The Last, Long Night (#5 in the Bregdan Chronicles Historical Fiction Romance Series) (10 page)

He had woken his own men, but there was no sense of preparation going on around him.  They were looking to him for direction, but Robert had none to give them.  All he could do was grip his rifle, stare into the darkness, and pray that today would not be as horrific as the day before.

Perhaps they had beaten the Union troops so badly they were already on the other side of the Rapidan licking their wounds like earlier armies had.  Then he remembered Longstreet’s words about Grant, gripped his rifle tightly, and tried to penetrate the smoky gloom with his eyes, but knew it was futile.

“Sir?”  Tabor materialized beside him.

“I don’t know, Tabor,” Robert admitted.  “I don’t know if any replacements are coming.”

Tabor stared into the darkness.  “You reckon they’re out there?”

Robert wanted to deny it but knew the truth was best.  “I don’t know.  All I know is that we’re going to be ready.”

“What about all them men sleeping?”

“I think their wake-up call will be a rude one when it comes,” he said wryly.

Tabor chuckled softly and then swore loudly when the first gunshot cracked through the morning air. 

“Prepare yourselves, men!” Robert yelled, watching as sleeping men all around him sprang up and grabbed for their rifles.  Many of them never had a chance to reach them.

The woods erupted with gunfire and loud battle cries as the blue coats exploded from the trees, their positions betrayed only by the flash of their muskets.  The barrage of bullets was relentless.  Wounded men’s screams joined the enemies’ yelling.

Robert stared around him and knew it would go badly, but he was proud of his men who stood their ground and kept firing.  The men caught sleeping who had not been killed, simply turned and ran, convinced it was impossible to hold the ground.  Robert could hardly blame them, but he tightened his lips, raised his rifle to his shoulder, and fired again. 

As the sun finally began to lighten the smoke, he stared in astonishment at the action on his right.  Another unit of Rebel soldiers had run out into the onslaught, grabbed up wounded Union soldiers, and propped them against trees. 

Robert heard one of them shout, “This will stop the Yanks’ shooting so we can get out of here.”

The lull in firing did indeed give the Confederates a moment’s rest.  Robert looked around wildly for more troops but could see nothing except the drastically reduced Rebel troops left to face what looked like a sea of Union blue.  His own men looked at him with wild eyes.  Knowing the blue coats would work their way around their wounded men and resume the onslaught, Robert finally shook his head.  He would not sacrifice any more of his men for a futile cause.

“The game is up, men.  Retreat!”  Robert grabbed his rifle and joined his men as they headed back toward their lines.  He would fight hard, but he wouldn’t submit his men to slaughter, especially when it seemed he and his unit were on their own.  He hadn’t seen one commanding officer since the firing had begun.

Robert’s troops had been crashing through the vines and brambles for close to thirty minutes when they heard the Rebel yell split the air. 

Reinforcements!

Robert’s men stopped in their tracks, hope replacing the defeat frozen on their faces.

“Push them back, men!”  The yell came from a colonel charging forth on his horse, his sword lifted high in the air.

Robert and his men yelled, turned around, and charged back into the smoke.  The battle was not over yet!

Moses watched in disbelief as a swarm of Rebels yelling at the tops of their lungs burst from the woods.  The Rebels had carried the advantage of an entrenched position yesterday.  But now Moses and
his
men had taken protection within those trenches that Lee’s men had built.

He aimed and fired, watching as gray coats fell in waves across the field.  The few shots the Rebels managed to get off flew high while his men and the other units blasted away at point blank range in comparative safety. 

Even though Moses prized his men’s success today; it in no way diminished the revulsion he felt at the slaughter spread before him. 

“Finish them!”

Moses gripped his rifle, sprang from the protection of the trenches, and charged forward.  The blue wave crashing down on the already demoralized Confederates broke the last of the resistance.  He watched as the entire line of gray turned and ran, crashing back through the woods they had swarmed through just minutes before.

“We got ‘em!” his men yelled in wild exuberance. 

“Look at ‘em run!” another yelled.

Moses understood how they felt after the terrible beating they had taken the day before, but he also suspected this long day had just begun.

Robert stumbled out of the woods into camp, fell onto the ground, and reached for the water someone handed him.  He nodded his head, too exhausted for words, and guzzled the liquid. 

He didn’t need anyone to tell him things had gone badly, and that the final charge had been nothing but a crazed death wish by someone who believed they could penetrate an impenetrable position.  Robert was grateful to be alive but heart-weary to know many of his men were dead or wounded.

How long before there was no one else to protect Richmond?  How long before the entire army was destroyed? 

He could only hope Grant would pull his troops back and give them a chance to lick their wounds.

Working their way around piles of dead bodies, Matthew and Peter walked grim-faced through the bloody fields.  Neither had said a word for over an hour; the horror of what they were seeing made words seem pointless. 

Nothing could be said to express it.

Peter finally stopped, took several deep breaths, and turned to Matthew. 
“What will happen now?” he asked hoarsely.

Matthew stared at him with bloodshot eyes and wiped a hand across his dust-caked face.  “Grant received a message yesterday from one of his officers that Lee was at it again; that Lee would beat our troops in the wilderness just as Stonewall Jackson did last year.”

Peter stared at him and waited for the rest.

“Grant told the officer who brought him the news that he was heartily tired of hearing what
Lee
is doing.  He said that some of them tremble, thinking Lee will suddenly turn a double somersault and land on our rear as well as on both our flanks at the same time.  Grant ordered the officer to go back to his command and devise his own plan, instead of quaking over what Lee would do.”

“So you don’t think he’ll pull back?”

Matthew shook his head.  “I’ve been studying Grant since I got out of prison.  I also heard of his promise to President Lincoln that there would be no turning back in this campaign.  He will not repeat the mistakes of the generals who came before him.”

“But so many of our troops have been killed in this battle,” Peter protested.  “It has to be close to 20,000 men!”

Matthew’s face was white and set as he shrugged his shoulders.  “Grant is known as
The Butcher
.  There is a reason he has that nickname,” he said grimly.  “He figures mathematics are on his side.”

“Mathematics?” Peter echoed.

“The more men he loses, the more men
Lee
will lose.  We have more men to lose.  The numbers are all on our side,” Matthew said hoarsely as they stepped around another blackened and bloated pile of Union and Confederate soldiers twined together – united in death.

“So he continues to sacrifice men because he has more of them?” Peter shook his head in disbelief.

Matthew nodded his head heavily.  “He has already started moving men southeast, heading for Spotsylvania Courthouse.  It’s not over.”

Carrie pushed back her hair and wiped at the perspiration streaming down her face.  Her ward was completely full.  She was taking a few minutes in between assisting Dr. Wild in surgery to check on some of the patients.  “Hobbs!  Bring this soldier some water.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Carrie gazed down at the man who stared up at her, his face flushed with fever.  His bandaged right arm revealed where his limb had been removed that morning, above the elbow.  He had finally woken up, but now the pain would set in with a vengeance.  “You’re welcome,” she said gently.

“I reckon I’m glad I didn’t lose a leg,” he whispered through clenched teeth.  “I think I can still handle a plow with one arm, at least with my kids helping me.”

“You have children?”  Carrie knew talking would help him keep his mind off the pain.

“Yes, ma’am.  I got four kids down on the farm in Alabama.  They’re being a big help to their mama right now.  My oldest boy is just twelve.”  He paused and then gasped as a bolt of pain shot across his face.  “I pray to God he won’t have to fight this war.”

Carrie reached for his hand and held the glass of water to his lips.  “I’m praying the same thing, soldier.”

He took several gulps of water and then passed out from the pain.  Carrie eased him back down.  It was better this way.  She hoped he would sleep for a long time because he would only waken to more pain.

The thing that amazed her, though, as she gazed across the ward was the difference three years of war had brought.  Though there were horribly wounded men filling the beds, she had heard very little complaining.  These were hardened soldiers, not fresh-faced boys off the farms who thought the war would be a lark and they would laugh as the soft boys of the North ran back to their easy factory jobs. 

“You reckon you can get me back out on the field again soon?” one of them asked, reaching for her arm.  “The general needs me.”

Carrie looked down at the soldier, a delicate-featured young boy.  He was either a new recruit or one of the soldiers who had lied about his age when the war started.  He could hardly be sixteen.  “What’s your name, soldier?”

“George Frasier, ma’am.”

Carrie looked at the soldier closely. 
There was something not quite right.
  Then she pulled in her thoughts, knowing it had been a long day, and smiled.  “I know you’ve had to wait a while, but the surgeon will see you soon.”  She pulled back the bandage and examined his arm.  “If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to save it.”