Edward Jennings:

War and Recovery

 

A Novel of the American Southwest

 

by Jack L Knapp

By the Author:

The Wizards Series

Combat Wizard

Wizard at Work

Talent

Talent)

Veil of Time

Siberian Wizard

Magic

Angel (A Wizards Short Story)

The Darwin’s World Series

Darwin’s World

The Trek

Home

The Return

Defending Eden

The New Frontiers Series

The Ship

NFI: New Frontiers, Inc

NEO: Near Earth Objects

BEMs: Bug Eyed Monsters

MARS: The Martian Autonomous Republic of Sol

Pirates

Terra

The American Southwest Series

Jacob Jennings: A Novel of the Texas Frontier

Edward Jennings: A Novel of the American West

Edward Jennings: War and Recovery

Edward Jennings: Cattleman

The Territory: A Novel of the American West

Fantasy Novel

The Wizard's Apprentice

 

COPYRIGHT

Edward Jennings

War and Recovery

 

Copyright © 2020, renewed 2023, by Jack L Knapp

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.

Disclaimer: The persons and events depicted in this novel were created by the author’s imagination, except for historical persons and historical events; the depiction of them in this novel is based on published information by persons who were there at the time. Other than that, no resemblance to actual persons or events is intended.

 

Chapter One

Eureka’s crew lined up by the rail, except for the ones carrying our gear. I shook their hands and thanked them, and after the other two put our bags on the dock I thanked them too. They immediately turned around and hurried back up the gangplank, almost running. When I turned around, I saw why.

A uniformed man, a sergeant judging by the stripes on his sleeve, was heading our way. Behind him came four others, armed with muskets or rifle-muskets and with the bayonets already attached.

But too late; I could hear the rattle behind me as the gangplank was pulled on board. Captain Matthews grinned at the recruiting party as Eureka drifted slowly away from the dock, responding to the pressure of the long poles wielded by the sailors.

“Better luck next time, Sergeant,” I said, my voice pleasant. Not his fault he’d been given this job!

“You two’ll be coming with me, boyo,” the sergeant growled. “Mister Lincoln’s army has need of two strapping lads to fill the ranks!”

“You’ll escort us to your officer, Sergeant.” I told him, the snap in my tone enough to leave no doubt in his mind that we would not help him fill his quota today. “We’ll talk to him, and when we get to where he is you’ll introduce us. My name is Edward Jennings, my companion is Peter Tegener.”

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue. But when I swept back my coat and put my hand on my holstered revolver, he pulled up short. Half a pace behind me, Peter did the same.

“There’s no need for that, Lads,” the sergeant said, alarmed. “You’ll find out soon enough that the carrying of pistols by civilians is frowned upon in the city of New York!”

“You’re armed, Sergeant,” I pointed out. “Your men too, but I’ll not argue with you. You’ll do as you were told and escort me to your officer! Now!”

At the snap of command in my voice, he straightened to the position of attention; behind him, his four privates slammed the steel-shod butts of their muskets to the dock planking and held the weapons upright and at their side, as they’d been taught to do when addressed by an officer.

The sergeant had become accustomed to drafting newly-arrived immigrants into the army, but we were clearly different. And likely to cause him far more trouble than we were worth if he continued as he’d begun! The obvious solution? Since we wanted to speak to an officer, let him decide what to do with us!

Fifteen minutes later, he handed us off to a lieutenant, who brusquely dismissed him to his duties. The lieutenant then transferred us to a captain, who provided us with an escort to take us to the office of the detachment’s commander, Major Fessman.

“Raise a regiment and you’ll be an instant colonel, Mister Jennings,” Fessman said. “But as for commissions…” he stopped for a moment, thinking. “There is one possibility, but I’ll not be sending you on until you explain to me why you believe yourself qualified to lead soldiers.”

“We both have militia experience,” I said, “we speak Spanish, and Peter speaks German as well. You’ll have need of linguists, if not now then later on when you start running short of men.”

“As you say,” he acknowledged, “but that’s in the future if it happens at all. There has been talk of raising colored regiments, but nothing’s come of it and I doubt anything will. They’ll not fight, you know.”

“They will,” I said. “Not too many months ago, two colored men pulled our fat out of the fire! There was a rebel patrol heading straight for us, and if those two hadn’t warned us—they shot at least one out of the saddle before the rebels were ready to attack—I don’t like to think about what might have happened. Three of us, with women and children to watch out for, and seven of them?”

“Not good odds,” the major agreed. “What else?”

“I ran one of the biggest spreads in Texas and owned my own ship at one time,” I told him.

“Ah, Texas! You’re not the first to join up! Even so, the general will want to interview you personally. He’s looking for experienced officers who’ve smelled powder smoke and he may want proof of what you say. But that would be his decision. Orderly!”

The orderly reported and led us out. A different orderly was already waiting to speak to the major, and he carried a thick folder of papers that would have to be dealt with. Yesterday. Or possibly last week. The recruiting office was busy and the major looked, if not quite overwhelmed, barely able to keep his head above the sea of paperwork.

“One word before you go in, Sir,” the orderly said, “don’t let General Stevens’ appearance fool you. In fact, it’s best if you don’t show surprise at all.”

I looked at Peter, who shrugged.

The orderly turned us over to the military version of a secretary, who told us to wait and pointed to a corner that held several mismatched chairs.

We waited for an hour, while the general presumably dealt with more pressing issues. The secretary did send an orderly to bring us coffee, which was at least hot and black though no self-respecting chuckwagon cook would dare offer such weak stuff to men heading out to work!

We’d barely finished the coffee when the orderly came back and escorted us into the general’s office.

I hid my surprise when he stood up to shake our hands, though it was an effort. Brigadier-general Stevens was a dwarf! I finally understood what the orderly had meant when he advised that we show no surprise!

Stevens was not malformed, as some are, but so short he barely came up to my chin! Five feet tall, I estimated, possibly a bit more, but there was nothing short about his handshake or his manner!

“Are you strong in character?” he snapped out. “Do you think yourself able to replace my brave men who were killed or wounded in battle? Have you faced enemy fire? I need experienced officers, gentlemen, and I have no time for men who might fail me! If I don’t find them soon, my 79^th infantry regiment will be broken up and the men sent to other units!

“I’ll not have it! I have a brigade to form and little time in which to do it, and my Highlanders of the 79^th New York Volunteer Infantry will be a part of it or I’ll know the reason why! Well?”

I explained who we were, and he nodded when I mentioned the two ranches I’d managed in Texas, starting from the time I was barely a teenager. I also mentioned that we spoke Spanish.

“I’d be the last to scoff at language skills,” he said. “I found Spanish useful during the fighting in Mexico, but I’m more interested in the militia experience you mentioned.

“What do you know of maneuvers? Can you drill raw recruits to the point that they’ll stand in the line without panicking? Can you stand? The men are no better than their officers! If you hang back, so will they!”

“We’ve fought,” I said. “Matter of fact, we’re here because of a fight, just not the kind of stand-up battle you mentioned. We braced six rebels in Corpus Christi, just the two of us, and Peter struck the leader with his fist!

“After that, we started shooting and so did they. I don’t know if Peter shot first or if I did, but we both emptied our pistols into them. By the time it was over, Peter had been shot and four rebels were dead. I heard later on that the other two survived, wounded, but whether they died later of wounds I can’t say.”

General Stevens nodded at that and held up his hand for me to stop talking. “Two against six? You’re either the kind of brave men I need or damned fools!

“I’m sending you to Lieutenant-colonel Morrison, the 79^th’s commanding officer, and recommending to him that he offer you a captaincy, Mister Jennings, and Mister Tegener a lieutenancy. He needs company commanders and lieutenants. I may see you again, but for now Colonel Morrison’s needs must take priority. You ride, I assume; can you afford to purchase personal mounts?”

I assured him that we could, and Stevens dismissed us. We had barely stepped back from his desk before he was back working on a document, one of many on his desk.

“Is he always like that?” I asked the clerk as he led us away.

“The general has no time for pleasantries, gentlemen,” he said, “and if Colonel Morrison accepts you, you won’t either!”

“Is it as bad as I’ve heard, that the rebels are winning?” I asked.

“Bad enough,” he confessed. “They’ve won most of the fights on land, but the Navy has just about got them bottled up from what I hear. As for the fighting, our men have fought well but in the last one we never had a chance. At Secessionville, it was, and we were ordered to charge straight into the rebel guns. The rebels held the field and we were forced to withdraw, but at least we got our colors back.”

“The rebels captured your colors?” I asked in amazement.

The clerk hesitated, realizing that he might have said too much, but then responded. “General McClellan took them from us.”

“Keep going,” I said. “Generals don’t take away a unit’s colors unless there’s a damned good reason!”

“It happened after Bull Run,” he reflected. “The men fought well; we lost about one in five of our men during that fight, even serving as the rear-guard for two units that had abandoned the field. We did that, despite our own Colonel Cameron being killed. We were one of three militia regiments that lost their commanders that day, and the only one that didn’t break.”

Peter looked at me and I looked back. I figured he was asking himself the same question I was; how had they kept on fighting after losing 20% of their men, including their commanding officer? If the other regiments had lost that many or possibly even more, it was no wonder that their men had run away from the fight!

“This fight where you regained your colors; how bad was it?”

“We lost one in four, Mister Jennings.” He was proud that the regiment had performed well, but sorrow was also reflected in his expression.

Peter and I just looked at each other in amazement. “You said the men fought well? So why did General McClellan take your colors?”

“It happened after Bull Run,” he said. “Some of the men were ready to go home because they’d only enlisted for three months. Many others had fallen, of course, but since their time was up the ones who were still serving took their discharges and left. But the rest of us had signed up for three years, and considering the fighting we’d already done, it didn’t seem fair that they could go while we had to stay.

“The other thing was that as militia, we’d always elected our own officers. The regiments who ran at Bull Run quit because their colonels weren’t up to the job, so we figured to do what we’d done before, pick someone from our ranks who would see to our drill before the fight and not run away at the first smell of powder smoke! We considered ourselves a crack unit, despite the losses, with good reason to be proud!

“But when we were told we couldn’t even elect our own commander, it just felt like we were being punished for no reason. And then the Army appointed Colonel Stevens to command us and… well, you’ve seen him. That was before we knew anything about him, you see, except that he had been a politician before rejoining the Army. Permission to speak freely, Sir?”

“Go ahead,” I told him. “I’ll not hold an honest opinion against you.”

“The Army had regular officers in command, but the new regiments were officered by men of wealth and influence. Governors appointed them because they were the only ones with the money to equip a new unit. And of course, if they paid they felt themselves entitled to command. To be honest, some did very well, but many did not.

“Anyway, we made up our minds to pick one of our own instead of General Stevens and let the governor approve the appointment like always. But the army called it mutiny, and that’s when General McClellan took our colors away. He said we no longer deserved them. After that, we were put to work around Washington, digging trenches and building strongpoints.

“I was first sergeant of B company and commander of the 2^nd platoon up to then, but I ruptured myself while we were building a redoubt. It had been raining and it was muddy, so when two of us tried to lift a half-barrel of earth, I slipped and ended up underneath when it fell.

“The regimental surgeon thinks he might be able to do something for me, but so far he’s not had the time. Too many seriously wounded, too few surgeons, and to be honest I ain’t sure I want him to operate on me after what he said!”

“Oh?” I asked. “What did he say that you’re so worried about?”

“He said that sometimes it’s necessary to castrate the patient!

If it means I have to keep wearing that leather rig to hold my gut in, then that’s what I’ll do. But I ain’t giving up my balls!

“As soon as I was able to be up and around, I heard that Colonel Stevens needed someone who could read and write well. I volunteered, so he made me his clerk. It’s not much of a job after being a company first sergeant, but at least I’m still in the fight.”

***

“I really do need company officers,” Lieutenant-colonel Morrison confirmed. “What do you know of infantry drill?”

He’d asked me the question, so I responded. “I’ve drilled a militia company of dragoons in Texas as second-sergeant. We figured to ride horseback on our way to the fight, dismount after we got there, and march the rest of the way in column.”

“And then what?” he asked.

“Deploy into line, or if there were terrain features that kept us from advancing as a line, we practiced forming staggered double lines.”

“You did all this as a sergeant? Where were your officers?” Morrison asked.

“They left to join the rebel army,” I explained, “not that they’d ever conducted company drill anyway. Jeff Bell was our first sergeant, but he mostly handled administration. The rest was left up to me.

“Eventually I left too, but for a different reason. I joined up to fight Indians, for one thing, but there was something else that stuck in my craw. Our company was likely to be taken into the Confederate Army and I don’t hold with slavery.

“My pa fought in the Revolution and after Texas joined the Union, he died down in Mexico fighting for that same Union. In Mexico, not in Texas, because without Union help, Santa Anna would have come back. And the next time, he’d have had more men and cannons.

“Anyway, when it looked like we were going to be sent off to the east to fight against the same men that saved Texas, I made up my mind to be done with fighting, especially not for people that had started a war so that they could own others! I figured to let them that wanted to fight for the Confederacy. I had plenty to do, just working on my ranches, and if the Comanches came back Texas would need fighters to protect the women and children.

“Anyway, that was what I intended to do, and I would have except that there was some trouble.”

“Keep going, Captain. What kind of trouble?”

I couldn’t tell whether Morrison believed me or not—there were times I had trouble believing it myself, and I’d lived through it—so I plowed on.

“A rebel sergeant showed up with a detail and told me he was taking my horses for his army. If he’d offered to pay me, even in Confederate money, I probably would have sold them. But he also told me and two of my friends that we were conscripted into his army! He said that after we delivered the horses, we’d be sent off east to the war! Who would protect our families then? But he wouldn’t listen to reason and well…he just wasn’t up to it.”

“Don’t stop now, Captain,” Colonel Morrison said. “You’ve definitely got my interest!”

“They called the tune, Colonel, we just collected for the piper. Some of my employees showed up right after that and took care of the bodies, but after a while the rebels sent an officer to find out what had happened to their men. Turns out that sergeant was supposed to buy the horses, but it could be that he intended to keep the purchase money for himself.

“I hoped that was the end of it, but then some others showed up wanting to know what had happened to him. That was when I knew that there was no way out of it except to leave, so I did.

“Told my crew what I had in mind and packed up my family, Peter’s wife too, because she’d been taking care of my son since right after he was born. I arranged to sell my property and we headed west to the New Mexico Territory. I figured to look around, either claim or buy land for a ranch, and start over. We would have made it too, except that a rebel patrol caught up to us just before we got to the Rio Grande.”

“And you killed them too, I suppose?”

I could see that Morrison was ready to change his mind about us, so I finished the story. “This time we had help. A pair of colored men showed up in time to break up the attack, and a good thing that they did! Otherwise, our fat would sure-enough have been in the fire.

“They were shooting from a low rise, dismounted, and the rebels were shooting from horse-back with pistols. We were more than 100 yards away, so they missed. Peter stood up in the wagon bed and started shooting from there—we intended to camp where they caught up to us—and the two coloreds kept on shooting. They had already killed one or two, I fetched a few more, and the other man in our party got at least one. Peter’s wife had a shotgun loaded with buck and ball, so she might also have downed some.

“After the fight, while we were thanking the coloreds one of them told Peter his father had been killed. He’d overheard two rebels talking about it in Mesilla. It is, or maybe was, the capitol of Confederate Arizona, so the papers printed reports from Texas, which is where it happened.

“Nick, the third man in our party—he might well have married my niece by now—took Peter’s wife and the children on to Socorro while Peter and I headed down to where the fight had happened, figuring to find out what had become of his father’s body.

“The rebels were heading back to Texas by that time, and anyway they wouldn’t have bothered two women and a couple of kids. My little boy was only a year old then. If bandits tried…well, Nick knows how to handle himself in a fight.”

“You left your son back there, and Mister Tegener left his wife? Gentlemen, I’m…”

“We couldn’t go back, Colonel,” I interrupted him. “We’d have had to fight our way through Indian country, Confederate patrols too, and by then Peter was recovering from being shot.

“We couldn’t stay in Texas and we wouldn’t be able to go back to New Mexico Territory until after the war was over. That was when we made up our mind that the best thing for us to do was fight for the Union. Here we are, if you still want us I mean.”

He sat there for a while, obviously thinking it over, but finally he decided to give us a chance. “See the quartermaster about uniforms, Captain. Tell him you’ll also need mounts, tack, and the prescribed weapons for officers.

“He’ll arrange to get what you need, but you’ll need to pay for your own mounts and tack. The Army provides them for regular officers and cavalry, but we’re volunteer infantry and officers supply their own personal mounts. It was a requirement when the regiment was created, and it hasn’t changed since. Have you ever drilled with swords?”

We both shook our heads no, so he went on. “I wouldn’t worry about infantry sword drill for now, because you won’t have the time. In fact, some of the cavalry units have stopped using theirs, preferring to arm themselves with two pistols! The only time I’ve used mine was when I was leading an attack. The men see the sword and they understand that I’m an officer, even if they don’t recognize me in all the smoke and dust. That’s what you’ll do with yours, wave the men on with it.

“Take the rest of the day to settle in. Tomorrow morning, I expect you both here early, in uniform, ready to work.

“That’s when I’ll introduce you to your company sergeants, Captain. You and Lieutenant Tegener will be C Company’s only officers. Even so, I expect your company to be ready to fight when called on. Questions?”

We had none and were ready to leave when he added one final bit of instruction.

“You can keep your personal pistols, gentlemen, but pack your Texas belts and holsters away until after the war. Starting tomorrow, you’ll wear a regulation belt with a flap holster, cap box, and ammunition box.

“Dismissed.”

 

Chapter Two

The quartermaster swore no new uniforms were available, but he had several that had once been spare uniforms of men now dead. The colonel had given us no leeway, so we accepted the uniforms. The quartermaster, a private soldier designated like the Adjutant as a Warrant Over Grade, almost smirked at our hesitation and I decided right then that he would bear watching.

Company C, our new assignment, had no other officers at present, but did have several capable sergeants. One directed me to the company tailor to have the uniform trousers taken in at the waist and hinted that the man would expect to be paid, since we were officers. I did, and a short time later the uniforms were done.

The company First Sergeant was wrinkled, gray, and elderly, in no shape to keep up with marching troops. He was, however, extremely knowledgeable of Army reports, which explained why he hadn’t been dismissed. He also kept an up-to-date file of routine orders and regulations, including a listing of supplies that soldiers were supposed to be issued ‘when available’.

Even better, after a brief talk, he handed me a wooden box. It had formerly held hardtack, but now it contained several tactical manuals. When I asked, he explained that they’d formerly been the property of regular officers.

“I collected them from their baggage, Captain. They didn’t need ‘em and I figured that sooner or later, we would get someone like you. No offense, Sir, but you never went to West Point, and I doubt we’ll see very many of them that did from now on, leastwise not commanding companies. Men that were captains and company commanders last month are colonels today, and some are generals.”

I thanked him and caught up with Peter, now assigned as my company First Lieutenant. He was my only lieutenant, which might be a good thing in the long run. I wouldn’t have to retrain an officer who might resent not getting the command.

“The first week is critical,” I told Peter. “We can always ease up later, but during the first week the men are going to be watching us closely.”

“Ed—Captain, I mean—I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!”

“I’m not sure myself,” I admitted. “I’ve got the books, but I won’t have time to study what’s in them before tomorrow. Soon as I figure out what I need to do, I’ll loan the books to you.

“What I do know how to do is what we did when I was the militia company’s second sergeant; drill the men until they can advance in column, deploy into line, and fix bayonets. You should also remember that much, so tell your platoon sergeant to give the commands while you watch.

“If the men get confused, yell halt as loud as you can, sort them out, and try again. Speak slowly, so that they understand what’s wanted. Practice forming column of twos, forming column of fours, and deploying into line will get you through the first day.

“If your sergeant seems competent, then ask him for help. Better to ask than show your ignorance! If he’s not willing to help you while you’re getting started, then pick another one to replace him. Line the men up and walk down the line, asking questions. If you find one that seems to know his business, make him a corporal. If he does a better job than the sergeant, bust the sergeant to corporal and make the corporal your sergeant. I’ll back your decisions.

“I’ll have the bugler blow reveille early, and after that I’ll dismiss the men to their breakfasts. Expect an hour for that…the First Sergeant tells me that should be enough time for them to cook their rations, eat, and clean up…and as soon as they’re done, we will muster them for drill. I figure two hours for squad drill, with your sergeants and corporals in charge of their squads. Short break, no more than half an hour, then two hours for platoon drill. By then, I’ll know what’s needed.

“If they seem to know what they’re doing, I’ll try maneuvering the company. Form-column on command, advance to the front, right-turn and left-turn commands, flank marches, and counter-march. If there’s a problem, that’s when it will show up.”

Peter just nodded. He’d done the exercises back in Texas, but he’d never been in charge. The first question that had to be settled was, could he maintain order in his new position? Would the sergeants and corporals obey his orders, or would they slack off?

I figured we would find out tomorrow.

***

The first platoon’s senior sergeant, a man named Bennett, was young, but there was no question that he knew what he was doing. During the break between squad and platoon drill, I complimented him on having done a good job. On one occasion, he’d turned his first squad over to the corporal and walked over to the second squad to talk to the sergeant. After that, second squad repeated first squad’s evolution by sending out skirmishers to the flank to guard the imaginary platoon or company behind them. After three exercises, the sweating men doubled to where they were supposed to be and returned to their squad with no delay when ordered.

“Permission to speak, Captain?” Sergeant Bennett asked.

I nodded, so he went on. “Sir, you and the lieutenant just need to tell us sergeants what you want the men to do. We’ll see that they follow orders and if they shirk their duties, we know how to deal with them. That’s how our last captain conducted drill.

“Going into battle is different, Sir. Some captains wave their hand, some wave their swords, but the one thing you can’t do is try to command the company by voice. Too much noise to hear commands, too much dust and smoke to see clearly; but if you’re holding your sword up in the air there’s a good chance we’ll see it.”

I made up my mind to follow his advice.

After dismissing the company, I walked through the company area to get an idea of what my company was like when no one was giving orders. When men started to stand up, I simply waved them back to what they’d been doing.

I listened as they prepared their suppers, and wondered. Griping was to be expected, but the bitter tone of so much of it bothered me.

What I saw was also troubling, and not at all what I would have expected; tents with holes, worn-out shoes, and two men who appeared to have no shoes at all!

I concluded that this would never do. I had money on deposit with the regimental paymaster and if necessary, I would spend some of it buying shoes for my men. Not through some misguided sense that I could supply the Union Army, but because a man with no shoes might stumble going into a fight. Thorns, grass burrs…Even a small thing like that could cause the company to lose cohesion.

But first, I needed more information.

When I asked First-sergeant Ferguson about what I’d found, he confirmed that the company hadn’t been getting the prescribed equipment and for that matter, adequate rations. He kept his expression stiff and wouldn’t meet my eyes, which made me realize that he’d already noticed the same things I had. “Let’s find the quartermaster,” I said, while barely keeping my anger in check. “Maybe he knows what’s going on.”

Ferguson nodded and led the way to the quartermaster’s tent.

Right away, I noticed that it appeared almost new, the canvas barely faded, and with no holes. I looked at Ferguson and he just shrugged. “Every quartermaster in the army does that, Captain. When new supplies come up, he takes his pick and issues what he had before to the men. Some men always seem to have better equipment, some always seem to have worn-out gear.”

I filed that away in my mind, because if Ferguson was right, the men who weren’t getting a fair shake would always be that little bit resentful. They might not shirk, but they wouldn’t be up front either.

I decided to talk to Lieutenant-colonel Morrison before I did anything. For all I knew, this might be army custom and stirring things around would do more harm than good.

“Let’s take a walk,” Morrison said. “General Stevens mentioned this at one time, back when he was the colonel and I was a major. But then he got pushed up to brigade, so nothing came of it.

“I hear he’s soon going to be in command of a division. That might happen, it might not…armies can make up more rumors than two dozen ladies’ sewing circles! But there’s no question he did a good job in a bad situation at Secessionville, so maybe this rumor is right.”

The sentry challenged us and called his sergeant. In true army style, the sergeant notified a lieutenant that a battalion commander wanted to speak to him, and soon we were allowed into General Stevens’ tent.

He listened to Colonel Morrison, then looked at me. “You’re the one noticed this?”

“Yes, Sir. But I didn’t intend to bother you with it,” I said nervously.

“Nor should you, Stevens agreed. “But as it happens, morale is, or at least should be, of concern to every officer. Colonel, can we agree that officers are supposed to solve problems rather than bother their commanders with them?”

Morrison might have been smiling—the tent was poorly lighted by a single candle—but he nodded. That I could see.

“Captain, in addition to your other duties, I’m appointing you as assistant brigade quartermaster. Spend most of your time with your company, but in the afternoon I desire that you do what’s needed to improve morale. I’ll back any reasonable decisions you make.

“Colonel, I’d like you to stay for a minute longer. Captain Jennings, you are dismissed.”

***

I wanted to complain, but I didn’t get the chance, not even to Peter because he’d also been given an additional assignment.

“You’re a part-time general’s aide-de-camp? I thought colonels were supposed to talk to captains before they did things like this!”

“The general needed a messenger, the colonel decided I should be the one,” Peter shrugged. “It kind of makes sense, because I’ve got a horse and I know how to ride. Some of the other lieutenants…well, they’re a lot of things, but riders they’re not, and that’s the other part of my detail. I have to start a riding school for lieutenants who’ve never ridden a horse, but whose families got them commissioned and assigned as aides!”

We commiserated over half a flask of whiskey that Peter had acquired in some mysterious fashion, then went our separate ways.

I saw little of Peter during the remainder of our time in camp. Either I was off conferring with other captains, or Peter was away teaching equitation to lieutenants or carrying messages for General Stevens. We’d sometimes have a few moments when our orderlies brought us breakfast, but no more than that.

I got little enough sleep, and Peter likely got less. But I did have several orderlies, selected with the help of Sergeants Bennett and Ferguson. Reliable men, not likely to gossip, which was important because it soon became obvious that the brigade had a problem.

Simply put, our men were not getting their fair share of rations and equipment. And not just the quartermasters were involved, but also the brigade quartermaster-officer, who at the very least should have been supervising more closely.

Two weeks later, I decided I had enough information. But I was still a very new captain, unsure of the limits of my authority, so I asked Colonel Morrison if he had a few minutes.

He did, so I laid out my findings and asked him, “Colonel, are you acquainted with Lieutenant Schmidt?”

He looked at me for a moment and I wondered if I’d stepped into something I should have avoided, but then he nodded. “Nephew of Judge Elliott, I believe. Political connections, which is how he became a lieutenant. The appointment was made by General McClellan, or at least it came from his office. Why?”

“He’s been selling army equipment and rations and pocketing the money, most of it anyway. I’m guessing that most, perhaps all, of the other company quartermasters are getting a share of what’s left after Sanderson takes his off the top. Otherwise, one of them might have turned him in by now.”

“It’s a common problem, Ed,” Morrison said, “almost impossible to stamp out. What do you propose to do about it?”

“How much authority do I have, Colonel?” I asked.

“Official authority? Not much,” he confessed, his expression wintry. “Unofficially, as much as you’re willing to take.

“Keep in mind that you’re going to ruffle some important feathers and later on, what you do may cause you problems. But…” he stopped, thinking of what he wanted to say. “How much do you know about General Stevens?”

“He’s a brigadier general,” I shrugged. “Very positive man, very decisive.”

“He’s all those things, and more,” Colonel Morrison said. “Very intelligent, graduated first in his West Point class, and he’s also a highly-regarded mathematician. He was badly wounded outside Mexico City and after the war, he was appointed first Governor of Washington Territory. You never heard any of this?”

“Hearing it now for the first time,” I confessed, “but maybe that explains a few things.”

“You’re thinking about his size,” Morrison demurred. “Don’t let that fool you. He’s an excellent rider and in action, he’s brave as a dozen lions. If the war lasts long enough and if he doesn’t get himself killed first, he’ll wind up commanding general of the army. I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t get elected president after that.”

“That’s—interesting,” I agreed. “But what does it have to do with my authority?”

“The general, back when he was governor, had questions too,” Colonel Morrison said. “About the limits of his authority to deal with the Indian question in Washington Territory, and later on some other issues. He tried making peace with the tribes at first, and when that didn’t work he raised his own army and not only whipped the Indians in several fights, he hanged at least one of their chiefs. Later on, when the Territorial Judge and another man tried to bring charges of exceeding his authority and contempt of court against him, he pardoned himself. Does that answer your question, Captain?”

It did. The only question now was, did I have the guts to do what Governor Stevens had done?

I didn’t get much sleep that night, still thinking about what I intended to do, but by morning my mind was made up. The general had told me to improve morale and I resolved to try.

As for whether it might cause me trouble later on, I put that out of my mind. The way the war was going right now, there might not be much of a later-on for any of us.

I told Peter that he was in charge of the company until I got back and that I was leaving Sergeant Bennett to help him. Ferguson I would take with me.

“How long will you be away, Ed?” Peter asked.

“That’s a good question, Peter. Depending on how things go, I might not be coming back!” He nodded, so I found Sergeant Ferguson and told him to bring his platoon; we were going visiting.

“I’ll want half a squad with me. You’ll take half a squad, your corporals will each take half-squads, and after you execute your orders we’ll meet back here at Company C headquarters.”

He just nodded at that, so I told him what he and the other NCOs would be doing. “One hour from now, I want each detachment to be waiting outside the tent of one of the regiment’s quartermasters. You’ll decide which NCO should go where. Acting under my orders, he will place the company quartermaster under close arrest and not allow him to speak to anyone. The quartermasters will be brought to me, and tell him to leave a reliable man to make sure that if there are records they don’t mysteriously take wings.

“The quartermasters have clerks, so have the man you detail to the task tell the clerks that they’re to do nothing without my orders. They’ll sign for no rations or equipment, they’ll issue none, and if the records aren’t available they’ll regret the day they were born before I finish with them. Clear?”

“Yes, Sir. Sir, what will you be doing?”

“I intend to arrest the brigade quartermaster myself—he might be the commissary officer, not that it makes a difference—and try him for dereliction of duty. I’ll prosecute and the other company commanders will judge. I’m pretty sure I don’t have the authority to execute him, but I intend to reduce him to the ranks.

“As for the company quartermasters who should have been issuing those rations and equipment to the men, I’ve been reading up on punishments. Ever been bucked and gagged, Sergeant? Ever been on bread and water for a week?”

“No, Sir. Sir, which sentence are you going to impose?”

“Both, but I’ll release them, mine at least, from being bucked and gagged after he’s had time to think about his misdeeds. The other company commanders will decide for themselves.

“They’ve been stealing from the general’s men, they all have, and worse, one of them has been stealing from my men! If he squawks, tell him I’m considering whether to just hang him outright and be done with it! And even after a week on piss and punk, I intend that he be assigned to the worst duties I can think up.

“But don’t tell him that; just tell him that I’m favoring a hanging, with the men he’s cheated hauling on the rope!”

“Yes, Sir!”

 

Chapter Three

I had heard of bucking and gagging, in which the offender was tied so that he couldn’t move and gagged to keep him from even crying out from the pain, but I’d never seen it done.

The only redeeming feature was that unlike branding on the forehead or being lashed, the results did not leave visible scars.

Mental scars were another matter, but no one who experienced the ordeal wanted to incur it again. And unlike worse punishments, he would be able to resume work after a brief period of working out the kinks in cramped muscles.

It was a clear lesson for others, too. I marched my company past, single file, and stood by the quartermaster as they looked at him, and at me. I kept my face rigid, no anger, nothing. Just the face of Army discipline, cold, harsh, and unforgiving.

They might not have heard his whimpers, but I did.

Four hours later, I ordered him untied. The men that did so pulled on his ankles and shoulders until he could stand. I watched impassively as he saluted, turned, and hobbled away.

That night, he got a loaf of bread and a mug of water for supper, signaling to him and the rest of the company that his punishment was not yet over.

The men who’d felt pity before now understood that their issues of new equipment and better rations had been sold by this man and his accomplices. This punishment, what the men called piss and punk, clearly fit the crime.

Routine continued the following morning with reveille, after which the men were released to breakfast. The former quartermaster got a loaf of bread and a mug of water.

By the end of the week, some had started saving a slice of bacon or mug of coffee which they slipped him when the sergeants and corporals weren’t looking. This, too, was part of the punishment, where anger was changed to forgiveness.

He had not been reassigned to a squad during the time of his punishment; instead, he marched alone behind the first squad, which as company commander I led directly. He repeated the movements of the squad, took part in other exercises, but was excluded from the comradeship which made the men into a unit that would fight for their fellow soldiers.

I’d learned that from Colonel Morrison.

“Edward, patriotism causes a man to volunteer,” Morrison said. “Training, backed up by discipline, keeps him in line between fights. But when the bullets begin to fly, a man fights for the man who’s there by his side. They must all feel that way, because as soon as the first man runs away others will follow.

“That must be your goal as commander, Edward. Make them into a brotherhood, such that each will face his own death without retreating but will not abandon his brother!”

Words of wisdom, I thought.

I remembered my father’s militia company; he’d had that ability, to foster comradeship among his men as well as respect, even love, for the man out in front waving them on.

It applied to me too. I would not abandon my men, just as my father had not abandoned his, for the safety of the rear.

For a moment, I felt a kinship with my father that I’d not known while he was alive. John Linn, who’d told me that my father lacked the moral courage to order others into danger, had never understood. Now I did.

Bad commanders, mediocre commanders, give orders while ensuring as much as possible that they remain safe. Good commanders lead. I wasn’t sure that I could do what my father had done, but I was determined to try.

***

Company drill, which had always seemed to lack some of the qualities exhibited by crack units, now improved daily. Within a week, even a disinterested observer would have spotted the difference, and Colonel Morrison was not disinterested.

Two days later he was back, this time riding alongside General Stevens, to watch the men at drill. After a while they rode away, so I put the incident out of my mind.

I had just dismissed the men to their suppers that evening when an orderly arrived from brigade headquarters. “Captain, the general desires that you dine with him this evening.”

I just nodded. I understood that a general’s desires are, to a captain, orders. I sponged off my uniform to get as much dust off as possible, hit my boots a lick and a promise, and headed off to see how the privileged lived.

Surprisingly, the conversation over dinner had little to do with army life.

Philosophy, even poetry, was discussed in detail by the general and the three senior officers he’d also invited. Colonel Benjamin Christ was the brigade’s second in command and Lieutenant-colonel George Cartwright commanded the 28^th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry.

Nobody asked my opinion during the discussions and I was smart enough not to reveal my ignorance.

Running a pair of big spreads in Texas was one thing, but these men had been raised different. While I’d been down in the mud with my men, dragging stupid beeves out from where they’d bogged down, they’d socialized with others like themselves. They’d also had far more schooling than I had, although my teacher had done his best in the time he had.

But these men had gone to colleges and except for the war, they’d have been heading up banks and railroads and starting up companies of their own. Even the ones who’d gone to West Point understood that they’d spend a few years in the Army, then resign and go into business or politics.

General Stevens had done just that, resigned after the Mexican-American war so he could take up the governorship of Washington Territory.

It wasn’t until things started winding down that I found out why the general had invited me. “Captain Jennings, I’ve offered your services to Colonel Cartwright,” General Stevens said. “Tomorrow morning after reveille, you will turn your company over to your second-in-command and report to his headquarters.”

“I’m losing my company?” I asked, alarmed at the thought.

“No, no,” Stevens reassured me, “you’ll do for Colonel Cartwright what you did for Colonel Morrison! You should be back with your company within a week, two at the most!

“I dislike taking a commander from his company, even for a short time, but this will broaden your experience and the army is going to need experienced officers. Army headquarters is talking about recruiting new brigades, new divisions, even entire new corps! As they fill the ranks, they’ll look to young officers like you to command them.”

“General, I never know if I’m going to have a second in command,” I protested. “Lieutenant Tegener is often away here at your headquarters, serving as one of your aides-de-camp, and there are no other officers assigned to Company C. I had thought of requesting commissions for two of my sergeants…”

The general ignored that for the moment and went on. “Colonel Morrison, will his absence cause Company C undue hardship? Even a week might be critical, because I anticipate that we will soon be called east to join the fighting.”

“General, he has a good company and excellent noncommissioned officers,” Colonel Morrison said. “I’ll check in daily, just in case there might be a need, but I’m sure that Captain Jennings will be back within no more than three days.

“Before, he needed to investigate before he could act, but in the 28^th Massachusetts much of the work has already been done. I’m sure that Colonel Cartwright will assign one of his officers to work with Captain Jennings?”

“I certainly will!” Cartwright said. “Captain Andrew Caraher of Company A can be spared. You’ll act as you did before, Captain Jennings, as representative of General Stevens. Captain Caraher will be there to represent me directly and enforce your actions if necessary.” I knew then that the arrangement had been made before I got invited, so I kept my mouth shut.

One final word from the general to Colonel Morrison was the bone he threw me.

“Get me the names of his sergeants, Colonel. If you concur with Captain Jennings’ recommendations, I’ll offer them commissions. Captain Jennings, you should be aware that this may cost you their services. Good officers are in demand, you know.”

I just nodded. I figured that as soon as they got settled into the job, they’d do just fine. The Army could do worse than put them in command of companies of their own!

***

Captain Andy Caraher revealed the real reason I was being sent to the 28^th Massachusetts.

“Politics and cronyism, Ed. You heard what happened to that commissary lieutenant, the one you recommended be dismissed from the service? It didn’t happen. Powerful friends, some of them people he paid, others family, intervened.

“And that drumhead court-martial you held? It never happened either. Not only was there no record of a trial, there was not even a further investigation! He was dismissed from the regiment, that much you accomplished, but that’s all you did. Other than to make a name for yourself, at least as far as the general and the brigade’s senior officers are concerned, which may or may not be good for your future prospects.

“It’s said that he was sent back to New York, where he’s now involved in purchasing. If there’s an upside, it’s that he’ll never be able to run for office after the war as “Captain Schmidt” or even “Colonel Schmidt”. But run he will, Ed, because his family is involved in politics as well as profiteering.

“Many a better man will die in this war,” Andy mused, “but like rats and cockroaches, the lesser men will always survive and even prosper. It’s the same with our state too, you know. Different families, but no better, and just as involved in politics as the Schmidts are. In New York it’s the Germans and the Dutch, in Massachusetts it’s the Irish.”

***

One advantage this time; I turned the crooked quartermasters over to their company commanders for punishment and simply sent the lieutenant to headquarters with a recommendation that he be tried by court-martial. That, like military rank, would follow him forever, including into any future political contest. Assuming it happened.

But I’d done what that Massachusetts colonel couldn’t afford to do, remove a political officer without getting myself into trouble with the people who’d appointed him.

Four days later, I was back with my company and they seemed glad to see me. So did newly-appointed Lieutenants Bennett and Ferguson, but not for long.

Following Colonel Morrison’s advice, I swapped them to Company A for two other shavetail lieutenants, Oliver and McLemore.

Which, according to the colonel, would prevent future discipline problems. Like my two, they’d been promoted from the ranks with their names sent back to the governor of New York for approval. By now, the losses in battle ensured that such promotions were almost automatic.

A week later, the general called for a brigade muster, or maybe it was a division muster. I didn’t understand the difference, but I supposed it didn’t matter. As it was explained to me, Major-general Heintzelman commanded III Corps, Army of the Potomac. The corps’ First Division was commanded by Major-general Philip Kearny, and under him he had three brigades. They would transfer with us when we moved up to the fighting.

We were part of the IXth Corps, Major-general Jesse L. Reno, who also commanded the Second Division of the corps. Brigadier-general Isaac Stevens commanded the First Division, IXth Corps, which like the Second Division, was made up of three brigades.

“Regiments are now the Army’s smallest maneuver elements, Edward,” Colonel Morrison said. “Not companies, not battalions, regiments! It makes sense, because the regiments were raised and equipped by states, at least originally, and sometimes by counties or cities. But they are all identified by the states they come from, New York or Pennsylvania or Illinois or Massachusetts. They are subordinate to the national command right now, but no governor wants his people scattered far from their neighbors so regiments are almost always kept together.

“Divisions may be reorganized, just as our First Division has been; brigades may include regiments from any of the states, just as my Third Brigade does; but companies within regiments are always kept together. Do you understand?”

I nodded and Colonel Morrison went on his way. What I understood was that I worked for Colonel Morrison, and that was all I really needed to know.

The brigade muster was held so that Colonel Morrison could pass on what he had learned from General Stevens, that we should expect movement orders soon. They might not come for a week or two, but come they would, and there was no way to tell at this point how we would move. Some might go by train, but rail cars, like wagons, were in short supply. Officers who owned horses would ride, but our volunteer infantrymen would march.

I expected to need that horse I’d bought to get around, because I would be busy during the march. There had been cases, many of them, when men had attempted to lighten their heavy loads by discarding their ammunition. Tentage, spare clothing, and rations, those things they would keep, but ammunition, intended to be consumed in the fighting, would be reissued as needed.

If there was time, although the men rarely thought of such matters. If there wasn’t time to replace what they’d discarded, they would be armed only with the bayonet that each man carried on his left hip, useless unless we closed with the enemy or they came to us!

I intended to stop that before it got started, and the other thing I intended to prevent was what many old-timers did, fill their canteens with rum instead of water.

I made the rounds that evening with my new platoon commanders and told the men of each platoon what to expect. “You will be issued 80 rounds of ammunition before we start, and woe unto you if you don’t have 80 rounds when we stop for the night! I’ll also be checking canteens during rest stops. You’ll be tired, you’ll think that a swallow or two of rum will make the load lighter. It won’t, I’ll see to that! While the other men are jawing around the fire, you’ll be digging. And when the digging is done, I’ll find something else for you to do.”

I didn’t raise my voice; I didn’t have to. They’d seen the punishments I’d passed out and knew that it could happen to them.

“Check your shoes tonight,” I went on, “and if you’re afraid they won’t hold up to a long march, see the quartermaster. If your tent-half is rotten, see him about that too. I’ll do my best to make sure that you have what you’re supposed to before we head out, but after that I expect you to care for your own equipment. Your platoon officers will be checking too, so do not let us down.”

That evening, I visited campfires and talked to the men. I listened to their gripes, but without taking sides or making promises I couldn’t keep. The overall impression? They were ready and even eager to get into the fight! “Captain, meaning no offense, but I joined up to fight! I understand that drill is important, but it wearies a man to keep marching all day, all that turning left or marching to a flank the same as what we did last week! Leave that stuff up to them in the regular army! Otherwise, we could still be here a year from now, and if we are, who’s going to plant our fields and take care of our families? We need to get in and hand Johnny Reb his comeuppance so that we can go home and get on with our lives!”

I just nodded at that; it was why I’d joined up, Peter too.

One thing I agreed to do: include the men’s musical instruments in my baggage allowance, which would be transported by wagon. Whether guitar or fiddle or whatever one of the men could contrive, the musical instruments improved things around a campfire of an evening and kept the men from fretting as much about what was happening back home.

***

In late July, we got our orders. The next morning, we headed east to join General John Pope’s Army of Virginia.

He had his work cut out for him; he was facing not only Stonewall Jackson’s veterans, but a new rebel general who’d been appointed to overall command.

His name was Robert E. Lee.

 

Chapter Four

“Captain, Lieutenants Oliver and McLemore want to talk to you.”

I looked at the grinning orderly and sighed. My two best sergeants, now commissioned, were two of the best officers in the brigade. Unfortunately, they had been swapped for two of the most hapless officers in the entire Union Army! Worse, the enlisted men knew what was going on!

Time to nip this in the bud. “Private Sherman, wait outside. After I finish with the lieutenants, you and I need to talk.”

That wiped the smirk off his face but left me with another problem: what to say? Would dire threats work, maybe threaten him and then relent at the last minute? With a promise that next time I wouldn’t?

But that was for later. “What now?” I asked the two, standing braced at attention in front of me.

I really needed sleep, but I’d been almost as green as these two in the beginning. Back when I was 13, say, before the ranch foremen did for me what I was going to have to do with these two! So I listened, with as much patience as I could muster.

“Captain, we’re supposed to ride when we start east, but we don’t have horses! And to tell you the truth, we’ve never ridden one, neither one of us. I sold shoes, Lieutenant McLemore was apprenticed to a baker! We never learned to ride because we had no need to, not in New York. The quartermaster says that the army may get around to supplying us with horses, but right now they need all they can get for the new cavalry regiments.”

I felt like saying a few words my ma wouldn’t have approved of, but then I looked at him, all young and eager to please, and realized that I was short-tempered from lack of sleep.

A thought came: how would General Stevens deal with this?

I’d never seen him show the anger he was reputed to have, nor heard him say a harsh word. Maybe he was different with other generals, but to the colonels? Always soft, always with a suggestion about how to fix what was broke. I decided to follow his example.

“I’m guessing that you can’t afford to buy your own?” I made it a question, but I already knew that both were poor. Oliver just nodded, so I sighed.

“Tell Biddle I said to buy your mounts and horse-tack and charge it to my account. I’ve got funds on deposit with the regimental paymaster, he knows I’m good for the money.”

“Captain, I didn’t…you’d do that for us?” asked Ferguson.

“I’m doing it for Company C,” I snapped. “I expect you to pay me back when you get the chance!”

“Captain, I have to tell you...” Oliver started, but I knew I couldn’t listen to what he wanted to say so I snarled “Not another word! Go about your duties and let me get some sleep!”

They shut up and left without telling me they might never be able to repay me. I understood, and also understood that I couldn’t afford to hear it. The Army chewed up lieutenants like soldiers chewed up bacon, and not just lieutenants. Company commanders, even division commanders, were not immune. Bullets and artillery shells don’t have eyes, and they don’t care who they kill.

The money was likely gone forever, but at least I had spent it in a good cause, and by the time we got where we were going they’d know how to ride. Mostly it just takes practice, and if they needed a word of advice here and there, I’d see that they got it.

That’s when I thought of Peter.

Wonder of wonders, he was at breakfast the next morning. He would be called to division headquarters after we broke camp, but for now the colonels were at headquarters, meeting with General Stevens while working out the order of march, and Peter was here.

“Good to see you, Peter!” I was all smiles and he looked at me suspiciously.

But he was the company’s First Lieutenant and right now, he wasn’t needed to command Second Platoon. Just the man to take two green lieutenants in hand and teach them to ride, I figured! After all, he’d been doing just that for General Stevens! They could worry about learning to tack up the animals and things to watch out for on the march later on; for now, they had good orderlies to handle such matters, and as Peter had once told me, he ‘knew about horses’.

***

The march was long and exhausting.

On two occasions I got off my horse and walked, leading him long enough for one of my nearly-exhausted men to recover in the saddle until he was ready to resume his place in the ranks. The men who’d helped by carrying his musket and packs kept on until the next halt, where he would dismount and they would hand his equipment back.

Oliver and McLemore, following my lead, ended up walking as much as riding. I noticed that they occasionally carried the packs that belonged to the man who’d taken their place in the saddle. Green, new to being officers, but good men who’d retained the qualities that got them promoted.

The result was that Company C didn’t lose a man on that march, while some of the other units lost as many as one in four to straggling!

There were no songs that night, just snores and an occasional outcry from an exhausted sleeper bothered by bad dreams.

To this day I have no idea where we were during that march, other than that we were moving eastward most of the time. But even that was suspect because we went north, south, and west as well, on our way to a bridge or ford across the streams that seemed to show up every hour or two. And after we’d crossed, we sometimes headed back in the direction we’d been going, but sometimes not. I knew which way was east when the sun came up, but except for that I was as lost as a man can be.

Somewhere in Northern Virginia, I figured, but I wouldn’t have bet money on even that!

Mounted scouts and orderlies dashed around, stirring up the dust that really didn’t need much stirring. We swore at them and endured, got what rest we could, and kept going. Now and then, far in the distance, we heard what sounded like thunder, but wasn’t. Nor were the flashes lightning. Somewhere over there, regiments and maybe larger units were fighting.

Seemed like the closer we got, the more determined the men became, but I was in no hurry. Our time would come.

Ahead of and behind us were the other companies of the regiment. Every day, we varied the order of march, not that it made any difference. The sun beat down until our uniforms were sweat-soaked, and then the dust sifted over everything. Blue uniforms turned white with salt from our sweat, then brown from the dust.

Now and again, we’d see other units off to one flank or the other, as dusty and curious about us as we were about them. But we had no chance to talk; they had places to go, so did we.

The colonel called us to his tent after we stopped for the night and told us what he knew.

“There’s been fighting already. Some marching and skirmishing mostly, but we’ve lost men to sharpshooters and I expect they have too, not that it makes much difference.

“Don’t expect them to break and run at the first volley. That’s Jackson over there, the same one that whipped our boys at Bull Run. He was supposed to be a long way off, but his men are marching fools so they’re here where no one expected them to be. Not this early, at least.”

“Do we have orders, Colonel?” I asked, the question all of us wanted answered.

“Just keep going until we get there,” Morrison said tiredly. “General Kearny’s division is ahead of us, so it’s likely they’ll go into action before we do. We’ll hear it when that happens, so expect us to be ordered up in support. Soon as you hear the musketry get your men ready, but wait for orders before you form line of battle.”

I just nodded, and when it became obvious he had no more to say, I headed back for my company.

We ate our breakfasts the next morning, not that we were all that hungry, then followed the dust stirred up by the regiment ahead of us. Judging by the sun, we were heading north.

From time to time, I heard the deeper boom of cannons and the distant grumbling of muskets. Usually there would be one long rattling boom, then a pause before the first follow-up shots banged out. After that, there would be another low roar, but without the precision of that first one. After each discharge the men reloaded, and some were faster, some slower. But after a bit, the pauses became shorter and the muskets settled down into a kind of constant rattle.

It seemed obvious that somewhere up ahead, units were facing units, and none of them were backing away.

Peter came over where I was watching the clouds gathering over the woodlands. “Ed, I sure hope we don’t have to do that. Sounds to me like the generals have stopped trying to flank each other. No pauses to aim, just load, shoot, load again. Pure butchery.”

“What are the men saying?” I asked.

“Not much talking going on,” he replied. “They know what’s coming.”

I just nodded; there was nothing left to say.

The muskets rattled on, the cannons boomed now and then. Occasionally the musketry paused, to be replaced by distant yells and screams.

I knew what that meant. As soon as the smoke cloud got thick, the order would come to fix bayonets. After that, as soon as the return fire slackened, the glittering points would lead the charge. Most often, the other side would break.

But not always. If the commander who ordered the charge misjudged the level of fire from the enemy, his men would pay in blood.

Either way, one side or the other would break, and then the maneuvering and musket-fire would start up again.

All that afternoon, we waited.

A messenger came for Peter, who mounted and headed back for the general’s headquarters.

No orders, and no sign of the colonel. Just the smoke clouds to our north, spreading mostly east and west.

I walked from platoon to platoon, talking mostly to the sergeants and corporals, but also trying to calm my lieutenants by acting as if nothing unusual was happening. “One platoon at a time, let the men fix their supper,” I told them. “When they’re done eating, the other platoon can have their suppers. I want at least one ready to move if we’re called up. The other platoon will catch up as soon as it can.”

Just before dark, while I was eating my own supper, Peter showed up. He’d been riding a bay when he left, now he was on a sorrel that showed signs of having been ridden hard. He turned the animal over to an orderly and virtually collapsed next to me. I had a half-flask of rum and I held it out. From the looks of things, he needed it worse than me.

“It’s not over,” he sighed. “I got a look at the battlefield a while ago. So many bodies, Ed! Thousands of them, and from both sides! The surgeon has his people out, trying to recover the wounded, and there may be a truce by now. I heard that the generals were trying to arrange one, no idea if the rebels agreed to it. They probably will, there was a lot of killing on both sides.”

“The men are worried,” I said. “They’re afraid we’ll be pushed back again.”

“It could happen, Ed,” he said tiredly. “Or the rebels might decide they’ve had enough, but with Jackson in command there’s no telling. All I know is that General Pope is expecting to get reinforcements from General McClellan. Near as I can tell, we’re it.”

“One division?” I was astonished. “Doesn’t matter what they call it, it’s more of a brigade!”

“No, Kearny’s people are up ahead of us,” he said. “Altogether, we’re a light corps, but you’re right and the rebels likely have more men than we do.

“The only good thing is that we’re between them and Washington. They’ve got to go through us and judging by today, if they do manage to push us aside they won’t need a general in charge over there. Corporal, most likely.”

“That bad?” I asked, and he just nodded, already half asleep.

I left him and went looking for my platoon commanders.

“I don’t expect anything to happen tonight, but just in case I want you to move the men into that patch of woods over to the east. No tents, but the men can spread their canvas on the ground. Rifles by their sides, loaded, but only fire when ordered by one of you, and make damned sure you’re not shooting at our own men before you give the order! First Platoon will sleep in a line facing toward the north, Second Platoon to the south. Ten to fifteen-foot separation between platoons, and don’t let the men mix. Set two-man pickets out in front of your platoons and to one side, alternating. Relieve the posts after an hour, and if you find a sentry asleep put the fear of God into him!

“Captain,” Lieutenant Oliver suggested, “why not load with buck and ball, but don’t cap the nipples? Fix bayonets too. That way, they have the option to face an attack with bayonets instead of fumbling with their cap boxes.”

“Not a bad thought, Lieutenant, but make sure that the men selected for sentry duty are off to one side of the platoon line. You don’t want a corporal stumbling over bayonets in the dark. Also, check that all the rifles are facing the direction they’re supposed to before you turn in.”

The night passed slowly. Off in the distance, I heard occasional yells and shots, but I figured it was nervous sentries. Ours were quiet, and after personally checking the posts, I decided to rest. Whether I would get any sleep was questionable, but I made up my mind to try.

Sometime during the night, an orderly looking for Peter woke me. I listened to the murmured conversation, realizing that I wouldn’t get back to sleep until the disturbance was over.

Peter came over before he left and told me what was happening. “They need me at headquarters. There’s a messenger, probably from General Sigel’s headquarters, but he only speaks German!”

“Glad it’s not me they want,” I said. “Did he bring a horse for you?”

“He did, and I’m to take breakfast with General Stevens after we figure out what the man wants. Not sure when I’ll get back.”

“Good luck,” I said. He went on his way and I tried to get back to sleep, but finally gave up. Off to the east, the treetops were just visible, black against the gray sky, and already the distant sounds of musketry showed that the fighting had resumed.

General Kearny’s division? I wondered, but there was no way to tell.

The first visit to the company was welcome. A pair of wagons showed up, bringing the rations that we needed and ammunition we didn’t as yet.

The second visit, an hour after the first, was not so welcome. We would be moving up to join the fighting in less than an hour.

That one was delivered personally by Colonel Morrison, along with some of the bad news. “General Pope was expecting reinforcements, but so far, we’re all that’s left. One of my aides talked to one from General Kearny and they expected to join in yesterday, but for whatever reason that didn’t happen.

“One of our regiments retreated without orders after its colonel was killed, and when they ran into the one behind them that one bolted too. Shameful!

“General Stevens wanted me to personally tell my officers that the 79^th will stand. We lost our colors once, we won’t let it happen again.”

“He’s pretty concerned about what’s really only one regiment,” I commented.

“He is. He was our colonel when we got the colors back, so he figures that whatever we do reflects on him. I agree with what he said. The 79^th New York will do him proud!

“Pass that on to your men, that the general is watching us and we won’t let him down!”

 

Chapter Five

I figured Colonel Morrison had the right of it. I watched him leave and headed off to find my lieutenants, to tell them what he’d told me. On the way I thought about the regiments that had run, and what might happen if the rebels won.

Would they force the Union to accept slavery? Some of the states that had voted to remain in the Union had allowed slavery and still did, places like Maryland and Kentucky. Missouri and Kansas could go either way. Crops like cotton, tobacco, and sugar cane depended on cheap labor, but what about wheat and corn? Rice? I didn’t know, but if there was a way some slave-owner would figure it out.

I would either have to accept it as part of living in the southwest, or I’d have to pack up and move to New York or someplace like that.

It was also worth remembering that I hadn’t heard from John Linn recently. Had he managed to raise the money we’d agreed on? Or did I still own at least some of my ranchlands in Texas?

I’d made up my mind to support the Union because it had resisted the spread of slavery, but did I really care which bunch of eastern politicians were in charge?

No question, I didn’t want anything to do with that bunch in east Texas, other than pulling on the rope to hang the lot of them. But I kept returning to what might happen if Richmond took over from Washington. I didn’t like the idea, but right now I had more pressing concerns because I could see that Colonel Morrison’s words had spread to the ranks. The men were looking off at toward where the muskets growled and the cannons roared, and from time to time one broke off to go talk to a fellow in the next platoon.

Time to put a stop to that before it spread!

“Lieutenant Oliver! I’ll have a line of rifle pits to the north, but I also want them to the south! That’s Jackson over there, and the one thing we know about him is that he’s apt to show up where he’s not wanted, and us with no idea of how he got there! Get those men to work!”

I repeated the same order to Lieutenant McLemore, who looked at me pretty much the same way Oliver had, like I’d lost my mind.

I waited until he finished chewing out his sergeants for laxity, then called him over to the side for a talk. “Let the men hate me,” I said. “Better that than having them worry about what might happen to them when we move up! As soon as they get the rifle pits dug, then start them putting up log barricades or whatever else you can think of.”

“You don’t think Jackson’s rebels are likely to attack?” he asked, confused.

“I’m guessing he’s got his hands full up ahead, but with him you never know. Yes, digging rifle pits is an excuse, but don’t let the men know. The main idea is to keep them busy working so that they don’t have time to think about what’s ahead. I’m counting on you to handle that for me.”

“I understand, Captain. You can depend on me.”

I hoped he was right. I found Oliver and gave him the same explanation, then began circulating among the platoons. I got a bunch of unfriendly looks, but I paid them no attention.

I had done my best to get them ready to fight, now I would try to keep them ready.

An hour later, a messenger rode up and told me that we’d be moving, which stopped the digging and chopping. I gave the orders and while I did, he explained as much as he knew about what was going on.

“Some of Jackson’s men, maybe even his whole corps, are trying to slip in between us and Washington. Think about it; we’re down here, meaning that if we’re cut off before we can stop him, General McClellan may not have enough men to stop General Lee’s rebels! If they manage to push the government out of Washington the war’s over. The killing won’t stop for a while, but we’ll end up short of food and bullets. That’s already happened to some of the rebels. They ran out of ammunition a while back and started throwing rocks, which our boys threw right back at them!”

“Rocks? You’re joshing!” I said, flabbergasted at the idea.

More troubling was the realization of what had happened before the rebels ran out of ammunition! How many of our boys had they killed? Despite the heat, I felt the hairs on my arms stir from a sudden chill.

My men, 82 of them present for duty at the morning’s muster, carried the regulation 80 rounds of ammunition. That worked out to just one company firing more than six thousand shots! If the muskets were loaded buck-and-ball, which most would have been, that added up to more than twenty thousand projectiles!

Not all at once, of course; the average soldier could load and fire three shots in about a minute when fresh, fewer after he got tired. Figure half an hour at best, probably more than an hour before they ran out of prepared paper cartridges or percussion caps, which was the real limiter. Loose powder could be loaded and the balls pressed down on top without a wad, but muskets wouldn’t fire without caps. After that, it would be bayonet facing bayonet, where numbers counted.

Which almost never happened, according to what Colonel Morrison had said during one of our talks.

A row of men with the light twinkling off their bayonets as they appeared through the smoke, yelling as loud as they could? And looking to the defender like half a dozen were heading right for him?

It wouldn’t work until after there had been an exchange of shots, enough for the smoke to provide cover. But after that, when visibility was measured in bare yards, not tens of yards?

The defenders would run away as fast as they could go.

Colonel Morrison had probably been thinking the same thing, because he rode up to me with orders. “Up ahead, there’s an open field with room for the regiment to deploy. You’ll be to the right of the regimental colors, with Company B to your right flank and Company A to the left of the colors.

“You managed to turn your company into a crack unit, as good as any in the brigade. That’s why I’m giving you the place of honor to the right of the colors, Captain. Not just because your men have earned it, but because I know that you won’t fail me.

“The division’s other regiments will be lined up with us. The general’s plan is three rounds to provide smoke, then give them the bayonet! They’ve already taken significant losses, a quick push will be all it takes. Listen for the bugle and the drums, and when you hear them, charge! We’re going to send what’s left of Jackson’s men running and not let them stop until they’re all the way back to Richmond!”

He went galloping off and I drew my sword, waving to the lieutenants. They drew theirs too and I sent my orderly to repeat the colonel’s orders, three rounds on command, then when the bugle sounded the orders, charge!

After that, there was nothing for me to do but wait.

***

I was about forty yards to the right of the regimental colors when the bugle sounded.

I had my doubts about being in the place of honor. Seemed to me it was the place where a lot of my men would get killed! The rebels would do the same thing my boys would do, shoot at the color-bearers, because if a regiment’s colors went down there was an excellent chance that the regiment would break. First would come the confusion as men lost their way in the smoke, then the retreat. Two or three men heading to the rear might be enough, and the retreat would turn into a rout.

That was as true of our men as much as it was of theirs.

I consoled myself by remembering that after the first volley, we would all be shooting blind, but until then, if the color-bearer fell someone would have to take his place.

Maybe me, because I was to the immediate right.

Always assuming I had the suicidal bravery to do that, which I wasn’t at all certain of! Fight for the Union, yes, but charge into certain death?

I couldn’t order, or for that matter even ask, one of my men to do what I wasn’t willing to. I made up my mind right then that if that color bearer was shot, I owed it to my company to take up the standard. But running forty yards across the field in front of the rebel lines to get there? I needed to be closer.

The thoughts ran through my mind and wouldn’t stop. How long before the bugle and the drums sounded? How long before I could stop thinking and do! I could almost feel my courage leaking out during the waiting.

Would it be that way with my men too?

An impulse, a few seconds of suicidal courage before I fell, I could do that, but if I failed one of my men likely would do what I hadn’t.

One of my men, the men I had accepted responsibility for! I had brought them here to fight, and in the process learned the love a commander feels for his men.

No; I would not ask of them what I would not myself do. I felt the resolve return, and welcomed it. For a moment, I once again felt that sense of understanding for my father and what he’d done.

That was a preview of Edward Jennings War and Recovery. To read the rest purchase the book.

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