A Rainbow of Blood: The Union in Peril an Alternate History (42 page)

"Sir!" he saluted. "Message from General Stuart." Suddenly, he realized that he truly was in the presence of Lee. He could not have been
more transfixed if he had been in front of Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates.

"Yes, my boy?" Lee said gently.

The boy came to life suddenly. "'Hurry, for God's sake, hurry!
Meade is pressing me hard at Reston.' Those were General Stuart's exact
words just as he told me to say them, General Lee."

LINLITHGO MILLS, NEW YORK, 11:12 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863

Colonel Gates pushed his little column on. They were now only a half
dozen miles away from the rumble of the battle ahead and were about
to enter it sooner than expected. In the orchard ahead, through which
the road ran with Bell Pond to the right, thirty men with nickeled helmets were deployed, their carbines sighted on the head of the column.
Denison's men had slipped around the battle to intercept and slow down
any reinforcements. Their mission was to fire on any enemy column,
force it to deploy, fall back to the next position, and repeat the process.
The Canadian cavalry commander had not hesitated to disregard Lord
Paulet's orders to pull his men back. His close study of cavalry tactics in
the American war had convinced him that he was right. Besides, he had
always cherished the saying, "It is easier to beg forgiveness than seek
permission."9

Denison's tactics were sound, but he had not taken into account
that the American infantry had learned a thing or two. Gates had just
turned his horse to ride back down the column when the Canadian volley struck the color guard at the head of his column; his own horse went
down, spilling him over the muddy the ground. His lieutenant colonel's
horse was also down, but Jacob Hardenhurgh leaped off in time to land
on his feet. He scooped up the fallen colors, passed them to eager hands,
and gave the orders he had given countless time in training, "Skirmish ers, forward!" The two lead companies broke to the right and left and,
deployed in open order, advanced quickly in an arc meant to pierce the
orchard at either end and close inward.

Hardenhurgh ran over to Gates and helped him to his feet. "Just
like old times, Colonel."

Gates tried to wipe some of the mud off, thinking ahead. "Whoever
is shooting at us will slow us down no matter how fast we push them."
He turned to look back at the rest of the companies advancing in column
behind the skirmishers. "Take command of the cadets. They're young
and quick. Take them to the left at the run and get around these fellows.
Take them in the rear if you can. If you can't, press on and report to
Hooker. Get those boys into the fight."

CLAVERACK, NEW YORK, 11:25 AM, OCTOBER 28, 1863

On the field at Claverack that morning, no one had to announce that
the British were coming. Their advancing red line, relieved by the green
of the Imperial and Canadian Rifles, which so mesmerized the Union
infantry, was quickly accompanied by the roar of the Royal Artillery's
Armstrong batteries. It was little comfort to the XII Corps men that only
three of four guns were still firing after the first ten minutes. Improperly
sealed breeches had blown back in the heat of combat, but the fire of the
rest was worse than anything the Americans had ever faced-rapid, accurate, and lethal. Before the first Imperial and Canadian skirmishers
splashed across the shallow water of the creek, the ranks of XII Corps
had been savaged. Even the veterans were shaken by their casualties,
while the replacements were wide-eyed with terror. Yet their ranks
closed up.

They watched the enemy's lines sweep down to the creek bank,
wade through the water to their knees, and mount the near bank. That
was the signal. As soon as they stepped out onto the bank, a burst of
fire from the American ranks at four hundred yards struck them. Bodies pitched forward or fell back down the bank to roll in the water. They
dressed their ranks and moved on toward the Americans, who were now
firing at will. It was a deadly irony that many of the Americans were killing Imperial and Canadian troops with the fine Enfield rifle eagerly sold
to the Union and Confederacy alike by the merchants of London and
Manchester.

The American gunners were throwing case shot - tin cans of large
iron balls-into them at this range, sweeping away whole sections. The
Imperial battalions simply closed up without losing a moment. For the
Canadians, this was their first time facing serious danger. Raiding Hudson Valley river ports had not prepared them for this awful baptism.
It took longer for their inexperienced officers and NCOs to rally their
ranks and get them moving forward again, but move they did. From his
vantage point in the rear, Paulet and his staff were encouraged by how
well the Canadian battalions were behaving their first time under fire.
The Canadian officers on his staff, sensitive to any hint of condescension,
were buoyed by Paulet's praise. Indeed, it was a praiseworthy performance for green troops to cross that beaten zone with such cohesion.

But by the time the attacking battalions had closed to within two
hundred yards, they began to disappear into roiling clouds of blackpowder smoke hanging in the still, misting air. The only evidence of
their existence was the trail of green- and red-coated dead and wounded
marking their advance and their colors waving through rents in the
smoke clouds. From within the cloud, the noise of gunfire intensified
like the rattle of hail on a metal roof; the guns had fallen silent for lack of
targets.

The Imperial and Canadian battalions halted individually to return
fire for the first time. Their volley fire coming through the smoke cut into
the American regiments, which had been on the giving end of mayhem
so far. Within the cloud, men were now firing at will at only the most
fleeting of targets, glimpses of scarlet, green, or blue uniforms and flash
of the enemy's muskets. Most fired level into where the enemy's fire appeared to come from.10

Regardless of the uniform, the same scenes were shared by every
man with a rifle on that field. A soldier reached into his cartridge box
and pulled out a paper cartridge. He tore it open with his teeth, smearing his face with the powder, and with a hand steady or not, he poured
it down the barrel held in front of him, its butt on the ground, followed
by the bullet at the bottom of the cartridge. Next he extracted the ramrod
from its groove under the rifle and rammed the bullet down the barrel
with his right arm to form a tight seal. It was the right forearm so often
raised in the air that accounted for the single largest number of wounds
in this war. He then took a copper cap from his cap box and fitted it over the nipple of the breech and cocked his piece. Then he raised it to aim
down primitive sights and fired. He could repeat this entire process two
or even three times a minute, but all too often he fired high or wide or
just kept on reloading without firing until his weapon was useless or exploded when finally fired. Green troops made these mistakes frequently
but veterans were not immune. On the field of Gettysburg, thousands of
rifles were recovered with multiple bullets rammed down their barrels.

Men would later say that it was Lundy's Lane all over again-the
brutal toe-to-toe slugging match between a British regulars and Canadian militia on one hand and American regulars and militia on the other
during the U.S. invasion of Ontario in the War of 1812. Claverack was
just that sort of fight from which neither side would budge "

The red battalions inched forward, and the Canadians lost much of
their cohesion in the smoke for want of that instinct of men long accustomed to drilling, marching, and fighting in a formation. But it bespoke
no loss of aggressiveness. Where the red and blue lines suddenly revealed themselves to each other at arm's length, bayonets and rifle butts
stabbed and were swung in screaming blurs until the smoke closed in
on them again. The innate stubbornness of the English-speaking fighting man was aroused and bloody-minded that day, locked in an endless
frenzy made surreal by the cloaking, bitter smoke. It did not help that
almost everyone on that field, save for the French Canadians, spoke the
same language.

Although Hooker and Paulet were a study in contrasts, they both
grasped the essential and decisive role of the commander in battle -the
allocation of the reserve. Paulet felt the pressure to make this decision
coming from two directions at the same time. His right-hand brigade
had been half broken by the attack of Ireland's New York brigade, and
now Geary's 2nd Brigade was attacking. The 15th Foot and a few surviving Canadian companies could not hold out long against the vengeful
New York regiments who had tasted blood. If they went under, Geary's
whole division would roll up Paulet's main line locked in its slugging
match with the rest of Hooker's men. It was there across the creek that
the main fight was frozen in stalemate. Only the commitment of the
Guards in reserve could upset that bloody balance.

The two thousand Guardsmen stood silently in their ranks. They
were big, powerful men, the very personification of regimental confi dence, and afflicted with a large dose of arrogance. Anything but victory
was incomprehensible, and they fully expected to be the ones to clinch
it. Yet even these men could not be in two places at once. And that was
Paulet's dilemma-shore up his right or throw the dice for a decisive
win on the left and center. He was discovering another example of the
barb in most military aphorisms, such as the commander's chief role in
battle was the allocation of the reserve. The aphorism was simple; its
practical application was something else.

It seemed to Wolseley that Paulet was taking entirely too long to
make up his mind as the Borderers melted away, refusing to take a step
backward to save themselves. The Borderers had been his father's regiment. As a child, he had come to revere it through his father's stories.12
It was tearing at him to see it slowly dying, but he knew they could not
hold forever, certainly not as long as Paulet was taking to make up his
mind. "My Lord," he said. "May I suggest that the Scots Fusilier Guards
would be most useful on the right at this moment."

A look of relief came over Paulet's face. "Very well, Wolseley.
Would you be good enough to inform General Lindsay?" Paulet had
suddenly realized the relief that comes when someone else makes the decision that has baffled you. It was also a way to get rid of Wolseley and
his baleful eye. He would have elaborated on his instruction, but Wolseley was already galloping across the field to the Guards.

He found Maj. Gen. Sir James Lindsay conferring with his battalion
commanders. They all nodded coolly to him. Pearson of the Dandies
was a particular snob who had not let Wolseley's rising star in the Army
caution his disdain. In happy contrast, the colonel of the Scots Fusiliers
Guards, Lt. Col. William Scarlett, Lord Ahinger, was pleased beyond
measure at his orders. He had smarted badly over the loss of a company
on the Cold Spring raid -an endless stream of salt rubbed into him by
the fact that it had been at the hands of that Fenian rabble. He turned his
horse and trotted over to his command. "The battalion will fix bayonets!"

The bagpipes skirled "Blue Bonnets Over the Border" as the Fusiliers advanced on line to the rescue of the Borderers. Wolseley rode
with them and was glad to see that he did not have to encourage Lieutenant Colonel Scarlett to move out quickly.13 The tension among the
Fusiliers had been immense. They had had to watch their regiment's
2nd Battalion go off to glory in the Crimea. This would be their baptism by fire, as much as that of the Canadian militia battalions. But they were
fighting men whose lineage went back to their establishment as the 3rd
Foot Guards in 1661. They knew the consequence of taking the Queen's
shilling. More important, the eyes of the regiment, alive and dead for
two centuries, were on them. This was the test of who they were.

Ahead of them, the Borderers and Canadians had shrunk to a band
around their colors as Geary committed his 2nd Brigade to relieve the
Ireland's New Yorkers. Col. Charles Candy led his Ohio and Pennsylvania regiments to cross the creek and overwhelm the remnants of the
Borderers. The fame of being the first American commander to take
British colors in this war got the better of him. He was too intent on that
shrunken band of Borderers to see doom marching through the drifting
powder smoke or hear the keening of the pipes above the rattle of fire.
Candy's men were just beginning to descend the embankment of the
creek when the Fusiliers emerged from the apple trees on the other side.
A sheet of flame from almost five hundred rifles shot over the creek,
catching the Americans in disorder. The second rank fired. At that range,
it was sheer slaughter. The Fusiliers did not stop to watch, but reloaded
and fired again. Scarlett shouted, "The Fusiliers will advance!" The regiment leveled bayonets and stepped down into the smoky creek bed, water up to their calves. Only as they waded across did they discover what
they had done. Bodies clogged the water, which ran red to pink, piled on
each other, spilling down the gentle slope on the other side. The Fusiliers
topped the slope and moved forward over more bodies and out of the
smoke to see the survivors stumbling back the way they had come. The
right was saved 14