Focusing his field glasses, Henry Hunt scanned the road to Emmitsburg that bisected the open valley below. The road, well built and flanked by post and rail fences, cut straight to the southwest to Emmitsburg, ten miles away. Along a mile of the pike directly in front was Buford's cavalry division, most taking it easy, sitting around smoking fires made of piled-up fence rails. After yesterday's hard fight, they deserved some time to rest
A thin line of pickets was deployed along the slope rising up from the road to the west, a knot of riders loitering in a peach orchard along the east side of the pike. Focusing on the group, he watched as one of the men gathered handfuls of the nearly ripe fruit, dumping them into a saddlebag. Several troopers were playing catch with the fruit, one of them pitching a shot at the back of an officer riding past Fortunately for all concerned, the shot missed, and Henry could not help but chuckle.
Raising his gaze, Henry studied the ridge that sloped up to the west. A thin line of dismounted troopers was deployed along the ridge. Occasionally one would pop off a shot the puff of smoke drifting up. From the next ridge beyond he caught an occasional glimpse of movement Confederate skirmishers.
It didn't seem threatening, typical of the type of action along the flanks of a battlefield. The skirmishing was half-hearted, just an occasional shot to announce to the other side not to come too close. He lowered his glasses, carefully studying the layers of ridges that marched off westward, climaxing in the South Mountain Range, twelve miles distant It was hard to discern; the day was humid, a bit hazy, but it seemed as if a low cloud of dust was kicking up between the ridges below the South Mountains.
Not my job to play scout he thought. I'm here to see to artillery deployment get the batteries in place up here on this hill, then go back to headquarters behind the cemetery, check on ammunition reserves, and wait to see what comes next
Behind Henry one battery was now in place, bronze twelve-pound Napoleon smoothbores, perfect for close-in support The guns were well positioned, barrels depressed to sweep the lower slope of the hill. A second battery, ten-pound rifled Parrott guns, was coming up now, laboriously making its way through the trees. They had extra limbers to the rear, more than enough ammunition. Things, at least for the moment were just about taken care of here.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.
Perhaps I can finally get a few hours' sleep before things heat up again. They didn't come in at dawn like expected. Maybe we battered them hard enough that Lee will back off. But if he backs off… then what?
A coil of cigar smoke drifted around Henry, and he looked over his shoulder.
Damn! It was Maj. Gen. Dan Sickles, commander of the Third Corps, now holding the left flank of the line around the lower end of Cemetery Ridge and the two Round Top hills. Sickles was coming toward him, puffing away like a belching locomotive, holding, of all things, a heavy goblet of cut glass, half filled with brandy. Sickles was short features florid, mustache drooping around the sides of his mouth. An energetic man with a high-pitched voice. Sickles was the backslapping and hearty manliness type that Henry found to be distasteful in an officer.
Henry turned away, hoping Sickles would simply wander on. Raising his glasses, he scanned what might be dust drifting along a distant ridge.
"You don't like me, Hunt, I can tell."
Henry lowered his field glasses and looked over at Sickles. He wearily shook his head. "Sir, it's not my place to like or dislike you. You're a general in command of a corps."
"You West Pointers," Sickles announced, as if launching into a speech for the benefit of the men who were digging in to either side of them, only a few feet away, "and I'm not part of your club. You West Pointers, I'm passable as a commander of a brigade of volunteers, but a corps? You just don't feel comfortable with that"
Henry looked pointedly to the infantry, who had stopped their work and were enjoying the confrontation, many of them grinning.
"These are my men, Hunt," Sickles announced with a flourish, the hand holding the glass of brandy sweeping out as if he were about to launch into a speech. "Best damn corps in this damn army. I don't care if they hear what I've got to say."
"I do," Henry replied, his voice pitched low.
'Take Hooker, for example," Sickles continued. "Wouldn't listen to me at Chancellorsville, the stupid son of a bitch. But then again, there was no love lost between the two of you either."
"We saw differently on a few things," Henry replied non-committally.
Henry slid off the rock he had been perched on and
walked down the slope a couple of dozen feet Sickles followed.
"Sir, such a conversation around the men is not in the best interest of morale," Henry said quietly.
Sickles laughed. "Part of the game at times" Sickles replied, but this time his voice was as low as Henry's. 'Troops like it when they feel their commander stands up to the high muckety-mucks. I know these men, Hunt They're tough soldiers, but they're citizen-soldiers, volunteers, not professionals. They fight for different reasons than you and I. If only someone on top really knew how to lead them, we'd've ended this war months ago.
"You weren't there at the Chancellor House when Hooker got knocked out by that artillery round. All of them, all those damn West Pointers standing around like a herd of sheep, hemming and hawing, no one with the guts to take over. I'd of taken command if I thought the others would have followed, but I didn't have that little date of graduation behind my name. We could have won that damn fight, smashed Lee up good that day rather than the other way around. Then Hooker, his brain all addled, stands back up and everyone starts saluting like goddamn puppets on strings. Puppets, Hunt, we're led by puppets."
Henry said nothing, raising his field glasses back up and focusing on a distant ridge. Actually Sickles was right If someone had seized the moment before Hooker regained consciousness, had shown a little guts, they might not be sitting atop this hill in Pennsylvania this day, but instead be in Richmond.
"Nice quiet place up there on the Hudson, like some papist monastery," Sickles continued. "But I didn't go hide in some monastery, Hunt I learned my business on the streets of New York with the likes of old Clinton and Tweed.
"You don't hesitate in that game. You jump in with both feet grab hold, and thrash your opponent till he begs for mercy and crawls on the floor, and then you kick him in the ass for good measure. That's just as much war as what you learned. Don't let go and always know what the other man is thinking, whether he's your friend or your enemy. That's leadership, Hunt learning how the other man thinks; then use that to get him with you or get him the hell out of the way."
Henry sighed, trying to keep his field glasses focused, but his eyes hurt not enough sleep. He lowered the glasses and wiped his face. Already the day was getting warm.
Draining off the rest of the brandy, Sickles set the glass down on a rock. Smiling, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a thick cigar, a Havana, and offered it Henry nodded a thanks, bit off the end, and then fumbled in his pockets for a Lucifer. Dan reached into his breast pocket produced a match, and Henry puffed the cigar to life.
"I was stationed at Fort Hamilton, New York Harbor, for five years," Henry finally offered. "Even met you a few times at various functions, Fourth of July parades, receptions at City Hall, though I doubt you'd remember."
"Nice place, Fort Hamilton. Right in the harbor, out of the stink of the streets," Sickles replied. "That's when Lee commanded it?"
"Yes."
"I remember him from those times. Elegant distant a bit too pious for my blood. Understand you used to pray with him, studied the Bible together."
"Yes, we did." He was surprised that Sickles knew that bit of information.
"A good politician, a good general for that matter, knows such things about his friends and his enemies. You liked him, didn't you, Hunt?"
"Yes, I did."
"And now?"
Henry puffed on his cigar, and Dan chuckled softly.
"It's all right I'm not one of those damn fire-eating Republicans; you say a good word about that old man on the other side, and next thing you know you've got some damn congressman screaming for your hide before those witch-hunters with the Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War."
‘I respect Lee. Anyone who doesn't is a fool, sir."
Sickles laughed. "Would never want to play poker with him. He had that look."
Henry could not help but laugh softly in reply and took another puff on the cigar. It was a good one, the best he had smoked in months. The image of Lee playing poker. No, chess was more his game; poker did not fit with Lee.
"It's always about Lee, isn't it?" Sickles offered. "Always we're wondering what he is thinking, what he is doing, chasing his tail. Politics, Hunt, is like war. The moment you start chasing the other man's tail, you've lost You've got to keep him off balance, make him dance to your jig. That's why we keep losing. Lee picks the song, and we dance to his tune.
"Chancellorsville, damn it to hell! Hooker knocked out like a cold fish, everyone staring wide-eyed, twittering like a bunch of harem eunuchs."
Henry could not help but smile at the analogy.
"Everyone kept looking at that map, saying we were flanked and Hooker knocked out cold. No one was looking at the map thinking maybe we've got them bastards flanked instead, not just flanked but divided in half, by God. We could of smashed them up good. Meade's entire corps was poised above Jackson's left flank. All that was needed was someone with the guts to go in. Meade lacked the stomach then, orders or no orders, and now he's the one running the show today."
Henry said nothing.
"Meade hates me. I could point to the sun and say it is in the east and he'll tell me to go to hell, it's in the west"
"I don't think it's that bad," Henry replied.
"I know. Nothing would please him more than me getting a bullet in the head or my leg blown off."
Henry said nothing, shifting his cigar and raising the field glasses back up. Typical of most politicians, Sickles talked too much. Yet he did have guts, there was no denying that and even some damn good sense about battle. Though an amateur, he had led his Excelsior Brigade well during the Seven Days and handled a division at Fredericksburg and Third Corps at Chancellorsville. Before Jackson hit the flank, Sickles repeatedly warned Hooker that something was up, first suspecting that the troop movement to his front was a retreat then just before they got hit judging it to be an attack about to be unleashed. His troops fought like demons trying to hold back the tide throughout that terrible night of May 2nd, with Sickles on the front line throughout
It was the other side of him, though, that was unsettling. Though Henry held little truck in how some rambled on about officers having to be gentlemen, nevertheless, Sickles was rather unsavory on many counts. He was a ward heeler out of New York, the kind who used the waves of foreigners pouring into the city as a political army to advance his own power. It was the scandal regarding his wife, however, that had shocked the entire nation.
Discovering that she was having an affair with the nephew of Francis Scott Key, Dan Sickles had confronted the man in Lafayette Park, directly across from the White House, pulled out a pistol, and gunned him down. Then, in a bizarre twist, Edwin Stanton, now the secretary of war, defended him in court, cooking up a strange new plea never heard of before-that he had been 'temporarily insane" and thus not responsible. Of course the jury had been delighted with the entertainment provided and let him off. Then Sickles does an about-turn and brings the fallen strumpet back into his bed, showing up in public with her by his side as if nothing had ever happened.
It was all but impossible to understand such a man, such a world. He calls the Point a "papist monastery." Well, better that than the world of a man like Sickles.
Is that what I am fighting for? Henry wondered. I have far more in common with Lee than with this person standing beside me. Yet it is his world I'm fighting for out here, this brawling, strange new behemoth that our Republic is evolving into. Lee fights to preserve a different world, elegant though built on the corruption of slavery, but still elegant, where men are expected to act as gentlemen and ladies, well, to act as true ladies.
Sickles, the boys from the factories of New England, the swarming mobs in the back alleys of New York, the miners coming up out of the pits of Pennsylvania and the smoke-belching iron mills, the Irish and the Germans by the hundreds of thousands swarming off the boats and into our ranks, are something new, different, a strange, vibrant energy that I barely understand.
"You think something is going on over there, don't you, Hunt?"
Henry lowered his glasses.
"Reconnaissance is not my job, sir. I'm up on this hill to place guns".
He nodded back over his shoulder where the Second Battery was laboriously working to bring up their guns, cutting down trees to clear a way, twelve horses, double teamed to a single caisson and piece, struggling up through the woods on the north flank of the hill.
A brigade from Third Corps was digging in along the crest of the slope, piling up rocks, dragging in logs. The front slope of the hill had been lumbered off the year before, thus providing a beautiful field of fire straight down to a jumble of rocks at the base of die hill and out toward an open wheat field beyond. It was wonderful ground. An entire rebel corps would bleed itself out trying to take this hill once they were dug in.
"So why are you sitting here looking west, Hunt, rather than with your guns?" Henry smiled. "Curious." "So am I."
"Hard to tell, but it does look like some dust stirring up out beyond that next ridge," Henry noted. "You look close and you can see some Reb skirmishers along that second ridge." Even as he spoke he noticed a bit more dust, a plume rising up from behind the ridge.
Sickles raised his own field glasses and stared intently for a moment.
"Where's General Warren?" Henry asked. "He's the chief topographical engineer. I thought Meade sent him down here to take a look."
"Up on the next hill," Sickles said, pointing toward the large, wooded hill-the Big Round Top, locals called it- that was to their left.
Henry turned his glasses and saw where the Signal Corps had established itself, building a perch halfway up a large tree. There was an occasional fluttering of flags. He had thought about trying to work a battery up that mountain, but a quick survey showed it would have required an entire regiment of men, armed with axes, to clear the way and open out a field of fire. If the battle did spread out there, it would have to be an infantry fight.
"I've got a good regiment up there," Sickles announced, "Second Sharpshooters supporting that signal station. They're tied into a signal station down at Emmitsburg."
"Wonder why Buford down there doesn't push out a bit to the west and see what's up?"
"Go ask Meade," Dan replied. "I just got word from Buford that he's pulling out Relieved from the field to head back to Westminster to refit after the fight"
"What?"
"One of his staff came up about thirty minutes ago to tell me. They're going down to Taneytown." "Who's replacing them?"
"I am. I'm sending down Berdan's men, First Sharpshooters." "No cavalry?" "Nope."
"Strange, no cavalry on our flank. There's nothing between us and Emmitsburg, is there?" Henry asked.
"My men were the last unit out of there late yesterday. Nothing between us and the Potomac except for the Signal Corps and a regiment or two of cavalry that came in behind us last night"
Henry lowered his glasses and took another puff on his cigar. "I'd better get back to headquarters. My batteries look like they're moving in fine up here."
"My batteries, Hunt Remember, the corps commander has direct control of his battalion of guns. You just advise."
Henry bristled and looked over at Sickles. The politician turned general smiled.
"Relax, Hunt You do good work."
"Thanks."
Sickles looked past Henry. "Ah, here comes Warren. Good man, commanded a regiment under me before moving up to headquarters."
Henry looked back over his shoulder. Maj. Gen. Gouvenor Warren, puffing hard, was laboriously walking up the steep slope, trailed by several of his staff.
"A good man even though he's West Point, too?" Henry offered.
"Sometimes it doesn't ruin a man completely. Warren has a good eye for ground."
"West Point training," Henry could not help but say. "You don't learn how to read groundwork wandering around Manhattan."
Sickles chuckled. "Hunt, I might actually like you. You've got guts."
Warren, breathing audibly, approached Sickles, while calling for one of his staff to fetch their mounts. "Feel like a mountain goat going up and down these hills," Warren offered, as he saluted.
"Have a cigar, Gouvernor."
Warren waved the offer off. "I think something is up," Warren announced, bending over slightly to catch his breath.
"Signal from Emmitsburg reports dust on the road that goes from Fairfield to Emmitsburg. Also, from up on that hill," and he pointed back to Big Round Top, "you can catch glimpses of some kind of movement, but too much dust to tell."
There was a flutter of signal flags from the perch atop the mountain even as Warren spoke.
Sickles turned and looked back to the west, meditatively chewing on his cigar. Henry uncorked his canteen and offered it to Warren, who nodded a thanks and took a long drink.
"Day's going to get hot real quick," Warren offered. "Maybe we should ask Buford to go over to that next ridge and take a look around."
"Buford is pulling off the line, going back to refit"
Warren sighed, looking back to the west. "Might be nothing. Still think we should take a look."
'I'll send Berdan up, give him a regiment for additional support" Sickles announced.
Henry looked over at the general. "Sir, I remember hearing your orders were to dig in along this line, not to push for-" ward."
Sickles just looked over and grinned. "Hunt, when you get back to headquarters, tell his High Almighty that we might have a problem developing. Also, I think we should put a little more strength down forward, into that peach orchard by the road to Emmitsburg. This hill's a good spot, but my right flank is on low land, no clear fields of fire. If we move out to that orchard and the next ridge, we'll have a better position in case something is developing."
"Sir, orders were to deploy along this line," Warren observed. "I was sent here to survey this position for defense, not half a mile forward."
Sickles grinned, saying nothing.
Henry nodded. "I'll report it," Henry finally offered.
"I'll ride with you, Hunt," Warren announced.
"Hunt, take an extra one," Sickles said, and he produced another cigar and tossed it over. "One of my old constituents keeps me supplied."
Henry nodded his thanks, and with Warren by his side they struggled up to the crest. Their mutual staffs were already mounted, and Henry wearily swung into the saddle. For a moment he was disoriented, not sure which way to go. He had come up this way before dawn, and the lack of sleep left him feeling light-headed, dizzy.
"This way, Hunt," Warren said, and they started down the slope.
Henry looked back over his shoulder. Sickles was deep in conversation with an officer wearing the distinctive green uniform of the Sharpshooters.
‘I don't trust him," Warren announced.
"Who? Sickles?"
"Exactly. He hates Meade. He most likely vented it on you the same as he did me. It'd be like Sickles to go off half-cocked."
"Do you think something is up?"
"I came up here to survey the land, Hunt, same way you came up here to lay the guns."
"Still, after what happened last night, Lee won't back off. Not now." Even as he said the words, Henry thought of Sick-les's comment that we danced to Lee's tune.
"I need some sleep, Warren. Let's just hope nothing happens."
"Where do you think it will happen? Frankly, I hope Lee tries to take those two hills. With Sickles's corps on top, it will be a damn killing ground, just like last night"
Last night The memory of the rebel flag bearer cut in half, the carnage piled up in front of his guns.
"Where do you think it will hit?" Henry asked.
"South," Warren sighed. "This place is too good. He won't do us the favor of coming straight in. I think he's moving south and coming around our flank,"
"Sgt Major Quinn!"
Sgt Maj. Michael Quinn, First United States Sharpshooters, knew something was up. Colonel Berdan had come riding into their camp at the base of the rocky hill, shouting for an officers' meeting.
Tossing what was left of his coffee on the ground, Quinn started over to where the officers of the regiment were gathered in a circle around Colonel Berdan. There was no need to be told; the regiment was going out
Captains were breaking away from the group, shouting orders, as Quinn approached Berdan and saluted.
"Quinn, we're ordered to do a reconnaissance in force. I'll be at the center of the line. I want you down by the right flank. Sickles thinks there's something going on a couple of miles to our front So push in and don't let any of the boys wander about I want us to go in there hard and fast"
"Yes, sir."
'Try and gain a high point where you can see something." Quinn, shifting the plug of tobacco in his cheek, grinned. "Shoot straight Quinn."
"Always do, sir."
Berdan swung up onto his gray horse and started out, his tamed Sharpshooters deploying into open skirmish order behind him.
The men were skilled, well-seasoned professionals. All the foolishness about keeping alignment, forming into lines, advancing by command was beneath them. They were better than that, and they knew it Let the others fight the way their granddaddies did, standing in volley line. The Sharpshooters were a new kind of soldier for a new kind of war.
As the three hundred men fanned out, each set his own pace, moving quickly without urging. It was hard to tell the difference between officers and men. The uniforms were the same, dark green trousers, jacket and green forage caps. Each man was armed with a long Sharps rifle, breechloading, and every one was deadly accurate, expected to hit nine out of ten times at three hundred yards. Besides the forty rounds in their cartridge boxes, each man carried an additional forty to sixty rounds in pockets and haversacks.
Quinn, running back to where his gear rested against a towering oak, swept up his rifle and canteen, then sprinted down to the right of the line, falling in with some of the men from E Company.
"So, Quinn, what're we hunting?" a corporal asked.
"Recon forward. Old Dan thinks the Rebs are moving to our front"
Coming up out of a shallow swale, they passed across the edge of a wheat field, the golden stalks hanging heavy, ready for harvest, then dropped down through a narrow band of forest and rough ground.
The pace was swift No orders needed to be given, just occasional glances toward Berdan riding in the middle of the line, which was spread out across a couple of hundred yards. Looking back, he could see where a lone regiment was coming out as well, their flag dark blue with a state seal. It looked to be Maine, most likely the Third. One regiment in support then. Most likely not much, just a little skirmishing ahead, something to get the blood moving.
A pheasant kicked up from the edge of the trees as they emerged into an open pasture, the ground sloping up toward a peach orchard. The man next to Quinn aimed his rifle at the bird.
"Bang!" he cried, and several men laughed, another sighting on a second pheasant and doing the same.
Directly ahead was the cavalry, Buford's men. They were starting to pack up, saddling their mounts. In the past, cavalry had been certain to draw hoots of derision, the usual jibes of "Hey, ever seen a dead cavalryman?" but not today. Word had spread about what Buford's boys had done, and the Sharpshooters approached the camp respectfully, several offering compliments. One of the troopers tossed Quinn a peach, which he grabbed and stuck into his haversack for later.
A cavalry lieutenant rode up to Quinn and nodded, falling in by his side for a moment.
'Take care up ahead, Sergeant. Some of my boys think there's trouble brewing."
"We'll see to it, sir. Aren't you boys joining us?"
"We're ordered down to Westminster, supposed to secure south of here first, some place called Taneytown. Some supplies and such moving through there. So the place is yours now."
The lieutenant fell away as they reached the edge of the orchard. The post-and-rail fence lining the road was down, consumed as all such fences had been for firewood. Crossing the road, Quinn looked to his left and saw Berdan hold up his hand then point, angling them a bit on the oblique, with Berdan now riding straight up the road that headed due west
Well, the old man wasn't going to fool around. Follow the road west and we're bound to run into something. Quinn pushed to the right a hundred yards before turning west again.
They passed a couple of cavalry troopers coming back off the line, one of them cradling an arm that looked to be busted.
"Son of a bitch got me while I was trying to piss," the trooper grumbled, and the men around Quinn could not help but laugh.
"Lucky he didn't shoot off your short arm," a wag replied.
The trooper cursed them all and rode on.
They pushed up over a low crest, and at that moment the old senses began to kick in for Quinn, that strange prickly feeling that he had just stepped across into another world, a place where the game of hunter and hunted was played for real.
Several men around him clicked their weapons to half cock. Quinn did likewise.
"See one," and a man next to Quinn slowed, leaning in against a tree, raising his rifle.
"Not yet," Quinn hissed, "keep moving."
A second later there was a fluttering whine through the branches overhead, a few leaves snapping off a branch, slowly spinning down.
A rifle snapped to the left, a man out on the road, standing near Berdan. The colonel slowed, reining in for a moment, then held up his hand, pointing forward again.
Coming out of the trees, the skirmish line pushed into another pasture. The feeling was not a good one, open field, a marshy creek below, then a low rise ahead. Damn Rebs were most likely up there in the trees, us in the open.
"Alright, boys, let's pick it up!" Quinn shouted, and he started off at the double. Puffs of smoke snapped from the distant tree line. An eruption of torn-up earth kicked up near Quinn's feet He shifted slightly, zigzagging, running now, heading down the slope, the ground getting thicker with tuffs of high marsh grass, and-with a leap he was into the narrow creek, almost completely across. He ducked down, edging up against the muddy bank. Raising his rifle up, he let it rest on the ground while he scanned the tree line, notching the rear sight to two hundred yards.
A puff of smoke. He took careful aim and squeezed. Another man was beside him, firing at almost the same instant
Levering the trigger guard down, Quinn reached into his pocket, pulled out a cartridge, and slipped it into the breech, levering it shut, then cocked his piece.
More puffs of smoke rippled along the tree line. Men were hunkered down along the creek bank, firing back. Most of the shots coming in were high, buzzing overhead, but one slammed into the muddy bank, spraying him with mud. Centering on a puff of smoke, he fired again and reloaded.
Leaning up, he looked to his left Berdan, at the shallow ford across the creek, was shouting for the men to press forward. Behind-him the Third Maine was deploying from column into line.
"Come on, boys, let's get this over with."
Quinn stood up, crouching low, and set off. Racing across the meadow, hunkering down for a moment behind a split-rail fence, taking another shot… and this time seeing it hit. Dumb fool, looked to be an officer, standing out in the open, an easy shot at 150 yards. The man collapsed, a couple of men running over to him, both going down as well while Sharpshooters to either side of Quinn drew careful aim and fired.
The fire from the crest slackened. Again looking to the left, he saw the Third Maine surging forward, a heavy double line of skirmishers mingling in with the Sharpshooters.
Quinn reloaded, took a deep breath, and stood up, running straight for the slope and tree line. Another round zipped past this one so close he felt the slap of the round passing his face.
A Reb, not fifty yards off, stepped out from behind a tree, rifle poised, aiming straight at Quinn. The Reb spun around and disappeared.
They were into the trees, the air thick with the sulfurous clouds of yellow-gray smoke. He spared a quick glance around. Ten, maybe fifteen Rebs were down. He pushed up the slope, dodging through the brush, ducking under low-hanging branches, and crossing over the crest. The land ahead sloped away, down to another marshy creek. The Rebs who had occupied the tree line minutes before were out in the middle of the field, running, fifty, maybe seventy-five or more.
It was a slaughter for the next minute. The Sharpshooters took their favorite stances, some kneeling, others finding branches to rest their barrels on, a few going down on their stomachs. Rifle fire rippled up and down the line. Barely a dozen Rebs made it to the far slope.
"Hey, you're Yankees!"
Startled, Quinn saw a freckled face peeking up from behind an old, rotting tree stump. It was a boy, no more than nine or ten, about the same age as his own son. The boy stood up, gaping.
"Goddamn it, get down!" Quinn shouted, and running up to the lad, he pushed him back down behind the stump.
"Green uniforms. You're the Sharpshooters!" the boy cried happily. "I seen pictures of you in the illustrated papers."
"Sonny, just what the hell are you doing out here?"
"Came out to tell you what was happening, but them dirty Rebs stopped me."
The boy rubbed his backside. "One of them spanked me.
' Said he was going to take me back to my ma and make sure she whopped me, too."
"He was right, too, you little fool. You should be home."
"Ma tried to keep me in the cellar, but I snuck out."
Quinn sat down by the boy's side. A couple of men were looking over at the two, grinning.
'Take a hickory stick and give it to him, Quinn." One of them laughed.
The boy looked over at the man and stuck his tongue out "Where do you live, sonny?"
"Over the next hill, farm across from the tavern," and as he spoke he pointed off to the west.
"Keep moving!" Berdan was out in front again, back to the enemy, sword held high, urging the men on.
"You stay put right here, boy," Quinn said. "Once we get up to the tavern, I'll send someone back to get you and bring you home. And don't you move an inch till we come back for you. Your ma's most likely worried sick about you."
"Oh, you won't never get to the tavern."
"What?'
The boy puffed his chest out
"That's why I snuck out; I'm a spy."
"What do you mean we won't reach the tavern?"
"Why, there're thousands of Rebs over there, whole lines of them. They've been marching by for hours. I figured it was my duty to tell you. Will I get a medal for it?"
The men to either side of Quinn were already up, moving forward.
Quinn watched them heading out then looked back to the boy. He grabbed him by the shoulders. "Listen, sonny. We're not playing a game now," and as he spoke he squeezed the boy's shoulders. 'Tell me the truth. Tell me what's going on over by your house."
"Like I said, sir," and now he could see that the boy was becoming afraid. His eyes were wide, and his voice started to break.
"Rebs, thousands of them on the road, marching toward Fairfield, right past my house, just over the next ridge."
Quinn looked toward the next ridge, where the surviving Rebs had disappeared. Dust appeared to be rising up on the far side.
"Stay here. Don't you move. Don't move." The boy began to cry.
"I don't want to get whopped. That Reb spanked me awful hard. Don't let Mama whop me too."
"Just stay here, son. I'll make sure your ma doesn't whop you, if you promise to stay here."
The boy nodded solemnly, brushing the tears from his muddy cheeks.
Quinn stood up. The skirmish line was down almost to the creek. He set off hard. Running toward the middle of the line.
Berdan was riding in front, urging the men on. A few shots smacked overhead. The men were eager, pushing forward, already across the marshy ground. The left flank was into a pasture on the far side of the road, the right wading through waist-high corn.
A volley exploded from the woods atop the next crest, several hundred rifles firing at once. In an instant dozens of men were down.
Berdan's horse reared up, shrieking with pain. The colonel hung on as the beast staggered, turned, and then flipped over on its side as another round tore out its throat. Horse and rider rolled over into the stream.
"Jesus Christ Almighty!" Quinn screamed, as he leapt into the muddy water.
Berdan's horse kicked spasmodically, the colonel trapped underneath. Quinn leveled his rifle against the horse's skull and fired.
"Get him out!" Quinn screamed. Half a dozen men struggled with the carcass, pushing and shoving, one of them suddenly pitching over, the back of his head exploding.
Quinn grabbed Berdan by the shoulders and struggled to keep his head above water. The men dragged the horse a few feet, one of them pulling out a knife to slice a stirrup free and then cut the reins that were tangled in Berdan's limp hands.
"Is he dead?" someone cried.
Quinn felt for the colonel's throat.There was still a pulse.
"You and you! Get a blanket, use it as a stretcher, round up a few more men, and get him out of here!"
Quinn stood up, looking around. Where the hell was Trepp, second in command?
He thought he caught a glimpse of him off to the left, but it was impossible to tell for sure. A captain was suddenly standing over Quinn, looking down in shock as they dragged Berdan up onto the bank of the creek and then rolled him into a blanket It was Fuller, Company B.
"Sir, there was a boy back up there in the woods we just took!" Quinn shouted. "Says he lives over beyond the next ridge. Says that thousands of Rebs have been marching past his house all morning, moving south toward Fairfield."
"What boy?"
"Sir, a boy hiding up in the woods."
"So?"
Fuller ducked down low as another volley erupted from the next ridge, one of the men attempting to carry Berdan going down with a gut shot.
"Sir, I think we're tangled into something here. Someone should go back now and tell General Sickles that we're facing a large force. A division, maybe even a corps, moving to our left flank."
"What boy? What's his name?"
Exasperated, Quinn stood up. Fuller was obviously rattled, his eyes wide as he looked at the colonel, who was moaning softly, the wounded man next to the colonel curled up into a ball, fumbling to keep his guts in with his hands.
"Sir!"
Fuller looked back at him.
"I didn't ask for his goddamn name. But he's a local boy, sir, and I believe him."
"We get boys telling us tall tales all the time, Quinn. Jesus, am I suppose to tell Sickles we're getting flanked all because of a report from a boy?"
"This isn't Virginia, sir. It's Pennsylvania and I think the boy was telling the truth."
"Get on with your duty, Quinn."
"Sir! I think the general needs to be told."
"I'm getting us the hell out of here, Quinn. The colonel is down. We're going back and sort things out. And I'll be damned if I make a report based on what a boy said."
"Yes, sir. Damn you, sir."
Quinn turned and started back to the right "Quinn! You might be a pet of the colonel's but goddamn you, you'll face discipline for this!"
Quinn ignored him, sprinting along the creek bed till he reached the right of the line. Turning, he darted into the com, moving a few dozen feet, falling down, then getting up and sprinting again. Stalks of corn were leaping into the air as minie balls snapped into the field. Puffs of smoke, just ahead, showed where the advance of the skirmish line was.
Quinn, half crawling, pushed through. A lieutenant, obviously frightened, looked over his shoulder as Quinn approached.
"I saw the colonel go down," the lieutenant gasped. "I know."
"What the hell is going on?" The lieutenant half stood up even as he spoke. "Looks like we're pulling back."
Quinn got up on his knees for a quick glance, then ducked back down. "Lieutenant, sir, we gotta get up on that ridge. Captain Fuller's pulling us back, but I think we should move forward."
"Into that?’
"Sir, one good sprint, and we'll be into the woods. We need to get a look over that ridge," and he quickly explained what the boy had told him.
"Hell of thing to get killed for. Some damn loudmouthed brat running around in the middle of a fight."
Quinn said nothing, his gaze locked on the lieutenant.
"All right, Quinn. We get to the top, have your look, and then get the hell out of here."
Quinn nodded.
"Your idea, Quinn. You lead the way."
He wanted to tell the lieutenant to go to hell, but saw that the youngster was trembling like a leaf, though trying to hide it, to make a manful show by courteously offering Quinn the lead.
Quinn knelt up again. "Those of you around me!" he shouted. "I'm making a run for the woods straight ahead. Any of you with some guts, come with me. The rest of you, well, you can go to hell!"
Making the sign of the cross, he took a deep breath, stood up, and started forward at a run. From the comer of his eye, he saw a dozen or more men stand up, going forward with him. Fortunately, the furrows for the cornfield were plowed in the direction he wanted to go. Gasping for air, he continued to run, the wood line less than fifty yards ahead.
Rifle balls zipped past He heard the sickening slap of a round striking something hard just behind him. He didn't look back, but somehow he knew it was the lieutenant
The western flank of the cornfield was bordered by a split-rail fence. He ran straight into it, knocking the fence over, the impact knocking him over as well. Rolling, he half came up and saw a Reb aiming straight at him from not ten feet away. The Reb fired… and missed.
The Reb turned and ran. Quinn set off after him, going up into the woods. Another Reb stepped out bayonet poised. Quinn slowed, leveled his rifle, and fired, knocking the Reb over backward. Fumbling for a cartridge, Quinn levered the breech open, even as he dodged up the slope. The branch of a tree sheered off next to his head, splinters flying from the impact of the round. Quinn dropped, saw the puff of smoke, chambered a round, and took a deep breath, but the man who had shot at him was gone.
He could see the crest just ahead, less than twenty yards off. He looked back and saw half a dozen of his men were into the edge of the woods. From either flank there were shouts, someone screaming that Yankees were in the woods.
Quinn pressed up the hill. Flashes of fire burst to his left and right. He rushed forward, gained the crest and dropped behind a rotten log. And saw the boy was right.
There, not three hundred yards away, was the road, packed with infantry, moving like a wave, dust swirling up in low-hanging clouds. A battery was directly below him on the road, bronze Napoleons, sunlight reflecting off their barrels, gunners riding on the caissons. A heavy skirmish line was out in the field directly ahead, deploying out moving up to add their weight to the fight He caught glimpses of flags, half a dozen or more marking the line of march, emerging from the dust and disappearing into the dust all heading south.
Damn. It was big, damn big, and he felt an icy chill with the realization of all that this implied.
"All right Yank! Don't you move a goddamn inch." Shit
"Real slow now, Yank, just let that rifle of yours drop and put your hands out where I can see 'em."
Quinn turned his head ever so slightly. The Reb was standing a bit behind him, twenty feet away, gun nervously trained on his back.
I'm caught
"That'sright, Yank. No fuss now. Just do as I tell ya."
Well, at least I'll live out the day. The thought raced through him… most likely paroled after the fighting's over and live awhile longer. Get home alive. Beth, my boy, the farm… miserable little patch of land but still, better than what we had in Ireland…
He looked back to the road and before he even quite realized what he was doing he was up and trying to run. Strangely, there was no pain, just a numbed shock that knocked the wind out of his lungs. There was darkness for a moment and then he was looking up at green leaves, sunlight filtering down.
"I told you not to move, Yank."
The voice was weary, a bit hard to understand the accent was so thick. Deep South from the sound of it.
He felt something tugging at his hands. The man was taking his gun.
"Fine piece you have here, Yank. One of them Sharps rifles, ain't it?"
Quinn tried to speak but couldn't. "You get him, Will?'
"Yeah. Damn fool tried to run. Y'all get the others?' "We got 'em."
The man knelt down by his side. Quinn could barely see him; the sunlight behind him was blinding. He looked old, beard gone to gray.
"Sorry I had to kill you, Yank. Like I said, you should'a just been sensible about this."
He tried to breathe and couldn't. He felt as if he were drowning. Then hands grabbed him under the shoulders. The Reb pulled him up. There was a terrible stab of pain now. The Reb eased him back down, sitting up against the side of a tree.
"There, you might breathe easier now."
Quinn could only nod.
"Spit out that chaw, Yank. You'll choke on it."
Quinn opened his mouth, and he was shocked when the Reb, in a fatherly way, actually stuck a finger into Quinn's mouth and helped him clear out the tobacco.
"I think I'll keep this here gun, if you don't mind, Yank."
The Reb casually reached into Quinn's cartridge box and took out the ammunition. Next he went into Quinn's haversack, took out a piece of salt pork and pocketed it, and then hesitated when he drew out the peach, the peach one of Bu-ford's men had given him.
"Mind if I eat this, Yank?"
Quinn shook his head.
"Thank you."
The Reb sat looking at him for a minute. "You got kin?"
Kin? Quinn slowly nodded and feebly touched his breast
The Reb opened Quinn's jacket, reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a daguerreotype. The case was smeared with fresh blood, and the Reb wiped it off on his trousers. The Reb opened the case, looked at the image, and sighed. "Pretty wife. Good-looking young boy, too."
Quinn was suddenly ashamed. He was crying. He didn't want this man to think he was crying because he was afraid or because of the pain. No. Not that He had forgotten. He had become caught up in all of this and forgotten what would be left behind… and now would indeed be left behind.
"I know, Yank. I know." "Come on, Will. We got 'em on the run." The Reb was squatting beside him and looked up. "I'm comin'."
The Reb put the open daguerreotype into Quinn's hands. "I'm sorry, Yank. I wish the hell you'd just given up. Saw the way you charged in. You was right brave; but damn me, you was a bit too brave today. Just couldn't let you go back and tell what we is doin' over here."
Quinn struggled to keep the tears from coming. All he could do was nod. He tried to look back to the road; it was barely visible. It didn't matter though, not now. His gaze fell on the daguerreotype; the image etched into the mirror-like surface was lost to view… even as the darkness settled and all went still.
Will Peterson, Second Georgia, of Benning's brigade, Hood's division, stood up.
"Nice gun you got off him," someone said.
"Yeah, a real nice gun," Will said softly, as he bit into the peach and walked away.