Casca 27: The Confederate

by Tony Roberts

  Thankfully a train was waiting to take them north back into Virginia and they reached Petersburg two days later. Stiffly they disembarked and painfully walked through the town and out north towards Richmond until they got to a place called Chesterfield. News and rumors flew about the camp and riders were frequently seen galloping in, their riders jumping off and running into the commander’s tent. Eventually orders came to get the men up and out of the camp quickly, for a new danger now threatened Richmond, for a new Union Army, the 35,000 strong Army of the James under General Benjamin F. Butler, had landed on the southern bank of the James River in an area known as the Bermuda Hundred, which was only eight miles from Petersburg.

  With virtually nothing between Butler and the city, the local defense commander, none other than Pierre Beauregard, somehow had to throw together a motley collection of scraps and spares. He therefore turned to the 1st Virginia to assist in a force of around 12,000 in trying to prevent a military disaster, and to create a miracle instead.

  So Case and his buddies once again marched towards the sound of guns.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The situation was bad when they got to the front line. General Beauregard assigned the 1st Virginia to the left under command of Major General Robert Ransom, a bearded, balding man who similarly been thrown hastily into the fray while on his way elsewhere. The defenses snaked along a series of wooded rises and in between the ground was extremely swampy. Perfect defenders country, Case thought, even when outnumbered three to one.

  They threw themselves down and shucked off their packs and other non-essential equipment. Case barked out the men’s assignments and sent a couple of pickets forward, bearing in mind the enemy weren’t too far away. He didn’t want any unpleasant surprises. If Butler’s men broke through here there was nothing to stop them taking Petersburg. They’d only been stopped a few days back by a desperate series of defensive battles at Port Walthall Junction where Butler had seized the railroad; Swift Creek where the attack had stalled and at Chester Station where a Rebel attack had driven off Federal soldiers ripping up the rail line.

  Now the main Union army was probing forward, testing out the Confederate lines. Case walked along the back of the troops’ positions and made sure all were positioned right. He had spread out the sharpshooters in the unit evenly so that they could pick off any advance enemy troops along the line. Because of the fewer numbers in the company, he was now nominally responsible for twelve men including two corporals. Not much of a force. Ranks were getting thin.

  Over to the right ‘B’ company were digging in, their numbers hardly any greater. Case turned his attention back to the men in front of him. “Keep alert boys, Yankee is just ahead of you out there in those trees. You see anything, holler out.”

  He checked with one of the commissariat runners about ammunition, then returned to the front line and lay down in between Billy and Wendell. Billy was easily the best shot in the company and Case reckoned it was best to be next to him. “When do you think they’re coming, Sarge?” Billy asked, twisting round.

  “Who knows? They’ve tried on the right already from what I’ve heard but Beauregard gave them a bloody nose. Butler doesn’t seem too keen to press his attack.”

  Wendell snorted. “He’s better off fightin’ women, like in New Orleans!”

  “What’s that?” Case asked, intrigued.

  Wendell pushed back his slouch hat and leaned on one elbow. “When Yankee occupied New Orleans back in ’62 it seems the folk there took exception to it. A guy from Florida told me that the soldiers were mocked and one woman threw a pot of night soil from her bedroom down on one Yankee officer!”

  The listening men laughed. Wendell shook his head. “So Butler, who’s in charge down there, orders any woman who mocks his soldiers to be treated like a whore. That’s why he’s known as ‘Beast’ Butler. Ain’t no good at fightin’ men. Much prefer fightin’ women.”

  The men growled and turned back to face down the slope. If Butler was to turn up there, it was likely he’d be strung up and shot. But no attack came and Case, along with Sergeant Gray and Lieutenant Wyatt, were summoned to Captain Skivenham that evening. Skivenham stood by a small collapsible table upon which rested a map of the area and a small oil fired lantern. The lantern cast a glow up into Skivenham’s face, and he looked like something out of a Dante painting. “Gentlemen, tomorrow we attack. General Ransom has been given permission to have a go at Butler’s right flank. We’ll move in at dawn and throw everything we’ve got at them. Intelligence says they’re not expecting us to attack. After all, we’re on the defensive and are outnumbered about two to one, but since when has that stopped us from having a go?”

  The three listening men grinned. It was a simple plan and relied as much on Butler’s overconfidence as on the scratch force’s valor. So it was the next morning, a dank, misty dawn, that the men stood up from their positions and, picking their way over the branches and twigs scattered across the ground, made their way downhill towards the river.

  Case led the way, stepping carefully, hoping not to snap any twigs or other breakable items lying over the ground. The mist swirled in and out of the bushes, trees and undergrowth, the visibility one moment fifty yards, the next three. Wraiths, spirits of the forest. All I need now is Glam by my side. Case felt a momentary glow of warmth for his long-dead Germanic friend, then dismissed the thought from his mind and scanned left and right. Behind him the men of ‘J’ Company followed, grim determination on their faces, bayonets fixed.

  Shooting and screams broke out to their right, some distance off. Other units had come into contact with the enemy. Now the whole front would be alerted. Case half turned and waved the men on after him. “Let’s go!” he snapped and broke into a run, blundering through a soft wet bush and down a steep slope marked with tree roots and bare earth. At the bottom a number of small thick bushes sprouted and Case ran past these straight into a surprised Union soldier who had just finished relieving himself against a tree.

  The Yankee opened his mouth to shout but Case rammed his head against the tree and the soldier’s eyes turned up into his head and he sank to the ground into a sitting position and remained there, stunned, as the rest of the Confederates ran past. One grabbed his gun and slung it over his shoulder. A second picket came out of the mist, attracted by the noise and leveled his gun. Case, ready for it, fired at the hip and noted in satisfaction the bullet taking the man in the guts, flinging him backwards. “Go for it!” Case yelled.

  All around the men broke into the famous Rebel Yell, the high-pitched, unnerving ululating cry, and charged forward, not knowing who they would meet or where. Shooting was erupting all along the line to the right but apart from the two pickets so far, Case and his buddies hadn’t met any opposition.

  The undergrowth suddenly receded and they emerged with surprise out into a clearing where scores of camp fires stood with coffee pots hanging over them. “Hell,” Taylor exclaimed, “we’ve hit their camp at breakfast time!”

  “Yes,” Case said, turning a half circle, “and they’ve gone running to meet the attack further along the line. Spread out and secure the camp!”

  A few guards came running from the far side and opened fire. Private Yeomans span round and slumped to the ground. Billy knelt and drilled the guard through the sternum, knocking him over. Furlong stooped to check the fallen Yeomans and after a moment, raised his head and shook it slowly. Case grimaced and continued his route to the far side. A small group of Federal soldiers were trying to get organized but Case and his men took cover and began shooting at the wavering line. Slowly the outgunned guards backed away out of the clearing, leaving some of their number lying in the damp grass.

  More men began arriving on both sides and the camp became a battlefield. Case and his men were the advance group, taking cover behind the tents and packaging scattered about. Case dragged Billy to the right and snapped at him to keep shooting the officers while the rest lay down a curtain of shot to occupy the o
ther ranks. Twelve men lay in cover behind bullet riddled wooden crates and logs, shooting away at the Massachusetts soldiers who were trying to retake the camp. The enemy had no cover once they left the undergrowth and they had twenty yards to run until they got to the first cover, and in that space they were shot down. It was a ridiculously suicidal range and the dead began piling up. Eventually the Union troops backed away and began shooting from cover. Case lay behind one log and kicked Furlong. “Go get us some of that coffee. It smells great!”

  “I’ll be shot, Sarge,” Furlong protested.

  “No you won’t. They can’t see you from where they are. Now go get one of those kettles and some mugs. I think we ought to be rewarded for taking the enemy camp!”

  Furlong scuttled off, hand on hat, and after a few moments came waddling back, bent double, carrying a heavy iron kettle. His belt rattled with a number of mugs hanging from it and he flopped down next to Case. “As long as I can have first go for fetching it, Sarge.”

  “Go on, Randy, you’ve earned it.” Case took his mug and passed the others round the eager unit. Furlong poured himself the first and took a cautious sip. His eyes closed and he gasped long and loud. “Oh, brother! That is good!”

  The rest drank and agreed. “Almost worth deserting to the Yankees for,” Gatscombe said, then winked. “Beats our chicory for sure,” he said.

  Case wiped his mouth and put his mug down and glanced at the undergrowth. Nothing was moving, and even the shooting had ceased. “Randy, you’re coffee guard. The rest of you, spread out and move in on those bushes. I think Yankee has gone.”

  The men crept forward, eyes scanning the dark bushes for movement, but nothing could be seen. Case pushed into the thick woodland and looked downhill. Nothing. He leaned against a tree and waved at Wendell and Passmore to picket the trees before returning to camp. “They’re gone. Left a few dead.” Some of the other units were arriving, attracted by the coffee and gradually the camp became a rest area. Yeomans had been the only casualty in the company and his corpse was buried at the camp edge.

  Captain Skivenham came up and congratulated the men. “Yankee has fallen back to another line, and we’re to attack tomorrow. Once our scouts have worked out where they are we’re to go face them. So make the most of your rest.”

  Other news came that afternoon. JEB Stuart, the cavalry commander, had been killed outside Richmond in a pitched battle with Union cavalry under Sheridan, and Grant’s offensive was being matched at that moment by Lee’s men in the Wilderness west of Fredericksburg in appalling scenes of slaughter. One notable loss amongst many was the commander of the Union VI Corps, General John Sedgwick. Overseeing the building of fortifications, he was dismayed at long range sharpshooters making his men dive for cover. Stepping out boldly, he declared loudly that the Rebels “couldn’t hit an elephant at that distance.” Next moment one shot blew his face off.

  ‘Old Pete’ Longstreet was also a casualty, wounded by his own men in the confusion, and he was out of action for the time being. It seemed all the old established leaders were falling one by one. That afternoon Union gunboats came up the James River and began shelling the newly won positions. Case dived for cover just as a tent he had been standing by erupted into flame and smoke. “For Chrissakes!” he exploded, staring through a small human-made ridge of mud and slime, “can’t someone sink those damned boats?”

  Two Rebel soldiers screamed as a shell landed in between them, sending them spinning to the ground, their clothing shredded. Billy rolled against the comforting cover of a large fallen tree and tried to burrow into the earth. Munz pressed himself into the ground and waited until the sound ceased before scrambling to his feet and dived for better cover. The shelling went on for a few hours, the boats sailing up and down, blasting away into the swampy undergrowth, occasionally hitting someone but mostly blowing up trees and vegetation.

  At the end of the day the boats moved off, leaving a dazed and relieved regiment to pick up their dead and clear the debris. That evening they moved off to better prepared positions and spent an uneasy night improving them. They didn’t get much sleep. The shelling was repeated the following day but the Confederates were better prepared and rode out the barrage by and large, although some casualties were inevitable.

  Orders came later that day to attack again. The soldiers looked at each other warily. Yankee outnumbered them and they were pushing into a large peninsula so that the Army of the James wouldn’t be able to go anywhere except back at them if pushed far enough. Captain Skivenham shook his head. “Plans are to advance a little way and then build a defensive line across the peninsula and bottle Butler and his men up. General Beauregard is under pressure elsewhere so he has to find men, and he thinks if he puts a cork into Butler’s bottle here some of us can be sent to other places.”

  “We can’t be everywhere at once,” someone moaned. “I gotta eat sometime, too.”

  “Food is short but I’ll see what I can do,” Skivenham said and moved off into the growing darkness.

  “Well, here we go again,” Case said. “Check your guns, clean them. Make sure you have enough ammunition. Anyone short let me know. If you run out of bullets tomorrow and haven’t told me, I’ll send you on a bayonet charge against Yankee!”

  The men grinned and bent to their tasks, half-starved, dressed in rags but still with fire in their bellies. Some urinated down the barrels of their guns to clean them out, the smell permeating through the air. The next day they stepped out of their holes and advanced, hoping the enemy forces weren’t too strong in front of them. Case checked the lines to either side of him and was satisfied the men were spaced evenly and supporting one another. The ground changed from soft grassland to swamp and it was clear they were nearing the James River. Ahead, they could see the spire of a church sticking out of the trees and it was there they ran into the Union pickets.

  Shots blasted at them through the undergrowth and the men scattered, diving for cover. Munz cursed and grasped a bloodied forearm, dropping to his knees. “Herman, you okay?” Case called across to him from behind a fallen and dying tree.

  “Yup, grazed arm,” Munz said, tying a strip of cloth around the bleeding wound. “Will be fine.”

  Case nodded and looked the other way. A soldier was dragging himself forward to cover, his thigh soaked in blood. Case leaned out and grabbed one arm and pulled the man into the lee of the tree. The soldier cried out and lay there, grimacing in pain. It was one from the other squad under Sergeant Gray. “Stay there,” Case advised him, “and tie something around that wound.”

  He loaded and cocked the hammer back, leaning round the tree. A shot clipped the tree near his head, sending splinters up. Case cursed and ducked back, then looked back round the tree again. Two Union soldiers were knelt by a fence, shooting and covering the other. One must have hit Munz a few moments back. The other saw Case and aimed. A puff of smoke billowed up and the bullet spat past his forehead. Case felt the breath of its passage. Leaning out he aimed at the other man, the one who was just completing reloading.

  The shot went into the man’s shoulder, spinning him round, the gun flying out of his fingers. Case ducked back and frantically reloaded, the ramrod twirling expertly in his fingers, the cartridge bitten and powder poured automatically. He was ready in fifteen seconds and edged his right eye round the trunk, the evil muzzle of his gun following. The Union soldier he’d hit was now cradled in the arms of the other. Case stared hard and realized the two had similar facial features. Brothers. The unhurt man looked at Case, his eyes pleading. Slowly the Eternal Mercenary lowered his aim and nodded. So what was granted him at Gettysburg, he now granted two young men here in the mud and waters of the Bermuda Hundreds. The Yankee pulled his brother up and staggered off through the trees and out of view. Case exhaled and shook his head. Those poor kids had stopped fighting and he wasn’t a murderer.

  He turned back to look at the wounded man with him. The man, who he now recalled was David Trevelyan, was sat holding his wo
und, eyes screwed in pain. “Stay there, Trevelyan,” Case said, “I’ll let someone know you’re hurt.” He pulled himself round the tree and made his way forward to where the two Union soldiers had stood. The fence was broken and rotting, and other Confederates were now edging forward to either side, wary lest more pickets opened up on them.

  But no more shooting came their way. Word came down to stop and the men gratefully sank to the ground and searched for a bite to eat, if they were lucky. Case pointed out the wounded Trevelyan’s position and went in search of Munz. The tall corporal was sat against a log, having his forearm properly bandaged by Furlong. “Any dead?”

  “Naw,” Munz replied, hissing in pain once. “Sergeant Gray’s hurt bad though. Took a bullet through the face.”

  Case pulled a face. “Trevelyan’s got a thigh wound. Nobody else, you think?”

  Munz shook his head. “Looks like you’re the only sergeant left now.”

  Case grunted. The numbers were going down all the time. What would he be a sergeant of next week? And more to the point, where would they be sent? The war was breaking out all around them, and it felt as though they were in a shrinking circle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  They dug in where they had stopped, trapping Butler’s army in the peninsula. No sooner had they done that when more orders came for them to report to the rear and they packed up, leaving a third of their number to man what had been named the Howlett Line. They were grouped in a loose line and marched north towards Richmond.