Northern Blood

by Daniel Greene

  Dismounted troopers knelt around him, taking cover from an errant artillery shell. They checked cartridge boxes and held their Spencers with determination.

  Alger joined him. “My men are ready, sir.”

  With a nod, Custer said, “You may commence the attack.”

  “Keep a good line for General Sheridan is watching us!” Alger shouted with a proud lift of his chin.

  The bugler near Custer sounded the call for attack, and entire regiments followed by mounted squadrons marched forward with violent purpose.

  Lightning crackled from the clouds above like angry flashing sabers of gold light. The ground vibrated beneath them, and it was hard to tell what caused the earth to tremble with such a fervor. It was as if a battle was being fought above in the heavens and had someway trickled to the earth below. Rain pattered down with curious indifference, slowly dampening the men as they marched.

  His brigade’s movement was as marvelous as it was precise. A fine body of men. It instilled pride in Custer. It wasn’t long before the 5th and the 6th Michigan regiments engaged Wickham’s regiments along the ridge.

  Wickham’s men had the advantage of better cover, but the beautiful Spencer carbines of Custer’s troopers were fast and accurate, more than making up for any difference in position with deadly summation. White smoke rapidly enveloped the men as they fired into the trees.

  Thunder boomed again, and he questioned whether or not a cannon ball sailed his way. It hadn’t come from the skies nor the enemy, yet it shook the earth. The ground shuddered beneath the earthquake of a thousand hooves as if trembling before the face of God.

  The 1st barreled down Telegraph Road. Each stride built even greater momentum. He was sure a castle wall couldn’t stop them. Spanning some two hundred feet, they were a battering ram of man and flesh. The sheer number of tightly packed horsemen in the lead squadron made them formidable.

  A yell overcame the thunder, hundreds of voices forming into one. It wasn’t dissimilar to the rebel yell, but it was his men’s very own battle cry. It was their call for blood and courage as they charged into the jaws of death.

  Dirt and dust billowed around them, shielding them from view as if they were a blue windstorm racing for the rebels.

  Custer mounted and pushed forward, trailing his dismounted men but far enough to the rear to send reserves in if needed. It irked him to be behind instead of leading from the front, but he had to be prepared to shift his forces at any given moment. Respect for Stuart’s prowess demanded a level of prudence that he would entertain.

  “Turn that cannon!” a rebel shouted. “Turn the cannon!” The artillerymen scrambled to reposition the two guns.

  Gun smoke rose from the ridge where Lomax’s men were hiding while peppering his charging horsemen. Ignoring the whipping bullets from the enemy until they could seize their prize, the 1st was forced to traverse through a stream and then a small rickety bridge.

  His men pounced upon Stuart’s artillery like a swarm of mountain lions on a pack of wounded dogs. The lead rider slammed his saber into the skull of a lieutenant with a damp thud. The young officer dropped like his legs had been cut from beneath him. Rebels raised their hands in surrender. The rammer swung his ramrod in circles over his head to keep the riders at bay, but he fell, pierced, as the riders passed.

  With the threat of taking canister shot dissipating like a summer rain, his dismounted men pressed forward again. Did Wickham give way? He turned back toward the 1st. Their charge was waning despite the addition of Stagg’s second squadron thundering home. Rebel horsemen had piecemeal attacked them, and although it was disorganized, it had slowed the power of the 1st Michigan’s attack.

  Time to apply more pressure. He pointed at Major Granger. He waved his hand rapidly toward the enemy like he was striking them with a tomahawk.

  “Ya!” Granger shouted, and the 7th Michigan galloped after their mounted comrades. Lomax’s men were falling back to a secondary ravine and ridge but still managing to batter the 1st Michigan’s flanks.

  Major Granger charged onward ahead of his men as if it were a race. They would hit Lomax’s men before they had a chance to concentrate fire on the newcomers. Ride, my boys, he thought. The 7th had shaken off the mantle of their rookie status and was becoming a commendable unit.

  At the lead, Granger closed on the rebels, his black hat waving over his head. The sight of such bravery made Custer warm inside.

  A bugle call went out and almost the entirety of the attacking force wheeled to the right, galloping for safer ground. Granger and a few of his closest men carried onward; they were either too brazen or unaware of the danger ahead.

  The cracks of a second volley struck home on the blue riders. Smoke obscured his vision. When they came back into view, saddles had been emptied of troopers, and Granger was nowhere to be seen. A horse screamed on the ground behind. More horses galloped away from the gunfire spooked.

  “I do hope he has survived his charge,” Custer said.

  “Look!” his aide shouted, drawing his attention.

  Brigadier General Wilson’s men were adding their weight to Wickham’s flank.

  “Looks like the 3rd Indiana and a New York regiment.” As much as he disliked the commander, he was happy to see them adding their weight to the fight.

  The rebels teetered on the precipice of breaking. The 1st Michigan dueled with the 1st Virginia, but Stuart’s battery was gone. The Confederate artillery was the linchpin of their line; without it, they would flounder and fold. Wickham’s men were starting to fall back.

  And almost as quickly as the attack had begun, it began to wind down. It was almost anticlimactic. Not that the victory was total or the contest weakly fought, but the speed to which the rebels had broken struck Custer as odd.

  Usually they put up a much stouter resistance. Perhaps we are on our way to ending this. He forced that thought from his mind. He had some postwar ventures in the works, but war had always come easy to him. It was in his blood.

  Not the classroom work or following all the rules and regulations. He’d barely passed and finished last in his class at West Point. But he’d seen men who had excelled in the classroom crumble in the face of the enemy. In all reality, he’d been saved by the Civil War. He’d been standing trial for court-martial when the war began, and the need for officers had granted him a favorable verdict. He was meant for the field not the classroom.

  In the field, how an officer judged the terrain and positioned his men came easy to him. He could feel the time to apply pressure and when to hold back. The practicality of striking an opponent at precisely the right time, rushing his flank, encircling behind him. Or a daring charge. He’d aced all of these things in real time. It was as natural as eating and breathing to him.

  Custer drove his horse in the direction of where the Maryland battery had once stood.

  Stagg found him looking like a bloody butcher. Someone’s blood had splattered his face. His hands were red as if he’d torn a man limb from limb. “Sent them running, General! Picked up a couple of guns and limber carriages.” The Union army didn’t need Confederate arms, but the Confederates needed them tenfold. “I have about eighty rebs prisoner.”

  “Treat them fairly. Any news on Major Granger? His attack seemed disjointed.”

  “We had a time with some rail fences and a bridge. I would assume they did as well.” Stagg shook his head. “But I do not know his whereabouts.”

  Custer squinted over his shoulder. Horses screamed in pain, and nearby, a man held his face, crying. In the smoke and darkened sky, it was hard to tell which side he had fought for. Drizzle shrouded the entire area, making it difficult to see.

  He spotted a man with an entourage galloping toward them. Flags billowed after him, whipping reds and whites and blues. Major General Sheridan.

  “Sir,” Custer said.

  Sheridan beamed. “A resounding success! Ha! I’ll have to send a telegram to Grant reiterating our victory here.”

  “Whe
re are they retreating too?” Sheridan asked, eyeing the field of battle.

  “Looks to be north and east,” Stagg said.

  “What’s that way?”

  A major with a long mustache spoke. “Toward the Chickahominy River.”

  “I would assume some would break for Richmond,” Custer added.

  “Assuredly, but now nothing stands between us and Richmond. Devin’s boys already broke through both lines of defense earlier today. Ha!” Sheridan said, grinning. “We could make her ours before nightfall.”

  “I thought the objective was to destroy Stuart.”

  “And we have.” Sheridan nodded as if he were about to receive the laurel wreath of a conquering hero. “His men are scattered like dust in the wind.”

  “They are, but surely they will regroup.”

  “Yes, but a great victory was achieved today.”

  Custer eyed the dead. Many of them were his. A noble sacrifice but a sacrifice nonetheless. He wondered about his men on the raid to capture Stuart’s wife. He shook his head. They must know where the battle was being fought. They will find us when they are ready.

  “Sir, I must let the men tend to their wounded and dead.”

  The grin faded on Sheridan’s lips. “Of course. Well-deserved by all. Set out pickets. I don’t want anyone sneaking up on us while we handle the business of the dead.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sheridan spurred his horse in the direction of a distant farmhouse, hooves tossing clumps of the wet earth.

  Custer’s insides were still ecstatic with victory, but the rain zapped his energy as its intensity grew. His men gave up a great cheer. They had driven the enemy away in chaos and dwindled Stuart’s command with plenty of casualties and prisoners.

  His brigade band took up the tune of “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” and optimism flooded the Union ranks. They had fought a decisive battle against Stuart and won, the field in their hands. He wondered if it was his plan to draw Stuart out, or if it was fate, why they’d won here. Perhaps it was both. Perhaps everything was intertwined.

  He raised a hand and waved at his men as they picked up the song. “Bloody good fight, lads.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  May 11, 1864

  Near Yellow Tavern, Virginia

  The rain started in earnest now, capped by thunder and accented by lightning. Cold droplets slowly soaked the men. Wet men searched the dead, the water and blood mixing into the earth all the same. Wolf walked among the fallen, eyeing lifeless faces.

  “Roberts?” Wolf said loudly, but his voice trailed away. He stepped through the tall grass. There were mounds of men and horses, but he didn’t know which was friend or foe.

  He stopped at a lanky body that wore Van Horn’s pale face. The Dutch farmer finally looked at peace. His mouth even held a slight smile instead of his signature dour pout. Glassy eyes didn’t blink as the raindrops struck him. Wolf bent down and closed his eyes.

  “We found him,” Wilhelm shouted.

  Wolf hobbled toward the cluster of men. The wolf banner whipped in the wind as Wilhelm had planted his flag into the softening ground.

  The men parted before Wolf, and he knelt onto both knees next to Roberts. Hogan’s face was grave. Wilhelm slightly frowned.

  “Bring me his canteen,” Wolf said. Hogan disappeared. His eyes settled upon the broken form of his friend. “Hey, buddy. You okay?” His words rang hollow and false. Everything wasn’t okay, but it helped the man to pretend they were.

  Multiple saber wounds covered Roberts’s body like a latticework of gashes. Gore-stained hands pressed on his own belly where a sword thrust had pierced him through. Blood squeezed out from around the wound, ignoring the hands stemming the red tide. His face was draining of all blood, becoming almost colorless. “Wolf,” he said, his voice boyish and weak.

  Wolf wrapped an arm around his friend, lifting him off the ground. Roberts winced and Wolf propped his head up on the crook of his arm. “You’re going to be okay.”

  Hogan handed him the canteen. “Whiskey?”

  “Aye.”

  He unscrewed the top and tipped it back into Roberts’s mouth. In only a moment, the alcohol dribbled along the corners, and Wolf wiped it away with his sleeve.

  Roberts gave him a smiling grimace. “Don’t waste the good stuff on me.”

  “Nonsense.” He dabbed the other side of Roberts’s mouth. “We’re going to get you back on a horse here. Send you to an old sawbones. Just like Gettysburg. Sort this all out.”

  The man’s skin was too white. He was fading into a shade before Wolf’s eyes. Wolf looked to Wilhelm for support. The seasoned sergeant had seen enough dying men to know a mortal wound, but one never thought their friend would die, not even in war. Or was it only friends that died?

  Tears streamed down Dan’s chubby cheeks from across the way. He held the body of his brother Bart in his arms. Sobs came from choked lips. Bart’s arms lay limp in the air as Dan tried to squeeze life back into him.

  Wolf let his eyes shut for a moment. I tried to spare them this, yet they rode with me anyway.

  “Wolf,” Roberts said with a gulp, drawing him back in. “Can I steal another nip? It’s a bit cold out here.”

  It wasn’t cold, not even with the rain. It was the fact men got cold before they died. “I got you.” Wolf pulled him in tighter. His friend felt so small and frail in his arms. “I got you.” He let the man take another swig of the whiskey. “I got you,” he whispered. He rocked the man in his arms. He promised himself that he was beyond tears, but they came anyway.

  They ran down his bristled face, blending with the rain into his beard. “I got you.” He breathed hard through his nose. “I got you, brother.”

  His men slowly dispersed leaving him alone, his eyes vacantly soaking in the rain and the forest. He sat like this for some time, rocking his best friend like he was a newborn babe. Wilhelm’s hand on his shoulder brought him back to the real world.

  “Son.” His voice held understanding and pain, shaking a bit at the end.

  “What?” The rain forced Wolf to blink as he looked up at the sergeant. He wiped water from his face.

  Wilhelm’s eyes held grief, but he kept it together. “He’s gone.”

  “No, he’s just sleeping.” Wolf half-smiled in pain.

  Wilhelm squeezed his shoulder harder. “He’s gone now.” A moment passed before he spoke again. “You’ll see him again.”

  Wolf looked down at Roberts. His face was at peace, life no longer residing in his earthly body. “I’m—“he started but couldn’t finish.

  “You did what you could. Now we must look out for those still in your command. The rebels could return with more men. We should find our lines as to not get caught.”

  “I tried to spare them this.”

  Wilhelm lifted his chin. “No one is blameless in war. It just happens. I led these men here as much as you. I cared for all of them too, but now we must move.”

  As much as it stung, he knew his sergeant was right. “Get the dead and wounded tied to their mounts.” There would be time for mourning later, but he didn’t know when. He hoisted Roberts’s body on his horse. Sarah stamped her foot but didn’t complain after Wolf mounted into the saddle.

  The men walked their horses south. The bodies of Van Horn, Roberts, Shugart, Hale, Pratt, Bart, and James stayed silent and motionless. The remaining men were quiet. What had been gained paled in their eyes as to what they’d lost. But such is war.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Evening, May 11, 1864

  North of the Chickahominy River, Virginia

  They’d found the remnants of Fitzhugh Lee’s Division regrouping north of the Chickahominy River. Pickets and sharpshooters manned the river’s edge, and they’d dismantled part of a decaying bridge to discourage the Yankees from following, but none of the bluebellies had given any strong pursuit. His men made camp a half-mile from the river. Timid campfires surrounded them in the dying light.

  Pay
ne sat upright, leaning against a tree with a Model 1860 Light Cavalry Saber sticking through his upper chest and shoulder out his back.

  He’d reported the wounding of General Stuart to some captain he didn’t recognize, and his own men helped prop him against a nearby tree trunk. His men sat around a fire, their fervor for war matching the small flames. Their wounded lay in blanketed forms along the ground.

  “Find me a damn surgeon!” he shouted at Fickles.

  His lieutenant shied away from him. Payne was pretty sure he was the only man Fickles actually feared. And it was a legitimate fear. “Sir, I’ve sent for the surgeon twice now. There are just so many wounded.”

  Goddamn excuses. With his good arm, he grunted as he drew his pistol. He lined his bead sight on Fickles’s head. “You’ll return with a surgeon, or I’ll shoot you dead.”

  Fickles paled beneath a mustache that lined his mouth all the way to his chin. “Yes, sir.” The man stood and stumbled as he hurried to get away.

  “You,” Payne said to one of his privates, gesturing at him with his pistol. “Bring me whiskey.”

  The private’s head bobbed. He was filthy and his hair ruffled. An air of exhaustion shrouded him, but he hustled all the same. He brought Payne the bottle and stopped short, offering it from a few feet away. He lifted his chin and set his revolver on his lap and snatched the bottle from his hand.

  “Get out of here,” Payne said. He tipped the bottle back and chugged the harsh liquor. It painfully seared his throat, bubbling like molten lava in his belly. It slightly dulled his senses, but his shoulder continued to throb. The blood had mostly stopped flowing, but Sergeant Turner had demanded he keep the blade in until they reached a surgeon. But as deep as the saber had bitten through his flesh and muscle, the real pain was the ongoing existence of Wolf and his little band of bandits.