He pushed his way through the throng and looked at the man who lay on the stretcher. In life, Robert E. Lee was just under six feet tall and sturdily built. In his early fifties, he'd been almost godlike in his aloof and regal bearing. This thing on the stretcher was not godlike.
Nor was he dead. Lee's chest rose and fell, although each breath seemed to be an agonized gasp. His face was pale and drawn with pain. He appeared to be unconscious, and his right leg was heavily bandaged.
The young lieutenant was still at Knollys's side. “He was standing there getting us ready for an attack on the Yanks. They were using repeating rifles, and it was a slaughter until we caught on and got organized. Then he just let out a howl and both he and his horse went down. Lee'd been shot in the leg and the bullet went through the general's leg and injured the horse.”
The boy began to sob. “Damn horse rolled over on General Lee's hurt leg and smashed it some more. There was bone sticking right through his leg. Traveller’s gonna be okay, but the general might die.”
Might indeed, Knollys thought. Such a wound was often fatal, although it looked like the bleeding was under control. Even if Lee recovered, it would be months at best before a man with a smashed leg could resume his duties. Knollys had seen enough battlefield casualties to know that amputation was a likely prospect, and recovery from losing a leg was a long, arduous, and chancy process.
Soldiers were streaming back from inside the Washington perimeter, and the sounds of battle were growing. Cannon fire from the adjacent Union positions had died down and he felt the risk of exposure was worth it. Knollys climbed to the top of an earthwork and tried to see what was happening to the Confederate advance. Unlike the night before, the sun was shining and he could see well off into the distance. Washington City was clearly visible and he wondered if Abe Lincoln was looking back at him.
More important were the Union forces that now confronted the Confederates on two sides. They were more numerous than the rebels and were steadily pushing the demoralized Southerners back.
He jumped back to the shelter of the earthwork just as Union cannon fire resumed. Lee and his grieving entourage were gone. Now, he wondered, just who the devil was in charge of the army? Napier was by far the most able, but the Confederates would never permit a foreigner to lead them. Even if they did. Napier was in the tail of the army fighting a rearguard action against the federals.
So that left Beauregard’ Longstreet or Jackson. Jackson was likely the most competent, but he was a strange individual who ate lemons and sometimes held his arms in the air because he thought that the natural circulation would be improved. It was also rumored that Jackson was exhausted and near collapse. Longstreet was an enigma. Sometimes tremendously skilled, he was some days less so and did not have the confidence of Jefferson Davis.
It would be Beauregard, Knollys thought. Along with his numerous disagreements with Davis, Beauregard had been ill. After all was said and done, all the Confederacy had left was Beauregard.
Knollys felt a wave of depression. Their best general down and their second-best ignored, the Anglo- Confederate army was in bad shape. Then he realized he hadn't given any thought to the implications of repeating rifles in the hands of a large body of troops. Like the ironclads at sea, a new dimension had been introduced into modern warfare and, like the ironclads, it had not been Great Britain who had made the introductions.
The Irish Legion had been bumped from its trains by Sherman's men and had to march overland from Baltimore to the point north of Washington where the enemy rearguard protected the Anglo-Confederate retreat.
It had been a hard march and the men were exhausted. General Patrick Cleburne had hoped for an opportunity to rest the men, but General Thomas had wanted the Legion and the rest of his army to press the enemy's rear. The men grumbled that, if Thomas had a bug up his butt about chasing the enemy, he should march with them. However, they continued to march.
Cleburne, Attila Flynn, and a handful of others were mounted, which made the journey at least a little easier. Even so, their bodies ached. The rest of the men were half asleep while they walked.
“How soon?” asked Flynn. He had long since regretted his hasty decision to ride along with the Irish Legion. He'd wanted so much to be in on the chase that he'd voluntarily endured the miseries of campaigning that he'd hated even as a younger man. The fact that they were in a stern chase with a retreating enemy made it worse. They might never catch them, which would make all this effort worthless.
Cleburne laughed at Flynn's discomfiture. “Rebels are over the next hill, if the scouts are right. Perhaps just a mile or so away. We'll make it.” The Irish hadn't signed on to fight the Confederates, but it looked like they had no choice.
Cleburne ordered his legion off the road and into battle alignment. Other units followed suit and, in short order, the entire Union mass moved slowly over the low hill. There they paused and stared in disbelief.
“Sweet Jesus,” muttered Flynn. “I thought you said they'd be Confederates.”
Cleburne shook his head, '^: l thought so, too, But the wordenemy means different things to different people, doesn't it? But they are the enemy, the one true enemy, aren't they?”
Arrayed on a low hill were ranks of redcoated soldiers, Napier's British rearguard was arrayed before them.
“Do you hate the English?” Flynn asked.
“With all my heart,” Cleburne answered. It was a response that would not have been uttered a year earlier.
The men of the Legion had gotten over their shock at seeing their ancient enemy suddenly before them. Their fatigue dropped away and was replaced by primal anger. There was cursing and growling, and officers had a difficult time keeping the battle line from surging forward,
A messenger rode up and handed a dispatch to Cleburne, who read it and grinned. “According to General Thomas, we are to exert pressure on them.”
“Will you rest the troops?” Flynn asked.
The sound of yelling and cursing grew louder. “No, they're refreshed enough by the sight of the redcoats. Besides, if we wait, the British will entrench.” Cleburne gathered couriers and sent orders to his commanders, In a few moments, he waved his sword and the Irish Legion moved forward,
Across the field, Lord Napier watched as the Union force moved with a deadly cadence, Where had the Union gotten such armies? They grew like mushrooms. Or perhaps dragon's teeth, he thought, He recognized the American flag in the fore, but what was the other one, the green thing?
“Who are they?” he asked his staff.
It took only a few moments before someone made the connection, “Irish,” came the report,
Napier nodded grimly, He had the high ground and the larger force, and his men were British regulars. His only regret was that they had only been in position a moment and had not had an opportunity to throw up barricades or entrench. It would not matter. 'Then let us send them back to their damned bogs.”
British cannon and rifle fire scythed the Irish advance. Men screamed and died, or screamed and fell wounded, The British line was thin but their discipline was magnificent, Fire from their Enfields was deadly.
At three hundred yards, the Irish advance slowed, and at two it was a bloodied crawl. By the time the bravest had reached to less than a hundred yards of the British, it stopped and became a rifle duel between the red line of soldiers and the groups of blue soldiers who knelt, lay prone, or sought cover where they could, Now, the British began to die, and gaps appeared in their ranks where men toppled to the ground,
Cleburne, at the head of his men, made a quick assessment, He was hurting the British, but they were hurting him more, He had gotten his men too far in advance of the rest of the army and the Legion was going to be cut to pieces. If he withdrew, it would be under fire and they would be mauled.
The only way was ahead.
General Patrick Ronayne Cleburne stood and waved his sword, “Forward,” he commanded, Nothing happened, His men simply watched his act of madness and wondered what to do, The fight was almost out of them.
Ignoring the hail of bullets that sought him, Cleburne grabbed the Legion's fallen flag. A quick breeze extended the green flag with the harp of Brian Boru in the middle.
“For Ireland!” he screamed and ran forward.
“For Ireland!” a thousand throats yelled, and the cry was picked up along the battle line. Five thousand men got to their feet and began to move towards the enemy.
British fire ignored the one man with the flag and concentrated on the advancing horde, Dead piled up, but
