Freedom (Gone For Soldiers)

by Jeffry S. Hepple

  “Should I suggest to him that he defend or occupy the grain fields?”

  Buford shook his head. “John Reynolds is probably the best field commander in our army and he’s got your Uncle Jack as his adjutant. They’ll know what to do.”

  “Are you sure, sir?”

  Buford chuckled. “Okay, Pea. Include a private message to your uncle and tell him whatever you think is best to tell him.”

  July 1, 1863

  09:50

  Approaching Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

  General Jack Van Buskirk was riding beside General John Reynolds at the head of a small column of men. “Message from Buford, sir. And a map.” He handed the sketch of Gettysburg to Reynolds.

  Reynolds glanced at the map. “What does the message say?”

  “Buford’s advising us to occupy Cemetery Hill, Cemetery Ridge and Culp’s Hill, and to protect our flank with a small force in some grain fields.”

  “Cemetery Hill, Cemetery Ridge and Culp’s Hill.” Reynolds examined the map again. “What do you think?”

  “There won’t be time to assess the terrain. We’ll just have to trust Buford’s judgment on this.”

  “Buford’s smart and experienced,” Reynolds replied. “I think we can trust any decision he makes.”

  “My nephew, Paul, sent me a private note too. He’s Buford’s second in command.”

  Reynolds nodded. “What does Paul say?”

  “That the battleground is nearly perfect and that we can destroy Lee at Gettysburg – even if George Meade proves to be as tentative as his predecessors.” He handed the note to Reynolds.

  Reynolds read the note and chuckled. “Plain speaking seems to be a family trait. And a dangerous one at that. What’s this he says about Vicksburg?”

  “My nephew Quincy’s a prisoner at Vicksburg, but he’s able to smuggle letters out. Paul’s just passing on what Quincy said.”

  “Quincy’s your sister Anna’s son?”

  Jack nodded.

  Reynolds looked at the note again. “Quincy says that the siege has virtually destroyed the city and that General Pemberton is going to seek terms from Grant momentarily. Is your brother Robert still on Grant’s staff?”

  “I think he’s Grant’s adjutant,” Jack replied.

  “You think?”

  Jack nodded. “Robert, Sam Grant and Cump Sherman are very close friends. Robert moves between Sam and Cump’s commands.”

  Reynolds nodded. “You’d better burn this.” He gave the message back to Jack. “If that comment about Meade’s tentative predecessors became known to certain people, Paul’s career would be over.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jack took a matchbox from his tunic pocket.

  “I noticed that he signed that as Pea,” Reynolds said, gesturing toward the note. “What’s Pea?”

  “That’s his nickname.” Jack set the note on fire and held it until the flames were scorching his gauntlet. “Paul’s grandfather’s name was Paul, so Jane and Thomas called him Sweet-Pea to avoid the confusion of two Pauls in the family. Sweet-Pea isn’t a fitting nickname for a grown man so it was shortened to Pea.”

  “Sweet-Pea.” Reynolds chuckled, then he turned in his saddle to look back at the dusty, sweat-streaked soldiers behind him. “These men are about used up, Jack. It’s a crime to put them right into battle.”

  “War’s a crime, John.” Van Buskirk also turned to look, then he gestured toward the map in Reynolds’s hand. “Will you let me take a regiment across country to occupy those grain fields, General? It’ll save an hour, and your flank will be protected while you’re deploying the rest of the troops.”

  “Good idea. I’ll see you in Gettysburg, Jack. Pick your regiment and go.”

  July 1, 1863

  10:45 AM

  Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

  Filthy and spattered with blood, Paul Van Buskirk climbed up the stairs to the cupola, which was now crowded with general-grade officers and their staffs.

  Buford wormed his way through to meet Paul. “Did they find your Uncle Jack?”

  “No, sir,” Paul replied wearily. “I was told that he was pinned under his dead horse when the grain in the field caught fire and no one could reach him. I looked for him, but there are corpses of horses and men everywhere. Identifying them is going to be almost impossible.”

  Buford put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “I’m real sorry, Pea.”

  Paul offered no reply.

  “Doubleday will be takin’ command temporarily,” Buford said, removing his hand and regaining his professional bearing. “He needs someone to take over Eleventh Corps until General Howard gets here. Are you up to it?”

  Paul nodded. “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  Buford caught the eye of General Abner Doubleday. “Jack’s MIA,” he called. “Probably dead. You can have Pea.”

  Doubleday nodded. “Gentlemen, if you please,” he shouted. “Silence, please.” He waited a moment for the conversations to end. “As you know, General John Reynolds has been killed in action and we’ve just learned that General Jack Van Buskirk is missing and presumed dead.” He waited a moment for the buzz of conversation to diminish. “I’m taking command of the battlefield until General Hancock relieves me. General Paul Van Buskirk will be in command of the two divisions of Eleventh Corps until General Howard arrives. General Van Buskirk will be positioned north of town to provide cover when we have to pull back to the high ground. Any questions?”

  ~ 2:15 PM ~

  When Robert E. Lee arrived at a stone house that had been procured as his headquarters, he immediately called for a map of Gettysburg and for General James Longstreet. Longstreet and the map arrived a short time later.

  “What is that gunfire I hear?” Lee asked Longstreet, as two aides pinned the map to the wall.

  Longstreet walked to the map and pointed with his cigar. “Ewell’s pushed the Yankees out of the town and he’s engaging their right flank. Here.”

  “Who’s the enemy on that flank?” Lee asked. “Do we know?”

  Longstreet nodded. “Their First and Eleventh Corps.”

  Lee examined the map. “Those people ran away at Chancellorsville.”

  “They’re under another commander now.”

  “Do we know who?”

  “No, sir. Not yet.”

  “It doesn’t matter. When we attack, they’ll run away again. Give me the situation.”

  Longstreet hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer to the map. “The Yankees hold the high ground. Their right is anchored here on this hill owned by a local farmer named Henry Culp.”

  “Label that Culp’s Hill, if you please, Major,” Lee said to the aide. “Go on, General.”

  Longstreet waited for the major to label the map, then pointed to the right. “The enemy left is here at the end of this ridge.”

  “Does the ridge have a name?” Lee asked.

  Longstreet nodded. “Cemetery Ridge, I believe.”

  “If you please, Major,” Lee said.

  The aide made the notation, then turned toward Longstreet. “Do these two hills have names, sir?”

  “Yes,” Longstreet replied. “Round Top. They call one Little Round Top and the other Big Round Top. I don’t know which is which. They look to be the same size on the map.”

  The aide made a note in pencil on the map.

  “What’s the scale here?” Lee asked.

  “It’s about two miles from Culp’s Hill to the first Round Top,” Longstreet replied. “By now, George Meade and most of his army are in position along here or hurrying toward us up the Baltimore Pike.” He traced the locations on the map with his index finger.

  Lee examined the map carefully and stroked his beard. “Perhaps providence has intervened in our favor once again, General.”

  “In what way, sir?” Longstreet asked.

  “By ignoring my orders to avoid a major engagement, General Hill, in his exuberance, has delivered the enemy to us in a place where he can be destroyed.”

  �
��Begging your pardon, sir,” Longstreet said quickly. “You cannot be suggesting that we attack.”

  Lee gave Longstreet a baleful look. “You cannot be suggesting that we withdraw from the field, General.”

  Longstreet met Lee’s hard stare. “I’m only suggesting that we’re outnumbered and should be fighting defensive battles, sir.”

  “We don’t know for a fact that we are outnumbered,” Lee responded.

  “We’re always outnumbered, General Lee,” Longstreet said.

  “I wish I knew what has happened to General Stuart,” Lee said in a troubled tone. “This army is blind without him.”

  “It’s almost certain that we’re outnumbered, sir,” Longstreet insisted, ignoring the distraction. “And the enemy has the high ground.”

  “Perhaps you are right, General,” Lee replied calmly. “But our army is far superior to the army of those people.” He gazed out the window, indicating that he no longer wanted to debate the subject.

  “General. Please.”

  Lee shook his head. “I did not seek a battle at this place, but God has put us here.”

  “Ewell should be ordered to disengage,” Longstreet argued.

  “No,” Lee said emphatically. “To the contrary. He must engage with more vigor.” Lee stepped closer to the map. “I saw General Rhodes as I rode in. I presume he is not engaged.”

  “No, sir,” Longstreet replied. “He is not.”

  “He has five brigades in his division,” Lee said.

  Longstreet nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Lee tapped the map at Culp’s Hill and nodded to an aide. “My compliments to General Ewell. Tell him to send General Rhodes’s division up that hill.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  ~ 3:00 PM ~

  Lee looked up from the dispatches as a young officer was ushered in. “Yes? What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir. General Ewell sends his compliments.” The young man squirmed.

  “Go ahead. Report.”

  “General Rhodes’s attack has been repulsed.”

  “What? All five brigades?”

  “Yes, sir. But General Ewell’s ordered Jubal Early’s boys into the fight now. They’ll be attackin’ the right flank of the Yankee Eleventh Corps on Harrisburg Road from the northeast.”

  “Who is in command of their Eleventh?”

  “One of the Van Buskirks, sir. I don’t know which one.”

  “Very well,” Lee said. “Thank you. Please ask General Ewell to report to me as soon as practicable, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  ~ 5:00 PM ~

  Confederate General Richard Ewell saluted. “We’ve driven the enemy from the town, General Lee.”

  Lee returned the salute, peered toward the smoke puffs of small arms erupting on Cemetery Hill, and then nodded. “But they still control the hills.”

  “Yes, sir. They’ve been very stubborn.”

  “I don’t understand. Those are the same people that broke and ran at Chancellorsville.”

  “Forgive me, sir, but they’re not the same people. They’re the survivors of Chancellorsville with better leadership. They’re very stubborn, sir. Very stubborn.”

  “Who is in command?” Lee asked, after a moment.

  “Paul Van Buskirk has temporary command of the Eleventh Corps. Winfield Scott Hancock is in overall command.”

  “I find it hard to believe that a simple change in command can transform those people so completely,” Lee insisted. “At Chancellorsville they ran without firing a shot.”

  “The snipers in the woods are from Van Buskirk’s cavalry brigade. They’re excellent marksmen and armed with carbines. Their support and success has given the infantry confidence that they didn’t have at Chancellorsville.” Ewell hesitated a moment, then gestured toward Culp’s Hill on the map. “Our losses are high.”

  “You cannot be suggesting that we withdraw, General.”

  “No, sir. Of course not. But the men are very tired.”

  Lee nodded. “Continue to push those people while we still have daylight, General.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to take that high ground,” Lee added.

  “The men are very tired, General Lee,” Ewell repeated.

  “I’m sure they are. But, if practicable, I want you to take those hills before dark.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lee waited until Ewell had limped out and the door had closed before turning to Longstreet. “You still disagree, Pete?”

  “Yes, sir,” Longstreet replied. “With all due respect, I think we’d stand a better chance of licking the Yankees if we’d circle around them and threaten Washington or Baltimore. They’d have to attack us, and we could choose our own ground rather than fighting on the ground that they’ve chosen.”

  Lee shook his head. “There will be no withdrawal. I’ll lick them here or they’ll lick me here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Longstreet looked worried.

  “Do you have all your units, General?”

  “Not yet, sir. I expect everyone to be here tonight - except George Pickett’s division and Evander Law’s brigade. They should start arriving tomorrow morning.”

  “No word of General Stuart’s cavalry?”

  “No, sir. Still nothing.”

  Lee sighed. “Tomorrow I want you to undertake an echelon attack against the enemy’s exposed left flank. General Ewell will press their right flank from Culp’s Hill.”

  “What if Ewell fails to take the hill, sir?”

  “I’m counting on him to take it. Can I count on you to roll up their left flank?”

  Longstreet squared his shoulders. “Yes, sir. You can count on me.”

  July 2, 1863

  Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

  Longstreet’s plan for the echelon attack on the exposed Union left flank was to be undertaken by his divisions commanded by John Bell Hood, Lafayette McLaws, and Richard Anderson. With sword in hand, Thomas Van Buskirk, of Hood’s division, led the first charge up Little Round Top where the brigade of Union Colonel Strong Vincent and four small infantry regiments had just taken position. Van Buskirk’s brigade, after a tough uphill attack, had nearly carried the line when an artillery battery and the 140th New York arrived to reinforce Vincent. As canister raked his line, Tom Van Buskirk’s men broke and ran.

  Tom raced back down the slope, stopped the flight, regrouped and charged again – with the same results.

  On the fourth charge, Tom’s troops reached the stone wall at the top, but when the Union soldiers of the 20th Maine stood up with fixed bayonets and charged, Tom’s troopers ran again. Left alone, Tom was soon swarmed by bayonet-wielding men in blue.

  July 3, 1863

  Fort Donelson, Tennessee

  General Ulysses S. Grant and General William Tecumseh Sherman were seated across from each other in Grant’s headquarters as Grant’s adjutant, General Robert Van Buskirk, entered the room. “There’s a rumor going around that Pemberton’s surrendered Vicksburg,” Robert said.

  “He sent me a note asking for terms,” Grant replied.

  Robert sat down. “And?”

  “And I told him that there would be no conditions,” Grant replied.

  “I think that’s a mistake, Sam,” Robert said.

  Grant nodded toward Sherman. “So does Cump. What’s your reasoning, Professor?”

  “We can’t handle thirty thousand Confederate prisoners,” Robert replied. “It would take us months to send them north.”

  “Cump’s suggesting that we parole them,” Grant said. “Do you think Jefferson Davis would honor a parole?”

  Robert looked at Sherman. “No. But from what Quincy says, Pemberton’s men are starving and totally demoralized. He says that they won’t ever be a fighting force again.”

  “I doubt that,” Sherman said. “We’ll have to fight these men again. But there’s really no alternative. Taking Pemberton’s army captive would keep us from prosecuting this tactical advantage. My advice is to e
nd this as fast as possible, take Little Rock and then sweep east toward Atlanta and Richmond.”

  Grant raised his eyebrows. “Professor?”

  “I concur with Cump’s opinion,” Robert said.

  July 4, 1863

  Washington, D.C.

  Anna Van Buskirk Lagrange ran up the White House stairs, hurried down the hall and into John Hay’s office. “I got a message that said I was urgently needed,” she said, breathlessly.

  “Shut the door, Anna,” Hay said.

  “Is the President all right?”

  “Yes, he’s fine.”

  Anna closed the door and put her back against it. “What is it then?”

  “The Hellcat is calling for you.”

  “For me?” Anna squeaked. “If this is one of your practical jokes, John…”

  He raised his hand to stop her. “No joke,” he said with a serious look on his face. “Mrs. Lincoln was thrown from her carriage yesterday and badly injured. So far we’ve managed to keep it from the press.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, Anna. Really. I swear to you that this is no joke.”

  “I’m sorry that Mrs. Lincoln was hurt,” Anna said, “but I don’t understand why she’d ask for me. The woman hates me.”

  Hay shrugged elaborately. “She told the Tycoon that she wants to see you, and he asked me to send for you. That’s all I know.”

  Anna closed her eyes. “When I was a little girl we had a storage room at the top of the stairs on the third floor. It was dark and crawling with spiders. When the door was left open, I ran past as fast as I could so the horrible creatures that lived in there couldn’t get me. I do the same thing now when I pass Mrs. Lincoln’s door.”

  “So?” Hay asked. “Should I tell the President that you refuse to see her?”

  “No,” Anna grumbled. “Of course not.” She turned toward the door.