It was the leg and when he saw it was when the pain hit.
Strange how that worked, he thought His right leg was dangling off at an angle, shreds of muscle and ligaments all that was holding it to his body. A pool of blood was spreading out from the torn stump.
He took a deep breath.
'Tourniquet!'
Already a doctor from his headquarters staff was up by his side, leather bag opened, hands trembling. 'Get a tourniquet on that, damn you,' he gasped. 'I am, sir.'
The man wrapped the strap around his leg above the knee and started to turn the screw that would tighten it He felt the strap bite in, dig deeper; he gasped. Damn it. It hurt almost as much as the wound. Still deeper. His fingers dug into the ground, he gritted his teeth, eyes focused on his life blood still pouring out. The pulsing stream lowered, dribbled, became a slow, oozing flow.
He looked over at the doctor.
'Sir, I've stopped it for the moment, but I've got to get you back, tie off the arteries.' 'And my leg?'
The doctor looked down at the torn remnant and then back at Dan, shaking his head.
'Take it off now, damn it. There doesn't seem to be much left to it anyhow.'
'Would you want me to give you ether first, sir?'
Dan looked up at the ever-growing crowd gathered around him, hearing distant shouts that 'the general' was down.
No, he was Gen. Dan Sickles, commander of the Army of the Potomac. As he looked at his men, he knew that for them, there was still one more duty to perform this day, whether this day would be one of victory or defeat. He would do it with the style he had always shown.
'Anyone got a good cigar?' he gasped.
The private who was closest to him fished into his breast pocket and with a trembling hand drew out a thick Havana. A shot screamed in, bursting overhead. All ducked for a second, but no one was hit. The private pulled out a match. Dan bit off the end of the cigar, spat out the stub, and nodded. The private struck the match and Dan puffed the cigar to life. 'Who are you, Private?'
'Paul Hawkinson, sir. Seventy-third New York, been with you since the Peninsula, sir.'
'Well, Private. You're Sergeant Hawkinson now, and when this is over, come and see me, and a box of good Cubans is yours.'
Hawkinson grinned and reached out, patting Dan on the shoulder.
'That's the spirit, sir. The old Third is with you this day.' Dan nodded and looked back at the surgeon. 'Cut away and be quick about it.' 'The ether?'
'I heard that stuff explodes around a lit cigar. Now cut away, damn you!'
Dan made it a point of not lying back, of not looking away. The surgery was over in seconds, a few quick slashes with a scalpel, a few strokes of the saw to sever a bundle of ligaments. Strangely, he didn't feel a thing. The men around him watched it, gazes shifting from the cutting to Dan's face and back again.
'Hawkinson, find a stretcher and be quick about it!'
'My ambulance!' the doctor shouted, and left with Hawkinson.
Dan sat quiet, smoking the cigar, holding his stump up in the air, bracing it with his hands.
He knew he should think, should pass orders as to what must be done next. Shock was taking hold, he had to focus, and his focus was now on but one more gesture.
Hawkinson and the doctor came back, carrying the stretcher. Eager hands reached out, lifting him off the ground, bringing him up, turning to head for the ambulance.
'No, damn it, stop!'
'I'm taking you back to the rear, General,' the surgeon shouted, ducking low as yet another shot winged overhead. 'No. Now up on your shoulders, boys, on your shoulders.'
'General, are you mad?'
It was Birney, dislocated arm cradled against his side.
'Eight of you, on your shoulders with the stretcher. I want the boys to see me this day!'
The surgeon started to cry out in protest, but Hawkinson shouldered him aside.
'Goddamn it, you heard the general, now who's with me!'
Men pushed in, shouting, eager for this moment, and together they hoisted Gen. Dan Sickles, commander of the Army of the Potomac, up high, struts of the stretcher resting on their shoulders, the general above them, cigar clenched between his teeth, sitting up, stump of his leg held high. At the sight of him a ragged cheer went up.
'Now down the volley line!' Dan cried. 'Walk me down the volley line.'
The strange procession set off, moving in behind the fighting men of his old Second Division, and at the sight of his approach the men looked up, fell silent, those on the ground coming to their feet; hats came off, men began to shout.
'Give it to 'em, boys!' he screamed hysterically. 'Remember you're the Army of the Potomac! Now charge and give it to 'em! Remember you are the Army of the Potomac …'
'General Sickles, your orders!'
It was Birney, nursing his dislocated arm, running alongside the stretcher. Dan looked down at him but his eyes were wild, filled with battle lust, this final march of a warrior to some Valhalla, like departure from the world of mere mortals.
Birney fell back, watching as his old general was carried off, disappearing into the smoke. Around him men were on their feet, shouting madly, clenched rifles raised, and then, incredibly, they started down the slope, heading toward the enemy guns.
'For God's sake, General, who is in charge here now?' Birney saw that it was Ely Parker by his side. 'Colonel?'
'I heard that report. You are being flanked. You must get this army out. Who is in charge here now?'
Birney drew his sword with his one good hand.
'I don't know, Colonel,' he gasped. 'I don't know. But I can tell you this: when it's over, tell General Grant we died game. We set the stage for what he will do after we're gone. Now, Colonel, get the hell out of here.'
Birney, sword raised high, disappeared into the smoke, following his men.
“The Chesapeake Bay, sir,' Walter Taylor announced.
Lee nodded, lowering his head. Numbed by exhaustion, he struggled to get his right foot out of the stirrup. Traveler, trembling and lathered in sweat, remained still. An orderly ran over and ever so gently helped Lee to swing his leg up over the saddle and dismount.
For a moment he had no feeling in his legs, the sensation frightening. Forgetting all sense of protocol and decorum, he unbuttoned his uniform jacket and, when the first cooling breath of air hit his sweat-soaked body, he almost staggered, head light, nausea taking him. Embarrassed, he tried to turn away, the world spinning as he doubled over and vomited.
Walter was by his side, holding him by the shoulder, shouting for someone to fetch towels, something cool to drink. He tried to wave them off. He slowly righted himself.
'War is for young men, Walter. I'm getting rather old for this.'
'Sir, many a man half your age has collapsed today,' Walter offered.
Lee felt weak, frighteningly weak, fearful for a moment that he might faint.
Walter and two others led him up to a wide, open porch, shaded from the glaring afternoon sun. The porch was packed with men, most of them wounded, Yankee prisoners who looked at him wide-eyed, a few coming to their feet, respectfully saluting. He was ashamed that they should see him thus, but his body no longer cared about propriety.
A woman came hurrying out of the house, bearing an earthenware pitcher, cool droplets coursing down its side, a white towel in her other hand. Her ivory-colored day dress was deeply stained with blood. It was obvious she had been tending to the wounded when he rode up.
'Madam, I thank you for the charity you've shown to these men,' he gasped as they guided him to a wicker
