Valley of the Shadow: A Novel (54 page)

This
was soldiering: not leading dashing charges on sunny days and gathering brevets, but clinging to worthless ground with unsteady men who shit in their drawers, unable to leave the firing line. Stubbornness was aces, valor a jack of diamonds.

And “stubbornness” described George Washington Getty. Getty would hold. No need to worry over his division.

Balls hissed by. It was hard to tell which side was shooting at the mounted party. Or if men were firing blindly into the mist.

In a hollow, Owens, the horn-hard old trooper, halted them.

“Ain’t right, sir,” he told Ricketts. “Don’t feel right.” As he spoke, soldiers in blue uniforms burst from the mist and streamed past them. Sixth Corps men. From Ricketts’ own division. Far from where their regiments should have been.

“Turn around, damn you!” Ricketts roared. “The Rebs are tired out! Turn back, boys, and we’ll whip them.…”

“Them Johnnies ain’t tired a lick,” a scurrying soldier corrected him.

But they had to be weary, didn’t they? They must have been marching all night to bring this off. There
had
to be hope. If only his line could hold.

Did he still have a line?

He turned his horse in the direction from whence the soldiers had come.

The old scout called, “Sir, I wouldn’t—”

A blow to the chest knocked Ricketts from the saddle. Pain grabbed his shoulder before he smacked the ground. Shock piled on shock.

“Son of a goddamn bitch,” Ricketts muttered, or thought he did.

Cold earth. Warm blood.

Aides dismounted and swarmed him.

“Let me breathe … Christ’s sake…”

“Get his coat open, open his coat.”

“I can do it,” Ricketts said. But he couldn’t. Hands tore at him.

“Hold on, sir.” Familiar voice. Whose voice? He couldn’t see. Pillows of fog pressed down upon his eyes.

“Frances,”
he muttered. Then he straightened his spirit, if not his body. “Tell Getty … find General Getty … tell him he has the corps.”

He had his senses again, though. The sardonic thought pierced him that he had gotten his corps command at last—and made a bloody mess of it. Well, you played the cards that fell to you and only novices at the game complained. You played your cards as well as you could and then fortune decided.

Men lifted him up amid a riot of sounds.

He wondered, as he had back on the Monocacy, what would happen if he died.Would his spirit ascend to rejoin his first wife, Harriet? How unfair that would be to poor, dear Frances—what would become of her?

“He’s gushing blood,” a fearful voice exclaimed. “Put him down, we have to staunch it…”

He wanted to tell the lad to go to Hell. Instead he said, in a voice so calm it surprised him, “Just get me to the rear, boys. I don’t have a mind to be captured again.”

“Yes, sir. Sure enough, sir.”

Oh, it hurt, though. He’d been shot enough times to qualify as a connoisseur of wounds, and this variety seemed uniquely painful.

“Don’t worry,” he said, but his voice was weaker now. “I won’t die.”

And he
had
resolved to live. Never liked to fold a hand too soon. He just plain resolved to live. He owed Frances that much, after all she’d done for him. But Jim Ricketts also knew the worth of mortal resolutions.

8:30 a.m.

Lost Brook

Riding his prancing black, Custer exploded from the haze, displaying himself to Merritt and his staff. Doffing his hat, the better to fling back his locks, the intruder called, “Say, Merritt! What news, old fellow?”

Not entirely pleased by Custer’s advent, Brigadier General Wesley Merritt said, “Damned mess. That’s evident. You should be back with your men, George.”

Merritt understood exactly what Custer was about: George’s division held the westernmost ground, farthest from the battlefield. George was worried that he’d be left behind to watch the flank, stranded out there, while others got into the fight and—a bane to George—gathered the laurels.

“Oh, my boys are fine.” Custer winked at Devin. “How-do, Tom? Got your Irish up?” Without waiting for a reply, he turned again to Merritt and said, “Rosser’s spooked, he won’t be any trouble. He’s had enough for one morning. I know him inside out.”

“Orders still apply, George.”

Custer smiled. He had the innocent-yet-mischievous grin of a child, complete with one twisted tooth. But for all his clowning and flamboyance, Custer was a bloody-handed instrument, Merritt knew. George didn’t just love to fight, he loved to kill.

“Just thought I’d see what was going on. Bit dull out where I’m stuck.” Custer waved his hand toward the cacophony off to the east. In the high fields, well away from the river and creekbed, the mist was retreating. Soldiers in blue could be seen in the middle distance, fleeing as individuals or in clusters. “Ought to give them a sharp taste of the saber,” Custer added. “Damned cowards.”

“I’ve got men out there rounding them up,” Merritt told him.

Merritt, too, was impatient to join the fight and couldn’t understand why Torbert or even Wright hadn’t sent down an order to stem what seemed a shameful defeat. Had Wright lost control entirely? Or plain forgotten the cavalry? Sheridan wouldn’t have.

Merritt had concerns and ambitions aplenty, but unlike his fellow division commander, he believed in discipline and sobriety. Some of the troopers, amused by the contrast, had nicknamed the two of them “Poker-face and Joker-face.” Merritt didn’t mind—as long as he had the poker-face.

For his part, Custer imposed draconian discipline on subordinates, but took a long list of liberties himself. Starting with his costume, that velveteen sailor’s blouse festooned with stars of ludicrous size, the red silk scarf, and the floppy hat with its coiled snakes of braid. And the hair, of course, gleaming with Macassar oil. As far as literal sobriety went, Custer wasn’t a drunkard—he had that to his credit—but the joke ran that he needn’t bother with whiskey, since George was drunk on himself.

“What if old Torbert’s been captured? Could be why we haven’t gotten orders.”

“Don’t be an ass, George.” But Merritt felt his own impatience welling.

“What do
you
think, Tom?” Custer asked Devin. “Wouldn’t
you
like to ride over and join the revels?”

Devin bristled, shrugged. Tom Devin shared his view of Custer, Merritt knew, admiring George’s pluck on the battlefield, but otherwise annoyed at his shenanigans. And there was a bit of jealousy, Merritt had to concede. Not least on Devin’s part. Given Tom’s service record, he should have had a division long before George got one of his own. But Sheridan treated Custer as a son, if an improbable one.

For all the temptation to quarrel, they fought well together, Merritt had to admit. Rivalries had their virtues as well as their dangers.

“Halloo!”
Custer called, although there was no need for shouting. The battle’s noise, while troubling, was off in its box. But Custer had spotted the galloping rider first through the mist’s rear guard and couldn’t restrain himself. The man’s exuberance was uncontrollable.

Merritt was certain the rider would carry the order to join the fight. Or at least to cover the army’s withdrawal. Of a sudden, he longed, even ached, to give his men the order to remount and ride eastward at a trot. Tom Devin, too, had quickened. But Merritt maintained his outward rigor, “straight of spine and straight of deed,” as his father liked to describe a worthy man.

Flinging sweat despite the morning’s coolness, the courier made straight for Merritt, drawing a folded scrap of paper from his pouch and extending it before his horse had steadied.

Yes.
It was an order to move north of Middletown, to establish a line, halt the rearward flow of soldiers, and block the Rebel advance.

He couldn’t resist tormenting Custer, though, and kept the order to himself for a few delicious moments. He even made his face show disappointment.

George squirmed in the saddle, a child with worms.

“Anything in there for me?” Custer begged.

Merritt tightened his brow, affecting to squint at the handwriting.

“What does it say, Wes? What does it say, are we in it?”

At last, Merritt passed the note over to Custer. “You’re to leave a detachment to keep an eye on Rosser. But we’re in it, George.”

8:45 a.m.

The Valley Pike, south of Middletown

Brigadier General George Washington Getty still couldn’t see a damned thing beyond pistol range. But he had his division in hand. He always did.

With their line crossing the Pike at a slight diagonal, his men had thrown back a flurry of Rebel assaults. But even as Getty held his ground, the army crumbled around him. He hadn’t seen Jim Ricketts for an hour and guessed that he’d gone to do what he could for Wheaton.

Lew Grant, commanding his Vermont Brigade, found Getty in the white air acrid with gunsmoke.

“Sir, my flank’s dangling like bait on a hook. I’ve sent out flankers to reestablish contact, but Wheaton’s boys are plain gone.”

“Gone to Hell,” Getty grumped. “Bugger this whole goddamned day.” Dressed with the meticulous care of a Regular, he stiffened his spine to match his starched high collar. “Going to pull back, Lew. Nothing for it. But I want no running, no disorder.”

“Vermont men don’t run.”

“We’ll see.”

“Position in mind?”

“I always have a position in mind.” Getty was instantly sorry he’d said that, it sounded too much like a brag. But it was true. He’d learned early on, in fighting the Seminoles, that an officer had to pay attention to every slight variation in the terrain. He’d carried that habit with him through peace and war, never occupying so much as a temporary camp without inspecting the ground for fighting positions, as if he might be attacked at any moment.

As the army had been attacked this cursed morning.

“Sounds like they’re getting ready to hit us again,” Grant said. “Bringing up artillery. Listen.”

Getty snorted. “Probably our own guns they’ve captured. Sonsofbitches.” He turned back to business. “Keep your alignment. We’ll pull straight back, west by northwest. Get through that creek gully quick and up the other side. We’ll make a stand on that ridge with the cemetery.”

“Yes, sir. I know it. Good ground.”

“It’s the
only
ground, goddamn it. Steep slopes, clean fields of fire. I’ve sent orders to McKnight to shift his guns. If the earth hasn’t swallowed him whole.” The forty-five-year-old former artilleryman added, “Guns or no guns, we’re going to hold on to those heights like a whore grips a gold piece.”

“Johnnies may ignore us. Head straight north through the town and cut us off.”

“They won’t. Flies to honey. They’ll swarm on us, wait and see.” The nearest Rebs sounded truculent, ready to try them again. “Too much damned talk. Get your boys back on that ridge. In good order. I’ll get the rest of this division moving.” He almost smiled, but even on the best of days Getty had little capacity for mirth. “I’ll be watching, Lew. To see whether Vermonters run or not.”

Truth was, Getty would not have traded the Vermont Brigade for any other in the army. But it didn’t hurt to give Lew Grant something to prove.

As they withdrew through the fields that dropped from the Pike, the Rebs did hit them. Twice. But the assaults were hasty and disorganized. Noisy, but not strong enough to break his division’s ranks.

Lonely damned place, though. He couldn’t tell if a single other division remained engaged. Ricketts’ boys under Keifer had just vanished, and it didn’t sound as though Wheaton was doing much. Mostly, it felt like Rebs out there in the fog—which was weakening, but still not thinned enough for aimed shots and accurate gunnery.

That was a blessing at the moment, though. The ground his men had to cover lay wide open, and the drop to the streambed waited. If the Rebs caught them down in that gully …

The Johnnies missed their chance. His division crossed the trickling run and made the high ground intact, as close to a miracle as the morning offered. Hard training paid in gold. Soldiers didn’t like it—hell, they hated Lew Grant for trying to outdo the Regulars—but in hours such as these fierce training saved Heaven and earth: Even frightful commands were obeyed instantly.

All through his career, George Washington Getty had prided himself on executing orders promptly and fully, no matter how they grated. He expected no less of his men.

Atop the ridge, a grove stretched northward to a balding cemetery. Getty rode back and forth, without a thought for his safety, testing the ground and firming up his lines, but unable to resist supervising the positioning of McKnight’s battery—which hadn’t disappeared, after all.

In ten minutes, his new line was as ready as it was going to be, with Bidwell’s brigade stretching northward beyond the gravestones and facing the town, Lew Grant and his Vermonters in the center where the hardest blows would land, and Warner’s brigade bending back to the right, overlooking a still-invisible Belle Grove. He even had the unexpected luck of finding a brigade of cavalry dismounting to guard his right flank.

And luck mattered. Study all the books about war you wanted, but luck mattered.

He heard the Rebs before he saw them, what must have been a full division, tramping toward them, roostering their war cry in poor-white voices. Cannon fired blindly over their heads, hunting Getty’s position.

“Steady, boys,” he snapped. “Those sonsofbitches don’t know what they’re in for. Officers, have your men lie down. No need to give the Johnnies easy targets.”

He also knew that men lying down were far less apt to run, simply because of the extra effort required. Law of inertia, taught to you at West Point, though not for this purpose.

West Point. So long ago.

Just had to get the men back on their feet at the last moment. Inertia was the science, judgment the art.

What the devil had happened to Jim Ricketts? Jim was another old artilleryman, a fellow veteran of Mexico and of many a lonesome, under-rationed garrison. Getty had always felt he could count on Ricketts, despite the fuss over Fitz John Porter’s court-martial—he didn’t know one officer with nothing on his conscience, so he wasn’t going to shun Ricketts over that business. But Jim seemed to have let the corps break up.