problem for the elder Hollister to secure his son’s appointment to the academy. Jonas knew his father had hoped the war would be over before he graduated.
The flaw in his father’s plan had turned out to be Jonas himself. When he arrived at the Point, he fell in love with the place. Even the most mundane marching drill and the endless study couldn’t dampen his enthusiasm. Jonas felt like he’d found his calling, and he attacked his classes with a vigor he hadn’t known he’d possessed. After graduating sixth in his class, he’d taken a commission in the cavalry as a second lieutenant.
And as much as he’d loved West Point, he loved the army more. Jonas Hollister was a born fighter. The way some men are meant for politics or business or medicine, Hollister was made for war. He was a natural tactician and had an easy way with commanding soldiers. When staff meetings were held, maps examined and objectives discussed, Hollister could see the entire field in his mind. He instinctively knew the best ground that must be held or taken, where and how the men should be deployed, when to attack, and when to withdraw.
By the fall of ’sixty-four, the Union was driving the Rebs south out of Northern Virginia. They were winning. The South had lost after Gettysburg, with Grant taking Vicksburg and control of the Mississippi-they just didn’t know it yet. After four months in the saddle, riding with Custer, Hollister had been promoted to colonel, given command of a regiment and caught the eye of General Sheridan.
It all had come apart for Hollister near Winchester in March 1965. The men were tired from chasing Lee all over the Shenandoah Valley. No one understood why the rebels just didn’t give up.
Near a small Virginia town called Lancy’s Gap, Hollister had been ordered by Custer to hold a line south of the town, at the bottom of a long ridge, next to an overgrown apple orchard. It was bad ground.
As always, Hollister saw immediately what would happen. His men would deploy along the fencerow while Custer and his brigade dislodged the rebels from the town. But this is where Custer had it backward. The rebels could retreat at their leisure, cutting through the apple orchard. In those close quarters, with their backs to the fencerow, Hollister’s men lost the advantage of being on horseback. Even if Custer succeeded and the Rebs were running, they would still vastly outnumber his troops and cut Hollister’s men to pieces. It was a god-awful plan.
Hollister should be flanking the rebels from the east, he told Custer. If both companies attacked on two sides, even with Hollister’s smaller force, the remaining rebel force could be caught in the village. A southern retreat would allow Hollister’s men to pursue them on horseback and ride them down.
Custer refused. The plan was in place, the order given by General Sheridan himself.
The sun was not quite up yet, but the heat in Custer’s tent was already starting to rise.
He knew George was drunk on Sheridan’s praise. The previous evening at the staff meeting, Sheridan had told the assembled officers how the dashing Custer had been instrumental in laying the trap here at Lancy’s Gap. It was the worst thing he could have said. Custer had an ego the size of his horse and now he was after glory. If he drove the rebels out, he’d make the papers again, probably get promoted. He had fallen in love with the dangerous tactic of dividing his command so he could attack with a smaller force and carry the day with fewer troops. So far he’d been lucky and Sheridan had never called him on it. But his strategy was about to misfire. Most of their engagements the last month had been against smaller forces of Confederates in situations where the rebels were tired, running out of ammo, and desperate. Here, it was different. Jubal Early’s men were battle hardened and maybe running low on supplies and ammunition, but these men still knew how to fight. It wasn’t going to be as easy as Custer thought.
“Sir,” Hollister had said that morning inside Custer’s tent, “with all due respect, General…”
Custer held up a hand.
“I know what you’re going to say, Jonas, and you’re wrong. These Rebs have been on the move for weeks with no food and very little ammunition, but their only choice is to fight. Stand your ground and follow your orders. You’ll get a few runners, stragglers, maybe a company at most. On horseback they’ll be easy pickings.” Custer sat at the campaign desk in his tent. He was immaculately dressed; his boots were sparkling. It was a funny thing for Hollister to notice, but he glanced down at his own boots and saw that they were covered in mud and the big toe on his left foot was poking through.
“General… George… I’m begging you. This is wrong. If you’re even halfway successful, they won’t stand and fight. They’re going to run and I won’t be able to stop them. If we ride in from the east… hell, sir, I can even have the men dismount along the
…” Hollister was pointing to the eastern edge of the village where a small stream meandered beneath a covered bridge on the main road.
“That will be all, Colonel,” Custer said, dismissing Hollister with a wave.
“Sir, respectfully, I must…”
“You have your orders, Colonel Hollister. Now attend to your duty. Dismissed.”
By instinct, Hollister came to attention and saluted smartly. He turned on his heel and stormed from the tent. He mounted the bay gelding he had ridden for the last several weeks and rode back to his troopers.
“Orders, sir?” His lieutenant, a rawboned redhead by the name of McAndrews asked him.
“Not good, Mac,” Hollister said. “We’re to take up a position south of the orchard, along the fencerow. I don’t like it, Mac. Not one little bit.” Hollister was steamed, but he had very little time to waste.
“Mac, ride to Captain Ferguson. Tell him to take his company east and form a skirmish line along the edge of this orchard. It’s going to get hot for us, and when he hears it start, he’s to ride through those trees like he owes the devil money. Push hard and keep the Rebs occupied. He needs to thin the herd or we are going to get our asses shot to pieces. Do you understand, Mac?”
“Yes, sir,” the young lieutenant said. “I also must respectfully remind the colonel that he was given no such authority to separate his command.”
“Noted,” said Hollister.
“I must also inform the colonel, in case he should think otherwise, General Custer is full of shit. Sir.”
Hollister couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll forget you said that. Now get moving. Knowing the general, he’ll attack before breakfast. Make sure Ferguson understands.”
He watched McAndrews ride off. He was only two years younger than Hollister but for whatever reason, Jonas felt like a father to him. Being in charge of soldiers in wartime makes a young man old. God, he was being morbid.
“Snap out of it, Jonas,” he muttered to himself. A corporal mounted on a beautiful black stallion heard him talking to himself and smiled. Hollister just shrugged. Custer had him all jangled up. Time to get your mind right, he thought.
He momentarily considered riding for Sheridan’s camp, about three miles north of the town. But he’d never make it back in time and that would leave his men without their commanding officer. Something he would never do. Besides, if he went over Custer’s head, he’d probably regret it. He had a feeling Custer was gaming the orders. Changing them up so he got the maximum glory, while still technically following Sheridan’s command.
He heard a distant bugle sound a call to arms. Shit, he thought.
“All right, Corporal. Sound the order. To your mounts, let’s ride!” Hollister reined his horse around and broke into a slow trot as he heard the order to mount up work its way down the line of his men. The army had bivouacked in a field northeast of the town the night before, but as always, his regiment was mounted up and ready to go in a matter of seconds. His men had waited for their CO to return from his meeting and give the order. Hollister was popular with his troops. He had uncanny field skills and his troopers had come to understand that when he gave an order, it was always the right move-it would take them through the fight with minimum casualties and maximum success. In return, his men were the most able, polished regiment in Sheridan’s whole command.
In less than thirty minutes they reached their objective and Hollister deployed the men along the fencerow. He gave them the order to advance carbines and marveled at how six hundred men drew their rifles from their saddle scabbards almost in unison. What a fine unit. McAndrews returned on his palomino, his face showing some perspiration. He was always a little nervous before the fighting started, but once the first shot sounded, there was not a steadier man.
“Mac, is Ferguson on his way?” Hollister said to the lieutenant. “I think Custer is up to something and I got a feeling a couple thousand rebels are coming through that orchard before long.”
“Yes, sir, he said to tell you he’ll meet you in the middle. I think he liked your idea,” McAndrews said, drawing his carbine from its holster on his saddle. Together, they waited as their horses pawed at the ground and grazed on the grass.
