it off ever so slowlyyyyyyyyyy…”

  The girl turned to her colleagues. “Girls, come on, we’ve got a party to go to! Follow us!”

  Shrieking in delight, she went arm in arm with Case across the floor, followed by the other five girls, even the one that had been the subject of the bidding war. The North Carolinian soldiers scowled and called insults after Case but he went on regardless, raising a hand above him in an insulting manner as he continued.

  The Virginians were happily gorging themselves when the door flew open and Case staggered in, dragging the first whore. “Company J, stand to!” he barked. The men shot up, startled. “
Don’t gentlemen stand up when ladies enter a room?” he demanded, glaring at a sea of goggle-eyed men.

  “Golly gee,” Gatscombe said in the hushed atmosphere.

  “Give the ladies here something to eat and drink,” Case slurred, waving a hand in the air as the other women entered. “I’m sure they’ll return the compliment. In some manner or other.” The scramble to pull the six women to a suddenly vacant chair almost knocked Case over. The women stared in amazement at the table full of food. They’d not seen anything like it for so long. “Southern hospitality,” Case said expansively, turning to shut the door. A face appeared and Case stepped up to the doorway. “Push off,” he said, breathing ale into the face of a North Carolinian soldier. “Private party.”

  “The hell it is!” the soldier snapped, angry at having his potential prize snatched from him.

  Case grabbed the man and shoved him into the group of his colleagues behind him. “Like I said, ‘push off’.” He shoved hard and the group all staggered backwards, one or two falling down the stairs. The man he’d pushed snarled and came back at Case, swinging a fist. It connected but Case stood unbowed. “That the best you can do?” he demanded and swung a meaty fist in response. It connected with the man’s jaw and he went hurtling back into his friends again. This time he slid to the floor. “Fuckin’ pathetic,” Case slurred, swaying in the corridor, “hits like a woman, falls like a sack of shit.”

  Two North Carolinians came at him, red-faced in fury. Case head-butted the first and swatted the second aside with his left hand, then caught him again as he came back for a second try. He grabbed the stunned man by the lapels and tossed him effortlessly at the remaining three standing uncertainly at the top of the stairs. All three went down in a tangle of arms and legs and vanished from sight. He turned to look at the head-butt victim. He was sat looking in a bemused manner at the blood pouring onto his hands.

  “Want to go down the stairs on your own two feet or fly?” Case growled.

  The man scrambled to his feet and ran down the stairs, pursued by a mighty belch. Case laughed and returned to the room, slamming the door shut. The table was full of soldiers and half dressed women eating and laughing, and he spotted a bottle of Perrier-Jouet champagne. The cork had already been removed. It was more than half full and he made his way to the whore he’d talked to earlier. Standing over her, he slowly tipped the bottle and the bubbly liquid splashed onto her breasts and sank down her cleavage. She shrieked, then began laughing.

  “Told you I’d do that,” Case grinned.

  “And the rest? You gonna do that too?” she said, turning her back so Case could undo her corset. Laughing Case pulled her off the chair. The girl grabbed a chicken leg before she was carried to the far corner, and Case untied her bodice before hauling it off. Almost tearing her cotton blouse, he freed the woman’s breasts and dribbled more champagne over it before bending his head to gorge on her milky white globes.

  Billy sat at the other end of the table, busy eating and drinking. One of the girls came over to him but he shook his head. He wasn’t interested; Rosie was his love and he didn’t want to betray that. Munz grabbed one and pulled her onto his lap and began singing to her while a couple of the other men started a dance, grabbing a girl each so that they were soon performing some drunken version amongst the bones on the floor.

  Furlong sat laughing and quaffing beer and Wendell fed one of the girls from his plate next to him. Case cared little for them; he was busy releasing himself from the torment of Liz’s death and soon the girl with him was lying, her legs spread-eagled, while he pumped into her, the fumes of alcohol in his head adding a pleasant background to the excitement of the moment.

  The following morning Case opened his eyes slowly, wondering why a madman was pounding on his head. It took a few moments to realize there was nobody doing the hammering; it was the mother of all hangovers. He got to his knees and stared in incomprehension at the devastation that greeted his gritty eyes. Bodies were sprawled all over the room and, scattered amongst the bodies, were pieces of bone, meat and upturned or broken bottles and mugs.

  His limbs were defying his commands and he had to drag them to life, finding his legs were pinned by a naked woman with tits that smelt of stale alcohol. “Ooh, by Jupiter’s fetid scrotum,” he muttered, “why can’t this damned Curse stop me having hangovers?”

  He got to his feet, somewhat bemused to find his trousers around his ankles and his cotton shirt totally undone so that it flapped open weakly. Mumbling about a vow of lifelong abstinence from alcohol, he blearily looked about the room again as he buttoned up his shirt. A few of the devastated men were sat at the table, heads resting on arms as they slumbered in the arms of Morpheus. Or is it Bacchus? Case wondered, hauling up his trousers and slipping the bracers over his shoulders. Been there, done it, thrown up in the alleyway, he mused.

  He trod through a sea of flotsam, trying to avoid shards of glass and fingers, checking on the first man lying on the tabletop. He pulled the head up and examined him. Gatscombe. Snoring like an elephant. He allowed the head to flop back onto his arms lying on the table and pushed past, groaning at his throbbing headache. He suddenly realized he had to throw up and stumbled in that pre-vomit panic for the nearest window, knocking over a chair stupidly placed in his way. He wrenched the window open and deposited last night’s party contents down the wall of the tavern.

  He lay there, head out of the window for a moment, until the bright whirling lights had subsided. He looked down and saw Captain Skivenham walking past. Skivenham took one look at the scene and saluted. “Morning Sergeant,” he said cheerfully, “parade at the town square in fifteen minutes.” He continued on his way, humming a tune cheerfully.

  “Oh, shit,” Case pulled himself in and sucked on the foul taste in his mouth. Just like a vulture’s closet. “Alright you miserable excuses for soldiers,” he bellowed, thumping the tabletop with a mug. “Wake up, get up, shut up!”

  The dead stirred into life, awakening from their internment. Heads came up, eyes rolled in their red-rimmed sockets, mouths opened vacantly, some drooling. Now came the sounds. Groans and complaints. Case, foul of mood because of the headache and gut ache, stamped along the room, kicking at those still lying in hope the nightmare of the raging sergeant was an illusion. It wasn’t. “Up! Parade in ten minutes! Out of this whorehouse now!”

  He whirled and glared at the sea of writhing limbs. They’d had their fun, now back to reality. The six whores complained about the noise and curled back up. Case looked round at the one he’d diddled and saw she was wearing his jacket. “Sergeant Prostitute. Interesting. Might be good for recruiting, but now’s not the time.” He pulled the jacket off the woman who complained sleepily. Case grinned. “Thanks for keeping it warm, sweetheart.”

  “A pox on you,” she mumbled and snuggled up into the corner.

  “Impossible for me, darling.” He shrugged it on and surveyed the squad of zombies. They couldn’t fight off a unit of five year olds, let alone any Yankees. White-faced, half asleep and hung over, they stumbled to their feet and looked for support as gravity and reality conspired to make their morning hell on earth. “Well, well, look at you. Mom’s pretty darlings. You drunken filthy whoring lot of you. I’m full of admiration,” he added, seeing their accusing expressions.

  One or two smiled sheepishly. The rest were too busy trying not to repeat Case’s performance. The sergeant pointed to the open window. “That’s for those of you unable to keep your stomachs under control.”

  Five minutes later the men shambled out of the tavern and were led by Case south through the town towards the parade ground. Their guns, left behind the previous evening, were grabbed and the men somehow managed to stumble on time to the designated place.

  Case stood in front of the ‘company’, numbering now no more than thirty-one men, alongside the other sergeant, Henry Gray, and slightly behind the surviving lieutenant, Josiah Wyatt. Gray looked sideways at Case and winced. “You look like death,”
Gray murmured.

  “Feel like it,” Case replied, then went silent as Captain Skivenham walked up to them. “The quartermaster was very pleased about the assistance your men gave him, Lieutenant,” he said to Wyatt. “Although he thought there were some bottles of champagne amongst them, which he couldn’t find. No matter, we should be able to feed the army for a few weeks.”

  Wyatt nodded, while Skivenham’s look went to Case who stared over the captain’s shoulder into infinity. Skivenham sighed and turned round, standing in front of his company. The regimental officers now came along to inspect the men and to tell them they’d won a great victory and President Davis himself had expressed his thanks at them recapturing Plymouth.

  They remained in the town for nearly a week before receiving more orders to pack and march off. They’d enjoyed their brief stay, having eaten their fill and rested. But now once more their President had need of them, for a leviathan was on the move and its aim was to devour the army of the Confederacy and thus end the war.

  Ulysses S. Grant had been given overall control of the Federal forces in the east, and was given the new rank of lieutenant-general. Under him was the Army of the Potomac, still commanded by Meade, but the reorganized army now had three corps, the II, V and VI, commanded by Generals Hancock, Warren and Sedgwick, while reporting directly to Grant was Burnside’s IX Corps. His army of 120,000 rolled into life at the beginning of May and crossed the Rapidan, filled with a determination to destroy the Army of Northern Virginia, numbering some 65,000, and to seize Richmond. This time there would be no retreat.

  All the while, Case and the 1st Virginia were walking along the corduroy roads of North Carolina, the mud in between the logs splashing up with every thump of a foot, covering the weary men from head to foot in the slimy, viscid stuff. Each man stared out with white eyes from a face of dark grey, intent only on putting one foot in front of the other. News came to them when they got to Washington, North Carolina, that in the west the new general, William T. Sherman, was driving into Georgia from the Mississippi, pushing General Joseph E. Johnston’s Army of the Tennessee back. The giant jaws of the Union were slowly closing.