1862 (18 page)

And then there was the question of McClellan himself. Some men who are smallish in stature seem to be larger than they actually are because of their personality and force of will. To Nathan it seemed that McClellan showed little of either. And instead of his gaining confidence as he advanced towards Richmond, he got more nervous and withdrawn. Each mile gained and each spoiling attack beaten off seemed to drain emotional strength from him. The dapper and confident man Nathan had dined with a few weeks earlier had been replaced by a pale and nervous caricature.

His behavior reminded Nathan of a small boy testing the waters of a pond to see how cold it was. The boy’s toe was in the water, but his body leaned back so he could withdraw in an instant. With every step south, McClellan was growing more and more fearful of a major Confederate attack by those forces he felt were so much larger than his.

Nathan signalled to Lieutenant Winton, the young officer who had been detailed to watch over him, that he was going forward. Winton, who was bored serving as a nanny, happily got their horses. Messengers had brought word of possible Confederate activity, and Nathan wanted to see it. They were a couple of miles behind the forward positions, and the hiily country masked both sight and sound.

They rode only a few minutes before they were able to hear the rattle of rifle fire and, moments later, they could see the Confederate advance.

Even though it was winter, this was Virginia, which meant that many trees and shrubs still retained their foliage. As a result, the picture he saw was incomplete and Nathan wished they’d had observation balloons to help guide them. They were under order but not yet delivered to the Army of the Potomac.

Nathan rode from place to place, watching and listening to the battle. At one point, he paused several hundred yards behind a Union force that was dueling with an equivalent-sized Confederate force. Promises to Rebecca notwithstanding, it was prudence not cowardice that kept him as far from the battle as he was. He was not a combatant and had no need to expose himself. Even so, an occasional spent bullet splatted into the soft ground around him. Nathan pulled a telescope from his saddlebag and scanned the field.

Smoke from a thousand rifles clouded the field in a mist of death. Volleys crashed and then disintegrated into a steady ripple of solitary fire. The sight took his breath away. The two masses of men, one blue and the other gray, were scarcely a hundred yards from each other and pouring death onto each other. Men lay still where they had been hit, or they thrashed about, or they attempted to crawl away trailing shattered limbs. Blood puddled the ground where they passed.

Through it all could be heard the primal howl of men consumed with killing each other. It was a horror that took his breath away. “I never dreamed,” said Winton. He was about twenty and this was the first time he’d seen men die.

The Confederates brought up artillery, two small field guns. Moments later, a Union battery of three guns appeared and unlimbered. At first the two batteries dueled with each other, but the Union gunners were faster, their guns were better, and they held a numeric advantage over their enemy. In short order, the rebel cannon were silenced. One was disabled and the second withdrew. With that the Union guns fired into the thick ranks of rebel infantry. Where shells struck, men were blown away, sometimes in pieces. Gaps appearing in the rebel line were filled by men from the rear ranks. The front was solid but the rear was thinning out.

Still, the rebel line held, even tried to advance. “How can they do it?” Nathan said in wonderment. Beside him, Winton vomited onto the grass. Finally, the rebels could take no more from their tormentors. Slowly, agonizingly, they pulled back. When they had reached a point, the Union line ceased firing. Men slumped in exhaustion and relief. Maybe some were praying at the miracle that saw them alive.

“We’ve won,” Winton said as he wiped spittle from his chin.

“At least we’ve stopped them,” Nathan said. Then he wondered, had the Confederates been stopped elsewhere or just here?

One thing, though, impressed him. What he had seen of the well-equipped army of George Brinton McClellan had done well. They had not faltered under intense fire. They had not retreated. Instead, they had rejected an attack by Lee:s best. It was a damned good sign.

Billy Harwell fired into the approaching horde as quickly as he could load his rifle. There was no reason for more than cursory aiming. The rebels were dead ahead and coming in force. Any bullet headed towards that compact mass of humanity was bound to hit something.

So why weren’t they all dead? Because, he thought ruefully, so many of his comrades were scared shitless and were shooting at the sun and the clouds. That is, if they got over their fright and shot at anything at all. Of course, the rebels were shooting high, too, otherwise everyone would be dead. The air was filled with the incessant buzz of the leaden bees that flew overhead. Billy thought grimly that people in the rear who thought themselves safe were in as much danger as he was.

The rebels paused. Then some Southern fool started howling and the rest of them took it up. It sent chills up Billy’s spine. He thought it sounded like someone had set hundreds of cats on fire at the same time.

“They’re coming,” Captain Melcher said.

“No shit,” Billy muttered, and some of those around him laughed nervously. Melcher didn’t hear.

“Where’s fucking Grimes?” asked Billy.

“Wounded,” came the reply.

“Hope it wasn’t in the head,” Billy muttered. “Nothing there to hurt in that gap-toothed fool’s skull.”

The rebels came at them, moving, firing, and howling. Billy and the rest of the Union line poured bullets into them. The advantage lay with the defender, who could aim and reload more quickly, while the advancing rebels had to reload more slowly and shoot awkwardly.

Rebels fell and others took their place. Bullets smacked into Union soldiers, who also fell sometimes silently, and sometimes screaming in shock and pain. A soldier stumbled onto Billy, who cursed at him. Then he saw that it was one of his friends, and that he’d had his right arm torn off just above the elbow. The wounded soldier started screaming and blood gushed from the wound where a jagged piece of bone stuck out.

Something wet struck Billy’s forehead. Hell he thought, was it raining again? There’d been a damp mist all morning. He wiped his forehead and his hand came away red. It was raining blood and the rebels were still coming. In a few seconds they would be on them.

Bayonets, Billy thought. They were going to use bayonets! He knew real fear for the first time in his life. He was a little man and the bayonet was a skill he hadn’t come close to acquiring. A normal-sized man would push Billy’s bayonet aside and ram his own into Billy’s gut. His bowels contracted in fear and he almost wet himself.

Now he realized he could die. At Bull Run and at this god-forsaken place, he’d killed at a distance and been safe. It had been a game, only thing was, someone just changed the rules. Now the targets, the men he’d been killing with impunity, were going to have their turn. And he could die. So many men in Union blue lay around him and he knew he could soon be one of them. He whimpered and wanted to cry, and he did wet himself.

The rebels were only about fifty yards away and Billy’s legs trembled. He could see their contorted faces as they screamed hatred at him. They were people who looked just like his own comrades and they yelled in a language he understood. If they’d been wearing blue instead of gray, there would have been no difference. The rebels were dressed in rags and many were barefoot. Were they all so poor? So what. He was going to be killed by someone who looked just like him.

The rebel line paused, faltered, and stopped. They were twenty yards away.

“Keep it up, boys,” Captain Melcher hollered. His hat was gone and blood from a scalp cut streamed down his face.

Billy fired again and again into the densely packed Confederates, who seemed reluctant to close the intervening few yards. The more he shot the fewer there would be to bayonet him.

The rebels began to fall back. Some tried to pick up their wounded, but the seriously hurt had to be left where they writhed on the gore-stained grass. The rebels retreated in a backward-facing walk that became an exhausted trot. It was over. He would not get a bayonet in his gut. At least not right now.

Billy dropped to his hands and knees. He fumbled with his canteen and swallowed delicious gulps of brackish water. His face hurt where exploding powder had burned it. He wondered where Otto the Kraut was. He stood up shakily and looked at others like him who were gazing about in wonderment. They had survived. They would live to fight another day.

The rebels had attacked three times in only two hours. The attacks had been savage, even frantic, with the last one being the worst and closest to succeeding. The Confederates had hurled themselves on the Union lines in an effort to chase them from their homeland.

But they hadn’t done it, Billy thought with satisfaction. They hadn’t goddamn done it.

Nathan and Lieutenant Winton rode back to McClellan’s headquarters and found a scene of chaos instead of the usual ordered and structured formality. Couriers and staff officers ran about shouting orders that everyone else seemed to ignore. McClellan was nowhere around.

Winton looked stunned. “I’ll find out,” he said before Nathan could ask, and disappeared.

On his own, Nathan found a sergeant who seemed relatively unperturbed. When questioned, the sergeant eyed Nathan’s civilian clothing, then decided he had nothing to lose.

“Stonewall Jackson’s appeared on our right flank and is attacking Porters corps.”

“Jackson’s in the Shenandoah,” Nathan said.

The sergeant spat some tobacco on the ground. “No. that’s where he’s supposed to be. only he ain’t there and everyone’s surprised that he’s not following our rules. Right now he’s attacking Porter’s right flank and pushing it back. Somebody else is attacking the center, and our beloved little general is fit to be tied.” With that, the sergeant realized he might have said too much and strode off.

Winton returned breathless. He confirmed the flanking attack on Porter, and they both knew of the attack against Hooker’s center force.

“What really has everyone confused,” said Winton, “is that Sumner has telegraphed a message that he is under a very strong attack in the valley and is pulling back towards Washington. How can these rebels be everywhere?”

How indeed, Nathan thought. Scott had said that Lee would bedevil and confuse McClellan. Was that what was happening?

“So what orders have been given?” Nathan asked.

Winton looked downward and grimaced. “McClellan has ordered a general withdrawal. It seems we are returning to Washington.”

Nathan didn’t understand. “Are we in that bad a shape?”

Winton was only a junior officer. He had no idea. At that moment, McClellan strode past.

“General,” Nathan said.

McClellan would have looked through him but for the civilian clothes that were out of place and drew attention. “Ah, Mr. Hunter. So you see, I was right after all. There are so many more Confederates than our poor army can deal with. Porter is falling back, but fortunately in good order, while Hooker is holding for the moment. That moment will not last forever. Now I must retreat and save my army.”

“But what about Burnside?” Nathan asked. Twenty thousand reserves were sitting in the army’s rear, doing nothing.

“Stuart is probing around the supply depots. Burnside is to hold while the rest of the army passes through him. Burnside’s role is changing from reserve to rear guard.” With that, McClellan nodded and walked away, surrounded by a host of staff officers.

It didn’t make sense to Nathan. The Union left was fresh while the center was holding. Burnside’s force was more than enough to both secure the depots and to reinforce Porter, especially if Porter was falling back in good order. It struck Nathan as a chance to chew up the Confederates while they attacked, instead of the Union host being chewed on while it retreated. Retreats were chancy things. Even a well-run retreat could easily turn into a rout.

And what would happen to the thousands of tons of food, ammunition, guns, and other supplies that were stacked around the Union rear? They could save the men, but how could they move the supplies? The answer was simple: They couldn’t and wouldn’t.

McClellan was giving up.

“Why?” Billy Harwell asked, and the question was taken up by a score of outraged voices. They had fought for the right to own the bloody field and saw no reason to leave it.

Captain Melcher shrugged at the minor display of disrespect. “Orders. That’s all I know. Orders.”

Word had come down that they were to retreat. In front of them lay a field littered with Confederate dead and dying. They had stood up to the best Lee had and kicked it in the ass. And now they were being told to fall back. It didn’t make sense. However, it was the army. It didn’t have to make sense.

They gathered their belongings and started to walk back to the rear. They looked behind them to where the Confederates had once stood. There was nothing. Around them, scores of other companies were doing the same thing in a vast migration northward.

“Jesus Christ,” Billy wondered, “if there’s so many of us, how’d we get beat?”

He’d found Otto, who wondered the same thing, Otto had a bad cut on his arm and had wrapped it in a dirty cloth, Neither young man thought war was fun anymore,

They came to an aid station, where Sergeant Grimes joined them. He was on a crutch and his left leg was bandaged around the knee. He moved the leg stiffly and groaned. He looked haunted and scared, Billy didn’t feel the least bit sorry for him.

Then Billy wondered if Grimes was faking it, He had gotten “wounded” just as the rebs were beginning their first attack, How convenient, he thought,

Captain Melcher was behind them, Billy gestured to the captain to watch him. Then he gave Grimes a nudge that almost knocked him off his feet and down a gravel slope, Grimes threw away the crutch and hopped nimbly down the slope, all the while keeping his balance and swearing at Billy,