The Pied Piper of Death (24 page)

“Pickett's charge could have been ordered by a man who knew that continuing the battles was insanity.”

“Interesting idea. You know your war?”

Lyon smiled in the realization that somehow he had passed the man's test. “Afraid not. I know Gettysburg because I worked there for a short while.”

A frown fought with the ranger's greeting and lost. “Honest answer, anyway. So, now you've got more time on your hands and want to learn about Antietam?”

“It's more complicated and important than that. Someone's life may depend upon what I find. I can't explain it now.”

“Will you someday?”

“Yes.”

Rusty West considered this a moment, then with a barely perceptible nod agreed to the conditions. “I need to know a great deal about this battle,” Lyon continued. “Particularly the third phase.”

“You mean Burnside's attack on Lee's flank?”

“Someone tipped you off.”

“A fax from Washington. I know all about General Burnside's bridge. I suppose I know about as much as anyone in the world. Not that it did me any good when mandatory retirement rolled around. Be that as it may, I'm still a sucker for my battle. Anything in particular you want to know?”

“I'm not exactly sure what I'm looking for, but whatever it is will revolve around the Thirty-first Connecticut Rifles.”

“Those poor bastards.”

“I don't understand.”

“The Unlucky Thirty-first they were called. They fought at the Bridge. Yes, sir, they really did fight at the Bridge. Interesting story that. I'll tell you when I take you down there. Where do you want to start?”

“I'd like to begin with my list. I have four hundred sixty-seven names. They probably have something in common, but I don't know what it is.”

“Do you think the names are soldiers who fought in the war?”

“I believe they were all members of the Union army. I think they belonged to the Thirty-first Regiment, but I'm not sure. In fact, so far that's about all I do know about them.”

“We can run it through our computer program.”

“How does that work?”

Rusty West led Lyon over to a computer pushed into the corner of the small office. It was covered with a sheet, which he took off and neatly folded. “We had the damn thing out on the floor for everyone to use, but some computer nerd kids kept feeding strange programs into the damn thing and screwing it up.”

“What is the program?” Lyon asked.

“This is the ‘Civil War Soldier's System' that we developed with the National Archives. The Mormons were in on it too. Out in Salt Lake City the Mormons have some of the best genealogical records in the world. So, working with volunteers and people like myself, we put the system together.”

West's voice slipped into a lecture mode as he continued explaining the computer program. “If you consider both sides of the conflict, three and a half million men fought in the Civil War. Our system includes the North and the South. We're talking seven thousand regiments.”

“Exactly what does it cover?”

“If you feed a name into the system it will tell you if he was a Confederate or Yankee. It will give you his rank, what unit he was attached to, and indicate if he was killed, wounded, captured, or reported missing. We have a database that might show you where he is buried, what decorations he received, and any other data that we've managed to accumulate. Once you know his unit you can trace that out also. It will show you what battles and skirmishes his regiment participated in, his commanding officers, and things of that nature.”

“I'd like to run my list of names through the system,” Lyon said.

“Hell, Wentworth, sit down and do your duty.”

Rusty West went back to his book and only occasionally looked over at the computer. Lyon booted up the system and began to type in his list of names in the exact order that he had copied them from the room wall at Bridgeway.

The readings for each were nearly identical. ‘Casualty: killed in action, missing in action, or wounded in action' … he knew after the first dozen names that the pattern would continue.

Lyon turned to the ranger after his list had been entered. “Can I print this out?”

“Sure. Let me show you.”

The dot matrix printer by the side of the computer began to clank out the names with their continual “casualty” entry.

The ranger ran his finger down the column of names. “It figures considering these men were all in the Thirty-first Connecticut.”

“You mean it's logical that they all were casualties?”

“Sure. Those boys had a rough time that day.”

“I ran the database on the regiment. This seemed to be the only battle they fought in during the whole war.”

“After their hour on the bridge there wasn't enough of the regiment left to fight anything,” West said.

Lyon gingerly held the printout and ran his finger down the list of names that were becoming so familiar. He knew that many of the regiments at that time were enlisted from the same geographical areas, so it was logical that most of the men in the 31st came from the Middleburg-Murphysville region of the state. It also followed that some names would be familiar to him since so many families had lived in the area for generations. He was still surprised:

Roger Candlin, the congressman's namesake, wounded in action.

Warren Fraxer, killed in action. He would not be surprised if he were a relative of Paula's boyfriend, the activist college student, Chuck Fraxer.

Drummer boy Willard Welch, Rabbit's forebear, missing in action, later designated as wounded in action.

And the greatest surprise of all was the name Swan. Major Swan, the regiment's adjutant, had died from wounds received at the battle.

And there were others, many more, 467 all told.

Rusty West reverently folded the printout and placed it in an envelope for him. “It was a bloody day that September. Twenty-three thousand fell here. Come on, let's go down to the bridge and I'll show you what happened to the Thirty-first Rifles. You're not related to anyone named Piper, are you?”

“No. Why?”

“In that case, I'll tell you why the Thirty-first was decimated.”

West directed Lyon as they drove away from the Visitor's Center. It was still early in the season, so there were few cars on the auto tour portion of the battlefield. They turned south along a road that ran parallel to what was now known as the Bloody Lane. Most of the battlefield land was still in private hands. The fields were planted with the same crops as 130 years ago. It was good rolling land enriched by Antietam creek, which ran clear and cold one thousand yards away. The Potomac River was not far to the west. Rich land fertilized with the blood of thousands of young men.

“Antietam isn't much of a river,” Rusty West said. “It's a creek really. But she runs cold and swift enough that her high banks made an obstacle for a large army. Three bridges cross her at Sharpsburg. The Yanks held the upper bridge from the start and that's how they came across to attack Stonewall's men in the cornfield. The lower bridge, or as folks around here called it, Rohrback's Bridge, became known as Burnside's Bridge after the battle. They named it after General Burnside, whose men paid so dearly to capture it. Anyways, the lower bridge controlled Lee's right flank. But the Rebs gave the Yanks a bit of difficulty in crossing it.”

At the ranger's signal Lyon parked the Saturn at a pull-off. They walked a few yards to an overlook on a high bluff that looked directly down at the creek crossed by the Burnside Bridge.

“My God,” Lyon said in awe. “The Southerners were up here?”

“If you look carefully you can still see the remains of their rifle pits just a mite below where you're standing now,” West said. “Just a few hundred of General Tomb's Georgians held this spot. They beat back Burnside's Corp time and time again.”

“I can see why,” Lyon said. He looked down at the river and small bridge a few hundred feet below them. The terrain appraisal faculties he had honed so carefully during his war returned with all their accuracy. Infantry warfare had not changed fundamentally in the intervening century and a half. Young men with rifles still had to march against other men with rifles. One group had to wrest good high ground from other men. A great many people died in the process.

It was obvious to Lyon that the spot where they stood was nearly an impossible position to assault. The sturdy stone bridge was narrow. It was wide enough for only one farm cart at a time to cross. The bridge faced directly into the bluffs on this side of the river.

Men rushing across the bridge would be forced into a front only four men wide. They would face directly into murderously accurate musket fire that would destroy each rank in precision order.

The only road approaching the bridge from the far side ran parallel to the creek and then plunged into a funnellike depression in front of the bluffs where the Georgian sharpshooters had waited.

“What happened to the Connecticut men?” Lyon asked as they walked down a steep path leading off the hill toward the bridge road.

West laughed. “You know, back in those days the officers were true leaders. It was expected that the colonel of the regiment would provide a personal example to his men and lead the attack from the front. It seems that even though the Thirty-first had only been in the army a month, Colonel Piper volunteered his men for the glory of taking the bridge. General Burnside turned him down the first time because he wanted seasoned troops to make the assault. Piper had a few belts of whiskey and went back to pester the general. He not only volunteered again, but demanded that Connecticut have the honor and glory of carrying the bridge. ‘By God they could do it!' he told Burnside. Fact is they might have captured it, considering the cost they paid in lives. Might have, if they had had an officer to lead them properly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that by the time the regiment marched down to the bridge, Colonel Piper and his second-in-command had had a few more belts of whatever it was they were drinking. Piper was so drunk that he fell off his damn horse before he reached the bridge. He slept through the whole damn battle under a tree beyond that ridge over there.”

“His men attacked without their colonel?”

“Without most of their officers. It was said they marched right well for new soldiers as they went onto the bridge. Four abreast they were, marching to drummers and fifes right into the damn muskets of the Georgians. The Southern boys held their fire until they were halfway across and then they said it was a turkey shoot. A horrible bloody carnage.”

“Four hundred and sixty-seven casualties?”

“The Thirty-first only had six hundred men present for duty that day. Not many survived.”

“But Caleb Piper did.”

“They say he had one hell of a hangover. A headache so bad he got a wound medal for it.”

“If the story of his drinking was known, why wasn't he court-martialed?”

“If you remember your history, the North desperately needed a victory at that time. Lincoln wanted to issue the Emancipation Proclamation, which would be politically effective only if the rest of the world felt that the North would ultimately defeat the South. Antietam was the North's first victory in the war. Those circumstances made it impossible to have court-martials over drunken colonels who fell off their horses while their regiments marched off to slaughter. That's why Piper was given a medal and sent to the rear for the rest of the war.”

“He killed them, didn't he?”

“Yep. He killed them more than the Georgians with their muskets on the bluff did. They said that most of the men panicked when the Southerners opened fire. Some soldiers tried to turn back and some didn't; the bridge became a mass of milling confused men, which made them even more vulnerable. They were too green to have been volunteered for the mission in the first place. Without a leader and firm direction they were needlessly slaughtered. He murdered them the same as if he'd pointed a musket at each one and shot a minié ball into their heads.”

“Yes, a minié ball.”

“You know,” West mused, “the real hero of that battle was Major Swan, their adjutant. He wasn't even supposed to be in the fight, but when he saw what was happening he ran out on the bridge and tried to rally the men. It was too late by that time and he was mortally wounded. He lived for a few days. Clara Barton kept him alive just long enough for his wife and teenage boy to get here for a last good-bye. They say he spent the last few minutes of his life talking with his young son. The boy never would say exactly what his dad's last words were, but I think I know. I had worked here for twenty years and never saw it until 1975 when they closed the Burnside Bridge for a year's renovation.”

“Saw what?” Lyon asked.

“Come on, I'll show you.”

They walked up to the bridge but instead of proceeding along the roadbed, Rusty led him down by the side of the vaulted structure. They stooped and went underneath the front portion of the first arch. At the creek's edge underneath the bridge the retired ranger pointed up at the curve of the vault. “Looka that,” Rusty said.

“I can't make it out,” Lyon said.

It was difficult to read the letters and words, until Rusty took a small penlight from his pocket and pointed it at the words. “When Washington said you were interested in the bridge I thought you might like to see this. Not many have.”

Lyon read the words. “
WE SWEAR AL
… something …
TO THE COVENANT OF THE BRIDGE
.”

“I think that word beginning with
AL
is ‘allegiance,'” the ranger said.

“The letters are in brown.”

“I figure it was written in blood from the creek that same day. We know that when Major Swan was hit he fell into the water about here. It's only a guess, mind you, but I think that Swan wrote those words and passed on their meaning to his son.”