Misty shadows became a blue mass then turned into silhouettes before taking shape as nameless faces. Tightly packed men weaved through the dense timber trying to hold their line in proper formation. Union men were urged on by their officers to stay brave as death was but a hundred yards away. Color bearers whipped a green flag and a blue Pennsylvania flag near their center.
Hampton was taken aback when a song belted from their lips. It wasn’t a high-pitched battle cry like the rebel yell, but an actual song, yet it remained unnerving. He couldn’t make out the words and soon realized they were singing in their native tongue of Irish Gaelic. The melody was brave and sweet, holding touches of sadness, and although he couldn’t understand them, he could feel the meaning of their words. It encompassed the sad memory of home and those that were gone with the beat of a battle march.
He could feel the men around him become nervous as they continued forward, singing in the unknown language. Heads turned, eyeing each other, and his men took courage from his brothers in arms around him.
He held his pistol in the air. “Time to put a stop to the brave bastards.”
The Irish regiment was still over a hundred yards away, calmly singing as they came onward. One of his captains looked at him. Nothing about him designated him as an officer aside from the orders he barked at the men in front of him. He thought the men were from Cobb’s Legion. Georgians. Tough sons of bitches.
They made eye contact, and the captain gave him a short grin. He was missing his front two teeth. Then the air screamed above them for only a second before it concussed spraying waves of thunder and metal rain.
Hampton crashed into the forest floor as if he’d been thrown from his horse. He rolled onto his back, his officer’s jacket now decorated with leaves and crumbly dirt.
His wounded men writhed on the ground like worms after a rain. The captain laid facedown, blood trickling from the top of his skull. A jagged piece of metal had replaced his hat, protruding defiantly outward.
The man lying next to him coughed hysterically, sucking in air but never getting enough. Another soldier crawled away from the others, leaving a bloody trail like an injured snail.
Yet he was still in one piece. Grasping his pistol and a handful of dirt, he ignored the ringing dinner bell in his ears as he shouted, “Let ‘em have it!”
His men opened up on the Irish regiment. The forest had split the blue mass into clumps of men. The clusters of Union soldiers withered before the hot lead balls but held rank. Their dead were left in bloody wakes behind them. They continued forward and came on like a harpooned whale, barreling ahead despite mortal injury. He took aim now.
He could make out individual faces. Fierce eyes. Scared eyes. Mostly the eyes of young dirty men kept together by fervent orders and staunch veterans, who knew to fold and run in the face of the enemy brought death, and more importantly, shame.
A Union officer on horseback paced behind his men. He swung a straight infantry sword in circles, urging his men forward. “Faugh a Ballaugh!”
Hampton sighted his pistol on the officer. A very long shot with his pistol, over sixty yards, but if it drifted low as it sailed for its target, it had a chance of striking the line of men hurrying to form.
“Faugh a Ballaugh!” the officer shouted again. Curly hair stuck from the sides of his Union kepi. A thick mustache entrenched his upper lip. He continued to bark orders at the men in front of him.
Hampton’s men fired at will. It sounded like a giant oak splintering in two, inch by inch. His pistol leapt in his hand. Bang! Smoke wisps drifted from the end of his barrel.
Union soldiers collapsed as Minié balls entered their bodies. Their hands rose to their chests, trying to keep their own blood inside. More went down screaming, but all the cries of the men were drowned out by the guns banging as Hampton’s men did their deadly work.
He squinted an eye. Everything was a blurry haze at best. His eyes just weren’t what they used to be, and he let his finger depress the trigger again. Bang!
As the blue-coated men continued to march toward Hampton’s, he thought for a moment they were simply going to charge him. Yet no bayonets were fixed on their muskets, and at this distance, they should have already begun their charge, but their line halted. They stood no more than fifty yards from his men instead. It was impossible to muster any kind of legitimate volley in the thick green foliage.
Hampton took aim, letting his thumb drive the hammer of his revolver backward. Smoke had almost enveloped all of them as if they’d stepped into a cloud and fought in the heavens. The enemy looked more like ghosts than men. It made it easier to kill when they were mere shadows and helped a man deal with the harm he inflicted.
Might have time for one more shot, but he held his finger. Instead he shouted, “Take cover!”
His dismounted men hid behind trees. Others hit the forest floor, covering their heads with their arms. He crouched down onto his knees, using a tree to protect himself.
The Union officer’s voice rose like a rocket sailing thru the sky. “Fire!”
Flames burst from the opaque guns, smokelike wraiths shaving steel over flint stone. A fraction of a second later, the bullets came for Hampton’s men. It became indiscernible if the deafening sound of tree branches snapping was from the onslaught of bullets or the forest absorbing the lead.
Trees shook as bark was stripped away by the buzzing balls. Men screamed as the gunfire struck home. Holes punched through their bodies as easily as spoons dipping into bread pudding.
The man next to Hampton’s head kicked back like the victim of an errant hoof. The impact toppled him backward, and he slid over the dead leaves.
A cluster of cavities riddled his body. Hampton frowned. It looked like he’d been hit with a shotgun blast. The Irishmen were shooting muskets? Filled with buck and ball shot? He’d heard of their use at Gettysburg in the Wheatfield but hadn’t seen it in action. No man would opt to use a smoothbore musket when the rifled ones provided not only topped them in range but accuracy, yet here these men, who had ample access to better weaponry, chose the smoothbores.
Bitter powder smoke singed the nostrils, trying to burn the hair away from the inside of his nose. Hampton aimed quickly from behind his tree. “Let ‘em have another one!”
He pulled the trigger, his revolver rotating through the remaining shots like a clock at work. His men followed his lead, firing into the Union line. The opposing men let out another volley, but this one lacked the power and command of the first. It was a single hive of bees instead of twelve buzzing past, over, and into his men.
He holstered his pistol and drew the other. Six shots. His enemy was fragile, cracks forming in their ranks. They were a locomotive that had lost their steam. Now was the time to send them running back to Hancock. He full-cocked his pistol. “Give them the blade!” He scanned the men around him to make sure they still had enough fight for it. Wild eyes stared back. Men in the heat of killing. Men that were capable of deadly and courageous feats. Brave boys. He bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Charge!”
Bounding forward, he jogged at a blue clump of men. He didn’t bother to make sure he was followed. His men would. Whether it was honor or order that drove them to charge an enemy, it drove them nonetheless. His hip nagged at him, but his blood boiled in his veins. The smell of bitter gun smoke and coppery blood filled his nostrils, inciting a deep howl from his bowels. He was a wolf culling the herd of brave sheep.
The Union soldiers in front of him attempted to reload faster. They ripped paper cartridges with their teeth, spilling powder onto blackened fingers and dry cracked lips. Wordless prayers crept from their mouths.
He stopped and aimed, letting his pistol bark. An enemy soldier clutched his breast, sinking to his knees as if he suddenly wanted to repent for all his sins. A second later, Hampton drew his long straight sword. Double-edged, heavy, and deadly. He’d need it soon, he only had four shots left in his pistol.
He was close now, no more than twenty
feet from the enemy. He closed the distance with another call of the wild. His men were there around him, surrounding him like a medieval king as they protected their liege.
A Yankee captain screamed at his men to get their guns up, his sword wavering over the closing rebels, but his men were preparing for the incoming melee. A few of the enemy soldiers quickly fired shots, the balls mostly going high with a whip and a snap through the leaves.
Hampton felt the hot breath of a bullet’s wind on his neck, and he shrugged it off like a death maiden’s kiss. With loud calls to steel themselves in mortal contest, the rebels crashed into the Union men.
Swinging his sword into a gun barrel, Hampton sent the smoothbore from the man’s hands. It clanged as it hit the undergrowth. Weaponless, the man tried to cover his face. The Union soldier next to him howled, baring his teeth and winding his weapon backward to bludgeon Hampton.
Hampton’s pistol popped. The assailant’s hands leapt for his throat. He followed his shot by running his sword through the other man’s belly. The sound was a damp slap as the point punctured him. The young man’s face shook as he screamed for mercy. Hampton shoved him backward, forcing him off the blade.
From the other side, a new Yankee took a swing at Hampton’s head, using his gun like a stick. He didn’t bother to duck. He towered over the man but deflected it easily with his sword. Shoving his pistol into the man’s breast, he pulled the trigger. Fire mushroomed from the barrel. The Union soldier’s eyes bulged as the bullet seared through his flesh, ripping out his back.
With a snarl, Hampton turned toward the incoming gallop of a horse’s hooves.
“Mallacht Dé ort!” shouted the Union officer atop his steed. He thundered at Hampton, rearing his horse as he neared him. Hampton hardly had time to meet his blade with his own. If he had been but a hair closer, the man would have bashed his skull in. The officer swung again, and Hampton deflected his blow to the side with a clang. He tossed his pistol to the ground. As the man continued past him, he lunged and grabbed his belt.
Roaring like a grizzly bear, Hampton yanked the officer from his horse and into the air. He landed atop him and pummeled him with his cannonball-sized fists. The two men struggled, but Hampton was ever the larger man. He beat the officer’s face until he went limp, his face mangled and shattered.
Teeth were missing, an eye swollen shut, blood filled his mouth like a freshly dug water well, and his remaining eye rolled into the back of his head. Hampton closed on the other officer’s face, yelling at him with every ounce of rage held within his large body.
He blinked, realizing a war still raged around him and that he was responsible for not only his survival, but also for his men’s.
He shoved the beaten officer onto the ground and crawled over the forest floor, searching for his sword. Leaves crumpled in his hands.
A charging Yankee staggered as a shotgun blast ripped into his side. The sergeant grinned as the man spun onto the ground. He held his shotgun at the ready. “I’ll cover ya, General. Get your sword,” he said, and pulled a cracker from his pocket, stuffing it in his mouth with a grin. “And yer pistol.”
Hampton retrieved both, and his men trailed the Yanks as they fled back toward their entrenchments closer to Todd’s Tavern.
Night charged upon the land like a horseman clad in all black. It darkened the terrain and shadowed the forest around them. The smoky fog of war surrounded them like a misty morning, the battle lingering around them.
They pursued the fleeing soldiers knowing that more enemies lay ahead, but not where. They all slowed their pursuit, peering hard for movement, anything to understand where the most danger came from. His men stopped their yelling and became quiet hunters, stalking prey instead of chasing it. They could feel the ominous presence, the oppression of men waiting in ambush.
He walked in a thin line with his men. Carbines and rifles, pistols and swords, were held ready to fire or stab at any moment. Every now and again a soldier would stop, either finishing off the stragglers or capturing them. It mattered not. The Yankees would fill their ranks with more poor bastards. The more his men destroyed and routed the Yankee armies, the more seemed to pop up in line, ready to die for their Republic.
Dusky shadows covered the length of the forest, stretching and reaching for his men. Everything was a haze. He put a hand down as he hopped over a log. Every few moments, a single shot would go off as a retreating man turned and fired harmlessly at his pursuers.
The air tightened. His breathing became condensed. His heart went faster. Every man felt the pressure.
“Get ready, boys. They’re close,” he said to the men around him. Raising his pistol almost level with his shoulder, they stalked further into the war mist. Hampton scanned the timber and spotted a small drop in elevation ahead. It wasn’t a ravine, but more of a cut in the land. Roughly thirty feet to the other side, the ground sloped upward. Trees clung to the slanted angle of ground.
His men traversed downward. A man on his left tripped and fell onto his rear, sliding into the cut. The forest held its breath. No animals called or insects buzzed.
“Fire!” screamed a voice through the smoke.
The volley was controlled and ready. The man who’d covered him only minutes before took a bullet to the chest and collapsed under the violence. With ragged breaths, the man tried to stay alive. More of his men disappeared, finding their place on the ground and being thrust against trees like they’d been blown over in a windstorm.
Hampton blinked at the casualties around him. Only pure divine interest in his survival had saved him. One of his men held a friend. Another went down as he dragged a man rearward.
He shot his pistol up the hill. “Fall back!” he shouted. “Fall back!” He clambered up the cut in the ground, making for the safety of his original lines.
They fled before the entrenched Federals. The darkness and smoke covered their retreat. His men reached the point where they’d overtaken Miles’s brigade earlier. They took cover, waiting for Hancock to send more infantry after them, but as the mantle of night embraced them, the threat dwindled. He set out pickets in case Hancock wanted to get a bit frisky, but his opposing general was acting timid and unsure. Probably because when he’d expected cavalry, he’d run into infantry as well.
His men cared for the wounded, and despite some additional casualties, they were still happy to be well-fed, especially off Yankee supplies. Delicious barrels of pork and beef were discovered in the captured wagons and the men ate like kings.
Later in the evening, Hampton was rejoined by Preston and the diminutive General William Mahone as their men traded foodstuffs around campfires in the dark. Mahone’s beard was long and his cheeks thin like an old forgotten prisoner, and his eyes were restless and observant.
“Sure gave those boys a whipping,” Mahone said. He gnawed the edge of a cracker. The fire gleamed off his face with an orange glow.
“We did,” Hampton said. He sighed, staring into the flames. “Kept them in place.”
“Old Hancock doesn’t know what he’s got.”
Hampton stifled a laugh by smoothing his beard.
“Damn it feels good to be out in the field taking it to the Yanks.” His son gave him a tired but true smile, and the men around him nodded their heads with approval.
“The 2nd Corps is one of their better ones too,” Mahone added. More grunts of agreement. Nothing like the beginning of the war with so much optimism and hope. These men were seasoned and worn-out, just plain tired of fighting and killing, yet they marched on anyway because not a cowardly bone resided in their bodies.
Hampton nodded. “Hancock is a commendable soldier and leader. Now he sits entrenched.”
“I thought they might just leave a few regiments. But Hancock’s entire corps is there. Should be reinforcing the other corps,” Mahone said. He tilted his head as he tried to chew his hardtack.
“He’ll keep them that way.”
“Suppose I should get my men to the courthouse
while they sit themselves out,” Mahone said. The wily small-statured general quickly rose to his feet, brushing crumbs off his jacket.
Gun and cannon fire rumbled the ground they had rested on for the last hour. A much larger fight was taking place southeast of their position. “General, I will see you near Shady Grove Church.” Mahone gave a quick nervous salute. “A true pleasure working with you and your boys today.”
Hampton gave a brief nod and returned his salute. “Good to send some Yanks running, but then again, there’s always tomorrow.”
Mahone’s mouth creased around the edges. “Tomorrow we shall begin anew.” He regarded the cannon groaning in the distance like giants tossing stones at one another. “Or tonight.” He bowed and placed a black slouch hat that appeared too big atop his head.
As good as getting back into the fight felt, Hampton worried. He finally had a couple of good brigades at his back, and he couldn’t help but worry. He eyed his son for a moment. Preston bent over and tossed a log onto their fire. He is a good lad. Smart and resourceful. He may outshine is predecessors one day. But that did little to alleviate his worry.
Rosser’s men had been fighting almost nonstop, and despite their prowess and that of their commander, they’d suffered casualties. Many casualties in man and horse flesh. It didn’t seem to matter if they thrashed the bastards or not, the Yankees came onward, and that kind of will worried a man.
It concerned a commander that cared for his men, especially when his son was within his ranks. For he couldn’t lose them all, but it felt like he was. He knew he couldn’t lose them all for that would mean the loss of his son. He mustn’t allow it to go that far, but he couldn’t evade the feeling that they would all pay for their rebellion in blood.
Chapter Eighteen
Late Afternoon, May 8, 1864
Beaver Dam Station, Virginia
Wolf’s men followed a road toward Beaver Dam train station. It was a rough and root-laden five miles from the ford. The countryside was forested and rural with a railroad running along the route.
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