The Deserter (8 page)

All would have been well—in fact he had just found a handy path through the wilderness—if another familiar face had not suddenly loomed at him out of the wreathing smoke.

Otis would have laughed if he hadn't been nearly out of his wits with fright, because it was some kind of joke, the way this battle seemed to be the exclusive property of a bunch of Harvard men.

This one was staring straight at him only a few feet away. It was his idolized old friend and champion, First Lieutenant Seth Morgan. Seth had wandered away from the costly victory at Culp's Hill into the solitude of the woods, careless of the fall of shot and shell. He was overcome by grief.

Otis carried in the pocket of his coat the scrap of paper that had been Seth's kindly warning, written only a moment before the entire regiment had plunged over the breastworks into the deadly swale below Culp's Hill—the entire regiment, that is, with the exception of Private Otis Pike.

Both Seth and Otis knew the penalty for a fourth desertion. He was to be shot on sight.

OTIS, WHERE
WERE YOU?

Corps and other commanders are authorized to order the instant death of any soldier who fails in his duty at this hour
.

—M
AJOR
G
ENERAL
G
EORGE
G
ORDON
M
EADE

T
he battle of Gettysburg has become one of those legendary nodes of history like Salamis, Waterloo and Trafalgar. Rightly or wrongly it is remembered as the greatest battle of the Civil War.

In Otis Pike's blundering circuit of the battlefield during the aftermath of the immense bombardment, he'd failed to see what every Union soldier waiting behind the stone wall on Cemetery Ridge was never able to forget, the magnificent advance of forty-two regiments of the Army of Northern Virginia, eleven thousand troops of rebel infantry approaching in parade formation across the shallow valley. He was not there to see them falter, cut down like stands of ripened grain by long-range fire from the hills to north and south and double-shotted canister from batteries closer at hand. He did not witness the murderous rifle fire of Hancock's Second Corps nor the flank attacks of Hays to the right and Stannard to the left. Nor did he see Gibbon's triumphant regiments rise from the stone wall to hold aloft their shot-torn flags, nor the retreat of Pickett's division and Pettigrew's and Trimble's shattered brigades, stumbling downhill past their own dead thick on the field.

For Otis the day would be remembered for his one last fearful encounter during the double bombardment, half a mile away from the stone wall on Cemetery Ridge and a full half hour before the Confederate regiments moved out of the trees to begin their fatal assault.

“Oh my God, Otis,” shouted Seth, his voice hoarse above the roar of the guns, “it's not you.”

Once again Otis felt his knees fail him. A nine-pound ball flew over their heads with a sucking sound and slammed into a tree. The tree exploded in splinters of shredded bark. The noise of the artillery was louder than ever, a perpetual thunder from the pieces massed along the ridge. Otis could not see the guns, but their red flashes colored the smoke like the flames of a burning city, and there was a sharp smell of bursting black powder and the overheated barrels of the cast-iron guns. The entire force of the Federal batteries on Cemetery Ridge was roaring in concert, aiming a heavy fire across the valley, and solid shot kept falling into the trees from the guns on the other side. One shell shattered a rock not far from Otis, and the fragments spattered his face.

He cried, “No, Seth, no,” and held up beseeching hands.

But tears were running down Seth's face as he lifted his rifle. He called out to Otis in anguish, “Charley's dead. They killed Charley Mudge. Tom Fox was hit. Tom Robeson isn't going to make it. Where were you, Otis? Where were you when they told us to cross that swale?”

Seth's rifle was shaking in his hands, but he was only four feet away and he couldn't miss.

Otis had no choice. He pulled out the six-shot Colt revolver he had won in a crap game—it had never before been fired by Otis Pike—and screamed, “Forgive me, Seth,” and shot him dead.

PART VII

THE FIELD OF
BATTLE

Years hence of these scenes, of these furious passions, these chances
,

Of unsurpass'd heroes, (was one side so brave? the other was equally brave;)…

Of those armies so rapid so wondrous what saw you to tell us
?

—W
ALT
W
HITMAN

STRANGELY
BEAUTIFUL

T
he Gettysburg battlefield was lovely and green, the shallow valley between the battle lines pleasantly rolling. A split-rail fence ran down and up again from the equestrian statue of Robert E. Lee to the road below Cemetery Ridge nearly a mile away.

It was a fine day. As they walked across the field Mary wondered if Pickett's and Pettigrew's men had been aware of the fragrance of the tall grass as they trudged in parade formation up the hill toward the Union guns, or if they had looked down at the wildflowers blossoming around their marching feet. But of course there was probably some other crop growing on the farmer's field that day, not blades of grass intermingled with daisies and yarrow and clover. And surely the brimstone smell of the solid shot and exploding shell of the two-hour bombardment would have overwhelmed the scent of whatever it was that some innocent farmer had planted on this sloping ground earlier the same year.

A five-rail fence ran along each side of the Emmitsburg Road. Homer's bulk made climbing between the rails difficult, and he complained about being under fire at the same time.

“Well, why don't you duck?” said Mary, but it wasn't funny. She shuddered, remembering what she had read aloud to Homer on the long drive south, the whole story of the march across the valley by the rebel army, straight into the massed rifles and artillery fire of the Yankees behind the stone wall and the brutal raking bombardment of the guns on Cemetery Hill and Little Round Top.

But today there was no gunfire, nothing but the buzz of insects in the grass and the fluting whistle of a bird overhead. The sky was blue and the sun was warm. They climbed over the stone wall and settled down to eat the last of their sandwiches.

Then for a while they wandered here and there among the monuments. The inscriptions recorded the courageous actions of regiments of the seven corps of the Army of the Potomac on the first, second and third days of July in 1863. Moving from one to another, taking in the immensity of the sacrifice, Mary and Homer could think of nothing to say, until Homer groaned that he was still hungry.

“There'll be restaurants in the town,” said Mary. “And bookstores. We could find some more books about the battle.”

Slowly they walked back across the field. At the rise on the other side they headed for the bronze landmark of Robert E. Lee, still gazing magnificently past them at some vision of his brave regiments moving gloriously up the hill.

The car was parked along the road, in the shade of the trees. Here behind the stone wall there was another reminder of the battle, an endless line of artillery looking silently away from the road toward the gentle rise of Cemetery Ridge.

“They're beautiful,” said Homer.

“Strangely beautiful, yes,” said Mary. “It's odd to say so, but it's true”.

THE SHOP

T
hey ate an early supper in a jolly pub near a large square in the center of town. Then they wandered along the streets of Gettysburg to explore the shops selling books and Civil War memorabilia.

In one they bought a map of the town, and then, exhausted, they went back to the car, meaning to drive straight to the motel and go to bed. It was somewhere out of town, but where?

Mary turned the map this way and that, but it was no use. Folding it again, she said, “We'll have to ask.” At the edge of town, they stopped at a store called Bart's Battle Flag Books to inquire the way—and then, of course, there was no harm in looking around.

Bart's was an antiquarian bookstore. A regimental flag hung in the window, a yellow banner with crossed cannon and the embroidered words
Seventh N. Y. Heavy Art
. The inside of the shop was dark and interesting.

“It's like Gwen's attic,” murmured Mary. “I mean the way it used to be.”

“You mean before Ebenezer came along.”

They began with the books. “Surely,” said Mary, “they can't all be about the Civil War.”

“Well, they are. Look at this—
Gettysburg the First Day, Gettysburg the Second Day, Gettysburg Day Three
.”

“And look, Homer, every general has his own biography. I mean, it's not just Grant and Lee. Who's this handsome general?”

“John Gordon,” said Homer. “One of the best of the Confederates.”

“I must say, I like good-looking generals. This one must be a Yankee, Winfield Scott Hancock. Yes, I remember Hancock. Wasn't he in this battle?”

“Was Hancock at Gettysburg?” Homer snorted. “The only thing Hancock did at Gettysburg was win the battle almost single-handed. No kidding. He was everywhere, moving troops around in a hurry and filling gaps in the line.”

“But why are there so many books about the Civil War? Why such a fascination with this one little piece of history?”

Homer stared at the crowded shelves. “It's because the stakes were so high. So much bloodshed, so many terrible battles. Every human emotion ratcheted up to its highest point. The normal laws of human behavior turned upside down.”

“Still—”

Homer was carried away. “Civilization grinding to a halt. Primeval savagery taking over. The pitting of one snarling beast against another, thousands of men against thousands, the games of strategy, the weather, the mud, the bad luck, the colossal mistakes.”

“But it's so terrible. There ought to be other ways to settle a dispute.”

Homer wasn't listening. “And then there are all the fascinating details, the thousands of separate stories, one for every man who fought on either side. There's no end to it.” Then Homer stopped ranting and said, “Well, look at this. What have we got here?” He was trying on a pair of old-fashioned spectacles, hooking them over his ears.

Mary laughed. “Oh, Homer, you look sweet.”

“Can't see a thing.”

“May I help you?” It was the proprietor, a thin bearded man in a Robert E. Lee T-shirt.

Homer put down the specs and grinned at him politely. “A rebel sympathizer, I guess?”

“No,” said the man, “I don't take sides.” He patted his chest. “Half the time it's Abraham Lincoln. Name's Bart. What can I do for you?”

Homer took Mary's arm. “We're from Massachusetts. Just tourists, looking around.”

“Help yourself,” said the proprietor. At once he was captured by another customer.

“Hey, Bart,” said the customer, “you know the cavalry battle on the third day, Stuart and Custer? What've you got on the Spencer repeating rifle?”

“Got a book,” said Bart. “Follow me.”

Mary and Homer drifted to the front of the store and looked at a table covered with antiquities. The wall behind it was hung with looped flags and a pair of moth-eaten coats, one gray, one blue.

“Oh, Homer, look at this, an old stereoscope and a set of cards to go with it.”

“I remember those things.” Homer put a card in the holder. “Here, try it.”

Mary lifted the contraption to her eyes and stared. “It's not working.”

“You have to adjust the focus.”

She moved the card holder back and forth, and exclaimed, “Oh, it's so real. Oh, Homer, we've got to have this.”

“Well, how much is it?”

She found the price tag. “Twenty-five dollars. Oh, but Homer, it's so charming.” They looked for Bart, but he was still busy with his customer.

Waiting, they lingered beside the table, inspecting a pair of gold-fringed epaulets in a metal box, half a dozen squash-fronted caps, the tall hat of an officer from Louisiana and a display of regimental belt buckles. There were cartridge boxes and canteens on the table, along with swords, knives and guns. Under a glass dome a small case held a photograph. “Oh, Homer,” whispered Mary, bending close, “look at this.”

“What?”

“The photograph, look.”

Obediently, Homer peered at the little case, which stood open like a book. One side was padded with velvet, the other displayed a photograph in an oval frame. “Some soldier's wife?”

“But Homer, I've seen her before.”

“In a book?”

“No, not in a book. In my house.”

“
Your
house? You mean in Gwen's house on Barrett's Mill Road?”

“Yes, yes. I recognize her. It's a family picture. She's somebody in our family. Oh, Homer, we've got to have this too.”