himself.
Now he realized he could die. At Bull Run and at this god-forsaken place, he'd killed at a distance and been safe. It had been a game, only thing was, someone just changed the rules. Now the targets, the men he'd been killing with impunity, were going to have their turn. And he could die. So many men in Union blue lay around him and he knew he could soon be one of them. He whimpered and wanted to cry, and he did wet himself.
The rebels were only about fifty yards away and Billy's legs trembled. He could see their contorted faces as they screamed hatred at him. They were people who looked just like his own comrades and they yelled in a language he understood. If they'd been wearing blue instead of gray, there would have been no difference. The rebels were dressed in rags and many were barefoot. Were they all so poor? So what. He was going to be killed by someone who looked just like him.
The rebel line paused, faltered, and stopped. They were twenty yards away.
“Keep it up, boys,” Captain Melcher hollered. His hat was gone and blood from a scalp cut streamed down his face.
Billy fired again and again into the densely packed Confederates, who seemed reluctant to close the intervening few yards. The more he shot the fewer there would be to bayonet him.
The rebels began to fall back. Some tried to pick up their wounded, but the seriously hurt had to be left where they writhed on the gore-stained grass. The rebels retreated in a backward-facing walk that became an exhausted trot. It was over. He would not get a bayonet in his gut. At least not right now.
Billy dropped to his hands and knees. He fumbled with his canteen and swallowed delicious gulps of brackish water. His face hurt where exploding powder had burned it. He wondered where Otto the Kraut was. He stood up shakily and looked at others like him who were gazing about in wonderment. They had survived. They would live to fight another day.
The rebels had attacked three times in only two hours. The attacks had been savage, even frantic, with the last one being the worst and closest to succeeding. The Confederates had hurled themselves on the Union lines in an effort to chase them from their homeland.
But they hadn't done it, Billy thought with satisfaction. They hadn't goddamn done it.
Nathan and Lieutenant Winton rode back to McClellan's headquarters and found a scene of chaos instead of the usual ordered and structured formality. Couriers and staff officers ran about shouting orders that everyone else seemed to ignore. McClellan was nowhere around.
Winton looked stunned. “I'll find out,” he said before Nathan could ask, and disappeared.
On his own, Nathan found a sergeant who seemed relatively unperturbed. When questioned, the sergeant eyed Nathan's civilian clothing, then decided he had nothing to lose.
“Stonewall Jackson's appeared on our right flank and is attacking Porters corps.”
“Jackson's in the Shenandoah,” Nathan said.
The sergeant spat some tobacco on the ground. “No. that's where he's supposed to be. only he ain't there and everyone's surprised that he's not following our rules. Right now he's attacking Porter's right flank and pushing it back. Somebody else is attacking the center, and our beloved little general is fit to be tied.” With that, the sergeant realized he might have said too much and strode off.
Winton returned breathless. He confirmed the flanking attack on Porter, and they both knew of the attack against Hooker's center force.
“What really has everyone confused,” said Winton, “is that Sumner has telegraphed a message that he is under a very strong attack in the valley and is pulling back towards Washington. How can these rebels be everywhere?”
How indeed, Nathan thought. Scott had said that Lee would bedevil and confuse McClellan. Was that what was happening?
“So what orders have been given?” Nathan asked.
Winton looked downward and grimaced. “McClellan has ordered a general withdrawal. It seems we are returning to Washington.”
Nathan didn't understand. “Are we in that bad a shape?”
Winton was only a junior officer. He had no idea. At that moment, McClellan strode past.
“General,” Nathan said.
McClellan would have looked through him but for the civilian clothes that were out of place and drew attention. “Ah, Mr. Hunter. So you see, I was right after all. There are so many more Confederates than our poor army can deal with. Porter is falling back, but fortunately in good order, while Hooker is holding for the moment. That moment will not last forever. Now I must retreat and save my army.”
“But what about Burnside?” Nathan asked. Twenty thousand reserves were sitting in the army's rear, doing nothing.
“Stuart is probing around the supply depots. Burnside is to hold while the rest of the army passes through him. Burnside's role is changing from reserve to rear guard.” With that, McClellan nodded and walked away, surrounded by a host of staff officers.
It didn't make sense to Nathan. The Union left was fresh while the center was holding. Burnside's force was more than enough to both secure the depots and to reinforce Porter, especially if Porter was falling back in good order. It struck Nathan as a chance to chew up the Confederates while they attacked, instead of the Union host being chewed on while it retreated. Retreats were chancy things. Even a well-run retreat could easily turn into a rout.
And what would happen to the thousands of tons of food, ammunition, guns, and other supplies that were stacked around the Union rear? They could save the men, but how could they move the supplies? The answer was simple: They couldn't and wouldn't.
McClellan was giving up.
“Why?” Billy Harwell asked, and the question was taken up by a score of outraged voices. They had fought for the right to own the bloody field and saw no reason to leave it.
Captain Melcher shrugged at the minor display of disrespect. “Orders. That's all I know. Orders.”
Word had come down that they were to retreat. In front of them lay a field littered with Confederate dead and dying. They had stood up to the best Lee had and kicked it in the ass. And now they were being told to fall back. It didn't make sense. However, it was the army. It didn't have to make sense.
They gathered their belongings and started to walk back to the rear. They looked behind them to where the Confederates had once stood. There was nothing. Around them, scores of other companies were doing the same thing in a vast migration northward.
“Jesus Christ,” Billy wondered, “if there's so many of us, how'd we get beat?”
He'd found Otto, who wondered the same thing, Otto had a bad cut on his arm and had wrapped it in a dirty cloth, Neither young man thought war was fun anymore,
They came to an aid station, where Sergeant Grimes joined them. He was on a crutch and his left leg was bandaged around the knee. He moved the leg stiffly and groaned. He looked haunted and scared, Billy didn't feel the least bit sorry for him.
Then Billy wondered if Grimes was faking it, He had gotten “wounded” just as the rebs were beginning their first attack, How convenient, he thought,
Captain Melcher was behind them, Billy gestured to the captain to watch him. Then he gave Grimes a nudge that almost knocked him off his feet and down a gravel slope, Grimes threw away the crutch and hopped nimbly down the slope, all the while keeping his balance and swearing at Billy,
“Praise the Lord, a miracle,” said Billy while Melcher watched in angry disbelief, “He's healed, sir, Our beloved Sergeant Grimes is healed, God bless him, sir, he's saved,”
The rest of the company had stopped and stood in a rough circle around them, “Come here,” said Melcher to Grimes,
“I need my crutch,” mumbled Grimes and someone threw it to him, He lurched awkwardly to the captain and stood with his head down.
“Unwrap the bandage,” Melcher ordered,
“I'll bleed to death,” said Grimes and there was snickering from the men.
“Do it,” snarled Melcher.
Slowly, grudgingly, Grimes unwrapped the bandage. It covered a knee that was clean and unhurt.
