Dark Chaos (# 4 in the Bregdan Chronicles Historical Fiction Romance Series) (25 page)

             
Moses swung his gaze down the hill they were fighting to hold.  He scowled as he took in the half mile of open, slanting fields the Rebels would have to cross to get to them.  The Federals had a clear range of fire.  There was nothing to offer protection to the men who would soon be surging across it.  Did they really think they could take such a formidable position?

             
Moses turned away, leaned against the stone wall, and munched hungrily on the hardtack he had pulled from his haversack.  His gut told him the Confederate attack wasn’t coming anytime soon.  He was content to let his mind roam for a while.  As usual, it turned immediately to Rose.  And John.  A smile played across his lips as he tried to envision his little son.  The letter informing him of his birth had come just ten days before.  Now, more than ever, he wanted this war to be over.  The ache of missing Rose was now multiplied by the agony of having a child he had never seen. 

             
“Thinkin’ bout that boy of yours again?”

             
Moses turned to Pompey.  “How’d you know?”

             
“You got that silly grin on again.  Ain’t nothin’ but that little boy of yours could make a man smile on a day like today.”  Pompey squinted over the wall.  “How long you figure we got to wait before the devil breaks loose ‘round here?”

             
Moses shrugged.  “I don’t see any movement down there.  It could be a long day.”

             
“I reckon every day done been a long one,” Pompey grunted.  “We got less than sixty men left out of near ninety.  Talkin’ bout dying and watchin’ yer friends die sho do be diff’rent things.”  He gazed off into the distance but then brightened.  “But I figure this here war ain’t gonna go on forever.  I reckon we gonna turn some things around this summer, sho nuff.”

             
The morning passed slowly, the sound of fighting in the distance dying away before lunchtime.  And, still, the awaited attack didn’t come.  An uneasy silence settled over the blistering landscape.  It was as if even the earth was holding its breath in horrified anticipation of what was soon to erupt.  The birds fell silent.  The wispy breeze died completely away.   Moses could feel his breath coming in shallow spurts.  Every muscle in his body was coiled tightly, screaming for release in some kind of action.  His mind raced then dulled as he strained to catch some hint of what was coming.   He looked around at the men lolling on the ground: eating, reading, writing letters home.  Didn’t they feel it?  Didn’t they know what was about to descend on them?

             
Boom!  The single shot in the distance caused Moses to roll over and stare off toward the woods.  The single shell sailed over the ridge and exploded harmlessly in the distance.  Suddenly the entire woods they faced exploded in a dazzling blaze of light and cacophonous sound.  The Confederate attack had begun! 

             
Moses rolled over and flattened himself against the ground as the Rebel artillery blasted the Union’s position.  He watched in horror as soldiers who had moments before been resting were now obliterated before his eyes.  One man, still grasping his book, stumbled to his feet and dashed for cover.  Seconds later a shell exploded directly in front of him.  His now limp body sailed through the air, tumbling to a halt just feet from Moses’ position.  Moses felt sick as he stared into the gaping eyes of death. 

             
Horses fell all around, shrieking in pain before they collapsed.  Shards of fence posts, splintered into missiles, filled the air.  Chunks of earth darkened the air like a black cloud and blinded men hurrying to take their positions. Certain he had descended into the fiery pit itself, Moses gritted his teeth.  Added to the din of Confederate fire was the answering roar of the Federal artillery.  The hissing and shrieking sounds of missiles and exploding projectiles seemed to blot out any other reality. Shells fell like hailstones charged with exploding fire.  Sulfurous smoke permeated the air, causing him to choke and gasp for air.  He rolled over and pressed his face closer to the ground where he was relieved to find tiny pockets of fresh air.   He was quite certain there would be no Confederate advance until the artillery barrage had finished.  Any orders were lost in the incessant clamor. 

             
Two hours later, the artillery finally ceased.  Moses felt as if an eternity of time and death had passed over his head.  His lungs screamed for fresh air; his face was thick with grimy soot and his eyes bleary from smoke. 

             
“Here they come, boys!” a loud voice called through the smoke.  “Let’s show them we’re not finished!” 

             
Moses recognized Captain Jones’ voice, and his spirits lifted.  He was not sure whether he had been the only living person still on the ridge.  As he lifted his head, Moses gazed about in astonishment.  The destruction that spread out behind him was so horrible it was unbelievable.  Horses and cannon lay piled in hideous heaps.  Wagons were splintered, and the bodies of mutilated men lay everywhere.  But the infantry line!  Moses stared in surprise as wave after wave of blue uniforms raised from the ground and took their positions along the line.  Most of the destructive shell had gone right over their heads. 

             
“The enemy is advancing!” came another loud cry. 

             
Moses turned and lifted his head just high enough to peer over the stone wall - then froze in horror.   Wave after wave of Confederate soldiers, their gray uniforms a dull moving mass of iron, swept toward them across the open fields.  Man touched man, rank pressed rank, and line supported line.  Red flags waved defiantly, while horsemen galloped up and down.  Gun barrels and bayonets flashed in the sun.  They seemed to move as one, in perfect order. 

             
“Hold your fire, men!” came the sharp order. 

             
Unable to take his eyes from the drama unfolding before him, Moses gripped his rifle.  Silence extended down the lines beside him.  Then, slowly, he could hear the click of the lock as men raised their hammers to feel the cap on the nipple.  The rattle of stones penetrated the quiet as men raised their muskets over the stone wall and took aim.  Squeaking of iron axles penetrated the silence as the big guns were rolled up closer to the front. 

             
Suddenly Moses tore his eyes away and glanced around - searching...  He saw it then, the grand flag waving in defiance at the scores of men approaching who would rob it of half its stars - who would divide the Union it stood for.  Moses’ heart swelled with pride as he realized he was fighting for his country. 
His country! 

             
“Do not hurry, men.  Don’t fire too fast.  Let them come up close before you fire, and then aim low and steady.” 

             
Moses turned back to the approaching storm as a commanding general rode by.  His pulse was steady now, his head clear.   His hands were firm as he aimed his musket at the nearing wave of Rebels.  He knew they were outnumbered, yet they held the stronger position.  There was not a man in the Federal line who would give a quarter. 

             
Suddenly the artillery guns blazed behind them.  Still awaiting the order to fire, Moses peered through the smoke.  Great holes were torn in the Confederate advance but were quickly filled.  The gray wave moved inexorably on. 

             
“Fire!” 

             
The infantry line exploded in grim defiance.  Mounds of gray uniforms littered the ground in front of them and still the Rebels pushed on.  Moses fired, reloaded, aimed, and fired again.  His hands were steady, but his heart was pounding hard.  The Confederates responded with fire of their own, and they still moved forward.  Men fell all around Moses, their shrieks and calls adding to the confusion.  

             
Finally the Confederate advance stumbled in the face of such destructive fire.  Men fought to clamber over the bodies of their stricken comrades, fell before they rose to aim, and then were shot down themselves.   Thick clouds of smoke added to the confusion. 

             
“They’re turning back!” a soldier to Moses’ right yelled in triumph. 

             
“We got them on the run!” another screamed hoarsely.

             
Moses continued to fire steadily, then watched in relief as the giant gray wave - diminished in size - turned and began to flow back toward the woods they had exploded from earlier.  But it seemed they were leaving behind as many as were retreating. 

             
“We licked ‘em boys!” a man hollered jubilantly.

             
“Score one for the Army of the Potomac!” another called.

             
The Battle of Gettysburg was over.

Matthew Justin ran a tired hand over his thick red beard and hair
as he stretched his lanky body.  Once again he vowed to never spend another summer in the South for as long as he lived.  Swarms of mosquitoes were his constant companion and thirst dogged every step.  His clothes, even close to this midnight hour, were soaked with sweat, and the air hung heavy.  He longed for a thunderstorm to break the sullen hold Mother Nature held on the great Mississippi valley. 

             
“I sure hope General Grant finishes this soon,” Peter Jansen muttered.  “I’m not sure I can stand one more day in Mississippi.  I didn’t know it was possible to breathe water, but that’s exactly what this feels like.  I just want to get my story written for the paper and head north.”

             
Matthew smiled sympathetically at his fellow journalist.  “I’m with you.  I know how important Vicksburg is to the Union, but I’m about to suggest they give it up and leave it to the Rebels.  I feel sorry for the poor suckers left behind to hold it.” 

             
Peter nodded emphatically, swatting at another mosquito.  “Them and the pitiful soldiers left to watch over those refugee camps.  I don’t envy them their job.”

             
Matthew grimaced, thinking about Rose, glad the contraband camp she was staying in was better than the ones he had witnessed in Mississippi.

             
“I wouldn’t want my worst enemy in some of those camps,” Peter continued.  “I went down to cover one for the paper a few days ago.  I almost gagged just walking through it.  They’re nothing more than slums in the woods.”  He shook his head.  “And the coloreds still keep coming.”

             
“They don’t know what else to do,” Matthew replied.  “It’s like they’ve seen the Red Sea part.  They can see clear to the other side, so they’re just walking on through.”

             
“Yeah, but a bunch of them aren’t making it to the other side,” Peter retorted.  “Why, the camp I was at yesterday - they’re dying off by the dozens every day.  Disease is decimating them.”  He shook his head.  “It’s horrible.”

             
Matthew didn’t bother to argue with him.  He had seen firsthand the horror of the Mississippi contraband camps.  The sad thing was that there was really no one to blame.  The government was doing the best it could; the Union simply hadn’t been prepared for the responsibility thrust upon them.  Thousands of ex-slaves had left their plantations in search of the freedom they heard was promised them.  They came to Union army camps because for the moment they were totally helpless.  Traits such as self-reliance and initiative had gone undeveloped under slavery.  Slaves came because they could think of nowhere else to go and knew only that they must be on their way somewhere.  Those slaves were lured by blind hopes of having better lives rather than living out their lives in bondage.

             
“It seems to me that they’re worse off than they were under slavery,” Peter observed.  “They should have stayed put.”

             
“They might have been better off physically,” Matthew agreed, “but they are running from what slavery did to their minds and their hearts.  I’ve talked to several of them.  They agree their conditions are horrible, but at least there is a hope before them.  Before, they had no hope - just the knowledge they, and their children, would forever be in bondage.  They need help, but they’re willing to work to help change things.  A lot of them have no idea what they have to do, but they’re willing to do it.” 

             
Peter shook his head.  “Some of our soldiers treat them worse than their owners did.”

             
Matthew scowled.  “I know.  I think those soldiers ought to be quartered and shot.  To take advantage of a people so totally helpless is despicable.” 

             
“You really care about these people, don’t you?”  Peter asked.  “They’re more than just a story for the Philadelphia Tribune.”

             
“I care about them,” Matthew agreed.  “They’re people.  They have the same right to be Americans that we do.  They didn’t ask to be brought here, but now that they’re here they want to be treated as human beings.  It’s no more than you and I want for ourselves and our children.”  He knew he was being brusque, but he had been ridiculed too much lately by fellow journalists.  “There’s a lot of people up North who think the slaves ought to be free, but they don’t want them to go up there, and they certainly don’t want to be responsible for them.”

             
“What’s so wrong with that?”  Peter asked but then raised his hands in self-defense when Matthew glared at him fiercely.  “I’m not saying I agree with them, but I can understand how they feel.  It’s not really the North’s problem.”

             
“It’s everyone’s problem,” Matthew snapped.  “The North might have not had slaves for a while, but until recently they’ve done nothing to stop the ownership of millions of people in the South.  If it wasn’t for this war and the Emancipation Proclamation, citizens still wouldn’t be seeing it as a problem because they wouldn’t think it was
their
problem.  Any time people -
any
kind of people - lose their basic human rights it becomes everyone’s problem.  We live in a country founded on our desire for freedom.  Everyone wants freedom for himself, but they’re not very quick to jump to the defense of someone else who has his freedom stolen.”

             
“But look at all the men fighting this war,” Peter protested.  “They’re fighting for freedom.”

             
“They’re fighting because their country is at war,” Matthew retorted.  “If you sat most of them down, they probably couldn’t even tell you what the war’s all about.  Except that they have to bring those crazy Rebels under control.  Don’t get me wrong,” he added, “there are many of them fighting for the right reasons, but there are way too many who aren’t.”  He paused, staring into the starry sky dimmed by thick humidity hanging in the air.  “There weren’t very many who went into this war thinking to free slaves.  But the war has changed.”

             
“I think everyone has gotten much more than they bargained for,” Peter agreed heavily.  “What started out as a fight to save the Union has become nothing more than a remorseless revolution.  It’s going to change the face of America for everyone.  When it’s all over, most of us probably won’t even recognize our own country.”

             
A sudden shout startled Matthew.  “What in the world is that?” he exclaimed.              Seconds later a form materialized out of the darkness.  “It’s over, boys!”

             
Matthew sprang to his feet.  “What’s over?”

             
“The fight for Vicksburg!  The siege finally wore them down.” The messenger grinned.

             
Matthew wasn’t surprised.  The question in his mind had never been
if
Vicksburg would fall, it was
when
.  The besieged city had been under relentless bombardment for almost a month and a half.  Surely their people were hungry and demoralized.  Ordering the digging of tunnels and planting of mines to blow up strong points, General Grant’s engineers had been bringing the Federal trenches closer and closer to the Confederate works.  The Confederates trying to hold the line to the city had fought long and hard, but finally the walls around Jericho had come tumbling down. 

             
“Was it unconditional surrender?”  Peter pulled out his pad and began writing, his eyes shining in the firelight.

             
“No, but darn close,” the messenger answered.  “Pemberton is surrendering everything.  His only qualification was that his soldiers be released on parole instead of being sent north to our prison camps.”

             
“The Rebels are probably so disheartened they’ll just go home anyway,” Matthew observed.

             
“That’s what Grant figures,” the messenger agreed.  “That, plus the fact of the logistics necessary to ship 31,000 prisoners north was more than he wanted to deal with.”  The messenger moved off, then turned around.  “Get ready for a party, boys.  We go in to take the city tomorrow - Independence Day.  Fitting don’t you think?”  He chuckled as he disappeared into the dark to continue spreading his message.

             
Matthew and Peter sat silently for several minutes relishing the news they had just heard.  Matthew finally broke the quiet.  “I guess you get your wish.  Will you head north for your next assignment?”

             
“Yeah.  I’ll cover the surrender of the town; then I’ll get out of here.  I won’t even give them a chance to wire my next location.  I have to get somewhere I can breathe again.”  Peter stuck a wad of tobacco into his mouth.  “What about you?  Where to from here?”

             
“I’m going back to Philadelphia,” Matthew said promptly.  “I’m feeling the need for civilization just like you.  I’ve also got a friend there who is heavily involved in the supplying of contraband camps.  Aunt Abby will see that some supplies are sent down here for the poor people in these refugee camps.  Then,” he added, picking up a stick and tossing it into the fire, “I guess I’ll move on to wherever the next hot spot is.”

             
“No girl you’re going to see while you’re there?”  Peter questioned. 

             
Matthew shook his head silently, not willing to respond to the casual teasing.  Carrie Cromwell was still a sore spot for him.  He realized the girl he loved cared for another man, but that didn’t change his heart.  He was just hoping time and distance would take care of it.  That and constant hard work.  He looked for a way to change the subject.  “Lincoln might get what he wants this summer after all.” 

             
“You think the war could end this summer?”  Peter asked skeptically.  “Haven’t you noticed this is the first major battle to be won so far this year?”

             
Matthew shrugged.  “Maybe.  We haven’t heard the most recent reports.  Meade is chasing around with Lee up in Pennsylvania.  Rosecrans is bound to make his move in Tennessee at some point.”  He paused.  “Losing Vicksburg is a mortal wound to the Confederacy.  With the Mississippi open, they simply don’t have the power to establish an independent government.  It can never be done between the Mississippi and the Atlantic.  No,” he said shaking his head, “I think the Confederacy is an impossibility.”

             
“Would you mind riding to Richmond and telling Jefferson Davis that?  It might save the lives of a lot of our men.”

             
“I’ve seen all of Richmond I want to see for a while,” Matthew grinned.  “I find the hospitality of their prisons leaves much to be desired.” 

             
Peter nodded.  “I heard you had spent some time in one of their fair facilities.”

             
“Libby Prison.  I hope never to see the place again.  At least not as a prisoner.  It would be nice to cover its destruction someday.  I think I’ll let President Davis come to his own conclusions.  I’m afraid, though, that he won’t see things as clearly as I do.”

             
Peter laughed heartily.  “Let’s get some sleep.  We have a lot of work to do before we leave this swamp land.”

Early on the morning of July 6, Matthew loaded onto a boat with several other journalists.   They had almost pushed off when Peter appeared carrying his bag and leapt on board.  “Heading north?”
He grinned.

             
“You got it.”  Matthew grinned in return.  He was suddenly feeling light at heart.  The pity he had felt for the citizens of Vicksburg when he saw their demolished city and viewed the impoverished people was fading with the excitement of going home.  He had written his stories.  He would deliver them himself and then see what the future held for him. 
After
a huge dinner at Aunt Abby’s, he reminded himself.

             
They had gone less than two miles up the river when a barrage of fire exploded from the wooded banks of the secluded curve they were rounding. 

             
“What’s that?” Peter exclaimed. 

             
“Everybody, down!”  Matthew hit the floor of the tugboat they were riding in and scanned the woods to catch a glimpse of their attackers. 

             
“It’s Rebels!” one of the crew members cried.  “Man the gun.”

             
Matthew groaned silently.  The tugboat they were passengers in had a single gun on board, hardly capable of withstanding a Confederate attack.  What in the world were they doing, anyhow?  Didn’t they know the Mississippi was lost - that Vicksburg had fallen?  Obviously the attackers were just intent on doing whatever damage they could.